or children, or who are themselves survivors. They helped me pack up the few things I need, helped me to the van. You were snoring as we went out. Another hard day at work, I guess. But aren’t they all?
I’m not a survivor, Dale. I’ve known that all along.
I don’t want to fight this—something you can’t understand, it’s just not in you, not in your nature.
Please give me some time, then I’ll be in touch. I’m in good hands, and well cared for. I know you can find me, but I’m hoping that you, like the hospice, will honor my wishes.
I love you so much, Dale. You have been kinder than angels.
That was it. No signature, just another small heart.
Months ago she’d started leaving the TV on all the time, day and night, volume turned down to a whisper. Gave her comfort, he supposed. As though she were not alone. As though there were people in the next room going on with their lives. Leaving, probably because it had become so integral to her environment that it didn’t even register, she had neglected to turn it off.
A program about rebuilding a home.
It was one modern equivalent of prayer, he supposed. Things got really, really bad, you sent out a plea, someone bailed you out. A nurse had been shot by a man she’d previously taken care of, who had developed an obsession with her. She was now paraplegic and it was all she and her husband could do to keep things together; even the house was falling down around them. So these group-hug types came in, sent the family off on vacation and, to the accompaniment of rock music, loud shouts and power tools, built them a new house.
“Where are you?”
Sayles surfaced. The screen saver had come up on the computer, a sunset over Camelback Mountain, so he’d been sitting at least fifteen minutes without seeing. Meanwhile Graves had rolled his chair over and sat rocking it back and forth in place, heel, toe, heel, toe.
There are days, Sayles thought, when alien abduction doesn’t sound so bad. He exhaled slowly. “What?”
“The thing that’s not quite right—like you’re always saying?”
“Okay.”
“This took some planning, some thought. The guy had to get in there, not get noticed.”
“Right. So he was probably wearing a suit, or shirt and tie, looked like he belonged, nothing to stand out—we’ve been over that.”
“He knows where Rankin is, or finds him without difficulty. Seems to know what he’s doing. They’re alone in there, he has a gun. So why isn’t Rankin dead?”
“We—”
“But that’s not my point. Look. The gun goes off, Rankin pulls the coffeemaker off the counter as he drops, people are down that hall and in there in seconds. Where’s the shooter go?”
“Who knows? Down the stairs. To the bathroom.”
“He’s just shot a man but he mixes right in, walks away. No one sees him. That’s not a thief, or an angry husband. That’s someone cool, someone who’s done this before.”
“A pro.”
Graves nodded. “But he doesn’t finish the job. He’s not interrupted, it’s just the two of them, and he walks away.”
Sayles hoped the aliens would arrive soon. He didn’t want to be here with Graves. He didn’t want to think about Rankin and what happened to him or why or who. Most of all, he didn’t want to go home. He hadn’t told Graves about Josie, just came on to work like usual. Strength was not about overcoming things. Strength was about accepting them.
Graves started away, then rolled back.
“Something else?” Sayles said.
“Yeah.”
“Okay …”
“It’s lunchtime.”
They were almost history, desk papers blowing up in the wake of their departure, when Sergeant Nichols stuck his head out to tell them they had one and they were just absolutely going to goddamn love it.
“Gotta be a pony here somewhere.”
Sayles looked at him.
“All the blood, I mean,” Graves said. “It’s an old joke. This guy—”
“I know the joke, Graves. We all know the joke.”
And there was indeed a lot of
I’m not a survivor, Dale. I’ve known that all along.
I don’t want to fight this—something you can’t understand, it’s just not in you, not in your nature.
Please give me some time, then I’ll be in touch. I’m in good hands, and well cared for. I know you can find me, but I’m hoping that you, like the hospice, will honor my wishes.
I love you so much, Dale. You have been kinder than angels.
That was it. No signature, just another small heart.
Months ago she’d started leaving the TV on all the time, day and night, volume turned down to a whisper. Gave her comfort, he supposed. As though she were not alone. As though there were people in the next room going on with their lives. Leaving, probably because it had become so integral to her environment that it didn’t even register, she had neglected to turn it off.
A program about rebuilding a home.
It was one modern equivalent of prayer, he supposed. Things got really, really bad, you sent out a plea, someone bailed you out. A nurse had been shot by a man she’d previously taken care of, who had developed an obsession with her. She was now paraplegic and it was all she and her husband could do to keep things together; even the house was falling down around them. So these group-hug types came in, sent the family off on vacation and, to the accompaniment of rock music, loud shouts and power tools, built them a new house.
“Where are you?”
Sayles surfaced. The screen saver had come up on the computer, a sunset over Camelback Mountain, so he’d been sitting at least fifteen minutes without seeing. Meanwhile Graves had rolled his chair over and sat rocking it back and forth in place, heel, toe, heel, toe.
There are days, Sayles thought, when alien abduction doesn’t sound so bad. He exhaled slowly. “What?”
“The thing that’s not quite right—like you’re always saying?”
“Okay.”
“This took some planning, some thought. The guy had to get in there, not get noticed.”
“Right. So he was probably wearing a suit, or shirt and tie, looked like he belonged, nothing to stand out—we’ve been over that.”
“He knows where Rankin is, or finds him without difficulty. Seems to know what he’s doing. They’re alone in there, he has a gun. So why isn’t Rankin dead?”
“We—”
“But that’s not my point. Look. The gun goes off, Rankin pulls the coffeemaker off the counter as he drops, people are down that hall and in there in seconds. Where’s the shooter go?”
“Who knows? Down the stairs. To the bathroom.”
“He’s just shot a man but he mixes right in, walks away. No one sees him. That’s not a thief, or an angry husband. That’s someone cool, someone who’s done this before.”
“A pro.”
Graves nodded. “But he doesn’t finish the job. He’s not interrupted, it’s just the two of them, and he walks away.”
Sayles hoped the aliens would arrive soon. He didn’t want to be here with Graves. He didn’t want to think about Rankin and what happened to him or why or who. Most of all, he didn’t want to go home. He hadn’t told Graves about Josie, just came on to work like usual. Strength was not about overcoming things. Strength was about accepting them.
Graves started away, then rolled back.
“Something else?” Sayles said.
“Yeah.”
“Okay …”
“It’s lunchtime.”
They were almost history, desk papers blowing up in the wake of their departure, when Sergeant Nichols stuck his head out to tell them they had one and they were just absolutely going to goddamn love it.
“Gotta be a pony here somewhere.”
Sayles looked at him.
“All the blood, I mean,” Graves said. “It’s an old joke. This guy—”
“I know the joke, Graves. We all know the joke.”
And there was indeed a lot of
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