My friend lives in Nelson Nebraska. The town is small and it has some abandoned houses and buildings. My friend and his girlfriend decided to go exploring one night and took me along with them. They practice “Take only pictures, leave only footprints.” There is an abandoned old folks home there, when the building closed things were left behind, some rooms still had beds in them along with some personal items. One room still had a dresser with a watch, a billfold and coins. It was late night pitch black in the home and quiet like the dead. I took 4 flashlights cause I’m scared of the dark and I’m not going to be stuck standing in the blackness crying like a little girl. You’ve seen the horror movies the flashlight flickers and then goes dark, not happening with me. We wondered around and found a patients room with only a Christmas tree fully decorated with tinsel standing in the center of the room. The weird part was the tinsel was floating on the tree and flickering. The really weird part was that the home had no electricity or ac. But yet the tinsel moved as if blowing in a slight breeze. Freaky. We found the kitchen. It was filled with stainless steel countertops and white walls. Something with fingers was growing in the big refrigerator. They left in a hurry. I opened my mouth and broke the silence and said, “I’m fixing on cooking breakfast.”. All the sudden there was a noise in the dark over there. Three beams of light jumped at where the sound came from, nothing. So I said something about eggs and bacon, again another sound from the other side of the kitchen closer this time. The flashlights turned and nothing. Every time I mentioned a food type the sounds were starting, surrounding us. I said Brussels spouts, crickets, nada the sounds stopped. I said to my friends it was time to go, after all I woke up something and I couldn’t even put the smell of breakfast in the air. We left and went back home to watch the video Emma took. In it the reflection of sets of eyes could be seen on the video blinking and following us. Very disconcerting, we didn’t see any of that with our eyes but the video picked it up. The night was fun, a little scary but for the most part fun. I’ll be visiting my buddy again soon. He says there’s a house where e the people who lived there just bailed in the middle of dinner. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Well sitting at the light and an old boy “putting eyes drops in” rear ended me. No license , finally found a temp license, no insurance, no billfold in a company truck no less. Mine 2017 AllTerrain with the painted bumper (pictured). I have his company’s number and the HR ladies name. What should I do, he begged me not to call them “let me pay, save my job” he says. Worried I can’t find that bumper anymore. Y’all’s thoughts?

Hello all,
Here is this week's featured case:
A more detailed look can be found in this Google document.
Atlanta/Fulton County “Dear Dad” John Doe was discovered at 1:05 pm on Friday, December 19th, 1980. His remains were found under a large tree and near some bushes in proximity to a construction site. This site was in the vicinity of Northside Parkway OR Drive and I-75 in Atlanta, Georgia.
The remains were mostly skeletal with some skin and hair remaining. Some of his bones were missing, including his left foot and lower jaw. All of his upper teeth had been extracted and a lower denture was found with the remains. It was estimated that John Doe died at least a number of months before discovery. His cause of death is unknown, but there are no signs of foul play. He is estimated to have been somewhere between 50 and 70 at the time of his death. He was Caucasian, 5’10” to 6’0,” and possibly around 175 lbs. He had blonde hair that was greying and was described as moderate in length.
Among John Doe’s possessions were a bus ticket from Panama City Beach, Florida that had writing on it. This writing was illegible. He had a blue shirt with a 16.5 inch collar and 34-35 inch arm length. He had blue work pants held up with a brown belt. Lastly, he had a wallet or billfold containing a couple of photos and some paper.
The first photo is of a young girl. The photo is similar to many school, church, or special occasion picture day photos. Written on the back of this photo is “September ___, 4 years old.”
The second photo is supposedly too faded or damaged to discern. Written on the back is "HR Bow dyeing and finishing, 278-3448” This could also be Arrow Dye & Finishing Co.
The papers in the billfold appear to be a letter addressed to dad. The letter is damaged, but this is one interpretation:
4-3-___
Dear Dad
Hope yo
alright here
hope ___ it help
th of us
as usual.
Nothing new
much. Both
had ___illins
HA HA really
___ly you
let me know
plenty of this
a cat
plus sign ___
HA HA
Take
can get together
___ together
wonderful husband
___king after me.
call or write
g fine he's
great dog
and behave
know right
Love Pam __ Dwight (Possibly Pam + Dwight, Pam T Dwight, or Pam y Dwight)
All of the writing included in this case can be difficult to discern, and even good or complete photos of it seem tough to come by. Discussion of interpreting writing or guessing meaning is ongoing. When considering possible matches, look for anyone who might have gone missing pre-December 1980. Atlanta is a travel hub, so I would say it is possible this Doe could have come from anywhere inside or outside the United States. Men in the 50-70 age range with blonde or graying blonde hair should pique your interest, but I wouldn't rule out based solely on hair color or age. Hair color and length can change naturally or be altered and age estimates are just that, estimates.
Someone is missing their father or grandfather. Hopefully, “Dear Dad” John Doe will have his name back soon.
Thank you,
-Beardchester
Sources:
NAMUS
Doe Network
Unidentified Wiki
WebSleuths Thread

I just got this wallet made by u/AmblingHobbies... I originally wanted to wait for it to break in / patina, but I am so excited I have to post a review here after my first day of use.
I got the Open Seas Topsider billfold about a year ago, and fell head over heels in love with it. It seems to perfectly combine form and function. I started to research different types of shell cordovan leather, initially because I like researching oddities, and because it was all so beautiful. After bouncing around between different types, I found a type that I fell in love with - Rocado. Cheaper than the popular Horween, the marbling patterns just caught my eye.
I reached out to Open Seas Leather initially, but they couldn't make one out of Rocado. That was where AmblingHobbies enters the picture. [instagram.com/amblinghobbies].
I am very detail-oriented, but because I know next to nothing about leatherworking, I constantly had to revise what I wanted. He modeled out a prototype in paper, and then even went so far as to mock up a version in a cheaper leather just so I could see it. Throughout the whole process it was crystal clear that he loves his work. He was patient, and maybe it was just this patience showing through, but he seemed to genuinely enjoy the process of making my idea come to life. He met his own timetable, which I really appreciate as well - by the end of it I was practically salivating.
The wallet got here yesterday, and while I originally told him I wanted to wait until a patina developed, I just have to show his work to you guys. The wallet is perfect - literally the realization of the crazy ideas I was dreaming up in my head.
I have included some pictures of the wallet below... Honestly it looks even better in person.
I showed it to my wife, and literally her jaw dropped. She said "that's heirloom quality goods". She said that this wallet is something I will want to pass down to my kids.
The wallet itself is absolutely stunning. I am almost reluctant to use it at all because it is so beautiful. It is a piece of art.
I want to thank amblinghobbies sincerely for being so patient with me while I thought this through. Thanks to his patience, and understanding, while I specified, unspecified, and respecified the wallet, the picture that I had in my mind's eye has been perfectly realized.
If I ever have another crazy idea in my head, I know who I will reach out to. Thank you for making my dream a reality.
https://imgur.com/gallery/U1HtMk0

I just got this wallet made by u/AmblingHobbies... I originally wanted to wait for it to break in / patina, but I am so excited I have to post a review here after my first day of use.
I got the Open Seas Topsider billfold about a year ago, and fell head over heels in love with it. It seems to perfectly combine form and function. I started to research different types of shell cordovan leather, initially because I like researching oddities, and because it was all so beautiful. After bouncing around between different types, I found a type that I fell in love with - Rocado. Cheaper than the popular Horween, the marbling patterns just caught my eye.
I reached out to Open Seas Leather initially, but they couldn't make one out of Rocado. That was where AmblingHobbies enters the picture. [instagram.com/amblinghobbies].
I am very detail-oriented, but because I know next to nothing about leatherworking, I constantly had to revise what I wanted. He modeled out a prototype in paper, and then even went so far as to mock up a version in a cheaper leather just so I could see it. Throughout the whole process it was crystal clear that he loves his work. He was patient, and maybe it was just this patience showing through, but he seemed to genuinely enjoy the process of making my idea come to life. He met his own timetable, which I really appreciate as well - by the end of it I was practically salivating.
The wallet got here yesterday, and while I originally told him I wanted to wait until a patina developed, I just have to show his work to you guys. The wallet is perfect - literally the realization of the crazy ideas I was dreaming up in my head.
I have included some pictures of the wallet below... Honestly it looks even better in person.
I showed it to my wife, and literally her jaw dropped. She said "that's heirloom quality goods". She said that this wallet is something I will want to pass down to my kids.
The wallet itself is absolutely stunning. I am almost reluctant to use it at all because it is so beautiful. It is a piece of art.
I want to thank amblinghobbies sincerely for being so patient with me while I thought this through. Thanks to his patience, and understanding, while I specified, unspecified, and respecified the wallet, the picture that I had in my mind's eye has been perfectly realized.
If I ever have another crazy idea in my head, I know who I will reach out to. Thank you for making my dream a reality.
https://imgur.com/gallery/U1HtMk0

Damn tourists.
I flicked on my light bar and blipped the siren. He found a spot along the curb and pulled over.
I’d been following him for almost two blocks down Main Street. He’d been doing thirty-two in a twenty-five zone. I could have pulled him over just for that, but it seemed kind of petty. I was waiting for him to really screw up.
It didn’t look like that was going to happen, though, and I was just about to give up on him, when he almost hit that little Kitchner boy. In all fairness, Bobby or Alex, I don’t remember his name off hand, had run out from between parked cars and tried to jump on his skateboard. He fell, of course, and landed flat on his ass in the middle of the lane. The kid managed to scramble out of the way, just barely. The tourist missed him by less than a foot, but didn’t stop, didn't even slow down. As much as the Kitchner kid was at fault, that just pissed me off.
On top of all that, he was one of those tourists. I could tell, even before I approached the driver’s door and twirled my finger, motioning for him to roll down his window. The Sixties era British rock band haircut, the flawless skin, the teeth too straight and white, the glazed eyes, and that weird way they talked; it was just plain creepy.
Worst thing was, they treated us locals as if we were the oddballs.
“Do you . . . have a . . . problem, officer?” he asked in that weird, halting cadence once his window was down. He looked at me like I was something he’d stepped in.
“You mean other than you almost running over a little kid?” Sarcasm is my default mode.
“The . . . child . . . was irresponsible,” the tourist sneered. “It was his . . . fault.”
When I leaned down to look at him through the open window, and maybe catch a whiff of alcohol on his breath, if he'd had a few, I noticed the car’s air conditioning wasn’t on. That was strange. It was the middle of July. The temperature was in the mid eighties and he was driving around in a car, with the windows up and no AC. The guy wasn’t even sweating. Even weirder was the chocolate pudding cup sitting on the center console with a Slim Jim sticking out. Who the hell dips Slim Jims in chocolate pudding? I was beginning to suspect there might be some illegal drugs involved.
“You were doing thirty-two miles per hour in a twenty-five zone, and I don’t know what you were playing with, your phone, radio, whatever, but you were driving distracted and almost killed a child. Have you been drinking?”
“It . . . is ten . . . thirty in . . . the morning,” he objected.
“I didn’t ask you what time it was, I asked you if you’ve been drinking.”
“No,” he said, eyes narrowing at me like firing ports on an enemy pill box. I think I was getting under his skin. Well, sucks to be him.
“I’m gonna need you to step out of the vehicle, please.”
“Officer . . . I don’t . . . think . . . that is nec–”
“GET OUT OF THE CAR!”
Okay, full disclosure here; I have a bit of an attitude towards tourists. Especially those tourists.
Klarton is a small town on the edge of the Cuyahoga National Forest. Our main industry here is tourism. Lots of campers and hikers come through town, stocking up on supplies in our stores, enjoying meals in our restaurants, and staying in our motels. There’s even a ski resort over in Brandywine and we catch a lot of their overflow in the winter, so tourism is a year round gig for us.
I get along just fine with most of the people who come through here. Sure, we get some who think we’re nothing but a bunch of flyover state hillbillies and just because they spend a few bucks in our town, they’re entitled to act any kind of way they want. I was used to dealing with that type, but these new folks, like the one I had pulled over, well they were a horse of a different color. They’d started showing up a few months ago, just a couple every week or so. Now, they were getting pretty regular. I don’t know if it was body language, facial expressions, or just some kind of psychic vibe they gave off, but I always got the feeling that the only reason they tolerated our existence was because it was slightly less inconvenient than going to the trouble of eradicating us.
He stepped out of the vehicle, sighed as if dealing with a small and particularly annoying child, then reached for his wallet. I thought he was reaching for something else and very nearly shot him.
“Officer, perhaps I can . . . persuade you . . . to be more . . . reasonable,” he said, thumbing the corners of three twenties out of his billfold.
That did it. If this jackass thought he could buy me off for sixty bucks, well, he had another thing coming. I might have been a little rougher than necessary when I slammed him face first onto the hood of his car and frisked him. Attempted bribery of a law enforcement officer is a felony. At least, I’m pretty sure it’s a felony.
His skin felt cold and clammy, as I slapped the cuffs on him and shoved him into the back seat of my patrol car. Hopefully, he wasn’t sick. There was just enough time to do a quick search of his vehicle and get him down to the station, booked, and into a holding cell, before I took my lunch break. I was planning to head over to the East Street Diner. It was a little greasy spoon that catered mostly to the locals. The food wasn’t great, but Sarah, the cute redhead who I was kinda sweet on, would be working the lunch counter until one o’clock. I had not yet gathered up the courage to ask her out, but maybe today was the day. If I missed that opportunity because I had to spend the whole afternoon sitting in the ER with a sick perp, well, I would not be happy.
I radioed dispatch, told them I was bringing someone in, and headed for the station. The Chief met me outside the front door.
“So, what you got here, Jimmy?” he asked, as I led the perp up the steps.
“Reckless endangerment, distracted driving, and attempted bribery,” I replied. “He almost ran over little Bobby Kitchner.”
“You mean Alex,” the Chief said.
“What?”
“The Kitchner boy’s name is Alex, and the way I hear it, he ran out from between a couple of parked cars. It wasn’t this fella’s fault at all.”
How had the Chief heard about this already?
“He was speeding and distracted. I think he was dipping Slim Jims in chocolate pudding. It shouldn’t have been that close of a call.”
“And you’re gonna arrest him for having strange taste in snack foods?”
“He tried to bribe me, too!” I protested.
“Did he, or did you just see some money in his wallet when he was getting his driver’s license?”
“What are you saying, Chief?” I asked. The Chief seemed like a stand up guy to me, but it was starting to sound like I was about to be thrown under the bus for a damned tourist.
“That’s exactly what his lawyer will say, and unless you have solid proof that he did try to bribe you, we’re gonna wind up facing a civil suit for false imprisonment. Do you have solid proof that he tried to bribe you?”
I knew I didn’t. The dash and body cam video of the arrest might make him look suspicious, but it wasn’t proof.
“Jimmy,” the Chief prompted. “We can’t afford a civil suit. Even if we win.”
“But, Chief . . .”
“Let him go, Jimmy. Treat him like a little fish; throw him back and catch him again when he’s bigger.”
“I am . . . no fish,” the tourist protested.
“You hush,” the Chief told him. “I’ll handle this.”
“Let him go, Jimmy,” the Chief said, turning back to me.
I sighed, shoulders slumping, and threw my hands up in surrender. Spinning the perp around, again maybe a little more aggressively than necessary, I removed the handcuffs. There was a rough patch on his wrist. I could feel it against the heel of my hand, as I unlocked the cuffs. There was a small, black oval, on the side of his wrist under the thumb. A first I thought maybe I had injured the guy putting the cuffs on too tight. That was just what I needed; an excessive force complaint from one of those tourists. I tried to get a closer look, but he quickly pulled away covering his wrist with his other hand. All I could manage was a quick glance. It almost looked like the skin had torn, revealing tiny, slightly iridescent scales underneath.
That was just crazy, of course. It had to be some kind of weird birthmark or one of those three dimensional tattoos, something like that.
The tourist scurried down the steps without a word and climbed into the passenger’s side of a late model BMW. The driver was wearing a sports coat, button down shirt, and an ascot. The glazed eyes, unnatural skin, and funky haircut were all giveaways; he was one of those tourists, too. I wondered how he even knew to be here to pick up the guy I had arrested.
I glanced at the Chief, wondering.
“You gotta give these people some leeway,” he said.
“Sorry, but I don't kiss tourist ass, Chief. I–” I started, but he cut me off with an upraised hand.
“You’re a good cop, Jimmy, but you need to learn a little discretion. The town needs those people to come here and spend their money. Unless it’s something serious, just cut them some slack.”
“So, child endangerment and bribery aren’t serious? Got it.” There was that sarcasm thing again. It came off a little harsher than I wanted.
The Chief raised an eyebrow. “Watch the attitude, officer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay then.” he said, his stern features softening. “Must be about lunch time. Why don’t you head over to the East Street Diner and get something to eat. It’ll give you a chance to chat up that pretty redhead you’re so stuck on.”
“Redhead? Wait, what . . . what redhead?” Geez, now I was the one with weird speech patterns.
The Chief rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, Jimmy! Everybody knows you got a thing for Sarah. Even she knows. We’re all just waiting for you to make your move. Either piss or get off the pot. You ain’t the only fella in town that’s got an eye on her.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, starting down the steps.
Folding my cuffs over to slip them back in the case on my duty belt, I noticed something stuck in the hinge pin. It looked just like a strip of human skin. I pulled it out. It was stretchy, like latex, but it didn’t feel like rubber, more like a really soft leather. Even stranger, it was about the same size and shape as that birthmark on the perp’s wrist. I wondered if it was some kind of cosmetic thing, to cover up the blemish, but before I could give it too much thought, the Chief called after me.
“Oh, and Jimmy, one more thing; those tourists? The strange ones? Just leave them alone, ya hear? They’re not hurting anything, so just leave them alone.”
I nodded, dropped the piece of whatever, and was on my way.
Sarah wasn’t working. Lou, the owner of the East Street Diner, was holding down both the lunch counter and the grill. Not that it was a problem. Things were pretty slow. He said Sarah had to take the day off to drive her mom to a doctor’s appointment down in Peninsula. I almost left. Jean’s Super Subs-N-Sandwiches was just down the street and had much better food, but that would’ve hurt Lou’s feelings. I didn’t want to do that. I liked Lou. He wasn’t much of a short order cook, but he was good people, so I slid onto a stool at the lunch counter, scratched my palm which had suddenly developed an itch, and ordered a chili dog with a large sweet tea. Even when they’re bad, chili dogs are still pretty good.
At the far end of the counter was another one of those tourists. Lou came out of the kitchen and set a plate of peach cobbler in front of him. I watched in horror as the tourist picked up a yellow squeeze bottle from the condiment rack and liberally coated his pie with mustard. He took a bite, made a face, grabbed the pepper and gave it a couple of healthy shakes over his plate. That seemed to work for him. He shoveled forkfuls into his mouth, hardly stopping long enough to breathe.
When Lou came with my food, I hooked a thumb towards the guy at the end of the counter.
“What the hell, Lou?” I whispered, scratching at my hand again. The itch was getting worse. “What the ever loving hell?”
“I know, right? They eat the craziest stuff. Don’t look, but that guy at the booth in the back corner? He’s been coming in here ‘bout this time for the last three days. Always orders a milkshake with two scoops of vanilla ice cream and one scoop of cottage cheese.”
“And you make it?”
“Sure, why not? His money is as good as anybody else’s.”
I cringed.
“Yeah, and word must be getting around, ‘cause I’m getting more and more of the weird ones coming in. I see these guys in here putting soy sauce in their coffee, asking for ham and orange marmalade on rye, one of them even likes to dip peanut butter cookies in mayo.”
I looked down at my chili dog. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry anymore. My stomach was feeling a little queasy and I was getting a headache. “Can I get this to go?”
“Yeah, sure thing Jimmy.” He started to turn away to get a carryout box, but stopped, cocking his head.
“You ain’t been out around that old scrapyard, have ya?” he asked.
“Up on Hines Hill? No. It’s still restricted access, probably from the bear thing,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
Back in the Seventies, the federal government had claimed eminent domain over a large portion of the land in this area, and turned it into a national park. A few years later, they expanded the park and picked up the Krejci Scrapyard in the process. Several more years passed before the Park Service got around to cleaning up the scrapyard. That’s when they discovered the dump site. Hundreds of barrels of industrial waste had just been tossed into the swamp behind the scrapyard, where they rusted and started leaking. The whole area was declared a Superfund site. The cleanup was supposed to be finished years ago, but parts of Hines Hill were still closed to the public.
Of course, there are all kinds of stories about the place, gory tales of ghosts and devil worshipers that we told each other around the fire at summer camp. The one that terrified me the most was the giant python, an unwanted pet that somebody had abandoned in the toxic swamp. According to the legend, it had mutated, grown to enormous size, and was known to eat lost hikers who wandered too close to its territory.
I got this thing about snakes. They scare the hell out of me. I was 98% sure the python story was a bunch of BS, but that still left a 2% chance that it was real. Besides, there’s another story about a rogue bear up there, and I know that one is 100% real.
A few months back, some hikers found the partially eaten body of Jared Pearson, not too far from the scrapyard. Jared was a local, who lived in a trailer on the edge of town. I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. He was something of a handyman. I’d seen him doing odd jobs around town, mowing lawns, raking leaves, cleaning out gutters, that sort of thing, but if you asked him what he did for a living, he’d tell you about his podcast. He did a weekly show on UFOs, ghosts, monsters roaming the wilderness, and how the government is hiding all this stuff from us. Jared was a real conspiracy nut, so you can imagine all the stories people came up with when they found his mauled body near a toxic swamp.
There was a lot of speculation among his handful of listeners as to which nefarious secret organization had murdered Jared to silence him. The Illuminati, MJ-12, aliens, and interdimensional assassins were all considered potential culprits. Turns out it was just a rogue black bear.
Our department didn’t participate in the investigation, that area is federal land and out of our jurisdiction, but Jared was a resident of Klarton. I was a little miffed that we weren’t included, it would have been the courteous thing to do, but the Park Service did send us their final report. It looked pretty thorough to me, and I’ve got no reason to doubt the competency of the rangers that led the investigation. If they say it was a rogue bear, then, as far as I’m concerned, it was a rogue bear. At any rate, I stay away from Hines Hill.
“That rash,” Lou said, pointing at my hand. “I seen that before. People get it up on Hines Hill.”
I looked down. The skin across the palm of my hand and down to my wrist, was covered in angry, red speckles. Around the edge of the rash, the speckles were beginning to rise, like some sort of hives. In the center, they had already formed tiny blisters.
“Back when I was a kid, when the government first took over the old scrapyard,” he explained, “they sent rangers up there to have a look around. When they come back, they all had rashes, just like that. I saw ‘em myself. Sprained my ankle playing little league, and was sitting in the ER waiting room when they come in. I seen those rashes up close, and they all had headaches and was puking their guts out. It all happened after they was poking around that swamp with the toxic waste.”
I took the chili dog with me when I left the diner, but I never ate it. I didn’t even make it through the rest of my shift, before I had to go home sick. A few hours after that, I broke down and went to the emergency room. They admitted me to the hospital, where I spent the next three days suffering from a fever, low blood pressure, headache, nausea and vomiting, muscle pain, and rashes on both my palms and the soles of my feet. The general consensus was that I was suffering from some kind of toxic shock. They just didn’t know from what. Doctors and nurses quizzed me about all kinds of chemicals that I might have come into contact with; cleaners, solvents, hydraulic fluid, that sort of thing. They even wanted to know if I had I raided a meth lab recently. There was his older guy though, a doctor, who kept pestering me about Hines Hill and the old scrapyard. Was I sure I hadn’t been up there or in contact with anyone who had. Of course, the answer was “no.” At least I thought it was.
The Chief made me take a few days off, after I was released. I spent most of that time sitting on my couch drinking Gatorade, trying to replace the fluids I’d lost when I was puking up everything I had ever eaten in my entire life. It gave me time to think, though. That rash on my hand started right where I’d touched the rough spot on that tourist’s wrist when I arrested him, and it was the same kind of rash that people got when they came into contact with the chemicals dumped up on Hines Hill. I had no idea what connection there might be between those tourists and a toxic swamp, but after the three days of hell I’d just gone through, I was determined to find out. The Chief had said they weren’t hurting anything, but maybe they were. Maybe they were messing around in that swamp and bringing toxins down on their clothes or shoes or something, toxins that could make people sick, like they did me. I know the Chief told me to leave them alone, but if they were endangering the health and safety of our residents, that wasn’t really an option, was it? I just needed to get up there and have a look around, preferably in a manner that exposed me to the least amount of toxic chemicals as possible.
When the Chief asked me if I was ready for duty, I requested the graveyard shift, just until I could get back up to speed, I said. He was more than happy to accommodate me, and Twila Jones, the officer I switched shifts with, was more than happy to bump up to days. She didn’t like nights.
The station was empty, my first night back. There was no desk sergeant on night shift and the other two officers on duty were already out on patrol. The garage key was in a box bolted to the wall in the ready room, along with all the vehicle keys. I grabbed it, stepped out the back door, and walked across the rear lot to the station's garage.
I unlocked the side door and flicked on the lights, revealing every G.I. Joe wannabe’s dreamland. Shelf upon shelf of military gear stretched from one end of the building to the other. There were stacks of body armor, helmets, boots, camouflage uniforms, ballistic shields, coils of fast rope, med kits, holsters, tactical radios, rucksacks, and harnesses. In the back corner, an eight wheeled armored personnel carrier sat collecting dust. Officer Collins claimed he knew how to drive one from his time in the Army, so the Chief let him take it out for the Fourth of July parade a couple years back. Collins lost control of the rig and accidentally ran over the Future Farmers of America float. The carrier had sat parked, unmoved, in the garage ever since.
Back in the late Nineties, the federal government felt the need to militarize local law enforcement agencies. I don’t know why, I was in primary school at the time and more interested in Pokémon than public policy, but the government began throwing high grade military gear at small town police departments. Those departments took the gear, mostly because it was free, and stuck it in storage, just in case they found some use for it. This is what we did with the equipment they gave us. We stuck it in the garage and called it our “Apocalypse Stockpile.”
Most of us in the department had spent time in the garage, familiarizing ourselves with the equipment, just in case . . . aw, hell, who am I kidding. We came out here and played with this stuff. I’d been in the garage enough to know exactly where the items I was looking for were. Third row in, halfway down, there were a dozen dark green plastic cases, all about the size of a lunchbox. I slung one over my shoulder with the nylon strap attached to its side and grabbed a handful of batteries out of a plastic bucket on the next shelf down. Two more rows over, I found sealed bags, the same shade of green as the boxes. Stenciled on the heavy duty plastic were the words "Mission Oriented Protective Posture." I chose one marked L and headed out, making sure I shut off the lights and locked up. Once back in my cruiser, I headed up to Hines Hill.
About a mile or so short of the old scrapyard, I pulled off on the side of the road. No sense in announcing my presence by driving right up to it. I slung the green box over my shoulder, tucked the plastic bag under my arm, and unlocked the twelve gauge pump shotgun from the rack between the seats. You know, just in case there was a rogue bear, or a giant snake.
Cutting across the field, instead of following the road, shortened the hike by a few hundred yards. The ground was fairly level and there was a half moon in a cloudless sky, giving off enough light to see by. It didn’t take long before I reached the hardpan of the old scrapyard. All the clapped out cars and beat up appliances had been hauled off years ago, but the dirt had been packed down so tight, only weeds and scrub brush could grow here. Even they looked like they were having a tough time pulling any life out of the ground. At the back edge of the scrapyard was the tree line, and somewhere beyond that was the swamp, where all the toxic waste had been dumped.
Tearing open the green plastic bag, I pulled out a neatly folded Army chemical warfare suit, complete with over boots, rubber gloves, and a gas mask. Large might have been a bit too small for me, probably should have gone for an XL, but I managed to get all the snaps snapped and all the seals sealed. I am not about to do that rash thing again.
From the green plastic box, I pulled out a pair of night vision goggles. I had forgotten that these were the kind that clipped to a helmet, and I hadn’t grabbed one. It wasn't a problem though. I’d just have to hold them up with my free hand. It took a couple of minutes to fumble some batteries into the goggles, since I had already put the gloves on, but I managed, only losing two of the batteries in the process.
With everything situated and ready, I pumped a round of double aught buckshot into the chamber of the twelve gauge, and pushed into the woods. It was a lot darker under the trees. The night vision goggles came in handy.
I’ve heard stories about this place all my life, but I’ve never really been up here. There was that one time in high school, when I drove to the scrapyard with Lila Jean Hagstrom. We thought it would be a "rad" place to go parking. It wasn’t. I’d only managed to get one button on her blouse undone, before we decided we’d had enough and went back to town. At any rate, I knew the polluted swamp was somewhere in the woods behind the scrapyard, but not exactly where. I only hoped I wouldn’t be stumbling around out here for hours.
Turns out, all I had to do was follow the sounds of splashing and laughter.
Hunkered down behind a bush, about fifteen yards from the water’s edge. I could see people in the swamp. There were three of them, all submerged up to their chins, their clothes hanging from tree branches on the bank. It was hard to make out details though the night vision goggles, but it looked like they were all wearing weird masks or bathing caps or something. A fourth man stood on the shore, laughing along with the others. It was the guy who almost ran over the Kitchner kid, I was sure of it.
He took out his contacts and dentures, placing them in containers that he put in his pocket, before he pulled off his shirt and dropped his trousers, hanging them on a branch.
I gasped.
The guy was hung like a Ken doll. I mean, he had nothing. Not even hair.
Then he reached up, grabbing the back of his head with both hands and gave a yank. His scalp split apart. He peeled the skin down over his forehead, until it dropped off his face and hung under his chin. Underneath he was wearing the same mask or bathing cap as the people in the water, except I was beginning to realize that was no mask or cap and the people in the water weren’t people. The tourist continued to peel off his skin, down over his shoulders and chest, wiggling a little to get it past his hips, and sliding his legs out one at a time. He draped his skin suit over the branch beside his clothes, took a couple of steps back to get a running start, and then cannonballed into the swamp, much to the delight of the other three.
The night vision goggles didn’t have magnification. The picture was grainy and all in shades of green. I inched closer, as quiet as I could be. Just short of the water’s edge, they came into focus. I could make out the scaly skin, the vertical pupils of their eyes, the sharp little teeth in their mouths.
They were lizard people.
“You should . . . not . . . be here,” a voice behind me said.
I squealed and spun around, pulling the shotgun’s trigger. I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened.
It was the guy with the ascot, the one in the BMW at the station a couple of days ago. The buckshot caught him square in the chest and knocked him backwards into the underbrush. There were shouts of surprise from the swamp. I ran.
It was dark, the over boots gave me an awkward, duck-footed gait, and it wasn’t easy to breathe through the gas mask. Still, as fast as I was moving, I’m pretty sure I could’ve put some Olympic runners to shame. Low hanging branches slapped at me, I careened off tree trunks in the dark, underbrush snatched at my feet, until I suddenly broke into the open at the scrapyard. Somewhere along the line I had dropped my goggles. I ripped the gas mask off and tossed it too, drinking in great gulps of cool night air as I charged across the field towards my cruiser.
A stitch twisted in my side and my legs felt like molten lead, but I made it. Yanking open the driver's door, I tossed the shotgun into the passenger’s seat and pulled myself behind the wheel. The car fired with the first twist of the key. Good thing too; back towards the scrapyard, maybe a half mile away, I saw headlights racing towards me along the Hines Hill Road. I cranked the wheel hard over and whipped the car around in a spray of dust and gravel. Pointed back towards town, I buried my foot in the accelerator. My patrol car was a little long in the tooth, but it still had some boogie left in that V8 under the hood. I made good use of it.
Back in town, I screeched to a halt in front of the station, one wheel bouncing up onto the curb. I shed the remainder of the chemical warfare suit as I ran up the front steps and pushed through the doors.
It didn’t occur to me that those doors should have been locked.
I stopped in the middle of the darkened foyer, standing in front of the reception desk. Now that I was here, I had no idea what to do.
“Can I see you in my office, Jimmy?”
I squealed and spun around. The Chief was standing behind me. People really have to stop doing that. Good thing I left the shotgun in the car.
“Chief! Lizard people!” I gasped, pointing in the general direction of Hines Hill.
“I know, son,” he said, laying a hand on my shoulder, guiding me towards his office. “Let’s talk about it.”
Once in his office, he waved me to a chair across the desk from him. There were two mugs sitting out, like he’d been expecting company. He fished a bottle of whisky out his desk drawer and poured a generous dollop into each mug, pushing one over to me. I’ve always been more of a tequila guy, but after what I’d just been through, I wasn’t gonna be picky.
“Look, Chief, I know it sounds crazy, but lizard people are skinny dipping in our toxic swamp,” I said, after a sip, trying to sound calm and rational.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “They’ve been doing that for a while now. Started showing up about eight months ago.”
“You know about them?”
“Yup.”
“What the hell are they? Aliens or something?”
The Chief shrugged “I don’t know and they don’t say.”
“But why are they here?”
“They like swimming in our swamp, I guess.”
“And you’re just gonna let them?”
“Don’t see any harm in it.”
“C’mon chief. How do we know they’re not going to eat us or something?”
“That was an isolated incident,” the Chief said.
“Isolated incident? You mean . . . wait . . . Jared Pearson?”
The Chief threw back the rest of his whiskey, took a deep breath, and began to explain. “Jared attacked one of them, up at the scrapyard. I guess he found out about them and wanted proof for one of his conspiracy theories, so he hid in the woods by the swamp and ambushed one of them when he went up for a swim. Started whacking him with a crowbar. The tourist fought back and accidentally killed Jared. There’s a belief in their culture that if you kill something, you have to eat it. It’s an old fashioned custom, I’m told, kinda like the way some people around here used to think if you got a girl pregnant, you had to marry her. Not many of them keep to that, but some do. Problem was, Jared was too big for him to finish all at once. When those hikers found the leftovers, the Park Service had to come up with the story about the rogue bear. Which actually kind of worked out. It gave them a good excuse to close off a larger area around the swamp.”
“Wait, the Park Service is in on it, too?”
“Yup. Can’t say for a fact, but I’m pretty sure it goes all the way to the capitol.”
“And you’re okay with this? You’re okay with the government covering up aliens eating humans because they have old fashioned lizard people values?” There goes that sarcasm again.
“We prefer . . . the . . . term Sauriods,” said a voice behind me.
I spun so violently I fell out of the chair, spilling what was left of my whisky in my lap. I don’t know if I squealed again, but I‘m gonna go with probably I did. In the back corner of the office, which was blocked from my view by the open door when I came in, was ascot man, or ascot lizard, or whatever. There was a cluster of buckshot holes in the middle of powder burn on the front of his shirt. He was sipping from one of the Chief’s mugs, too. Probably vinegar and milk, or something like that.
"Stop doing that!" I shouted, picking myself up off the floor. "Last time you did that to me, I shot you, remember?"
“Indeed you . . . did. It was . . . very . . . rude.”
“Jimmy, this is Mr. Sinclair,” the Chief said. “I guess you’d say he’s the head of the Sauroid Tourist Bureau here.”
“I . . . am the liaison . . . between your . . . people and mine.”
“Mr. Sinclair works with me and the Park Service to keep things running smoothly. Ya see, his people believe that bathing in our swamp can heal diseases.”
“Absolutely it . . . does,” Sinclair agreed. “Amebiasis, tape worms, scale rot, fungal–”
“Anyway,” the Chief interrupted. “They’re willing to pay for access to it. And I’m not talking about just spending money in our town, which, by the way, they do. There are deals and exchanges going on that are way above my paygrade. My job is to make sure nothing interferes with that. And now that you know, it’s your job, too.”
“What if I don’t want the job?” I asked. I was tired of being startled and frightened, and figured I’d try being defiant for a change. “What are you gonna do, feed me to the lizard people?”
“Sauriods,” Sinclair corrected.
I was about to tell him what he could do with his “Sauriods,” but then remembered he’d shrugged off a point blank shotgun blast to the chest.
“Sorry. My bad.”
“I wouldn't feed you to anybody," the Chief said, "but there are folks on both sides of this thing who are making a tidy profit off this arrangement. They might not feel the same way I do, if somebody were to come along and upset their apple cart.”
Okay. so defiant was out.
“What do you need me to do?” I asked.
“Just what you’ve always done, keep the peace."
So, that’s my life now; keeping the peace. I use discretion, just like the Chief told me to. I give warnings instead of speeding tickets. I don’t put them in handcuffs when they get belligerent with their waitress because there wasn’t enough butterscotch in their sausage gravy. I don’t make arrests, instead I make referrals to Mr. Sinclair. And the whole time I’m kissing their scaly asses, they’re looking at me like I’m a mildly annoying insect, trying to decide if it’s worth the effort to squash me.
But, I suppose that’s better than being eaten.
Damn tourists.

I don't know if these stories quite fit here, but this is a list of some things I've witnessed during 9 months' worth of working at Ingles, a small regional supermarket chain in the South.

• Some old guy came in and he and my coworkers huddled in a circle as he told them all how he had previously been in prison for murdering someone. No one seemed to bat an eye.
• Saw a woman slap her daughter across the face in broad daylight in the checkout line. Got a stern talking to by the manager for calling out the abuse. To make matters worse, my mom came by to visit me at work just in time to see it happen and lectured me at home about it, assuming what I was upset about was a spanking, which isn't that much better.
• On days when I'm bagger, cashiers try to "help" me by bagging some items for me. This often results in bags not being as full as they could be, as items from the bag I've already constructed in my head get picked off the line and bagged separately. The one time I complained about this to management, they told me in very polite, managerly terms that "everybody is different" and basically to shut up.
• Customers and staff alike view me as some sort of god because I'm 6 feet and 9 inches tall. When people ask me for my height, they always ask me if I played basketball or something else intrusive. So nowadays, when people ask me, I tell them, "6 foot 9, and I've never played basketball."
• Got asked by my boss if I was the one who angrily threw a box of tampons at a woman and shouted, "HERE'S YOUR TAMPONS!" Though I found the situation amusing in my head, I'm not the type of person who would just assault someone like that. I laughed it off, told them to check the security footage, and haven't heard back from them about it since.
• I asked a man coming through if he wanted paper or plastic bags. "Plastic, please," he replied, and then, with a smirk, "I like killing the porpoises in the ocean." I just said "OK" and started bagging his groceries.
• Occasionally, on slow days, they have me vacuum the carpet in the entrance. It's not a very big area and, in any other case, would have been finished in no time. Except the store's vacuum cleaner has absolutely no suction, even on the highest setting. Therefore, something that would normally take about five minutes instead takes about ten times that amount. Eventually, I got fed up and volunteered to bring my own vacuum from home to do this, but the management just said, "That won't be necessary."
• One day, while I was ringing up a man with a prosthetic leg (unnecessary to the story, but I thought it was cool at the time), the scale on the scanner broke down and couldn't weigh his tomatoes. While waiting for it to reset, I asked the man to be patient because the computers at work are old and slow. (Our computers are from 1999.) The man proceeded to ramble at me for a few minutes about how this couldn't be the case. Back in his day, computer chips were built to last and now computers stop working after three years. Then he changed the subject to electric cars and the apparently faulty chips inside them. I had no idea what set him off or what any of what he was saying had to do with anything.
• An old man got unreasonably indignant with me over the possibility that his Coke might be "Mexican". I tried to explain to him that Mexican Coke uses cane sugar as opposed to corn syrup, and that many people actually prefer it. This just made him madder and he started scanning the labels for "Mexican writing," then made me read the Spanish fine print to him. I don't speak Spanish. His wife was much more reasonable and all but dragged him out of the store. Right before they left, I asked him one last time what was wrong with it and his wife quickly responded, "Nothing's wrong with it, thank you."
• It rained really hard one day and the ceiling started leaking. First, they used buckets to collect the water. Then, when they ran out of buckets, they switched to flower pots from the flower department. When those still weren't enough, they started putting out trenta cups from the indoor Starbucks. I thought this was pretty funny.
• One day, at another register, I noticed a a trashy-looking couple come through the line of one of my coworkers. The woman was wearing a sweater adorned with a giant version of the "Stars and Bars" and the man had a couple of tattoos of the same. The cashier was Black. You could smell the tension.
• Elderly man with a fishing hat came to check out. Since he only had two small items, I asked him if he wanted a bag. After some back-and-forth, during which he indirectly called me stupid, I asked him what was wrong and he asked me if I was accusing him of shoplifting or attempted shoplifting. Poor guy was so worked up he relinquished his loyalty card and angrily told my coworker he wasn't coming back after today. The lady who had just checked out in front of the man had to step to my defense and they argued a bit. Then management had to step in because the items needed rescanning because the man was "distracted by me". I just stepped to the side and laughed. Obviously, I didn't get written up for this.
• An old lady started arguing with me over the sale price for Roma tomatoes, then asked me if I was in any remedial classes growing up. That kind of stung.
• A house finch flew into the store and couldn't get out for the longest time. It kept flying around the big picture windows at the front of the store, trying to find an open one. At one point I found it in the break room, hopping around on the floor and pecking at crumbs.
• Helped a customer load water into her trunk. She told me she had a daughter at home who had suffered a massive brain injury and has been at home with them, on life support, for over nine years. Every month she buys several cases of spring water and puts them in her daughter's feeding tube. She knows she's brain-dead and will never wake up again, but she just can't let her go. Most of you would probably find that heartbreaking, but I just found it disturbing, especially considering how casual and upfront she was about it.
• Walked into the men's room and saw two sets of legs moving around under the door of my usual stall. Obviously some good times were being had. I decided it was best not to investigate and told my boss as soon as we were alone.
• I don't like when the topic of inflation comes up with customers, because it often devolves into complaining about Joe Biden, who apparently is in direct control of prices, as if he singlehandedly makes price tags for every item for every store in the nation. One "fun" person I met went off at me for having the nerve to say some inflation was normal, and told me all this inflation meant Jesus was coming back soon. I told him the Bible doesn't mention capitalism because it didn't exist yet, and he left quietly.
• The parking lot is usually an unexplored treasure trove of garbage. Sure, I've found phones and wallets and billfolds during my time here, but I've also found a tube sock, a pair of panties, Woodstock-print diapers, and a pair of perfectly good shoes enclosed in a wet plastic bag.
• Had to chase down a toddler who was wearing one of those little plastic baggies for produce over her head. The mom was a few feet away, looking at her phone. At the very least, the little girl was cooperative when I asked her if I could have the bag.
• Recently, I was in the hospital over a weekend with food poisoning and then couldn't work for a week afterward, doctor's orders. I received no compensation for this and really struggled money-wise for a bit. For a while afterward, my schedule got really messed up somehow, only showing me as working on Sundays. I finally had to talk to a manager to get it sorted out.

Trying to thin out my wallet collection and give these beauties a home. All pictures will have prices listed as well as being listed here for reference. Will update as items are sold!
ALL ITEMS are USD $. Edit: please be willing to pay $5 shipping CONUS; shipping was more expensive than I expected it to be, so just to help this process go smoother! If international and willing to pay shipping, I’ll meet you part way for comparable US shipping. List will start with brand, wallet name, cost, then quality. Venmo or PayPal; if G&S, please be willing and prepared to add 3%. All items will ship with a canvas bag.
https://imgur.com/a/s1qNTT9 (link to images)
Let me know if you have any questions!
Ashland Leather: Private Stock Vertical Bugs Moran English Tan Dublin leather - $95 (A) never been used, excellent brand new quality.
🚫SOLD — Open Sea Leather: Nimitz Navy and Taupe with silver stitching - $60 (B) used very lightly, decided I didn’t like the style
Rose Anvil: Claude - $20 (B) still in great condition, some scratches around it from keys
🚫SOLD — Saddleback Leather: vertical wallet (can’t find the product in their site anymore) - $40 (C) signs of wear from one month use, evident from some patina and card lines in wallet
One Star Leather: 6 Horizontal Pocket Garnet Shell Cordovan - $150 (C) still in great condition, some signs of wear on edges
Popov Leather: 5 card wallet Brown with red stitching - $75 (A) never been used! Horween leather
🚫SOLD — Cave Leather: Anderson wallet Black - $50 (A) never been used! Has a pill tan to access cards
🚫SOLD — Open Sea Leather: Topsider - $30 (C) great conditions, signs of wear on back from cards
Dead Miners: Clifton in blue leather - $45 (A) never used
Grove Supply: 3 pocket wallet in natural and navy - $45 (A) never used
Open Sea Leather: Topsider Billfold in rose and violet - $80 (A) never used
STR: Money clip in emerald/green shell cordovan - $150 (A) never used
🚫SOLD — Popov: Trifold in black with blue stitching - $60 (A) never used
Stock & Barrel: Blemished No. 55 in Buck Brown - $40 (A) never used, bought discounted for its minor “blemishes“
Popov: 4 card billfold in natural chromexcel - $60 (A) never used, has a bill pocket and a coin pouch
Loyal Stricklin: Johnny wallet - $40 (A) never used
Craft & Lore: Limited Run Ghost Cherry Enfold -$50 (A) never used, black wax still covering all but the crease!

Hello,
Last summer, when Outlier began looking at alternatives to the RamieNorth fabric, they make some prototype Hemp137 boxfords, and sent me one. I wore it in the September heat, and during winter travels to Jamaica, comparing it against my RamieNorth Boxfords. I gave it a lot of wear, and it's behaved well for me. Below is a summary, for folks who don't want to read a long screed.
https://preview.redd.it/cbv0bmej1vza1.jpg?width=290&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=64e1e1a840818ff7ccb46fd8373715f261a57244

Summary

• The Hemp 137 Boxford drops at the usual Tuesday 1PM NYT time
• Boxfords are great summer overshirts: you can wear them loose and open outside in the heat, and button them up when you're in excessive indoor A/C.
• This is an excellent lightweight Boxford for hot, humid environments
• The beaten hemp has a classic linen look, with a rumpled nonchalance
• It's a worthy successor to the RamieNorth Boxford
• Get true-to-size. A Boxford is already cut to wear as an overshirt, you don't need to size up to get it loose.

Cut

Most of you know what a Boxford is, so you can just skip down to the next section.
For the rest of us, a Boxford is a classic Outlier cut. A while ago Willie designed a "Boxy Oxford". While most Outlier Boxfords aren't made with Scottish oxford (basket-weave) cloth, they are generally made with a heavier or stiffer fabric than most dress shirts. The "Boxy" portion of the name refers to the torso, rather than being cut slim, Boxford torsos are cut looser than usual. A Boxford is wearable as a loose button-front one-pocket long-sleeved shirt, or unbuttoned over a nice T. I generally wear my Boxfords loose and untucked, as an overshirt. The loose cut makes the shirt look and feel more natural when unbuttoned, it doesn't make you look half-dressed the way that an unbuttoned tight shirt would. The Boxford's looseness makes them easier to open partially or fully when I'm out in the heat. If the occasion calls for it, you can certainly tuck a Boxford in, but be aware that it's not a "slim fit".
Finally, the Boxford has a very distinctive bit of Willie flair in the chest pocket: the 'halo' of the inner pocket surrounding the sides and bottom of the outer pocket. I presume that this began as a bit of Willie flair. It's really grown on me.
Generally a shirt or jacker made from one layer of fabric won't have inside pockets, because the stitching from the inside pocket shows on the outside. (Take one of your Oxfords, and look at the chest pocket from the inside. With only one layer of fabric, there's no good way to hide the stitching. The only normal solution if you want an inside and an outside pocket is to make the inside pocket smaller, and conceal its stitching behind the outer pocket.But, that's fiddly, and there is a good visual size for a "standard" shirt pocket, and an inner pocket much smaller than that is not useful for much.
So, Willie decided to make a nice roomy inside pocket, slightly larger than the outside chest pocket, placed so that the stitching of the interior pocket forms a halo around the chest pocket. Think of it as a touch of brutalist shirt architecture, like Le Corbusier's béton brut with stitching rather than concrete. It's like the visible stitching on the ass pockets of a nice pair of jeans – a functional detail that also serves an aesthetic purpose.
Boxford outer chest pocket, with visible halo from inner pocket
(A note on the lighting: all of the pictures here are of the same black Hemp137 Boxford. Color variations are because of the lighting, or different camera whitepoints.)
To the ladies reading this: yes, we men know we're spoiled for pockets. But, the Boxford isn't a "men's" shirt. It'll work fine on women, although depending on your shape and preferences you may wish to size up, then have it taken in a little here and there. Outlier is not big on gender signifiers in clothing, but Willie loves her pockets and functional touches.
I keep a light and slim wallet. I don't have a lot of stuff in there. (I've got a phone for pictures and whatnots.) When I'm wearing a sportcoat or blazer, I tuck my wallet in the left chest pocket. It's safer there, and out of the way. Reaching my right hand to the inner pocket for my wallet is a habitual gesture, almost instinctual for me. It's as natural with a Boxford as it is with a blazer.

Hemp137: Humidity and Thermoregulation

Ramie, Linen and Hemp are bast fabrics, fabrics made from plant fibers. The fibers are hollow, which may be why they wick moisture very well, for reasons that I'd know better if I were a materials scientist rather than a software guy. If you're on Outlier, you're familiar with Ramie. Ramielust is a lustrous ramie knit fabric, which Outlier has been selling for years as the perfect hot & humid summer T-shirt. (If you live somewhere hot and dry, your results may be different. Wicking sweat isn't really a desert problem.) Ramienorth was a woven ramie fabric, with many of the same breathing and moisture-wicking properties. However, Ramienorth proved difficult to work with, so last summer Outlier began researching alternatives. The most promising of those was Hemp137.
Hemp is also a bast fiber, but it's not at all like other Hemps I'm used to. Most Hemp clothing I'd seen was heavy and scratchy, like a burlap. Why would I want that?
Well, Hemp137 is an entirely different animal. It is much lighter than Ramienorth (~140gsm vs ~200gsm, plus or minus because of garment-dying), and breathes well. It has been "air-beaten", a part of its milling that we learned about from Tyler's video on the Insta, which seems to involve a machine using strong directed air to tenderize the fabric. Like fabric softener, without the side-effects.
Hemp137 has many of the wicking and breathability behaviors of Ramienorth, with a drape reminiscent of a soft linen. Hemp137 is a very light and soft weave. If you hold it up to light, you can see through it, but without the backlighting it's opaque on skin.
Hemp137, draped over my monitor.
As you can see, the fabric allows a lot of airflow.

Hemp137: Aesthetics

Recently, I wrote a review of the Hemp137 Camp Collar. If you didn't buy one, please read the reviews before picking up a Hemp137 Boxford. This is the same fabric as the Camp Collar. Hemp137 is a new fabric (new to me, at least), and you'll want several folks' opinions:

• Jamie's review
• COLDYsquares' review
• Nowast3ddays's throwdown

For me, the classic gentleman's summer fabric is linen. For those rare occasions when I need to shine all dressy, linen steams or irons up to a crisp. But linen is also beautiful when worn casually, when it's crispness begins to decay.
But you can't wear linen all day. Linen gets a little wrinkly the first time you sit down, then it gets more, and after a few hours you look like a wadded paper towel. It's not pretty. Linen is great for a photo shoot, but you change out of it after.
Linen blends addressed this, but not very successfully. Most linen blends have no "soul", they are linp and uninteresting. Injected Linen has some of the flavor of linen, with poly's wrinkle resistance. (But, that's not the point of Injected Linen, Injex was designed to maximize airflow. It's feel is a nice bonus.) Many other linen blends tend to sacrifice what makes linen special, ending up with something sterile. Ramienorth, while utterly unrelated to linen, had some of the same feel and wear.
Hemp137 is a very light, soft fabric, made with a simple weave (not a twill). It is airy, and breathes well, which works well with the Boxford cut. It is cool to the touch, with enough body to drape but soft enough to rumple rather than crease. It feels related to linen, like a gentler linen.
This morning, when I took the Boxford off of the hangar on which it was hung to dry last night, it had the stiffness and crispness of fresh Linen or Ramienorth. (You won't get this if you tumble-dry.) Once it's on you, the fabric quickly softens to its normal gentle, lightweight texture. I haven't tried starching Hemp137, because I don't want that stiffness all day, but Linen was traditionally starched, and that worked well. I also don't iron my clothes, although sometimes I'll iron a linen tablecloth.

Rumples

Hemp137 can wrinkle, more than Ramienorth, but much less than linen. And unlike linen and Ramienorth, which pick up sharp creases, Hemp137 has soft rumples.
I received a prototype Boxford last September, and one from the production run last week. I've given it a lot of wear. The placket is pretty straight. (It is two layers of fabric, and seems to have no interfacing. I don't think interfacing on the placket or collar would work well with a fabric this light.)
The pictures below shows rumples from several days of wear. I don't usually wear an overshirt that long between washes, but I wanted to see how it behaves. This was washed delicate, hung dry, and worn for days to get a "worst-case" rumpling. It's in the wash now, and will hang-dry overnight. I'll get some unrumpled photos tomorrow.
\"Worst-Case\" rumpling, after days of wear
​
The same \"Worst-Case\" rumpling, showing the placket, and airflow
The same \"Worst-Case\" rumpling, in LED light
During the day, it softens from its morning crispness, and picks up a few rumples. Not like the above, that is after days. Below is the same boxford, after washing and hang-drying, worn for a day.
​
Worn one day after wash & hang-dry
There's a video on the Outlier page showing Tyler steaming out a Boxford. When I traveled with mine to Jamaica, I brought a nice small travel steamer, but I only used it once. Unless I'm going to a beach wedding, or I've messed up the washing, I didn't need it.
If you want something that behaves like a no-iron synthetic, don't buy this. Hemp137 a natural fiber, much less wrinkly than linen, but it's not going to look freshly starched and pressed right out of the wash. This isn't a dress shirt. Hemp137 is casual and natural, a more relaxed linen, optimized for your comfort.

Washing

As with the Hemp137 Camp Collar, the label recommends a warm wash, flat dry or tumble dry low. I recommend being a little more cautious: wash delicate (cold), and hang dry or dry flat. A tumble dry, especially a hot one, will wrinkle it up, just like linen or untreated cotton. Don't do that.
Drying flat will keep it in good shape. I don't have lots of flat space for my laundry, and while wool needs to dry flat because it will stretch and could get damaged if hung wet, Hemp137 hang-dries just fine. As I do with my Ramienorth, after the wash I put it on the hangar, hold the top of the placket with one hand, and draw my other hand firmly down the placket, keeping it taught and smooth. I want the placket to dry nice and straight. This takes a few seconds. (I like some rumpled nonchalance, but please let's not go too far.) By morning it's dry, and I move it to the closet.
The Hemp137 in the Camp Collar and Boxford have been garment-dyed. The dye bath and drying seem to have pre-shrunk the fabric. As a result of this, you're not going to see shrinkage. Just keep it out of the dryer

Questions

We have some time before the drop on Tuesday. Post questions below, or hit me up on the Discord.

I turned over the spent bullet casing in my hand. It was the one item I had one the longest, and the one that I most desperately wanted to get rid of. Bile rose in my throat as I thought about what it had done, what evil it had wrought on the world, on me.
In a fit of hatred, I threw it back onto my desk. It landed with a sharp snap, then bounced and smacked into the picture frame on my desk, knocking it over.
I stared at it for a moment. The picture landed perfectly in the one sunbeam that snuck through blinds over the window, illuminating the tiniest chip that the casing had gouged from the glass.
Regret flooded me; at least, it felt like it should have been regret. Instead it was simply a growing of hollowness, like the gaping hole where my heart had once been simply grew a few inches, a post-modern Grinch that had gone through with his plans to ruin the Whoville Christmas.
I stepped forward and set the frame back up, then picked up the casing. I rolled it around in my palm. Then I closed a fist around it, squeezing tightly. The harsh metal edge dug into my callouses. I wanted to feel the cutting sharpness, wanted it to make me feel angry, sad, something.
Nothing.
I needed a job and a drink in no particular order. Seeing as the town of Packwood was not big on mysteries, I settled for the latter and pulled a handle of whiskey out of my bottom drawer.
Two glasses later, some of the hollowness had been replaced by dizziness. I wasn’t sure it was an improvement. I told myself it was.
A tentative knock rang out from my door and I sprang up. It was as though my prayers had been answered.
“Sullivan’s Detective Agency,” I practice-growled as I walked to the door.
I cleared my throat. “Sullivan’s Detective Agency.”
Still too gravelly.
I opened the door.
“Sullivan’s Private Investigations Agency, how can I help you?” I winced. My voice had cracked on the word “how”, and the pitch went stratospheric as though I were a mid-Rennaissance castrato with stage-fright.
The dame, because of course it was a dame, was taller than me. Her eyes were at least a few inches higher than my eyebrows, which had shot up at the sight. They were puffy, too, red from held-back tears. Despite that, she was a dead knockout, the sort of gal I might buy a drink for if I saw her across a crowded bar and if I were capable of feeling anything other than ennui.
“Are you… um… Sullivan?” she asked, voice a-tremble.
“Yes,” I replied evenly, the gravel returning as I gave up on the attempt to sound friendly. “Speaking.”
“Do you… investigate?” She sounded uncertain, as though she weren’t repeating the very information I had just given to her. I was used to women getting nervous around me, but this was a new level.
“That’s what the premise of a PI is,” I said. “Investigations, comma, private. How can I help you?”
“It… it’s my husband,” she began.
On the outside, I was straight-faced, but on the inside, I laughed. It always is.
Miss Hanover’s husband, you see, was cheating on her, or so she thought.
“Late almost every night,” she said, eyes welling up. “He always says he’s playing poker with his friends, but he won’t say who, and he doesn’t even know the basic hands when I ask!”
Very simple premise, the sort that’s the bread and butter of every private eye that ever walked God’s green earth. And yet, it was never one that failed to excite me. This was the intrigue and lying I needed to get through the day. This was where I was most comfortable, down in the muck, in the scum of humanity. They say to never wrestle with a pig because you’ll both get dirty and the pig’ll like it. What they don’t know is that I’m the alligator, waiting beneath the murky surface, ready to snap the moment the time comes.
Mr. Hanover was a piece of work to be sure. Balding, pudgy, and with a sneaky look about him. His eyes darted every which way wherever he went as though he were constantly afraid of being followed, and yet he never once even spotted me as he went through his dull, vanilla routine of the day.
He woke up, he paid too much for coffee at one of those classic Washington stands the size of my left thumb that had once been half blown away by a bullet, and then he went to work in the back office of the hotel that employed him. He worked the way I expected, about one hour of actual thinking and seven of browsing the sort of news websites that promise to tell you how it really is without even threatening to approach reality.
Then he left, and sure enough, instead of driving home, he went to someone else’s house and walked in the back door without even knocking.
“Bingo,” I growled, grinding my still-lit cigarette to dust before dousing the shreds with half a bottle of water. Can’t be too careful during wildfire season.
I watched the back of the house with eyes like an eagle for at least two hours. No one else entered or left the back way until Mr. Hanover reappeared in the setting sunlight, eyes glaring around the town, daring it to reveal his sordid activities.
This time, when he got back in his car, he did drive home, but I didn’t follow him.
I wanted answers.
The house of his mysterious mistress was nothing short of dilapidated. Shingles were missing in patches. The lawn was overgrown with weeds and half a rusting washing machine. The paint was chipped and flaked enough to show at least three decades’ worth of poor color choices.
For a moment, I hesitated. Was this really as simple as infidelity? The sort of person that lived here wasn’t exactly likely to be a seductress, a succubus straight from the bowels of hell. The grime and filth that I saw before me was more likely to be the result of a shut-in…
…or the heart of a drug empire, right here in my town.
Suddenly, it all added up. Hanover wasn’t cheating. He just wanted the briefest of highs before returning to the low droning of his daily life. I almost couldn’t blame him except for the fact that it came at the detriment of his lady wife. She was a sweet gal, and she deserved better.
I stormed out of my car and barged through the front door. The man inside was clean and well-muscled, but my sheer rage and the element of surprise were more than enough to pin him against the wall before he could even register my presence.
“What are you doing to my town?” I snarled, my forearm pressing against his throat.
“What the hell, man?” the figure choked out. He slapped at me, his blows barely registering through my fury.
“WHERE ARE THE DRUGS?”
“I ain’t got drugs!” he protested.
I snorted, then threw him to the ground. Before he could react, I had a knee on his back and was rifling through his pockets, scattering his things on the ground. It was an eclectic selection, a pencil and a few dice and the typical wallet and keys, but not much else.
“No drugs, eh?” I said, picking up his wallet. “Mr. James Smith, is it?” I snorted. “Don’t they teach you guys to come up with more believable names?” I opened the billfold. It was nearly empty, only three dollar bills and a lonely nickel.
“Not much cash for a drug lord,” I observed. “You must be new to the game. That’s why I didn’t see you setting up your criminal empire in my town until it was too late.”
“There ain’t no drugs, idiot,” James said. “What the hell are you coming in my house for?”
“If not drugs, then what? A sordid love affair with Mr. Hanover? Are you really the sort that would tear apart that loving couple? There are plenty of single men in this town, ‘Smith’, what’s wrong with them?”
“What?” James asked, true confusion in his voice. I let up my weight for a moment. Proper confusion is nearly impossible to fake, especially in high-pressure situations.
“What was Hanover doing here?” I demanded.
Smith groaned. “That idiot,” he said. “Dick— I mean Richard— Hanover— Look, we play DnD, alright? And Richard’s too embarrassed to tell his wife, cuz he’s an idiot. But that’s all, man, so chill the hell out, okay?”
The dice. The pen. It made sense. But why the shame?
I let James up and took a step back. “He’s ashamed of tabletop gaming?” I asked suspiciously. “But why?”
“I dunno, man, whatever,” James said, coming to his feet. “Everyone else just uses the front door, but he always insists on being sneaky and coming in the back way. Blames his dad or something, I guess. Wanted him to be a real manly man, and apparently DnD is too nerdy or something.”
I sighed. “Damn,” I said dispassionately, hollow-ly. “I needed a real mystery. It’s been years, and I’m no closer to the murder of—”
“Mystery? Murder? What are you, some sort of hardboiled PI that doesn’t play by the rules? What sort of walking stereotype acts like this?”
There was accusation in his voice… but also interest.
“What’s it to you?” I asked. “Why do you care?”
James blinked. “You’re either an insane detective or a brilliant roleplayer. Either way…” He stared at me.
“What?” I asked. “What do want from me?”
He stroked his chin. “Have you ever played Call of Cthulhu?”
Thus another mystery was closed. Miss Hanover found the opportunity for some truth-seeking and marriage counseling, and Mr. Hanover learned that he had some serious issues stemming from his childhood. As for James… he found a good landscaper at my insistence.
And me?
I’m no closer to solving the murder, the one that will likely drive me into my early grave. That bullet casing dances in my brain every night, taunting me, laughing at me. But sometimes, I can make it go away, and I can make the hollowness a bit less hollow.
Because I found a consistent DnD group, and that’s worth its weight in gold.

I've been using a Popov wallet for years, but after enough use I now know what I'd like in a wallet, but naturally I can't seem to find it online. I'm not always quick to change things, so what I'm hoping to find is something very similar to this (maybe with the structure of this), with a couple edits. I have found some wallets online that include most of what I'd like, but I saw so many recommendations for this subreddit and have loved the work I've seen, so thought I'd give it a shot!
I'm hoping to commission a bifold wallet for my front pocket that:
-Is made from full grain natural leather (with a surface that will develop a nice patina over time)
-Sewn together with Tiger Thread
-Has space for 3 card slots on one side, 1-2 on the other
-Has an ID window on the side with 1-2 slots for cards - no plastic needed as I'm hoping to use this to keep a picture of my family in
-Has a billfold pocket for US currency
-Personalization on the outside with my first initial, last name
-Preferably no company logo on the wallet
-Priced 100-150$
Looking forward to hearing back, and if not, thank you for reading either way!

I walk in through the doors and immediately notice the warm yellow lighting and faux-wood furniture complete with a consistent reddish-brown upholstering and cabinet coloring. For some reason, a trend has prevailed that the decor of a restaurant should mimic the color and texture of its food. Even the floor is patterned brown, as if someone had spilled ground beef and seen inspiration from it but no doubt it is to hide dirt and spills to save on cleaning cost, a far cry from the bold stark colors I once knew here. Were it not for a panel of purple behind the menu and the new posters advertising their 'new' nacho fries (which are in fact, not new at all but a recurring item, or even a staple at their joint combination locations) this would be indistinguishable from a Wendy's or Popeye's, a decision I am sure was made intentionally to make this location more marketable should it prove unprofitable. The lack of confidence in their product oozes almost palpably through the floor and into my eyes as I continue to walk towards the queue without any outward hesitation.
I have decided to dress soberly, yet casual today, my outfit consisting of a Celine cropped wool jacket with notched lapels with a matching pair of pants, but I've opted for my azure Dolce & Gabbana striped print cotton Martini-fit shirt with an open collar to add both a splash of color and an atmosphere of relaxed pleasure. It would be unfitting to attempt to enjoy a Blue Raspberry Breeze Freeze uptight, or even solemnly, as the sweet swirl of raspberry, pineapple, mango, and lime has no doubt been carefully engineered and mixed to maximize a sense of a calm Latin American summer evening. Truthfully I would prefer to order the Wild Cherry Breeze Freeze, but the picture on the menu indicates it would clash with my outfit, and as the decor has already put a strain on my appearance it would be foolish to risk such a faux-pas. For my footwear, I have decided on my black Louis Vuitton Vendome Flex Chelsea Boot, with a custom-made insole for my slight pronation.
The woman at the cash register welcomes me to Taco Bell and awaits my order in a black polo, branded hat, and black chinos with a stripe across the shirt. I'm immediately torn. On one hand I admire the minimal use of neon purple accents, and on the other I know it would clash with the classic faded whites, yellows, mauves, turquoise, and purples that initially drew me to these establishments in my youth. However I quickly settle myself by recognizing it does not currently match with the current color palette of the serving and seating areas, and so I may at least appreciate for this small silver lining of taste through my time here, and be grateful upper management has not revived their burgundy polyester uniforms. I ask for a Beefy 5-layer burrito with a substitution of guacamole instead of nacho cheese, not willing to subject myself to more disappointment should they not recognize the item by its more common name, "The Incredible Hulk", a Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Supreme, a Chicken Chipotle Melt, the large Blue Raspberry Breeze Freeze, four Hot Sauce Packets, and one Fire Sauce Packet for here. I don't hear my total, but pull out my Chase Sapphire Reserve card from my Argento Bottega Veneta billfold wallet. I have been ribbed by my associates for its odd texture, but I have personally found that a tastefully gauche item on my person - not immediately visible, of course - can lend a sense of humanity to my fashion decisions as well as become a talking point, in this case discussing the easy to grasp texture. I fully expect the weaving to wear out over time and have purchased two back ups that I keep in packaging for that eventuality. I tap my credit card on the scanner, only to be informed that this function has been out of order and I should try the chip reader. I find my lip involuntarily curling in disgust for a moment before I get myself under control and oblige the teller, who hands me my receipt with my order number.
My wait at the table is not accented by overhead speakers pumping calculatingly bland and inoffensive muzak (an unappreciated art form in itself, and I have acquired several master tapes of the choicest arrangements for my personal collection) but the unpredictable and constant noises emanating from the kitchen as metal clangs against metal, accompanied by the beeps and dings of automated cooking appliances, and the conversation and communication of workers. Fortunately I find this symphony of efficiency to be equally as soothing and more spontaneous and fluid than anything composed by John Cage, and the briefest of waiting periods passes by quickly before my order is called up. On my way up, I make a note to grab napkins and plasticware. An amateur mistake, a sure sign of my shaken composure, as I would normally be cognizant enough to prepare myself and gather the necessary implements on my way to finding a seat. I inwardly breathe a sign of a relief that Johnathan had canceled at the last minute to instead try the Steakhouse Garlic Ribeye at Arby's. Upon seeing the poor arrangement of my food on the plastic tray, I wonder if I should have joined him.
Putting on black nitrile gloves, I quickly, but without haste, unwrap The Incredible Hulk before opening a hot sauce packet and spreading it evenly with a knife over the top of it. I have found this to be a more efficient and uniform method of application than the more orthodox bite-and-squeeze method, which adds another variable in the pattern and amount of hot sauce added to each bite. I repeat the process with a second packet and once more with the single fire packet, mixing them all together smoothly. I give the table a once over to ensure all my other preparations are set to ensure a uninterrupted and distraction-less eating experience. The Blue Raspberry Breeze Freeze is situated ready on my left side for quick access, while the Nacho Cheese Doritos Locos Tacos Supreme and Chicken Chipotle Melt wait on the right side of the tray, unopened to preserve freshness. A sauce packet is set aside for each of them.
With everything set, I bring the burrito to my mouth and take a bite. Though I must fight back the temptation to wolf it down (a phrase which makes me envy the German language which has a word (fresse) to distinguish this from ordinary eating (esse). Devour is not quite synonymous, as it carries connotations of violence and barbarity while fresse is applied to animals. In truth I see both elements of the savage and the animal in me, but find animal more appropriate as my nature with never become civilized, only tame at best)I find myself slightly disappointed. The beef is slightly chewy. Between the cheese and the sour cream the beef should be slightly fried to give it a contrasting crunchy texture. The tortilla is wrapped adequately enough, and doesn't threaten to unroll despite having an excess of guacamole. I finish the burrito, pleasantly noting the end of it had not lacked in filling before moving onto the taco.
Once again I apply the hot sauce, letting it fall as my knife would disrupt the vegetable toppings too much. I wonder if perhaps that would be the right way, as I can see the lettuce is wilted. While I ponder, I notice that there are too few tomato pieces on top and the cheese is unevenly distributed. This time I do not hold back my disgust and let the item fall from my hands back onto the tray. I could go back and ask for a replacement, or even attempt to adjust it myself, but my duty as a customer should be to only enjoy the food; to partake in its creation would disturb the sacred line, demarcated by the altar of the counter that separates server from civilian.
Without delay I take a large drink from the Blue Raspberry Breeze Freeze, hoping its sweet swirls will sooth what soul I have. The mix of the European raspberry with the tropical mangoes and pineapples (and a hint of fresh lime) manage to quell me enough to unwrap the Chicken Chipotle Melt. I put three lines of the final hot sauce packet without spreading them with the knife. Thankfully, the cheese is melted and mixed thoroughly with the chipotle sauce, and after my first bite I can see the grill marks on the chicken. It is without a doubt the best food I have ordered here today and I'm glad I saved it for last.
It goes quickly - too quickly- between sips of my drink, and I discard my gloves on the tray with the rest of the garbage (taco included). I have drank roughly have the Breeze Freeze and decide to keep it with me as I drive back. Inwardly I hope I hit many red lights so that I may enjoy it without the ice melting to water down the bold flavors. I've left my tray on the table both because if the employees have attempted to make me fix their messes they should have to fix mine, and because I know that deep down I am the animal I pretend I'm not. The clothes, the money, the presentation, all of it is a distraction, no, camouflage so that the other customers do not begin to suspect I would gladly drown any one of them in the deep fryers for a pack of cinnamon twists. I am more diabolical than the hottest Diablo Sauce, and it is only the cool spreading of the sour cream of culture that keeps me in check. This acknowledgement does not frighten me, nor elicit any kind of emotion. It is simply a fact that what has been called a conscience exists in me as much as the Enchirito does on the current menu. Perhaps one day I shall find the menu that gives value to my existence 24/7, but it is more likely I shall simply float like a jellyfish, eating food without purpose until I am simply not.

Post trip pic of gear: https://imgur.com/a/EPxeaXv

Trip Report: Italy (Rome, Florence, Venice)

This was my first international trip, and after reading many posts on this subreddit over the years, I finally decided to take the leap and pack less. For many years I've done the roller bag and backpack combo, but was worried about lugging the roller bag around Italy. I was very close to buying a new bag for this trip when I stumbled upon a post urging to use what you have before buying anything. Inspired by that post, I decided to take my old school backpack, a North Face Surge II (32L) as my carryon and my day-hiking bag, a REI Flash 18, as my personal item.
Nothing unique about my itinerary of 5 nights in Rome, 4 in Florence, and 2 in Venice. However, I highly recommend renting an E-bike or taking an E-bike tour of the Appian Way in Rome.

Observations/Complaints about my first 1.5 bag:

It was an amazing feeling to carry everything I needed for two weeks on my back from the airport/train stations to my hotels.
I took two fleece jackets, for some color variety.
Washing clothes in the hotel sink was not glorious, but worked. I learned quickly that I needed to be extreme with the wringing.
For my next trip, I am getting a slightly larger main bag (as well as reducing bulk), so that I don't need my daypack for actual geaclothes, just plane/train needs.
Often when packing, I felt like I was missing something because it was so quick and easy.
I did not use the money belt much. My wallet went in my front pocket, and other times I used the front zip pockets on my jacket for secure storage.
The new slim wallet I got to replace my old bulky billfold, a Buffway wallet, was perfect.
Not related to onebag, but having Bluetooth earbuds enhanced my trip greatly. Listening to audio tours and music incognito while in museums and waking around the cities was fantastic.
Walking with my two bags and my headphones dangling from one in Venice was not great. Should have taken the vaporetto.

Packing List:

​
Laundry:

• Travel clothesline
• Detergent sheets
• Sink stopper (not used)

​
Clothes:

• 3x Smartwool 150 T-shirt (1 worn)
• Long sleeve 150 merino
• 4 pairs quick-dry underwear
• Light chinos
• Dark chinos
• Sweatpants (Worn)
• Darn tough socks x2
• Smartwool socks x2
• Boonie hat (not used)
• Black REI Fleece (worn)
• Blue REI Fleece
• Frogg toggs rain jacket
• REI fleece gloves (not used)
• Belt
• Nike Shoes (worn)

​
Electronics:

• Euro adapter
• Anker 25w adapter
• 10ft USB-C
• 6ft micro USB
• Samsung 25W adapter
• 6ft USB-C
• Nitecore 10k power bank
• S23 Ultra
• Samsung Galaxy Buds 2
• LG v35 (backup phone)
• Laptop (not used), Laptop charger (not used)
• Headphones (not used because I forgot the adapter, not in picture)

​
Documents:

• Copy of all hotel res, train res, and tours, travel insurance
• Passport
• Buffway wallet (split up cards amongst bags)
• Money belt

​
Camera:

• Canon SL2
• Peak Design Slide Lite (amazing)
• 50mm F1.8, 55-250mm, 24mm F2.8
• Spare Battery, Battery charger
• Lens wipes
• SD cards
• Gorilla tripod (did not use) (did not bring allen wrench to detach bracket for slide lite)

​
Toiletries:

• Small bottles of shampoo/body wash
• Small contact solution x2
• Extra contacts
• Glasses
• Elec toothbrush
• Elec Toothbrush charger
• Small toothpaste
• Floss
• 2x contact case
• Tylenol pm
• Dr. Bronner soap

​
Other:

• Collapsible water bottle
• Inflatable pillow (not used)
• Ziploks

Absentmindedly, I thumbed through the clothes on the rack. The cloying silence, and the persistent smell of formaldehyde, made the department store feel oppressive. I sighed; here I was, buying boring clothes for work, instead of doing what normal people do on their birthday...enjoy themselves in the company of others. To me, it was just another day to run errands.
I chuckled as I recalled how I'd always hated department stores. When I was very little, my mom would take me shopping and buy me the dorkiest clothes she could find. I'm not sure that's what she intended, but it sure seemed like it. It was so boring trying on all those awful, itchy outfits, only to emerge from the changing room to be told I looked "nice". The circular racks made great hiding places; I could slip away from her, move only a few racks away, and sequester myself in the middle. Pretty soon she'd be calling my name, getting security involved, and otherwise going completely overboard trying to find me. I'd tire of it, slip out of my secret fort, and surprise her by standing quietly behind her as if nothing had happened. I finally stopped doing that when she explained to me how much it terrified her. Once again, the department store became boring.
I found some polo shirts in relatively neutral colors, and a few pairs of slacks to replace the ones that were fraying at the bottom. I hung my uninspiring quarry over one arm, and looked around for the men's shoe department.
The piercing cry got my attention. It was a little boy, shopping with his dad, throwing a temper tantrum. I couldn't catch all the words, but it was clear he had the same opinion of department stores as I did, and vastly preferred to go for ice cream. His dad tried to command him gently, but firmly, making it clear that he needed new clothes for his first day of kindergarten, and ice cream would have to come later. A wave of cold dread overtook me as I stared sympathetically at the beleaguered tot. I knew exactly how he felt, and what indignities awaited him at school.
A few more pointed phrases later, and the dad turned away in disgust. The little boy slowly sneaked away, moving around a few clothing racks. I smiled; I knew where this was heading, and enjoyed the chance to relive my minor childhood triumph.
Then a thought occurred to me. I tried to push it away, but it persisted. The thought grew and grew until it overwhelmed every other one. A sly smile broke out on my face, and after ditching the boring clothes I was going to buy, I crouched down to skulk over to where the little boy was last seen. I rounded a clothing rack; he was coming the other way, and almost ran into me. He stopped with a surprised shudder.
"Hi!"
"Hi." He seemed nervous, but unintimidated.
"I'd like to get some ice cream, too. Want to come with me?"
He looked at the ground. "Yeah. But..." He looked nervously in his dad's direction.
"Don't worry, I'll bring you back to your dad when we're done, safe and sound."
He looked up uncertainly. "Promise?"
I smiled sincerely. "Promise."
His face burst into an excited smile. "OK!"
I looked him in the eye. "There's only one condition."
His nervousness returned. "What?"
"I want you to pretend that you're my son for a little while. Can you do that?"
He was silent as he looked at me, his expression uncertain.
"Do you like playing make believe?"
His smile returned. "Yeah...!"
"That's all we're doing here."
"OK!" he cheered.
I grinned broadly. "Then let's go! But we have to sneak out. We don't want your dad seeing us."
I remained crouched on the ground and strode away with long steps; it would have looked pretty silly if anyone spotted me. He giggled to himself and started walking the same way, even though he didn't need to crouch to remain hidden. We exchanged snickers as we zig-zagged through the clothing racks. Half a minute later, we emerged from our urban jungle and reached the tiled walkway in front of the exit door.
We exchanged giddy laughs. "Where do you want to go for ice cream?"
His response was instantaneous. "Farrell's!" I knew the place; it had been going downhill in recent years, but only because enough people didn't go there anymore. Tonight was the night we could make a difference. "Sounds great!" I exulted.
We left the mall; the crisp autumn air slapped us, reminding us how heated the department store had been. We looked both ways for cars, then scampered to my vehicle. I unlocked the doors and we both climbed in.
"Put on your seatbelt!" I reminded as I attached mine. He looked slightly crestfallen. "Remember, safety first! I want to return you in one piece!"
He snickered as he secured himself. "OK."
I started the car and looked around uncertainly. "Farrell's would be...where?"
He quickly pointed in a direction. "That way!" The memory came back to me; the nearest one was only a few blocks from here, exactly in the heading he indicated. I smiled. "Wow, kid! You sure know how to party!"
He raised his arms in triumph. "Yay! Party!" I laughed; clearly, he was wise beyond his years.
We left the parking lot, merged with traffic, and in no time at all, pulled into Farrell's. It was one of several buildings sharing a parking lot. It looked like the lot had once been just for the restaurant; now, newer buildings, all boring and rectangular and painted blandly, staked out the edge. One was a vitamin store; another was a dentist's office. I shuddered as I realized those simply didn't belong near an ice cream parlor. It was like they were trying to ruin the fun.
We got out of the car and started walking across the parking lot. It was surprisingly busy for a weekday; it gladdened my heart to know we weren't the only ones that wanted to come here. I looked down at the little kid. "Better give me your hand, tiger; let's be safe."
He stared at me blankly, then offered his hand; I took it. We traipsed up to the front door, exchanging an excited smile before entering.
The noise hit us just before the smell. The jaunty banjo music perfectly complemented the spirited player piano, melding with the bustling crowd noise to create the perfect happy atmosphere. Busy employees darted to and fro, all decked out in their red-and-white-striped uniforms, complete with strawboat hats. The overwhelming smell of candy punctuated that neatly; my teeth began to ache involuntarily. All together, it reminded me of happier days, when I was young enough to believe the world was filled with exciting possibilities...before each personal setback constricted the scope of my future, bit by bit. But as long as I was here, it could be like it was, if only for a little while.
There were a few parties before ours; it warmed my heart to see the place was near capacity. Even the counter just past the hostess contained a decent throng of patrons. I felt my hand jerk around; I looked down to see my companion dancing with glee, a big smile on his face.
"Are you excited, son?" I asked brightly. "Yeah!" he gushed. I let go of his hand and chuckled as I watched him jump up and down, stomping out a happy little circle, vocalizing randomly.
I looked at the groups ahead of us in line; one was a family with four small children, and the other looked like a young couple on a date. The family man looked a bit harried, he and the mother continually trying to herd their kids into some sort of group, but despite the chaos of his offspring, I wished I could have been in his place. I never had lofty goals in life; I just wanted to meet a nice girl, settle down, have a family, maybe see a school play or two. It seemed like it was enough for my dad, and I was convinced it was all I needed to make me happy. But somehow, it never happened. I only had to look at the young couple to recall why.
I remembered trying to date in college. It was mostly a series of awkward interactions, each ending in a dispirited fizzle, and empty offers to see each other again. I finally developed a rule; after the third threadbare excuse for turning down another date, I would simply give up and never call back. None of them ever sought out the reason for my disappearance, which told me all I needed to know. Granted, I didn't feel much chemistry with them...with one notable exception. To this day, I can't get her out of my mind.
Most guys probably thought she was homely, but I never did...she had something that set me on fire inside. Besides, I genuinely thought she was gorgeous. I managed to secure one date with her; I took her to a pizza parlor before a movie. My intention was to keep it light and breezy, maintaining an air of fun. My impression, from the comments she made that evening, was that I was being cheap. She didn't seem to enjoy the goofy comedy movie I picked, either. It's so confusing to have such strong feelings for someone, who obviously doesn't feel that way toward you. What was the source of such oddly one-way infatuations? Was it nothing more than self-delusion? What was the difference between confidence and self-delusion, anyway?
Dating as an adult was even more difficult. What was I to do? I wasn't really into alcohol, so I couldn't meet women in bars. I wasn't socially adept, so clubbing was out too. Online dating was a humiliating series of ignored missives and one-star ratings. I even tried volunteer work, but the women my age all seemed to have boyfriends, at least if I was the one asking. And as I got older, I found even less options open to me. The whole thing just seemed impossible.
We were finally at the front of the line. I looked down at my young charge; he stared back with a goofy grin, swinging back and forth for no apparent reason, other than the sheer joy of doing so. "We're next!" I cheered. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, a little too loudly, but I thought it was perfect. I looked up to see one of the counter patrons glancing in our direction; our eyes met, and we gazed at each other for longer than a moment. Quickly, she turned away, immersing herself once again in her sensible-sized ice cream soda.
I looked her up and down; she was a natural redhead, probably only a few years older than me. There's something about redheads that tends to extremes – it seems they're either stunningly gorgeous, or terrifyingly frumpish. Some men aren't attracted to them at all. I didn't understand that; I always found them to be mesmerizing. And this one looked like she had been one of the beautiful ones, before age did to her what it does to all of us. Her face was a little too round, her body on the plump side. What really got me was the haunted look in her eyes; I knew it all too well.
The pretty young hostess appeared in front of us. "Hello, and welcome!" she bubbled.
"It's my daddy's birthday!" he gushed. I smiled; he was playing his part perfectly.
Her face burst with well-practiced joy. "That's great! We sure know how to celebrate those! How many in your party tonight?"
"Two," I sighed. "Just us." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the redhead look in our direction again; I pretended not to notice as I looked at the ground. "His mom's been out of the picture for a long time."
The hostess didn't skip a beat. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, come this way, and we'll get you two seated!" She motioned for us to follow her.
As we passed by, I looked over at the redhead. She was openly staring in my direction, an aghast look on her face. I managed a sad smile as I walked by. I was only a few feet away from her when I heard a loud squeak erupt from the swivel chair.
"Excuse me..." she called out. I froze, partly from excitement, partly from nervousness. I turned slowly to find her gazing at me. "I'm sorry...I don't mean to intrude...but your story was just heartbreaking."
If she only knew how heartbreaking it really was. I tried to play it cool, but I could feel tears threatening to burst from my eyes. "Thanks." So much for that attempt at a smooth move. There are probably a lot of ways to respond to someone expressing sympathy, but thanking them is down near the bottom of the list. I wanted to say something more appropriate, but my mind was a blank.
I felt a tug on my pant leg; I looked down to see him arch his eyebrows, a secretive smile on his face. Bless his joyous little heart! He knew exactly what to do, and now, so did I.
"Well, squirt?" I asked him. "Would you like this nice lady to join us tonight?"
"Yeah!" he exulted, jumping once to punctuate it. My heart soared; I really couldn't have picked a better kid. I wished he really was my son; I think I would have made a great father for him.
I turned back to her; the tears had found their way out. "I'd be honored if you would join my son and I this evening."
She let out a cathartic giggle. "I'd be delighted." She turned to pick up her ice cream soda, flashing the employee behind the counter an uncertain look.
"Don't worry one bit," I told her. "I'll pick up the tab for your soda. In fact, the whole evening is on me."
Her eyes clouded slightly. "Oh, I couldn't make you do that."
A genuine smile beamed from my face. "Really, think nothing of it. Your company is more than I could ask for." Her eyes glowed with warmth; with an excited smile, she moved to follow.
I turned to find the hostess looking at all of us with an open-mouthed smile, her hands clasped in front of her. "This is just adorable," she cooed. "I love working here...it really is the place where magic happens!" She turned to continue to lead us to our table.
A hand shot in front of me. "I'm Kathy, by the way."
I had to think of an alias quickly, something believable. I took her hand and shook it. "I'm Scott."
Our eyes met; she looked down shyly. "Nice to meet you."
I met her gaze fearlessly. "You too."
We sat down in our booth; Kathy was in the middle, and my "son" and I were on either side, near the aisle. The hostess gave me a mocking look of disapproval. "Now, anyone can say it's their birthday, but if you want a free sundae, you have to prove it!" I laughed and pulled out my wallet, showing her my driver's license. She perused it for a moment, then her brow furrowed.
Silently, she mouthed "Scott?" to me. I winked at her with one eye, the one furthest from Kathy, otherwise trying to keep my face still. I momentarily opened my billfold and showed her the thick stack of twenty-dollar bills. The hostess flashed me a concerned look, but didn't say anything. I put my wallet away.
"Your waiter will be right with you", the hostess informed us. "I hope you all have a great time!"
"Well, son?" I began. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself to the nice lady?"
He flashed her a beaming smile. "I'm Ryan!"
She chuckled. "I'm Kathy. Nice to meet you."
Ryan was practically bubbly. "I'm so glad you joined us tonight! This is gonna be fun!"
"Oh, it's my pleasure," she demurred. "I didn't really want to sit all alone at that counter."
"Well, I'm glad you decided to be part of our family. Even if it is only for an evening."
She looked down shyly. "Oh, we all know I'm not part of your family."
"Hey," I assured her, "family is whoever you want it to be, whoever comforts you when you're down. So I say, for one night, we can all be family, here at this family restaurant. No one needs to know better!" Wasn't that the truth.
She beheld me with a bemused look in her eyes. "I don't know how you can manage to be so whimsical. Most people lose that when they grow up."
I laughed as I jabbed my thumb in Ryan's direction. "It's easy when he's around. He keeps me young."
We turned to watch him clasp his hands together into a fist and pump them over his head, in the classic show-off gesture. "See?" I pointed out. "Who can stay serious with him around?"
Kathy smiled as she laughed. I was suddenly struck by how pretty she was when she smiled. It was difficult to tell before; she had such a morose expression on her face. I decided she deserved to be pretty all the time, and vowed to think of any way to keep her smiling and laughing.
That was going to prove to be difficult; I couldn't think of anything clever to say. "So, do you come here often?" There were worse questions I could have asked, but true to form, I couldn't even think of what they might be.
"At least once a week. I work at the dentist's office across the lot." She demurred. "This place is one of the few treats I allow myself."
"People should have ice cream all the time!" Ryan cheered. "It'll make them happy!"
Kathy laughed and gave him a warm smile. "That's not how it works for grownups."
Ryan's face instantly assumed a pained, inquisitive look. "But why?" The kid was a natural actor; I hoped his dad encouraged these skills. Somehow, I thought that was too much to ask. I shuddered inside as I realized how his primary school teachers would react. Rules, rules, and more rules.
Kathy looked slightly taken aback. "Grownups can't just eat ice cream all the time." An impish smirked emerged. "But sometimes I come here more than once a week. Depends on how the day went."
"Tough one?" I offered.
She let out a heavy sigh. "The worst was an older gentleman receiving an implant. He fought us the whole time! Finally, his wife gave us permission to sedate him. I was shaking for two hours."
"He just needed some ice cream," Ryan interrupted.
"Ice cream doesn't solve everything, kiddo," Kathy stated firmly.
"But it can for one night," I interjected. "It's no fun being serious all the time."
She chuckled. "I guess you're right. For one evening, we'll all cut loose!"
"No grumpy talk on my daddy's birthday!" Ryan demanded.
Kathy and I burst out laughing at the same time, as Ryan returned to his fist-pumping show-off pose. "He really is a treasure, isn't he," she observed.
I nodded. "He really is."
The waiter arrived. "Hi, I'm Ryan! And I'll be taking care of you this evening!"
"No, I'm Ryan!" he shot back.
The waiter laughed and pointed at his name badge. "I'm Ryan too!"
He was having none of it. "I was Ryan first!"
I couldn't hold in my laughter; I covered my eyes with my hand as Kathy and the waiter joined in on the mirth. "Well, can I be Ryan too?" the waiter asked him. "Just for a few hours?"
Ryan swayed as he made a goofy face. "Well...OK."
The waiter turned to Kathy and I. "I'll be he keeps you two young."
"He sure does," she agreed. I merely nodded. I was increasingly certain his father never let him act this way.
"What would you like, miss?" the waiter asked.
"Gibson Girl," she replied, unable to contain her joy. Once again, her smile bowled me right over. She really was my Gibson Girl for the evening.
The waiter turned to me. "Gold Rush," I told him.
"Banana Royale!" Ryan belted, out of turn.
I gave him the slant eye. "You sure you can finish that?"
"Just watch me!" he declared confidently.
The waiter darted off to fill our orders; Kathy turned to me. "So do you two come here often?"
"We used to," I sighed, "with his mom. But we haven't as much since...she left."
We both turned as we heard Ryan growl. "That guy was ugly and drove a big stinky motorcycle." Where does he come up with this? I thrilled at his creativity.
"But Ryan really wanted to come here tonight." I appreciated being able to tell the truth, if only for a moment. "So we decided we were going to take this place back, for ourselves."
She rested her chin on her hands as she beheld both of us. "That's adorable."
My smile couldn't be contained. I'm not even sure how long Kathy and I locked eyes. "You're turning red!" Ryan observed joyfully, pointing at me. "You like her!"
She blushed too. "You're right, squirt," I admitted, "I do."
The evening was a blur; I can hardly remember what happened. I play-acted as a family man, as if reading from the diary I never had a chance to write. Ryan burst forth with one silly wisecrack after another, his comic timing a wonder to behold. I'm not even sure how I came up with the sad story about my nonexistent failed marriage, but all of it felt natural, and Ryan chimed in with color commentary. Kathy was practically eating out of my hand, her doe-like eyes locked on mine, all signs of reticence gone. And, true to his word, Ryan finished off his ice cream; I guess I had no reason to doubt him. I paid for everything, tipping the waiter generously, doing my part to keep them in business. After that, we all walked outside into the cool autumn air.
I felt something attach itself to my leg; I looked down to see Ryan hugging me. "Happy birthday, daddy!"
I tousled his hair. "Thanks, squirt!" He let go; I looked up to see Kathy's face beaming.
"Thank you so much for joining us," I gushed. "You really made our evening complete."
She smiled demurely as she moved closer. "Mine, too."
I don't know where my confidence came from. Was I still play-acting? Or were we really experiencing chemistry? I didn't spend any more time thinking about it; I grabbed her gently and kissed her for what was probably only a few seconds, but seemed like ages. It helped that she tasted like ice cream.
Our lips finally parted; I heard a happy sigh to my left. We both turned to see the hostess staring at us, her open-mouthed smile back in full force. "I love working here," she burbled.
"It really is the place where magic happens, isn't it." Kathy agreed with her eyes.
I turned to Ryan. "Well, tiger? Do you think we should invite this nice lady to come home with us?"
"Yes!" he cheered enthusiastically, jumping up and down and, I assume, vocalizing his tiger impression.
She giggled. "I'd love to. Want to give me directions?"
"Just follow my car," I suggested. "I don't live that far from here."
"OK," she replied, her eyes twinkling. "See you soon." She gave me one last wide grin.
I watched Kathy walk away; as I did, I froze. On the other side of the parking lot, still some distance away, but trudging in our direction, was my little companion's father. Ryan noticed him too, then looked up at me uncertainly.
I knelt down, now safely out of sight. "Did you have fun tonight?"
"Yeah!" he gushed.
"Did I make you do anything you didn't want to?"
His face showed confusion. "No..."
I gave him a gentle push on his back. "Then go to your father."
He started to move in that direction, then suddenly turned around and looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. "What's wrong?" I asked him.
"My name's not really Ryan," he revealed.
I smiled. "That's OK; mine isn't really Scott." He looked relieved.
"It's fun to play make-believe, isn't it?" I asked. He nodded eagerly.
I gestured toward his father. He gave me one last beaming smile before toddling off.
Still crouching, I strolled into the parking lot, trying to stay out of sight, sticking to the darker areas between the light standards. My car had never seemed so far away.
I finally reached the grass island; sanctuary was still six spaces away. I heard Ryan's unmistakable squeaky voice, followed immediately by a gruff roar. "Timothy? How did you get here? You scared the hell out of me!" I could hear him protesting his dad's objections, but wasn't able to make out any words.
I unlocked my car with the key; I didn't want the keyless fob's beep to draw attention. Opening the door only as much as needed, I managed to slide into the front seat and gently close the door behind me. So far, so good. I moved to start the car, looking into the rear-view mirror as the engine turned over. My heart fell as I saw Kathy talking to Timothy's father, a frantic look on her face. Was she going to tell him what she knew? Could she describe me to the authorities? Was what I did kidnapping, even though Ryan...Timothy...had been fine with the whole thing?
I decided that it was pointless to ask questions, because they all had the same answer – to get away from here as quickly as possible.
I backed up and veered right. I didn't look in their direction; I didn't even want to know what was happening. I turned left into the next aisle; a chill washed over me as I realized that they were sure to see me in a few seconds.
I saw a dark gap approaching on the right; it looked like a pedestrian ramp leading down to the main street. Was it open, or did it have a handrail in the middle? Was there anyone on the sidewalk? Were there cars going by? I turned to back down it, and saw Kathy, Timothy's dad, and another person all staring in my direction. Was it a police officer, or was I being paranoid? I had run out of options. Thankful that I had no front license plate, I hit the gas and prayed all would be well.
My car started shaking violently; it was a stairway, not a ramp. I could still see no obstructions in my mirrors. I plunged into the darkness; at the same time, I dropped out of their sight. In that brief glance, I thought I could see them running toward me. I was out of time; a few seconds from now, all my questions would be answered, one way or another.
My car dropped off the curb; I veered right to align myself with the street. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalk, and the nearest cars were almost a block away. My heart soaring, I shifted into "drive" and hit the gas. My car leaped away, and soon I was cruising down the street at a moderate clip.
I knew I couldn't come back to this part of town for a long time. That would be easy; I was only here to shop for clothes. Fortunately, the department store was miles from where I lived. The next nearest one was even further away, in a completely different direction; I could go there from now on. I also had the good fortune of not looking very distinguished; my bland, business-casual outfit, and my unremarkable face, would serve me well for once.
And in the end, what had I really done wrong? The kid came with me voluntarily, and was completely uninjured. I was very responsible, and took good care of him; at worst, I was an unauthorized guardian, feeding him ice cream willfully and with wanton disregard. And what about Kathy? Granted, it was wrong to lie to her, but not illegal; otherwise, half the guys in pick-up joints would be behind bars. No, I decided, no one could accuse me of being a criminal...just an oddball. And I could accept that. Besides, for all I knew, maybe Kathy wasn't her real name.
I stopped for a traffic signal; the street behind me was still pretty empty. Joy swelled in my heart, finally pushing its way out, forcing a beaming smile onto my face as I realized what the evening had really meant. For once, I got to have a nice birthday outing, with a kid and and a girl, and pretend to be a real human being, instead of a pitiful outcast. I got to live out my dream of being a family man, the same dream many others live for real. I got a glimpse of how my life could have been if events had taken a different turn. It was really nice to experience that, if only for a short while.
I thought of Kathy, what a nice girl she was, and how she deserved better than she had. I also realized I couldn't have given her what she needed. I knew I wouldn't have gotten along with her in the long run, or even the short run; I was never that good with people. Plus, my sob story wasn't true. So I'd already experienced the best part of any relationship I could have had with her, brief as it was. Even so, that temporary feeling of normalcy was the nicest present I'd had in years.
The light turned green; I depressed the gas pedal as I focused on the freeway onramp, only a few blocks away.
And who's to say what I experienced tonight wasn't as real as it needed to be? How many people stay in phony relationships because they fear being alone? At least I didn't have that problem. How many people lie to themselves every day? At least mine were limited to a few hours of one day. I could return to my boringly honest life, knowing I would go back to causing no trouble for anyone. Most people can't even claim that much.
I pulled onto the freeway and gunned the motor. My eyes teared up as something told me I was going to have happy memories of this day for the rest of my life.

Matilda Graves - A Short Story for Doc and Friends Annual Collab
The summer house that Charlotte Evans came to stay in belonged to her father’s family. Charlotte’s mother never went there, and her father hadn’t returned to his family’s home for many years. Both were gone, and Charlotte was now alone, an only child. Her aunt on her father’s side had offered the place to Charlotte as a means of experiencing a moment of respite before beginning her graduate studies later in the fall.
“I don’t like leaving you here by yourself, especially with no way to drive into town,” Charlotte’s friend, Amelia, reminded her. “I know we’ve already talked this over, but I still don’t like it.” Amelia put one of Charlotte’s bags on the floor of the house’s antiquated kitchen and looked around the compact space. Though the small room was clean and tidy, the kitchen’s sink and other fixtures were something from decades past, their surfaces dull and tarnished with age.
“Isolation is what I crave right now,” Charlotte said, sighing as she parted the kitchen curtains, rays of sunlight flooding in.
“Sometimes I couldn’t even get out of bed after my breakup with Ben. I just need to be alone—no offense.” She sat down at the kitchen table and began to rummage through one of the brown paper grocery bags nearby, placed there by Amelia.
Amelia stood by the open door, the pleasant sounds of the woods in early summer ambient in the background. “Will you have enough food for three months?” Amelia asked, frowning as she opened a kitchen cabinet door. Taking out a blue and white box and reading its side, she commented, “I couldn’t drink powdered milk. Yuck. I hope you don’t starve.”
“I’ll be fine,” Charlotte reassured her, as if dismissing a petulant child. “I think that’s all the bags. Thanks for helping me with shopping in town." Charlotte took two cans from the grocery bag and stood next to Amelia, putting them into the cabinet with the powdered milk. “I’ve got enough food to last until the end of the summer. If I really need to get to town, I can walk. It’ll take hours, but I can do it.”
“What if you can’t walk?” Amelia retorted hastily. “The phone here isn’t even hooked up.” Amelia leaned against the kitchen counter as Charlotte continued to stash away canned groceries.
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Charlotte replied. “I’m young and fit. What could possibly happen to me?” She grasped the door to the kitchen and then put an arm around Amelia, hugging her for a moment. “I’ll see you in eight-three days. You have a good summer on the water with Ethan. I’m sorry I won’t be able to go boating with you two this time.”
Charlotte put a hand above her eyes, shading them from the bright afternoon sunlight to watch Amelia drive away. A dirt and gravel driveway led away from the two-story colonial-style house, a paved road then connecting the house to town. A copse of sweeping ash trees hid the house, which stood alone on its own wooded lot with no close neighbors in either direction.
Wandering in the woods behind the house, Charlotte decided to let the rest of the groceries sit in their bags for a while. Everything perishable had already been put away in the refrigerator; Charlotte would have to do without anything fresh once those supplies were gone unless she felt like taking the long walk to town.
The woods were quiet and tranquil, with chirping birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. She strolled along a narrow deer path that eventually opened up into a clearing. In its center stretched a large pond, broad and stagnant, its opposite side lined by dense woods.
Looking out over the pond from its sandy shore, Charlotte noticed how murky the waters appeared. Little sunlight made it to the surface. It must be very deep at the center, Charlotte thought, watching the wind churn over the water, tumbling white clouds drifting overhead. I’ll come back later and take another look.
The old house seemed to breathe as Charlotte walked up its steps, groaning as she opened the front door. I’m glad Aunt Alice keeps this place in decent shape, thought Charlotte. I’ll have to visit the elderly couple she employs when I’m in town again, probably in a few weeks.
The house’s attic was cramped, filled with musty furniture, boxes, and a worn steamer trunk, a broken strap dangling from its side. Charlotte had waited until morning to visit the upstairs attic and explore its treasures; she’d been too tired after the long drive with Amelia yesterday.
Opening the trunk, Charlotte began to dig through its contents, putting aside threadbare vintage clothing and leather-bound books. At last, she picked up an old photo album. I wonder why Aunt Alice doesn’t just throw most of this stuff out, Charlotte asked herself as she turned the dusty pages of the album. These clothes are just a feast for the moths at this point.
The photo album held pictures of her extended family from years ago, including people she didn’t recognize. Charlotte found photos of her father from when he was a boy and then a young man—he’d grown up in this house before moving away, just like his siblings. The black and white photos were sometimes discolored and there were several empty spaces in the album, as if photos had been taken out.
Putting the book aside, Charlotte took the last of the clothes out of the trunk, something falling out as she did. She reached down to pick up a photo from the floor and examined it. Its picture was of her father standing next to a young, pretty woman. He was smiling. In the background was the house as it would have been many years earlier. Turning the photo over, someone had written “Warren and Matilda” and then marked it with a date.
Looks like Dad had a girlfriend before Mom, Charlotte mused to herself. I don’t remember Mom or Dad ever mentioning a Matilda. Charlotte tucked the faded, heavily creased photo into the back of the photo album and then tried to put everything back into the trunk in its original order. I hope Aunt Alice doesn’t notice—like she’ll even check!
Rising from the trunk, Charlotte climbed back downstairs to check the mail, closing the attic door above her. Aunt Alice said I should collect it for her while I’m here. She opened the front door and walked along the driveway to the sheltering trees and the mailbox hanging from a post near the road. She pried open the mailbox’s lid and found nothing inside.
Someone was coming up the road on a bicycle. As the cyclist grew closer, Charlotte could see it was a young woman wearing a summer dress. The young woman waved a hand and then brought her bicycle to a stop near the mailbox, resting her sneakered feet on the pavement.
“Good morning,” the woman said gaily, smiling at Charlotte. “It looks like the old place has a guest.”
“I’m here for a while,” Charlotte replied, returning the woman’s smile as best she could. “Housesitting for my aunt, Alice. Nobody lives here anymore, and my aunt wanted the house occupied before it’s sold. Are you from town?” Charlotte studied the woman as she waited for an answer. She was naturally beautiful, with flowing, honey-colored hair and striking green eyes. A real knock-out.
“I’m not from town, but I am from around here,” the woman answered, still smiling and genial. Charlotte considered this answer somewhat puzzling.
“What’s your name?” the woman said.
“Charlotte Evans. Pleased to meet you.” Charlotte held out her hand, but the woman only continued to grip her bicycle’s handlebars.
“I knew a boy named Evans once. A long time ago,” the woman said quietly, her smile fading. She turned away from Charlotte for a moment and looked behind her, as if examining the house. “And who are you? May I know your name?” Charlotte asked, almost insisting, feeling a sudden discomfort at the break in the conversation.
Without a word, the woman began to pedal off. She didn’t turn back or offer an explanation—she just rode silently away. Charlotte watched her glide down the road, her bike bell lightly chiming. Finally, the woman disappeared around a winding curve, gone beyond the leafy trees.
Bewildered, Charlotte returned to the house to make lunch, thinking that she’d pick up again with her summer reading list in the evening. She briefly paused, wondering why a young woman would be riding such an old-fashioned bike.
The fireplace crackled, the only source of light in the living room other than the lamp next to Charlotte’s armchair. Charlotte turned a page in her hardback book, nodding for a moment beneath the fireplace’s soothing warmth. The night outside was cool; it was still early summer.
When the professor had gone, Sergey Ivanovitch turned to his brother. After reading the first sentence of the new chapter, Charlotte yawned, thinking, I can’t finish this chapter tonight. Maybe tomorrow.
Resting the book on the side table, Charlotte then heard a floorboard creak upstairs, followed by the sound of soft footsteps. A dull thud echoed from the stairs to the floor below, as if someone had just put their weight onto its steps.
Squinting in the low light of the room, Charlotte glanced cautiously toward the living room’s open door. More footsteps echoed in the hallway and then a shadow fell over the entrance. Someone was there—standing in the hall, waiting. Charlotte’s lamp light dimmed and flickered, the flames of the fireplace dwindling behind her. “Hello? I know you’re there,” Charlotte said, now standing in front of her chair. She reached for a fireplace poker and held it firmly, ready to confront her intruder.
There was a mournful sigh and a breeze gushed through the room, its odor fetid and decayed, smelling subtly of fenland. The shadow then receded, pulling back into the dark of the hallway until it finally vanished.
Charlotte hurried toward the light switch on the wall and slapped it on. The ceiling lamp bathed the room in bright light. No one was there.
Poker in hand, Charlotte checked the upstairs bedrooms and then searched the ground floor of the house. Turning on the kitchen lights, she scrutinized the nighttime yard from the front porch and then locked the front and side doors. I was almost asleep, Charlotte thought, trying to reassure herself, her uneasiness still palpable. It was just a dream. I’m all alone out here.
Charlotte put the house keys into her jeans pocket and then checked her billfold for the cash she had brought with her. The walk to town will likely take three or more hours, Charlotte determined. It’s a sunny day and I can make an excursion of it. But I should’ve asked Amelia to put her bike in the car trunk for me. I’m just too independent for my own good, I guess.
She walked to the back of the house, deciding she might find an old bicycle in the house’s root cellar. I haven’t looked here, Charlotte thought as she pulled opened its swinging double doors and stepped inside.
The root cellar was dry and lined with jars resting on wooden shelves. Charlotte carefully descended the short set of stairs to the earthen floor and began to search around. The cellar was dark—she could find no suspended light bulb—but the midday sun streaming from the open door supplied enough light.
Against the far wall leaned a rusted bicycle, a wire basket affixed to its front. Standing over the antique bike, Charlotte thought it seemed oddly familiar. It finally came to her: it looked the same as the bicycle of that strange girl she had seen a few weeks ago. Charlotte touched the corroded bell on the left handlebar, finding that it still rang.
This isn’t going to get me to town, Charlotte concluded. I’ll just have to walk. Closing the cellar door behind her, Charlotte joined the road and made a steady pace on foot to her destination. Aunt Alice had given Charlotte the address of the couple who had been keeping her house since last year, asking that Charlotte check in with them at least once during her visit.
When she finally arrived, Charlotte found that the small town was clustered around a charming main street peppered with shops. It ended with a white and gray church, its roof formed into a steeple. Charlotte found a side street that led to several rows of small houses, their exteriors all alike. The elderly couple lived in a cottage past the houses on the town’s outskirts.
The cottage was tiny, barely large enough for two people, but quaint and cozy. Charlotte stood on the front steps and knocked on the door.
A withered old woman answered, short and white-haired. “Hello, young lady. How may I help you?” she asked, her smile kindly but vacant.
“I’m Charlotte Evans, Alice Evans’ niece,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve been staying at the house these past weeks. Aunt Alice asked me to check in with you once I got settled in.”
“Yes, Charlotte. We’ve been waiting for you. Please come in,” the woman said, stepping away from the open door. “Meet my husband, Charles.”
An elderly man, stooped and walking stiffly, stopped at the end of the hall. He waved for a moment and then shuffled away, seemingly preoccupied.
“Charles helps me with the house when he can,” the woman said, her tone plaintive. “But somedays he’s like this. Neither one of us has much time left. But come in.”
Stepping inside, Charlotte saw that the home was well kept and pleasantly decorated, with decades’ worth of family heirlooms, treasured keepsakes, and portrait photographs filling the living room. The woman slipped into the nearby kitchen and soon returned with porcelain teacups and a teapot resting on a tray. She set the tray on the low table in front of Charlotte.
As the woman poured Charlotte a cup of hot tea, she said, “I’m Iris, by the way. I’ve known your aunt for many years—she and your father attended school in Winslow. I worked in the school cafeteria, you see. I’ve lived in Winslow my whole life.”
“Pleased to meet you, Iris,” Charlotte said, noticing that Charles was now nowhere to be seen. “I hadn’t really seen much of Aunt Alice until a few years ago, when Dad passed away.”
“Yes, Alice had told us about that. Such a shame,” Iris said, her eyes sad. “What about your mother? She was from Winslow as well, you know.”
“Mom’s gone as well, sometime before Dad,” Charlotte replied, her voice full of regret. “But she was taken by a freak accident, not an illness. I always thought I’d see them grow old together, but it wasn’t to be.”
Iris poured herself a cup of tea and then took a slip. “Your father rarely came back to Winslow after he married your mother,” Iris said, her tone becoming steadier. “He lost his first love here, long before her. I suppose that was his reason.”
“Who was that?” Charlotte queried, her interest suddenly piqued. “Mom and Dad never talked much about their early years in this small town. I guess they just wanted to forget about it, after moving away and creating a new life for themselves.”
“That’s a shame, my dear,” Iris answered. “When he was a young man, your father loved a girl named Matilda Graves. They were planning to be wed. But, just before the wedding, she vanished, disappeared without a trace.
“People in town said it was cold feet, but I never believed any of it,” Iris confided. “Everything she had ever known was in Winslow, and she loved your father more than anything else. Matilda would often talk of the children they would have someday. She’s still listed as a missing person, as I understand it.”
Charlotte thought back to the photograph she had seen in the attic trunk: her father with a young woman, the name “Matilda” written on its back. Asking quickly, Charlotte said, “Then how did Dad ever meet my mom if he was to be married to someone else? They must have gotten together soon after.”
“They did,” Iris replied, her answer sharp. “Audrey swooped in and soon they were dating again. They married shortly after. Your mother had been Warren’s steady girlfriend for a while before his engagement to Matilda.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” Charlotte said, finishing her cup of tea. “But, like I told you, Mom and Dad almost never discussed their hometown. They were distant, almost absentee, parents in many ways.”
There was a silence. Both women peered into their teacups, neither looking at the other.
“Well,” Charlotte finally said, breaking the silence, “thank you for the tea. It was lovely. Will you be stopping by sometime this summer?”
“Yes, certainly, my dear,” Iris answered, seemingly happy to change the subject. “I’ll bring Charles with me if he’s able. We drive up to the house. I’m not a young thing like you, you know.” Iris saw Charlotte to the door and waved as the younger woman walked away. Charlotte found her way to Main Street and then the path home. It was late afternoon, and the sun would be setting by the time she arrived back at the house.
The early summer leaves shaded Charlotte as she ambled along the roadside. Her light canvas sneakers were dusty from her long walk and her arm ached from carrying the bag of groceries.
Charlotte was tired, surprised that the slow-paced journey to and from town had taken so much out of her. The sun had become burnt orange. It sank slowly below the trees shielding the road from the horizon.
Far ahead in the opposite lane, a bicycle sped toward her. The rider looked like a woman, but Charlotte couldn’t quite make her out. The bicycle’s bell chimed once and then again, as if warning pedestrians of its arrival. Charlotte turned to follow the rider as she rolled past, finally able to see the woman’s face in the dimming light.
The young woman’s features were pallid white, like an alabaster death mask. She stared fixedly ahead, not glancing at Charlotte as she rode past; it was as if she was entirely unaware of her presence. The bicycle hastened away, eventually vanishing into the shadows of the first hours of evening.
Shaken, Charlotte thought, That looked like the girl I met at the mailbox. But she looked . . . strange. Like she was sick. As soon as she got home, Charlotte went to sleep, exhausted by her exertions. Tomorrow, she would try to find out more about Matilda Graves.
Charlotte frowned as she studied the picture of her father with the young woman. It’s the same girl, she thought, the one I saw at the mailbox on the bike. But it can’t be—this picture is decades old.
Putting the photo away, Charlotte climbed down from the attic to explore the woods behind the house again, hoping to clear her mind. The pond was as she had left it: louring, with scores of lily pads and lines of thin foam floating by its banks.
For the first time, Charlotte noticed a moss-covered rowboat, its oars missing, propped up against a tree not far from the pond. The rowboat seemed as if it hadn’t been used for many years, but Charlotte supposed it had probably once taken short trips on the water. The pond was large, after all—almost a small lake.
The wind rustled across the water, causing waves to cascade toward the shore. Charlotte then heard her name on the wind: someone was calling to her. Charlotte, the voice whispered, its sound both distant and intimate. Her name again: Charlotte. It was a woman’s voice, but Charlotte was alone by the water.
A white shape began to form in the water. Slowly, it drifted toward the shore. Charlotte peered ahead, the overcast day offering nothing.
As the shape came closer, it began to rise from the water. First, a head wearing a veil appeared, then a woman’s midsection, and finally, wading through the shallows, a woman wearing a full white wedding dress.
The woman moved toward Charlotte steadily, her expression partially concealed by the veil. But, as far as Charlotte could tell, it was unimaginably malevolent.
Charlotte opened her eyes, seeing the star-filled sky above her. The evening was very still, with a bright full moon bathing the grass and leaves nearby with a soft glow. The sky was no longer cloudy as it had been before.
Sitting up, Charlotte realized she was somewhere in the woods, the pond no longer in view. Where? The water . . .
Her head pounding, she stood and peered around. With a wave of relief, she spied the house, its roof jutting distantly through a tangle of trees. Within minutes, Charlotte had reached the front steps and pushed open the door. She heard voices coming from the kitchen.
Charlotte stood at the kitchen’s threshold and stared, horror-struck. Two women were seated at the kitchen table, a tea service between them. One was her mother as a young woman and the other was Matilda Graves. They were engaged in a friendly dialogue.
“I’m so glad you could come over to discuss the wedding,” Charlotte’s mother said amiably. “Warren couldn’t be here as he had to help his parents in town. They’ll be back tonight.”
“I’m pleased, but I’ll have to get going soon,” Matilda said, “it’s still a fair ride back to town on my bike. Warren had a list of things we need to take care of before the big day—did he leave it with you?”
“Why, yes,” Charlotte’s mother replied, “it’s right here. Finish your tea and we’ll discuss it.” She placed a few sheets of paper in front of Matilda and then excused herself for a moment. When she came back, Matilda complained of feeling drowsy.
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, dear,” Charlotte’s mother said, a smile forming on her curved lips. “Perhaps you need to lie down?” “That’s a good idea,” Matilda said, nodding. “Just for a moment. Then I’ll be fine.”
Charlotte’s mother helped Matilda to her feet, embracing her with one arm.
“No hard feelings, then?” Matilda asked, pausing to look Charlotte’s mother in the face. “You and Warren didn’t work out, but we love each other so much. You want him to be happy, don’t you?”
Charlotte’s mother was silent as the two stood before the kitchen table and then replied, “Of course. That’s why Warren will be with me instead.”
Matilda grew dizzy and began to swoon, falling against Charlotte’s mother. Charlotte’s mother pushed her away, letting Matilda fall to the floor with a crash.
Lying on her side, Matilda weakly attempted to grasp something with which to pull herself up. Charlotte’s mother stood over her wordlessly and then walked out of the room. She returned with a large trunk sporting thick leather handles.
“You’ll fit if I fold you in,” Charlotte’s mother told Matilda, her words drenched in venom. “But I’m going to take this out to that pond first. Don’t go anywhere—not that you can.”
The specters faded and Charlotte heard the ladder to the attic descend with a loud thud. Almost in a trance, Charlotte left the kitchen and stood before the attic’s ladder. Slowly, she reached out and began to haul herself up.
The steamer trunk was closed. Charlotte stood by the hatch, unmoving, tears forming in her eyes. Slowly, the trunk’s lid began to yawn open. There was a pause—a terrible silence filled the dark space.
A hand shot from the trunk, the fingers distended and claw-like. Charlotte flinched but didn’t move. Foul water began to pour from the trunk, forming pools and rivulets around Charlotte’s feet.
Matilda rose jerkily, her wedding veil flat against her mottled skin, her eyes bulging, her face bloated and decomposed. Charlotte remained in her spot, paralyzed with fear. She could only watch as Matilda stepped from the trunk and, in slow, loping strides, drew closer. Charlotte could feel the ghost’s chill breath on her bare neck.
Matilda leaned in and, in a voice like dead leaves, whispered something in Charlotte’s ear.
The sheriff looked down at Iris, who stood next to the attic’s ladder below him. She wore a worried expression that changed to one of shock when the sheriff spoke to her: “She’s up here, ma’am. She’s been dead for at least a few days, given the state of this corpse. I’m coming back down to call the coroner.”
Iris stepped aside as the sheriff climbed down. Curtly, he folded the ladder back up and then closed the attic’s hatch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Mrs. Martin. There’s nothing you can do for Miss Evans now. We’ll take your statement in town.”
Night fell over the empty house, its doors locked and bolted from the outside. The winds rippled over the pond’s surface, its waters darkish and foreboding. From within the attic, the sound of sobbing cut through the dark, agonized and afraid. They were coming from the closed steamer trunk, its last memento collected.

If someone held a gun to my head and forced me to describe myself, “nice” wouldn’t be the first word I’d use. It would be slouching a few adjectives back, peeking out from behind “I-will-happily-stab-your-mother-for-a-promotion” and “self-serving-to-a-fault”. I mean, what else do you expect? Toss a bunch of power-hungry Ivy League investment bankers into a thirtieth-floor Manhattan glass-front view with the promise of mansions and seven-figure salaries, and you see what happens. My motto has always been this: be an asshole. Get your work done. Stab those backs and take the credit, which all worked pretty well if I do say so myself... until that damn management position opened up.
Associate.
Translation: an experienced monkey supervising the cub monkey analysts, but a chance at some real money for once, and damn if I didn’t want that new electric-red Aston Martin DB11 coupe with the clamshell hood and the custom leather seats. Talk about pulling some serious tail. I could picture it—I’d entice a pack of cocktail-soaked blondes from one of the high-end clubs in Brooklyn with the promise of a nightcap at my place. They’d mutter a “no” but then see the Aston and their eyes would light up with lust. Wow, this is your car? Sure, your place sounds great.
The only problem was Cliff Baxter, my knockoff-suit-wearing boss and his annual review. He broke my heart, said I needed to develop my “soft skills” before he’d consider me management material. Brad, you have a lot of potential. No one works harder than you, but you need to learn how to play in the sandbox with the other kids first. God, I hated his metaphors. Why couldn’t he just say it? Tell me straight that I needed to take it easier on all the fragile millennial egos Gorman and Gorman loved to hire? Well, I decided, if it meant a shot at Associate, I would do it. I would clench my teeth and bite my tongue... and it only cost me everything.
---
I’d picked up Cliff for a morning presentation we had downtown. A potential corporate divestiture with a hefty commission; big stuff. If we landed it, Gorman and Gorman would profit nicely. I had pulled up to an intersection near Columbus Park—Cliff’s review still stinging fresh in my mind—when I spotted the bum on the corner. An old war vet. Here it is! I thought. My chance to show Cliff I really am a nice guy. He’d been droning on about the day’s laundry list, muttering about the presentation and some tweaks we’d need to make to the cash flow model, but I wasn’t listening.
My eyes were on the bum.
He had a fog-gray beard tickling his belt buckle, so thick it looked like an apartment complex for bedbugs. He was clad in a set of mangy army fatigues, hems tattered, with a faded American flag stitched to his shoulder. His lower right leg ended in a stump, his pants roped off below his knee. Next to him on the sidewalk sat an overstuffed canvas backpack. When he spotted me looking at him, his mouth split into a checkerboard of missing teeth. He looked wolfish. I almost sped off, but he gave me a friendly enough wave. He tossed aside his battered sign (SPENT ALL MY $ ON CARDBOARD-N-MARKER) and crutched his way over to my window. I lowered it, instantly regretting my decision as a cloud of nicotine and BO rolled into the car.
“Spare a few bucks there, cap’m?” he asked, leering first at me then at Cliff, who hissed at me to keep driving.
“Sure can,” I replied in a suitably concerned voice, ignoring Cliff and digging a twenty from my billfold.
The man’s eyes brightened. He snapped it from my fingers with frightening speed... and paused, a strange look rolling over his sun-damaged face. He grabbed my wrist and cried, “It’s you! It’s really you, right here in the bloody damn flesh!” He jerked my door open and flung me out onto the sidewalk. I tried to rise, but he squatted directly on my chest, horrifyingly strong as he leaned over and yanked something from the backpack. It was some sort of—my eyes widened. Jesus, no was all I could think when I spotted the saw blade glinting cheerily in the sun.
“Been waiting for you for a long, lonnggg time, junior,” the man said, firing up the saw with a terrifying whu-whu-whu-eee! “Don’t be scared now. You’ll be fine! Right as rain after this. Your old man always was.”
Before I could open my mouth to object, he slammed my head to the cement, and my vision ignited with stars. I was vaguely aware of him spinning around on top of me. Cliff appeared through the open door red-faced, screaming as the bum cut into my shin. A brittle snap lit the air, the sound of bone splintering—my bone. I howled and bucked against him. It was no use; the man was a bull, pinning me down with his thighs and cutting, and cutting, and cutting until—with a final meaty pop!—my leg severed.
And the pain—the indescribable, ungodly pain...
I looked down to a river of blood, and my burnished leather oxford twitching beneath the pant leg of my custom-fit Burberry suit. People scattered in every direction, the scene descending into chaos. “Oh my God!” someone cried. “Call the police! Call nine-one-one!” A plump woman in a flowered dress snatched up her child with a scream, quick to cover his eyes. Briefcases hit the sidewalk. Purses. There were shrieks. More frantic cries for help. My head lolled to the side in time to glimpse a bald construction worker rushing the bum from across the street, a sledgehammer in hand.
The bum spotted him and scrabbled spiderlike for my still-twitching appendage. “No! No! It’s mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!” It was like he thought the guy was about to steal it for himself. And then the strangest thing happened. The vet rolled up the pant leg of his army fatigue to reveal a scarred stump, onto which he jammed—literally jammed—the bloody end of my stump. I blinked once, thinking, this isn’t happening, this isn’t real, as his flesh twined with that of the severed shin’s, the bones grinding and snapping into place.
A thought crashed through my skull: what in the actual fu—
---
“—are you doing, Nelson? Have you lost your goddamn mind? Get up already.”
My eyes clicked open. I groaned and squinted up at Cliff, who was standing over me with his blue power tie flopped out over his ample gut.
Oh, God, my leg. I jerked upright and reached for my shin which was...
Right. There. Attached below my knee and perfectly formed as if nothing had happened. No pants though, no shoe, the skin a smooth baby pink. I flexed my toes, new ones I supposed. They worked perfectly, the lingering pain from my last gout attack gone. I glanced at Cliff with a hard blink. “Wha-what happened?”
Cliff frowned. “‘What happened?’ Seriously, Nelson? Listen, a guy like that has it hard enough without you harassing him. A veteran, even. You should be ashamed of yourself, jumping out of the car like that and scaring him. This is not Associate behavior, Nelson. Not. At. All. Now get back in the car. We’re holding up traffic.” It was true. I could hear the horns wailing away, people streaming past us on the sidewalk without a second glance like nothing had happened.
Because, apparently, nothing had.
I struggled to my feet and dug the keys from my pocket. Cliff snatched them out of my hand. “Nope, I’m driving. You’re off the presentation, Brad. I can’t have you acting—” He waved disgustedly at my bare leg “—looking like that in front of a client. Christ.” He straightened his tie. “We’re going to have a long talk about proper behavior at Gorman and Gorman when I get back. A long talk.”
I nodded, still dizzy, and got in.
---
A quick visit to Brooks Brothers and I was back in the office, freshly clothed and freshly shamed. I made my way to my desk and flopped down, pulled up a PowerPoint, and stared at it. Bar charts and graphs. Good camouflage. (I’m working everyone. Brad is a hard, hard worker.) But my mind was gone, drifting. It had all seemed so real, so... vivid. No way I had imagined it. No freaking way. I could still feel that saw biting into my flesh, could still see the blood spurting in a bright arterial red from my shin.
My phone buzzed. “Brad,” Ashley the receptionist chirped in her singsong voice, “there’s... uh, someone here to see you.”
“Be right there.” I pulled myself upright, thankful for the distraction, and strolled down the oak-trimmed hall past the other peons pecking at their keyboards, heads down, grinding away. Hit the lobby. Stopped. My jaw unhinged. He was right there, leaning over the desk and chatting with Ashley. The guy from the street. The war vet, his greasy scalp shining. And not just him. Some other guy in a black and gray camo tank top, half his head wrapped in a bandage and drawn mummy-tight over one eye. He had an arm flung on the desk and the other... well, there wasn’t another. It was missing just as the vet’s leg had been missing; had being the operative word. His shin, my shin, was right there attached to his knee, his foot still wrapped in my leather oxford and working just fine.
Time to go, I thought, about to bolt. No way I was staying here, hell no. But Ashley spotted me before I could move. She smiled and fluttered a perfectly manicured hand at me.
“Heya, Brad.”
I froze. She waved again harder—a what-the-hell-are-you-doing kind of wave—and both men turned my way.
My throat glued shut.
The vet flashed his patchwork grin when he spotted me, his pal, the Mummy leaning in and muttering, “That him?” The vet nodded and shouldered past him, appraised me like I was a long-lost frat brother, like he hadn’t just hacked off my leg with a surgical saw a few hours earlier. “Brad, my boy!” he said with a smile that climbed to his ears. “Good to see you, again.”
I took a step back. I wasn’t even sure how the guy knew my name.
“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “Whoa.” He gestured at my leg. “You’re fine, ain’t cha? Just like I said?”
And I was—physically speaking… mentally not so much.
“I—uh. How’d you find me?” I asked.
The man’s hand shot into his pocket and returned with a business card. “You gave me this, remember? Out on the street? Told me to swing by later today.” Brad G. Nelson—Analyst. Gorman & Gorman Capital, the card read. It was mine, but I had most certainly not given it to him. And there was no way in hell I’d asked him to swing by. It must have fallen out of my sport coat on my way to the cement. I’d brought plenty along for the presentation.
“Look,” the bum continued, “if this is a bad time, we can always come back later.”
I started to nod—yes this was a terrible, terrible time—but he glanced back at Ashley and said, “Brad here said your shop was going to donate to the Amputee Veterans Association. A sizeable donation. It’s a big, big help, let me tell you. A big help. A lot of soldiers out there need as much assistance as they can get. A lot of families.”
The Mummy grunted in approval.
Uh... what? My mind struggled to keep up.
Ashley’s eyes went large, her lips forming a perfect pink O. She turned my way and shot me a gleaming smile. “Bradley, that is sooo sweet. My uncle served in Iraq. Did you know that? I told you that, right?” She aimed her perky breasts back at the vet. “Thank you both for your service. You men and what you’ve sacrificed for our country... it just means so much.”
“It ain’t nothin’, ma’am,” he said with a quick grin. “Just doing our duty.”
All right, that’s it, I thought, suddenly pissed at the way she was looking at him. This guy doesn’t get to amputate my leg, stalk me to work, and then lie about a charitable donation to the hottest girl in the firm. I wanted her to look at me like that, in awe, not at some deranged back-alley bum who cuts off people’s legs for kicks. I stormed forward, my finger out and jabbing. “Listen here, buddy, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve had just about enough of your—”
“Now,” the vet said to the Mummy. The Mummy’s hand clamped over my wrist and slammed it to the desk. The vet wrapped his arms around my chest. They felt like steel bands. I fought. I jerked and thrashed, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t free my wrist from the Mummy’s grip, couldn’t break from the vet’s arms. What was it with these homeless guys and their crazy strength? I worked out five times a week. I could knock out three sets of 225 on the bench, no sweat, but I couldn’t fight off a couple of vagrants?
“Hold him down! Hold him still!” the vet spat. Then the saw appeared. That damn saw. Again. Twice in one day. Lucky me.
It buzzed to life.
Ashley screamed.
The saw split my arm at the elbow, the blade slicing through tendons and bone like butter. A spray of blood misted Ashley’s face and her sweater. She stared at me, her eyes wide and blue through all the red. She blinked and screamed again louder. Me along with her. The Mummy clutched my severed limb with a shaking hand and nearly dropped it.
“Hurry!” the vet ordered. “Get it to your arm while it’s still fresh!”
The Mummy smashed it to his elbow, and once again, I was staring at one of my appendages melding to that of a stranger’s. The man’s good eye widened, and he looked at me flexing his... my fingers in wonder. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.” He was crying, tears of gratitude streaming down his dirty cheeks, looking at me like maybe he wanted to reach out and give me a solid bro hug.
I was crying, too. But not from gratitude. From pain—pain like liquid fire. I would have passed out, except my stump née arm wouldn’t let me—that’s how bad it hurt. I looked down at it and was dumbstruck to see a stem growing from among all the grizzle. The shoot of a small plant. But it wasn’t a plant. It was (and I still can’t believe I’m saying this) a brand-new arm.
An infant arm at first. Then a toddler’s. A six-year-old’s ready to head out back and toss a baseball around with Dad. It grew with such an alarming speed, I was worried it wouldn’t stop. But then it did. I stared at it stupidly, made a fist with my new fingers. It was an exact replica of my old arm. Except pinker. Bloodier. And the pain was gone. Totally gone. In fact, I felt pretty decent, all things considered. Enough to remember I was pissed. Super pissed. I rushed the Mummy and shoved him to the floor. He clutched his new arm to his chest and scuttled back against the wall, eyeing me like I wanted to snatch it back from him.
“Hey, take it easy, man,” he said, glancing down at the arm as if he might sing it a nursery rhyme or two. “No reason to get rough here.”
Seriously? I thought. I’d show him rough, all right. I’d show him just how rough I could get. Before I could, the vet grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
“Listen, bud, you need to calm—"
I hit him straight in his stupid grin mouth. Take that! I thought righteously as he grunted in pain. He flinched back and fingered his lip, held up an arm like I might do it again, which, of course, I was going to, repeatedly. I planned on beating him until I could no longer recognize his face.
“Brad! Stop it! What are you doing?”
I turned toward Ashley with my fist hanging midair. She stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head as if she’d just caught me masturbating. Worse, the commotion had brought several of Gorman and Gorman’s finest into the lobby, all of them looking at me in disgust. One of them, Pete Webstock—a pasty-faced kiss-ass weasel—actually grinned at me then drew his thumb across his neck with a nod toward the elevator. I followed his gaze to...
Cliff. Freaking. Baxter. His face tomato red, his eyes blinking, taking it all in.
“What in the hell is going on here?” His gaze flicked between me and the vet and then toward the Mummy, who was still cowering against the wall, then back to me. “This your work, Nelson?”
“No, sir. I—”
“He hit him, Mr. Baxter,” Ashley said, cutting me off. “These two nice men stopped by to share some information on their charity when Brad... he, he came over and shoved one of them and then hit the other one!” She sounded like she was about to cry.
“It’s true,” Pete added. “I saw it all.”
“No you didn’t!” I cried. “Are you kidding me?” I gestured at the blood dripping off the desk, puddling on the floor. “Please, Ashley, tell him what happened!”
“Apologies, folks,” the vet said. “Didn’t mean to cause any trouble here. We’ll show ourselves out.”
“Gentlemen, wait,” Cliff said striding past me with an outstretched hand, which the vet hesitantly took. “I’m so sorry for this. Please stop by tomorrow at your convenience, and I’ll be more than happy to cut you a check.”
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Me too,” the Mummy echoed.
Cliff glared at me. “No trouble at all.”
“Wait,” I said. “Can’t you see the blood? I mean, just look at all this blood!” I glanced frantically around the room in search of an ally. “Didn’t any of you see what happened? They cut off my goddamn arm!”
“Enough, Nelson,” Cliff said. “Get your things and get out.”
---
Outside, I took a final shuddering glance back at 101 Franklin Place gleaming in the late afternoon sun then slumped down the sidewalk in a daze. How had this happened? I was supposed to become a titan of Wall Street. A captain of industry. All I’d wanted was to matter, unlike my father, who’d Mom told me was a nasty drunk with a mean disposition and meaner fists. He’d run away before I was born. I swore I’d never turn out like him.
And, until now, I hadn’t. I’d studied my ass off and graduated with honors from Yale followed by a Master’s in finance at Brown. I’d spent years working overtime at Gorman and Gorman, eating Cliff’s shit like it was cake. And now I’d lost it all to two looney-bin street bums with an amputation fetish? That damn question hit again, hard: had it happened? Really? No, of course not. My worst fears had come to pass. I’d cracked. I’d one-hundred-and-fifty percent cracked. Face it, Brad. You’ve lost your ever-loving mind on this one.
Box in hand, I trudged toward the parking garage. I knew where I needed to go—straight to the nuthouse, find some swanky country retreat in the Hamptons where I could sip a few Arnold Palmers until I got my shit together. Maybe call Mom if I got around to it, which I probably wouldn’t. By the time I reached my car, it seemed like a pretty good plan.
That’s when something smacked the back of my skull.
---
So that’s it. That’s how I got here. And by here, I mean a gas-fume warehouse somewhere in the meatpacking district. I’m pretty sure I’m close to Hudson Bay. I can hear the boats gurgling past at night when all the bums are gone and it’s just me and the cage and my bowl of dog food. Yum.
Bums, bums, bums. I don’t call them that anymore. Oh, no. They don’t like it. They prefer I salute and refer to them by their former ranks: Sergeant. Captain. Corporal. Whatever. I do it, but I still think of them as bums, although it’s hard to do much thinking anymore, what with the daily amputations and all.
The vet filled in the missing pieces one lazy afternoon a few weeks later with the air stinking of brine from the bay. Apparently, my old man never left my mom. He was swiped somewhere near Fort Harrison. Some black box operation to support the troops. Shit, kid. I only knew him ’cause I got swiped, too. Only I wasn’t the one stabbed with all the needles like your pops. Nah, I was on the other end of the experiment. Saw them cut off your old man’s arms a few times. I got tossed before I got my leg from him, though. I never could stay off the sauce long enough. Anyway, your dad, he escaped at some point. Word is the dumb bastard got drunk and went straight home to plow your mom. They drug him back again and used him up before I could get re-enrolled. You’re his spitting image, lemme tell you. You got his eyes.
I got his eyes. It’s what landed me in this mess. Pure dumb luck. Oh, and get this, there really is an Amputee Veterans Association. Something I wasn’t too happy to find out about because, ta-da, it’s me! I’m the charitable organization, just like good old Dad used to be. Every day, I’m forced to service a line of grubby, disgruntled veterans looking for handouts, said handouts being my appendages, of course. Days and days of ungodly pain and limb regrowth, rolling around in my cage like an abused dog.
So, yeah, I guess you can say I’ve accepted my fate. There are worse things than helping those who’ve sacrificed so much for our country, though I’ll admit the work-life balance sucks. But—hey!—at least there’s some real job satisfaction here, unlike investment banking. At least what I do matters now. Not everyone can say that about their career. And besides, they’ve given me a name I quite like. It almost sounds like I’m a superhero. Their superhero.
They call me the Limb Farmer.
Sometimes, I dream of escaping, or I used to, anyway. Not so much anymore. There’s no point to it. No one would believe me if I told them. That’s the other thing the vet said. You had to be in the trials to remember the amputations, something about the nanobots in my blood mixing with the air to wipe bystander memories—America’s tax dollars hard at work!
Still, I can't help but hope. The vet passed out after a bender last night right in front of my cage, close enough for me to snag his phone. That's what I'm using to post this right now. The battery is almost dead, so this is my only shot. If you live in New York, I'm begging you--call the cops and give them this phone number. Here, I just looked it up. It's 555-555-3245.
Please help me. You're my only shot of getting out of here. I gotta go now. The vet is waking up. I hope you can do me a solid and lend me a hand...
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