“Welcome to the abode,” John boomed.

Mark found John in his usual state: The will-o’-wisp floating in the centre of the room. His naked form perched on a mountain top of rug and fur. His feet rummaging endlessly in a shag pile beneath his toes. His right and left hands fingering the invisible strings of a most exquisite instrument, while a large vein protruded from his abdomen and bulged in syncopation with his silent symphony; throbbing, it traced upwards past his thorax, found his neck and disappeared into his gaunt face, which surveyed his gaudy kingdom.

When Kate was twelve years old, she started to shrink.

Her parents didn’t notice for several months, until she stood against the kitchen doorpost and the crayon balanced on top of her head created a line that was an inch below the one from six months earlier. “Maybe we marked it wrong last time,” her mother said. “Maybe you were wearing shoes last time,” her father said, looking down at her sternly. “I think my feet are getting smaller,” Kate said.

Cort was asleep when the car crashed into the side of his building. He’d lost his job only a week and a half earlier, and had taken to sleeping until the early afternoon. In the summer heat he’d started sleeping on the screened-in porch. 

“Again.” I waited for his response, anticipating a sigh.

“Again?” John checked his mirrors and signaled his emergency lights, but no sigh. There’s a plus.

“Oh, yes, again. Pull over,” I muttered, reaching for the paper towels. As I looked away, I felt his stare penetrating me. Too commanding, too bossy, too everything, once again. I knew.