my happily ever after

Prologue

[Saturday, May 9]

If you are hoping for some dramatic origin story, get ready for disappointment. I guess I would make a lousy Marvel comic book character with my lack of radioactive spider bite, or no cataclysmic lightning bolt to the brain to trigger my superpowers. It was just a run of the mill Tuesday when my life went from boring to mind-bending. In all sincerity, I wonder if I could have avoided this burden had I gone to bed an hour later on Monday night, or slept with the window open and the air conditioning off. I have replayed every detail of the hours leading up to it, and yet I have found no explanation that puts my mind at ease.

As I lie here on the gravel, watching the blood slowly pool alongside me, I suppose no amount of what-ifs really matter much any more. The last few days feel like decades, and I suppose in some ways you could say that they have been. I have seen more, experienced more, lost more, felt more in the last week than in the 41 years that preceded it.

I can’t move. Luckily, I also can’t feel much, physically at least. Perhaps that is a final blessing - a parting gift from the universe after screwing me over so royally. “Hey man, sorry we took everything from you, but at least you get a painless death!” I’d give that damn, perfect sky mocking me from above the middle finger if I had the strength left to do so. Emotionally, I feel everything - frustration, anger, confusion, fear, failure. The strongest thing I’m feeling right now, though, is desperation. Desperation to tell you my story. Desperation that somebody knows the truth and understands what happened before I am gone and this heartless bastard is free to kill again.

I will spare you the tragic childhood and the foster homes that created a type of connect the dots of my early life, leaving the final picture of a slightly detached, albeit kind, man. Society has proven through lack of change that nobody really cares about the foster dad who puts cigarettes out on your arm, or the foster mom that leaves you half starved. I think the world has grown numb to that sob story. Shit luck for the kids still in the system, I guess. Although, without the resilience built from years of that shit luck, I may not have had the strength to get through this latest ring of fire I was tossed into.

I guess where I am right now is like an answer with no question if you know nothing about where I was yesterday, what I thought the day before that, how I felt two days before then - and so forth and so on. Life is a peculiar concept, especially as time and reason sprint into the distance, inviting in the dark as a replacement. For that reason, I’d rather recount the recent past than mourn my unlikely future.

A future that may be even shorter than I realized as I hear footsteps approach once again.

[Monday, May 4]

It was nearly eleven o’clock, a full hour after closing, by the time I locked the door to After This Chapter, the bookstore that I co-own with a friend. Our visiting author, having captivated the room with her book reading, ran past her allotted time. Honestly, I didn’t mind. There was nobody waiting for me at home and I had a bit of a fan-boy crush on the guest speaker. Her story telling was so raw that she left you feeling as though you had shared an intimate moment with her. I’m really uncertain if this was a reflection of her talent or a sad indication of my own loneliness.

What this delay did mean, though, is it was too late to grab a ham and cheese hoagie from the pizza shop around the corner from my townhouse and I’d have to make do with the leftover chicken chow mein in my fridge. The excitement of the evening had distracted me from my hunger, but in the 8 minutes it took me to get home, my stomach demanded the attention I’d neglected giving since 10 o’clock that morning.

I pulled my silver Civic into my garage and headed straight for the fridge. My cat, King, rubbed up against my legs, nearly sending me sprawling on the hardwood floor. It seemed as though King was even more impatient for dinner than my rumbling belly.

“Alright, buddy,” I told him. “You first and then we will see what I can scrape together that resembles a balanced meal.”

Opening the pantry I pulled out a can of Fancy Feast and dumped it in King’s bowl. He meowed his appreciation before sticking his cute little face into the smelly salmon mush. With him quiet and content, I searched the fridge.

“Bonus!” I shouted into the silence. “Half of an egg roll to go with the chow mein.”

Granted, this was nowhere near fine dining, but it would do the job. I took the reheated dish out of the microwave and sat down in front of my laptop. I scanned over the local headlines before checking CNN for anything major. I suppose it is a bit morbid, but I have a fascination with deadly disasters. I don’t take joy in the fact that they occur, but when I read the details and firsthand accounts, I get a rush - a type of high you could say. My therapist told me it is some manifestation of the grief I was too young to express when my own parents died.

I was only 6 when they passed, so my memories of them aren’t very clear other than what they looked like, thanks to a picture of the three of us that managed to stay with me from one foster home to the next. My mom was white, with tight spirals of orange-red hair. As pasty pale as my mother was, my father was her opposite - a very dark skinned black man. Other than this never changing image of them, I don’t remember much else. I like to describe it as a blank coloring book; the outline of my past with them is there, but it lacks color and depth. It wasn’t like what you see in movies where my last goodbye is burned into my memory. I don’t remember waiting at daycare for them to show up. I don’t remember Children’s Services taking me. I don’t remember mourning them.

So, now, at 41, I obsessively read about disaster and loss, even though I know this is not a healthy hobby nor will it give me any extra insight into the gaping holes ever present in my own life. I used to try to find details about the accident that left me alone in the world, but I eventually had to give up when it became evident those details did not exist.

I finished up my food and briefly considered cleaning the bachelor-esque stack of dirty dishes in the sink before opting to just add one more to the waiting mess. Housework is not my strong suit. Pulling the newest Fredrik Backman book from my work bag, I headed to the bedroom and set it on my nightstand. At the dresser I pulled the handful of loose change out of my pocket and dumped it into the Maxwell House can that holds my coins. A few coins fell to the ground and rolled under the dresser. I left them where they landed and went to brush my teeth, stripped down to my boxers and climbed under the sheets. Grabbing my book and beginning to read, I was ushered into sleep by Backman’s tales of hockey and love somewhere in Sweden.

[Tuesday, May 5]

I awoke to King planting himself on my neck. Who needs an alarm clock when you have an attention-demanding,10 pound cat to disrupt your slumber? He flopped onto his side as soon as I began to pet him and any frustration I felt from the rude wake-up call instantly dissipated.

“I can never stay mad at you, buddy,” I cooed, answered quickly by his loud, motorcycle purrs.

I grabbed my phone and checked the time. 8:12. Greg would be opening the shop in about an hour, but I didn’t have to be in till after lunch. The arrangement has worked out great. The schedule allows Greg to get his kids on the bus before heading into work for the day, and then I take over so he can be back at the house before the school day ends. I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel envious at times of the beautiful family life Greg has managed to create. To my great fortune, he and Liz have allowed me to be a part of it. “Uncle Scott” is quite possibly the proudest title I’ve ever held.

In all the group and foster homes, Greg was the one person who became, and stayed, my family. I know I didn’t make it easy for people to get close to me. In the beginning, the social workers had so much hope for me being adopted since I was so young when my parents passed. It just never worked out that way, though. I was damaged goods even before being orphaned; the type of kid only a parent could love. Nobody could ever quite put a finger on what it was about me - not the social workers or the foster parents or my teachers. I wasn’t a picky eater. I got average grades. I didn’t get into fights. Despite all of this, I was always the square peg. Eventually I found a place I belonged within the cover of each book I picked up. Narnia, Castle Rock and countless other story settings became the places to which I escaped, and the characters were always right there on the page when I needed them.

When Greg came to the group home the fall of my sophomore year of high school with nothing but two t-shirts, a pair of shorts, the underwear, socks and tennis shoes he had on and an entire backpack full of books, I knew I had finally found someone who might get me. Thank goodness I was right. It wasn’t that we talked a lot or shared our inner secrets. We didn’t have to. We could sit there and read quietly beside one another, ignoring the shouts of “fags” and “queers” from the other boys. We expressed more to each other in our silence (and book choices) than any therapist had ever been able to extract from him or me.

We were only together in that home for 18 months before I was again forced to play the musical chairs of foster care and was moved - my last placement before turning 18 and being free of the system. We wrote letters to one another during that time, mostly full of book reviews and recommendations. A few years later it went to email, then texting. The ease of our relationship never faltered with time and distance. I stayed in the area, attending our local community college. Greg moved away for more than a decade, finding an amazing wife and starting a family. When he came back, though, we picked up right where we had left off.

I had been running the bookstore for several years when my boss, Mr. Trumble, decided to officially retire and sell the place. It was Greg who suggested we buy it together. I knew Liz and Greg had a little money stored away from Liz’s grandparents, but it is nothing I would have ever asked or expected them to use towards making my dreams come true.

“It would be perfect,” he explained. “A chance to help books save other people, the way they saved us.”

And just like that, Greg and I went from being best friends by fate and brothers by choice, to business partners. As much as I loved just about every aspect of the arrangement, mornings like this I dreaded. There was nothing that needed to be done for the store. I had nowhere to be for hours. In short, I had run out of reasons to delay the cleaning which my home so badly needed.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up Green Day Essentials in iTunes, streaming the skater punk rock through the first floor of the house as I tackled dishes, dusted furniture and ran the vacuum - a chore that always left King twitching with anxiety. With the first floor complete in just over forty minutes, I carried my few supplies upstairs. Despite my lack of regular cleaning elsewhere, the bathroom is the one space I keep pretty clean. Having shared so many bathrooms with a plethora of other kids my entire life, I took a lot of pride in having one of my very own. This meant it only needed a few minutes of my attention.

Unfortunately, my bedroom demanded a lot more elbow grease than the bathroom. I stripped my sheets, put away the laundry that had been sitting in a basket for at least a week, and filled the same basket with the bedding and dirty clothes strewn across my floor. Sparing King another panic attack, I set him in the hallway and closed my bedroom door before flipping on the vacuum. I fell into a sort of trance, watching the uniform lines left by the Bissel as I ran it back and forth. It wasn’t until I heard that jarring, metallic clanking in the undercarriage that I remembered my dropped change from the night before.

I turned off the vacuum and laid it on its side before sitting down next to it. Shaking it out, I watched as two nickels, a quarter and a dime fell to the beige carpet. I scooped them all up and dropped them into the change can. As I lifted the vacuum back to upright, I heard a light clink as a penny fell from within. I reached down and pinched it between my thumb and my forefinger, something I had done countless times before. And yet, this time was like nothing I’d ever experienced prior. I felt a small jolt - more than static electricity, but less than a stripped wire. My teeth felt cold, as if I was chewing foil. Suddenly, there was a flash followed by a moment of gray all around me.

[Penny #1]
I was sitting behind the steering wheel of an older model car I had never seen before; Peter Gabriel belting Sledgehammer on the car’s ancient looking stereo system. The car was similar to one I had been in as a child, although I couldn’t pinpoint whose. I was holding the penny, still squeezed between my fingers, and had rolls of change on the passenger seat beside me.
I looked out the windshield and saw City National Bank of West Virginia directly in front of me, the Rupert post office sitting on the other side of the parking lot.
“West Virginia?” I questioned out loud, but the voice I heard was the soprano of a young woman’s, nothing like my own baritone.
I threw my eyes to the rearview, shocked to see not the reflection of a middle aged black man, but a younger, white woman. Her blonde bangs were curled back and stiffly hairsprayed. Despite rivers of black mascara running down her face, her frosty blue eyeshadow was perfectly caked on above sad brown eyes. A small purple bruise was almost hidden beneath the makeup generously applied to her cheekbones. Even more unsettling than seeing this stranger’s face looking back at me was the fact that I could feel the sharp ache of the bruise. I could remember watching the man strike me with the back of his hand as the pasta slipped off the plate I was serving him.
”Eric,” I said, again in an alien voice.
The vividness of this stranger’s violent memory woke me from the daze and I dropped the penny into the lap of my acid washed jeans.

Immediately I was returned to my bedroom and my own reality. Here, the penny laid not on Z Cavaricci pants, but on the carpet of my bedroom. Shaking, I made my way to the edge of the bed and sat down.

“What the hell was that,” I managed to spit out, happy to hear my own voice fill the familiar room.

I reached to my nightstand for a glass of water, hoping to rinse the metallic sting from my tastebuds, but my trembling hands knocked it from my grasp. I laid my head on the pillow and closed my eyes, unwillingly replaying what had just transpired. Clearly there must be a logical explanation, I thought. Could it have been a seizure? Had I in fact suffered a shock by some type of power surge from the vacuum? I knew there was only one way to know for sure.

I slid off the bed, pulling the gray and blue striped comforter down to the ground with me. I poked at the copper coin laying where it was dropped.

I felt nothing.

Mustering all the courage I could, I picked up the penny as before, and pinched it between my fingers.

Nothing.

Tension spilled from me in a single, shaky exhale. Clearly the event was not some type of supernatural experience. This left me with two options. I could call my therapist and make an appointment to see if I was losing my mind, or call my primary care doctor to see if my brain was misfiring. Neither option really appealed to me and I decided to run it past the one person I could always count on to be my sanity and stability - Greg.

I jumped in the shower and let the hot water wash over my skin. As I shampooed my hair, I gently massaged my scalp, looking for any sign of a mystery head injury that could explain my episode. As I assumed, there was none to be found. Some type of injury-based seizure actually seemed like a welcome idea at this point.

I remembered in one of the group homes I was in, a couple of kids got into a fight over a bunk bed. This particular home felt more like a detention center than a place for kids to thrive. A new boy, Damon, had come and claimed a bottom bunk next to the window as his own. The problem was, that bed was already occupied by a long time resident, TJ - better known as Small Fry. Small Fry, as his name suggests, was not very large. Granted, he was only 8-years-old. Perhaps it was because Damon saw a small target that he thought he could get away with bullying his way to the bunk of his choosing.

What Damon didn’t realize was that the resident of the top bunk was Joel, aka Big Fry, the older and much larger brother. Joel had been in the system long enough to know that if you didn’t stick up for yourself, nobody else was going to. Unless, of course, you had an older brother. Damon may have thought he was tough, but he didn’t stand a chance against Joel. There were only three or four punches thrown before Damon went down, smashing his temple on the bed post as he fell.

We all stood there watching as Damon began to twitch and flail on the ground. Joel grabbed Small Fry and ran for the exit. We found out later that Damon had a history of seizures, but at the time we all thought we were watching him die. I suppose it doesn’t reflect well on most of us that we just stood there watching it happen. Pete, a kid who was always kissing up to the adults, had run to get the director when the whole scuffle began, so it wasn’t long before Mr. Wilkerson was kneeling beside Damon and yelling for someone to call 911.

Damon never came back from the hospital. It was decided it would be best for all if he went to a different home to prevent any further conflicts between him and the brothers. It was long past curfew when TJ and Joel eventually came home - Joel having been convinced that he had killed a boy. The only time I saw Big Fry cry was when he found out Damon was ok and he wouldn’t be taken away from his little brother. I was alway envious of the unbreakable bond that those two had. Foster care is a very lonely place to be.

I dried off and dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. One benefit of being your own boss was that a dress code was optional. I laced up my Vans and headed for the door, almost forgetting my wallet and phone in my haste. At the last second, I grabbed the penny, the one that seemed to trigger my episode, and threw it in my pocket.

When I got to the shop I found Greg behind the counter reading the same book I had fallen asleep reading the night prior. If nothing else, I could always say Greg had good taste.

“Hey, my man,” Greg greeted, his face spreading into his signature large smile. “I wasn’t expecting you for a little while yet. I guess you just missed me.”

I gave him a half smile in return, unsure of how to explain my day up to that point.

“Something like that,” I finally responded.

I set my bag on the counter before walking to the front door. I hung up the “Back in a Few” sign usually reserved for runs to the cafe across the street or a bathroom break in the back, and locked the door. When I turned around, I saw Greg watching me with curious eyes.

“Is this a stick-up?” he chided.

When I didn’t respond, Greg’s smile slowly faded. It occurred to me then how animated my best friend was. He was like a living, breathing cartoon character. He was as reliable as one too. I could fire-up YouTube and find Scooby-Doo, or walk into the shop and find Greg. Both were loyal, loving, and hopefully Greg could solve a mystery just like the Hanna-Barbera hero.

“I don’t even know where to begin. Something happened to me this afternoon when I was cleaning. I think something might be wrong with me,” I explained.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the penny. Handing it to him, I described every detail, from the vacuum to the bank to the song playing on the radio. The entire time I spoke he watched me intently, taking in every word. His face, typically as readable as the books on our shelves, gave away no emotion or thought. Even when I finished, he sat silent.

“Come on, buddy,” I begged. “What in the hell do you think happened? Should I call a doctor?”

Greg snatched his phone up off of the counter and began punching into the keypad. A few seconds later, I heard the opening synchronized bamboo flute notes of Sledgehammer. Greg began to wiggle his hips and dance, his face breaking out into a goofy grin. Clearly, he found my story to be a comedy rather than a thriller.

“Dude! Turn that shit off! I’m trying to be serious!” I demanded.

The music stopped along with his grin.

“You mean it? That really happened?” he pressed, picking up the offending penny from the counter where he had set it. “Take the penny and try pinching it again. I want to see what happens.”

I reached out my hand, shaking slightly, and took the penny from his outstretched hand. Pinching it in my fingers for the third time. Nothing.

“I know you think this whole thing sounds insane. Trust me, I feel insane,” I told Greg. “I’m telling you what happened, though. I don’t understand it at all!”

Greg popped open the cash register and pulled out a small handful of pennies. He walked to the small couch we keep alongside the children’s section and sat down.

“This does sound insane, but it doesn’t mean I don’t believe that you believe this episode happened. Maybe it was an electric shock. Hell, maybe you have a brain tumor. I have no idea. Whatever it was, we will figure it out together,” Greg said. “Here are some other pennies. Sit down and let's see what, if anything, happens if you hold them.”

I lowered myself onto the plush, goldenrod cushion next to my best friend. Nervously, I cupped my hand as Greg poured the pennies into my palm. The tension in the room was as real and present as my own body at that moment. Even with a pile of pennies, there was no flash. I dumped them from my right hand into my left, and using my right thumb and forefinger, picked one at random.

[Penny #2]
I was standing in front of a stone well. My left arm was outstretched, my small hand held by a much larger, much hairier one.
“Come on, son,” said the deep voice attached to the hairy hand. “Make your wish and throw your penny. I told your mom we would be home in twenty minutes for supper.”
I dropped the penny into the fountain.

“Scott! Scott!” Greg was shouting as I came back to myself. “Buddy, where’d you go on me?”

I looked around, relieved to be back in my grown-up size skin.

“I was a kid with my dad. I mean, a dad. Not my dad,” I blurted.

“You weren’t here, man. I mean you were physically, but your face went blank and you wouldn’t respond to me,” Greg rambled. “It was freaky. Maybe we should go to the ER.”

Instead of responding I reached into my palm, grabbing yet another coin.

[Penny #3]
Music.
Very loud music. And people. Lots of them all around me. It was dark, loud and crowded.
As I settled into myself I was able to pinpoint the song and the band. Creedence Clearwater Revival was singing Bad Moon Rising. The unmistakable scent of the devil’s lettuce hung heavy in the air. Somebody passed me a joint and I took it with my left hand. My right hand remained in my jeans, pinching the penny tightly.
I took a drag from the joint - the robust taste of the marijuana intertwined with the metallic taste deposited in my mouth by my pocket-dwelling penny. A gorgeous, topless blonde leaned over and kissed me deep as she slipped the joint from my fingers.
“Right on, man,” she swooned before lifting the weed to her lips. Turning back to me, she blew the sweet smoke into my mouth.
I considered letting go of the penny, but John Fogerty began to sing Proud Mary and the large breasted blonde pushed her chest into my own.
“It's me! Mary! It’s my song! Dance with me!”
My bare feet brushed the hard ground as Mary and I swayed in the darkness. My head swam with a helium lightness. Mary grabbed me by the crook of my right arm.
“Hold me, Jimmy,” she slurred.
As my hand came out of my pocket to comply, the penny slipped from my grasp.

“Shit!” I yelled, desperately grabbing at the penny, trying to pinch it again. It was no use, though, and I remained seated on the couch next to Greg.

“Do I even want to ask?”

“I know you won’t believe this, but I was at Woodstock. Fucking Woodstock!”

Greg just stared, mouth agape.

“There was this chick, Mary. Oh man! She was gorgeous and topless,” I went on.

“How do I get in on this Woodstock thing,” Greg joked, taking the penny from me and holding it. “I don’t think you are crazy or lying, but I don’t understand what is happening.”

It was then that my first theory struck me.

“Look at the penny!” I demanded. “What year does it say? 1969?”

Greg shook his head. “Close, but no. 1967.”

We both sat quietly, each of us trying to figure out what was actually happening in the bookstore and moreso, in my head.

“I mean,” Greg began, “you weren’t really at Woodstock. You were here. It was some sort of fantasy.”

“No! I was there. CCR was singing. I smoked a joint and danced barefoot on the dirt,” I argued.

Greg walked back to the counter and retrieved his laptop. “CCR you say? This is a test. What song were they playing?” he quizzed.

“First it was ‘Bad Moon Rising’, but I only caught the tail end. Next they did ‘Proud Mary.’ That’s what I was dancing to before I wound up back here with you,” I told him.

He typed away, quiet. He looked up at me again. “You said you danced on the dirt. Everybody knows the real Woodstock was a rainy, muddy mess.”

“I’m not a meteorologist,” I said in rebuttal. “It wasn’t raining and it wasn’t muddy.”

He clicked away again.

“I’ll be damned,” Greg muttered. “You’re right. ‘Bad Moon Rising’ was their sixth song in the wee hours of Sunday morning. ‘Proud Mary’ was next. The rain didn’t hit until late morning that same day.”

“I’d say this will sound crazy,” I began, “but this whole thing is crazy. Do you think these pennies I’m holding were in the places I’m going? Like some guy named Jimmy was at Woodstock with this exact penny in his pocket, and now I have some crazy power that takes me there?”

Greg got up off the couch and walked towards the back of the store. I was afraid that after all of these years I had finally chased my best friend away. I heard the office door open and close. After a few seconds I heard the door open and close a second time. Greg came back to the couch, a beer in each hand.

“As impossible as it sounds, I think that may be what is happening. I mean, something is definitely happening,” he stammered.

We both opened our beers and took a long pull. Neither of us said anything for a while. My head was overwhelmed with flashes of hairy hands and naked breasts, of music and yelling. The coppery taste in my mouth faded a little bit more with each mouthful of beer.

Greg went to the door and took down the sign announcing we would be right back and replaced it with a closed sign, making the executive decision that my bizarre situation outweighed any sales for the day.

“I don’t know if you’re up for it,” Greg softly said, putting his hand on my shoulder, “but there are more pennies here. Should we see what happens?”

I reached out and picked one from the pile.

[Penny #4]
I was sitting on cold pavement, leaning up against an equally cold wall. In one hand I held a few coins, in the other I held a small foam cup, outstretched toward the people who walked by me - either too busy or too self involved to notice my existence.
A pile of blankets and a worn backpack sat next to me. While the belongings were clearly dirty and over used, they were piled neatly, and I could tell that real care had been taken in where and how they sat.
A woman walked by and threw a few coins in my cup. A man in a suit and a long, wool jacket walking in the opposite direction threw her a dirty look before casting his gaze directly on me.
“Piece of shit!,” he yelled, his rage palpable. “Why don’t you get a job like the rest of us.”
He was gone before I could respond, which was good since I had no idea what to say. I sat there, still, for several minutes trying to figure out how a man that didn’t know me could hate me so much.
A young man approached me then, hands deep in his coat pockets and a smile across his face.
“There is a diner around the corner. Let me take you. If we go to the backdoor, the cook will give you a free meal,” he said, restoring my faith in humanity.
He helped me pick up my few belongings, the coins still clutched in my fist.
“I’m glad I could help you, man. Eventually we all should get what we deserve,” he explained. “We just have to go down this alley and the door is halfway. Right past those dumpsters.”
Something in his words didn’t sit right with me and I slowed, turning around to look behind me. The main stretch was only 50 yards away, but I could tell that the legs I was using couldn’t get me there quickly. As I turned around, two more boys appeared from behind the dumpster.
It was too late. There was nothing I could do. Two of the boys began to hit me, knocking me to the ground. The original boy had my bag and was dumping the few belongings that mattered enough to hold onto, despite my obvious despair.
The boys began to kick me as I laid on the ground, defenseless. Their laughs were pure evil. The devil in real time.
“I told you you’d get what you deserve you fucking hobo,” the first boy laughed. “I wouldn’t let you eat my dog’s shit if you begged me for it.”
As I saw a foot pull back to kick me again, I opened my hand and released the penny.
I came-to on the floor by the couch, screaming and my arms in front of me blocking my face from the kick that wouldn’t come.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Greg yelled, reaching for me. “Buddy, are you ok? Maybe we should call it a day.”

I shook my head and pulled myself back onto the couch. I took a long pull from my beer and reached for another penny before I lost my nerve.

Over the next two hours I flashed in and out of other people’s lives, experiencing a moment of their history as seen through their eyes. I felt the excitement of a child in a corner store, paying for his bag of candy. I was a young, panicked mom, digging through couch cushions, trying to get enough money together for a pack of diapers.

Hope. Fear. Despair. Anger. Love. Anxiety. A lifetime of emotions in such a short time. It was enough to make a person crazy - although perhaps I already was.

“I can’t,” I told Greg as he held out another penny. “I need a break. I am exhausted and my mouth tastes like I was chewing those pennies, not holding them.”

We cleaned up the empty beer bottles and turned off the lights, deciding we’d both go to his place, get the kids off the bus and throw some burgers on the grill. I honestly couldn’t imagine going back to my place with only King for company.

Liz and Greg’s house was a bit further from the shop than my own, selected for its great school district and reputation for being a safe community. Their house always reminded me of that Steve Martin movie, Father of the Bride. While not quite as fancy as the one in the movie, it wasn’t too far off - complete with basketball hoop and carport.

Even after years and countless Sunday dinners there, every time I saw Greg’s house it made me so damn proud of him. For two boys who aged out in the system, we had both managed to turn out pretty successful. I don’t mean money, either. While money is nice, real success is measured in the happiness and love that surround you. Greg and Liz’s house oozed unadulterated joy, and I was lucky enough to get to soak some of that up.

Liz worked from home, so we went into the house as quietly as we could and threw a few beers in a cooler. We took them out front and sat on the porch to talk and wait for the school bus. Somehow, despite feeling the weight of what had happened earlier, we managed to pass nearly two hours without pennies coming up in conversation. We sat and talked about the kids, we talked about the store, and we continued our favorite debate - when listing your favorite books, does a trilogy or series count as one book, or does each title have to be treated separately. After twenty years or so of the same argument, we were no closer to agreeing. Luckily the bus pulled up to the house before it got too heated.

“Uncle Scott,” both kids yelled as they sprinted up the walkway. They both wrapped me in a giant hug and I instantly knew coming here for the evening was the right decision.

Greg and Liz had done an excellent job as parents, and it was plainly reflected in their kids. Brinley was nine and Sawyer was seven. They were both such happy children. Yes, they bickered and whined from time to time, but what kids don’t. Brinley, my goddaughter, was the perfect combination of smart, athletic, sassy and beautiful. Unlike most fourth grade girls who wore their hair long, Brinley liked hers short. She said she was too busy to mess with her hair; she had other things to do. Sawyer was the quieter of the two, almost invisible seeming at times. You always had to pay attention when he was around, because he was listening, even when he seemed disinterested. He absorbed every word and forgot nothing. I couldn’t wait to see the man he would grow into some day.

Liz was great for Greg, but it was when he became a father that I saw the final missing piece of him fall into place. He had always vowed that when he had children, he would be to them what he had never had. The love and affection he poured into them was heartwarming and heartbreaking all at the same time. There was so much the two of us missed out on being raised in the system, and the more he gave them, the more evident it became what we were deprived of.

We took the kids inside and Greg got an after-school snack ready for the kids while they showed me the school work they’d brought home in their backpacks. Of course it was all A’s, although I think the work Brinley was doing in fourth grade math was the equivalent of what I did in tenth grade. Maybe even eleventh.

The four of us were sitting around eating apple slices and cheese, listening to Sawyer describe the horrifying experience of a girl trying to hug him on the playground, when Liz came down the steps. Her genuine smile when she saw me let me know I was not intruding on family time, but part of it.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Liz asked, grabbing the beer from Greg’s hand and taking a drink. “And dare I ask who is watching the store?”

Luckily Greg, always quick on his feet, answered for me.

“We decided to make today a mental health day. And, what is better for feeling good in your head and heart than being with your family,” he retorted. “Well, I guess it depends on your family.”

“Plus,” I interjected, “Greg said it was burgers for dinner and we all know he is trash with a grill.”

“Even I can drink to that,” Greg responded, handing Liz a fresh beer and pulling a swig of his own.

Greg and I looked at each other from across the room, neither of us needing to say out loud what was being screamed inside our heads. Something was going on - something seriously fucked up - and neither of us knew what it was or why it was happening. It had already been decided we would share with Liz after dinner, but I hated the thought of putting this burden upon her as well.

The remainder of the afternoon passed quickly, full of math homework, spelling word reviews and two on two soccer in the backyard while Liz made pasta salad to accompany the burgers. My heart felt fuller than it had since, well, since the last time I had spent a day with my surrogate family.

As usual, the time passed too quickly and before I knew it the kids were hugging me goodnight, hair damp from showers, while Greg washed and I dried the dishes. My belly ached with envy at the simplistic and satisfying routine that was life at the Patterson’s.

When Liz came back downstairs from reading to the kids and tucking them in, Greg and I were seated around the firepit table on the back porch.

“Before you join us,” Greg hollered in, “grab your change purse and get yourself another drink. You’re going to need it.”

“That sounds like you boys are up to no good,” Liz laughed as she walked over, looking at us knowingly.

Greg patted the seat next to him, signaling for Liz to snuggle up to him. I knew that even if he hadn’t invited her to sit there, she would have. That is how they always were. It was like they just could never get enough of each other. They couldn’t stand to be without the other.

“Liz,” I began. “Something happened today and it doesn’t make sense and I can’t fully explain it. I wish I understood what was going on before I burden you with this. You are my family, though, and so I need to.”

Greg picked up Liz’s small hand in his own as she shifted uncomfortably on the sectional.

“I know this is all going to sound like we are messing with you, babe, but whatever this is, it is real,” Greg told her. “Open your change purse and pick a penny.”

Brows furrowed in confusion, Liz shuffled her change around, pulling out a few coins at once. Greg reached over and removed a penny from her palm. Liz poured the remaining coins back into the small pouch.

“When Scott came into the store today, I thought he was messing with me,” Greg began to explain to her. “We spent the next few hours with this, though, trying to figure it out. All I can tell you is it is real. I don’t know how, but it is.

“When Scott holds pennies a certain way, he has a type of flashback. It isn’t a flashback of his own life, though. It’s like a moment in time from the penny.”

Liz looked tentatively between Greg and I before taking a long drink from her bottle.

“I’m going to take this penny from your husband and then I’m going to go dark. I’ll still physically be here on your back deck, but not mentally. It may seem scary, but I promise it is ok. Or at least I think it is,” I told her, chuckling.

“Why are you laughing,” Liz spat. “Are you fucking with me or have the two of you lost your damn minds!”

Greg turned in his seat so he was facing Liz. He set the penny down and took both of her hands, kissing them gently.

“Baby, this isn’t a joke. Please just watch and see,” he comforted her.

Greg nodded at me and I reached over, retrieving the penny from the edge of the firepit where he had set it. I settled back into my chair and pinched the penny, warm from the dancing flames, in between my thumb and forefinger, prepared for anything.

[Penny #10]
I was in a baseball stadium and felt immediately overwhelmed by the instant stimulation after being in a peaceful backyard. I blinked a few times as my eyes adjusted to the daylight, even though the clouds blocked out most of the sun. A light drizzle fell on the crowd of people, most of whom were bundled in winter gear - not exactly what you’d expect when watching the boys of summer.
In my right hand I was holding a hot dog, covered in sauerkraut, relish and mustard. My left hand was in my pocket, rolling a coin across my fingers. I was standing, as was the rest of the crowd, as “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” played over speakers. A cold wind blew and I was grateful for the hat protecting my ears, but quickly wished I had some gloves.
I looked at the giant scoreboard, a large Iron City Beer sign above it. The date on the scoreboard read Tuesday, April 17. Here, in the seventh inning stretch, it read that the Philadelphia Phillies had outscored the Pittsburgh Pirates, 2-1.
The song ended and everyone sat back down. As I sat in my bright orange seat looking out over the first base line, I felt a tug on my right sleeve.
“Daddy, I need to pee again,” said a little girl, blonde pigtails poking out from beneath a black and gold beanie - a gold P proudly displayed smack dab in the middle. “Bad.”
I stopped rolling the coin and held the penny in my fist. “Ok,” I responded. “Lead the way.”
She stepped into the aisle and I followed her up the stairs, through a short tunnel and out to the outer circle of what I assumed, based on the scoreboard and crowd, must be Three Rivers Stadium. Luckily, she seemed to know exactly where the ladies room was, and I told her I’ll be standing there when she comes out.
“James,” said a booming voice, a hand coming down hard on my shoulder. “I see you decided to play hooky from work and come down to the home opener too. How’s it been?”
I turned to see a tall man, dressed head to toe in Pittsburgh colors, a beer in his hand.
“Oh, yeah,” I stammered. “I brought my little girl down for the game. Thought she’d enjoy it.”
“Let’s see if the boys can break this losing streak,” the man replied. “You wonder how we can do so well the last few years and then only win three of the first ten games. I’m hoping for some big bats from Pena and Berra this season.”
Uncomfortable and completely out of my element, I somehow managed to reply, “Absolutely!”
The large man walked away just as the little girl walked back over to me. As I took her hand in my right one, I released the penny with my left.

I opened my eyes and saw Greg holding a crying Liz. I was unable to make out her words through her sobs, but it was easy to imagine what she was saying.

“Liz!” I hollered. “It's fine! I’m fine.”

Obviously I didn’t know how true that statement was since I had no idea what was happening to me, but for the moment at least, it was all ok. She slowed her sobs and turned to look at me, her brows furrowed once again.

“What just happened,” she asked, shakily.

“I was just at the Pirates home opener with my daughter. I mean, obviously not my daughter, but somebody’s daughter. It was the seventh inning stretch and it was pretty chilly. I saw someone who knew me and called me James,” I told them.

“When was this,” Greg asked.

“I’m not really sure what year it was. The scoreboard said Tuesday, April 17, though. Based on clothes and whatnot, I’d guess late 70’s or early 80’s. That is just a guess,” I explained.

Greg pulled out his phone and started typing.

“I found a game on April 17, 1964 against the Mets,” he said. “Could that have been it?”

“No,” I told him. “They were playing the Phillies.”

“Ok. Ok,” Greg exclaimed. “I have two possible dates. One is 1984 and the other is 1992. If I can find box scores can you tell me what the score was? Or maybe you saw something with a player's name?”

I closed my eyes, struggling to remember the details which danced in my exhausted brain.

“It was 2-1, Phillies, half way through the seventh inning. That guy who was talking to me mentioned a couple of players. Peeny and Berra or something. I don’t know.”

We all sat quietly, the only noises were the crackling embers from the fire, the crickets singing their night song, and Greg typing on his phone. We stayed like this for several minutes, lost in our thoughts and confusion.

“1984,” Greg finally said, breaking the silence. He handed Liz his phone. The silence resumed.

[Wednesday, May 6]

I’m not sure if it was the smell of the freshly brewed coffee, or the bellows from the belly of the coffee pot as it finished making the Maxwell House that woke me. I sat up, having spent the night on Greg and Liz’s couch.

I went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee before gathering the beer bottles left lying about the previous night. I emptied the garbage can and carried it to the side of the house, depositing it in the black bin, and dumping the bottles in the blue recycling can. By the time I came back inside, Liz was sitting at the kitchen island, her own cup of joe in her hands.

“Good morning there, Scott Bakula,” she said as I entered.

“Scott who, now?” I asked, taking the stool next to her.

“Oh my gosh! Maybe you and Greg should have read fewer books and watched more television,” Liz laughed. “Scott Bakula was the star of Quantum Leap. You’re like our own personal Sam Beckett.”

“I know the show! Does that make Greg Al and you Izzy?” I responded.

“It’s Ziggy. And you’re an idiot!”

The next hour was a lot of chaos as the kids searched for their desired theme day outfits for school, ate their cereal and yelled their requests for their brown bag lunches. It made me tired just watching it. Right after the bus pulled away from the house, I did too. I needed a shower and to check on King before meeting Greg at the bookstore.

King, needless to say, was not too happy with me when I got home, having been forced to eat only dry food the night before. I can hardly keep a feline happy. It is no surprise that none of my relationships with women have been successful.

I jumped in the shower, dressed for the day and went to the kitchen to pack my own brown bag meal to take to the shop. I grabbed my phone to text Greg and let him know I’d be there in half an hour. In true Greg fashion he responded immediately.

Just got here. Can you grab me something on your way in?

I refilled King’s water and then, out of pure guilt, opened a second can of wet food for him - not that he needed the extra calories. He rubbed up against my leg, purring, clearly approving of my gesture. I looked at my phone, waiting for Greg’s request, but he hadn’t said anything.

??? - I wrote.

Nothing.

When I got to my car and he still hadn’t responded I gave him a call.

No answer.

The store had opened already, so it was safe to assume he was with a customer or on the shop phone and I headed towards work. I could always run back out for what he needed. I pulled my car alongside Greg’s in the small lot outside of the store, grabbed my computer bag from the back seat and walked inside. As the bell on the door rang, the hair on my neck stood.

“Greg?” I yelled, quickly scanning the store. Intuition was something I learned to listen to in foster care, and my intuition was screaming that something wasn’t right.

I walked to the register and went to set my bag down on the counter, but it fell to the floor as my eyes landed on my best friend lying in a pool of his own blood. I fumbled for my cell phone as I dropped to my knees, taking his hand in mine, looking for a pulse.

“911, what’s your emergency,” my phone said.

“This is Scott Adams at After This Chapter Bookstore. I just came in and my friend is here. He’s, he’s been shot in the chest. I can’t find a pulse,” I somehow managed.

“Sir, I need you to slow down and give me the address so I can send help,” said the dispatcher.

“I, we, sorry. We are at 5509 North Clark Street. Near the intersection of West Catalpa,” I stammered.

I dropped the phone and moved my hands to Greg’s neck to look for a pulse there, finding a weak trace of one. Grabbing the White Sox sweatshirt off the stool behind the counter, I held it against the wound in his chest. I watched in disbelief as the heather gray fabric turned burgundy, blossoms of blood growing and spreading before my eyes.

“Buddy, please,” I pleaded. “Stay with me. I need you. Liz and the kids need you. Hang in there.”

It might have been five minutes or half an hour, I really have no idea, before the paramedics and police arrived. It felt like an instant and a lifetime all at once. I set down the blood soaked hoodie and reached for my phone to call Liz, my fingers unable to work properly on the touchscreen with blood still on them. Mindlessly, I wiped my hands on my jeans and tried again. When Liz answered, though, I found myself unable to speak. I handed the phone to a police officer who told Liz there had be an incident at the store and she should head to Northwestern Memorial Hospital for her husband.

I wanted to run out after the gurney as they loaded Greg into the ambulance, but two detectives had questions for me before I could go anywhere. I replayed the morning for them, showing them our text messages and looking for Greg’s phone to give them, unable to find it.

“It’s likely on him,” said the one known as Detective Hawk, as the second, younger officer, Detective Gould, jotted in his pocket-sized notebook. “We will release you at this time to go to the hospital, but you will need to call us to schedule a time to come down to the station and answer some more questions.”

I grabbed the business card from Detective Hawk’s outstretched hand and bolted for the door. I typed out a quick text to Liz telling her I would meet her at the hospital and pulled out into midday traffic, desperate to be there by Greg’s side - desperate to have my brother survive.

I found Liz in the family lounge outside of the operating room. I was relieved that the kids weren’t with her. As much as I could have used hugs from their scrawny little arms, they did not need to see their dad in the condition I had last seen him.

Liz fell into me as I embraced her, and her facade of calm faded. Her sobs shook not just her own body, but mine as I held her tightly against me.

“How bad was the accident? What happened to Greg?” she asked me when she had calmed down enough to speak.

“I can’t believe nobody filled you in,” I started, leading her to a chair and sitting next to her. “When I got to the store I found Greg on the floor. He was shot, Liz. Somebody shot him in the chest.”

Her eyes widened as a new horror overcame her, sending her back into sobs. My own tears ran from my eyes and I held Liz’s hands, unable to offer any peace of mind in my acute awareness of what I had seen.

Hospital time is deceiving. I don’t know if it is the lack of windows, the overhead lights, the endless supply of coffee, or the emotionality of a waiting room that makes time pass quickly while also dragging on; the feeling of waiting a lifetime while being hyper aware of how short a life really is; the sensation of feeling everything and going numb, all at once.

By the time a doctor came in the room to update us, Hawk and Gould were sitting in the waiting room as well. All four of us stood and the doctor immediately began to shake his head.

“I am so sorry for your loss. We tried our best, but the bullet hit his heart and the damage was too great. I truly wish I could have delivered better news,” he told us. “He is getting cleaned up now and then you can go in to see him and say goodbye.”

Gould pulled out his phone as he walked into the hallway, calling some mystery power at the station to update the case. Liz pulled out her own phone and through her tears and shock called her parents, who were with the kids. Detective Hawk approached the doctor and I heard him asking for any of Greg’s personal property, such as his phone, which had been brought in with him.

I pulled out my own phone and stared at the screen - my wallpaper a picture of Brinley and Sawyer from last Christmas. Greg was my person, the one I would normally call for something like this. What do you do when the person you need to talk to is also the person you’ve lost?

I slipped my phone back in my pocket and lingered close enough to Liz that she knew I was there for her, but far enough away that she had some space while talking to her mother. My own mind was a confluence of grief, fear and anger. I could not imagine what was happening within hers. She got off the phone and turned to me, immediately falling back into my arms. I felt so useless. I had spent my entire life lost in a world of books, and despite the millions of words I had read, I could find none to offer my friend as comfort. There are situations so painful that the words just don’t exist.

A nurse came and led Liz and I into the room with Greg’s lifeless body. I can’t say into a room with Greg, because as soon as I stepped in I knew he wasn’t there. I couldn’t feel him - feel his energy; feel the bond that had carried me through the last 26 years of my life. I offered to wait outside so Liz could have time alone, but she grabbed my hand, squeezing.

“He was your family just as much as he was mine,” Liz told me. “We need to do this together.”

Liz dropped my hand and picked up her husband’s. His ring was absent from his finger, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the hospital had it or if it had been stolen by the bastard who had done this.

“I am so mad at you,” Liz said gingerly as she placed Greg’s palm against her cheek. “You weren’t supposed to leave me. We had so many plans. We had so much more time. And now it is all gone. You’re gone!

“How am I supposed to go home and tell our children that their best friend, their biggest cheerleader, their hero, is gone. I don’t know how to do this, Greg. I don’t know how to wake up in a world where you don’t exist.”

I put my hand on Liz’s shoulder and let her lean back into me, Greg’s hand still in her own. I closed my eyes and envisioned the three of us the night before, drinks in hand and easy laughter.

“We will do it together, Liz. Just like you said,” I told her.

We stood in silence for a while longer, lost in our shared grief, until a quiet rap on the door was followed by Detective Hawk.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but a nurse just brought out his personal belongings. Unfortunately, his phone was not among them. We will need you both to come to the station tomorrow so we can go over some details,” Hawk told us. “Here is what they were able to give to us.”

He handed Liz a small envelope and turned for the door. She opened her right hand and poured the contents in: his wedding band, his keys, and three shiny pennies.

Lincoln looked up, mocking us with his quiet knowledge.

I drove Liz home. As tempting as the offers from Liz and her parents were for me to stay the night, I needed some time to process what had happened since I had left this same house just twelve hours earlier. Nothing, not a single thing, that had happened in my life over the past 48 hours seemed to be remotely based in reality.

Liz and I had put the pennies safely back in the envelope and had agreed that we would test out my new power on them the following day. She needed her kids and we all needed to attempt to get some rest.

I somehow managed to get home, but please don’t ask me how. In all honesty, I can’t tell you much about the hours that passed after Greg’s death. I’m sure I fed King, but I don’t remember. I doubt I ate anything myself. Looking back, I should have been paying attention, but I had no way of knowing the danger I was in. I had no idea yet that responsibility for Greg’s death fell directly on my shoulders.

I had no idea that I was next.

[Thursday, May 7]

I awoke to my furry companion curled up on my chest. I always believed the old adage that animals know when something is wrong, even if they aren’t sure what exactly is weighing on us. I laid in bed stroking his smooth fur and replaying the previous day. It seemed impossible that Greg was gone - taken from me, from Liz, and worst, from his children, whom he adored. If I just stayed in bed, maybe none of it would be real. If I closed my eyes and went back to sleep, perhaps the next time I opened them, I would realize it had all been a terrible dream.

Nightmares, as scary as they may be, do not hurt the way my heart ached, though, so I knew this was real. Reluctantly, I sat up, forcing King off of me. I grabbed my phone to see if I had slept through any calls or texts from Liz or the detectives. Seeing none, I sent Liz a short message.

I just got up. I’m jumping in the shower and will head your way so we can go to the station together.

Three little dots appeared, letting me know she was responding. Then they disappeared, reappeared and eventually her response came through.

I couldn’t fault her for the short reply. There were no words to lessen the pain and burden. As soon as I stepped in the shower, my phone rang. I grabbed it from the sink to make sure it wasn’t Liz, but the ominous “Unknown Caller” flashed across my screen. I sent it to voicemail and got back in the water. Before I even had a chance to grab the shampoo, my phone came to life again. This time it was Greg’s face and name lighting up the screen.

“Hello?” I answered apprehensively.

From the other end all I could hear was breathing and the sounds of morning traffic.

“Listen, I don’t know why you have my friend’s phone, but-”

At that I was cut off by laughter. It echoed sharp and empty, like laughter dragged from a corpse. We all use the word evil at times. There is the Evil Stepmother or the way we might describe a playground bully. The laugh that I heard then, though, redefined that word for me. The humorless guffaw crawled under my skin and stayed there.

“Hello, Scott. I have been looking for you for a long time now. I had almost given up on ever finding you. But here we are,” a malefic voice said, the laughter still hinting at the edges.

As quickly as his sentence ended, there was a loud knock downstairs at the front door.

“Knock, knock,” said the mystery man, phone still in my trembling hand. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I told your buddy the same thing yesterday. Clearly, he chose the hard way.”

At this I sprung into action. Leaving the shower running, I scooped up the shorts and boxers I’d dropped on the floor and got dressed.

“I don’t know who you are or what you want,” I said while making my way into the bedroom for a shirt and a pair of shoes. “I’m not opening the door for you, though. So just go away.”

By this point, I’d made my way downstairs, slipping quickly and quietly past the front door where the unwelcome visitor stood. I was convinced that despite my attempts to be quiet, the thudding of my heart announced me as clearly as a flare in the dead of night. Slinking into the kitchen I grabbed King and slid out the door that led to the garage. As the phone connected to the Bluetooth in my car, I heard the unmistakable sound of my front door being kicked in. I hardly had time to imagine the teal painted wood splintering as I pulled the car through the slowly opening garage door.

I called 911 and gave the dispatcher a shortened version of events - just enough information to get the police to my house ASAP, without having to explain the two days leading up to this. Next I called Liz to tell her what happened so she could get the kids somewhere safe. What we assumed had been a random act of violence against Greg suddenly seemed much more sinister. As it turns out, the kids had already left with their grandparents and Liz was just waiting for my call.

“Before we go to the station, I’d like you to do the penny thing,” Liz told me. “If you feel up to it of course.”

We agreed to meet at a hotel two blocks from the police station. This way the intruder wouldn’t know where to find us, but we were still close by to fulfill our promise to go to the station and talk to the detectives. I just wasn’t sure what the hell I could tell them that would make any sense.

I considered sitting at the lobby bar while I waited for Liz, but grabbing a 6-pack to take upstairs seemed safer and more comfortable for King who was concealed in a reusable shopping tote. I'm not sure that cat-friendly hotels are actually a thing. It wasn’t till I got to my room and looked at the clock that I realized why the bartender gave me side eye when I ordered. 10:30 likely sees a lot more Bloody Mary or mimosa orders than a half dozen cold ones. Social norms be damned, I cracked one open and text Liz the room number.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door. I swallowed what remained of my beer and walked across the room, tentatively peaking through the peephole. While common sense said I should find Liz on the other side, it felt like anything was possible at this point. In this case, expectation prevailed and I opened the door quickly, pulling Liz into a hug I didn’t realize I needed until that moment.

“Let me look at you,” Liz demanded suddenly, stepping back and looking me over from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

I did a quick turn showing her I had no outside injuries. My broken heart was already implied, as was her own. I held out the six pack and although she looked at me judgingly, she grabbed one and popped the top off. She reached into her purse and pulled out the envelope with the pennies.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we have places to be and questions that need answers,” Liz stated matter-of-factly.

We both sat at the foot of the bed and she dumped the contents out onto the outdated floral comforter. After a brief mental eeny-meeny-miny-moe, I picked up the penny on the right, holding it between my thumb and pointer.

[Penny #11]
The glaring fluorescent lights hit me as strongly as the overwhelming grease smell. An annoyed older teen is looking at me impatiently from behind a register.
“Your total is $3.76. You still owe me a penny,” she says, her hand extended.
I drop the copper coin into her hand.

Liz is staring intently, tears welled up in her eyes.

“Nothing. At least nothing that helps us,” I tell her. “You pick one this time.”

Liz picked up a penny and held it out to me. I hesitated before taking it from her, somehow aware of what I was about to see. I grasped the penny intently, knowing I owed it to Greg to find out who was behind his death.

[Penny #12]
I’m in the bookstore. This space that has for so long been my safe haven feels alien to me immediately. In front of me stands a man I have never seen before, he is pointing the gun at me. He is white, early sixties. He is shorter than I am. I would guess 5’10” with a stocky build. He is mostly bald with a cropping of thin gray hair running from above one ear, around the back and to the other. Mostly I note that other than the gun he has pointed at my chest, he is rather unremarkable.
“I asked you where Scott was. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. The choice is yours,” the man barks, echoing the warning he had given me that morning.
I open my mouth to answer, eager to tell this man where I live, eager to spare Greg. But I can’t. I am frozen. Not with fear, because I want nothing more than to tell this man where to find me. I want to do this the easy way and give Greg back to his family.
Then I hear him. Greg. I hear him inside my head.
“Scott, you can’t change this. You can’t stop what is about to happen. I held these pennies in my pocket hoping that you’d be able to visit here and see who did this, because he is coming for you. I don’t know why. I need you to tell the police what he looks like, and then you and Liz and the kids need to run and be safe.
“I hope you know how much I love you and what it has meant to me to be your brother. I don’t know that I would have made it this far in life without you. You helped shape me, and I will be forever grateful. Please, tell Liz that she made life worth living. Tell her to find happiness again someday, because her and the kids deserve that. Take care of them for me.”
And his voice is gone, replaced by a deafening boom and an elephant hits my chest. I fall to the ground.

Tears ran down my face as I woke up in the hotel room. I felt a tremendous guilt as I looked at Liz. He had died trying to protect me. His final act was holding tight to those pennies in hopes he could reach me one last time. He was always better than I deserved.

I darted to the desk and grabbed the hotel stationary and pen, jotting it all down. I wrote down his message. I wrote down the description. I couldn’t risk forgetting a single detail. Liz must have sensed this, because she did not say a word. She stayed on the bed, her own silent tears wetting her face.

When I was finished, I still didn’t speak. I took the notebook and handed it to Liz, letting her read it all. I am not sure how a mere minute in time filled so much space, but it did. She looked up at me and all I could do was nod. I went into the bathroom and saw King climb into Liz’s lap as I shut the door. I stood over the sink and splashed water on my face, washing away the dried tears and sweat beads which had formed. I didn’t understand any of this. Who was this man and why was he looking for me? I am not trying to be modest when I express how unremarkable me and my life really are.

We headed to the police station, deciding that I would tell the police I had gotten a look at the mystery man this morning when he came to the townhouse, as supernatural penny power was an unlikely story to be believed. Naturally, they split the two of us up into separate interview rooms, and I sat for what seemed like an eternity waiting for my turn to talk to the detectives. I was hoping they were using this time to talk to Liz, rather than orchestrate some type of intimidation tactic leaving her to sit, stewing in her own thoughts and misery. Not only was she clearly grieving, the station was an icebox and I couldn’t imagine them doing anything to make this devastated woman any more miserable than she had been since the loss of Greg.

I sat quietly in the sterile interview room, the walls a pale, institutional beige, with nothing but the low hum of a fluorescent light and the occasional muffled conversation from the hall to keep me company. The chair was hard and unforgiving, its cold metal legs digging into the tile floor each time I shifted uncomfortably. I could feel the weight of Greg’s blood-stained hoodie in my mind, the ghost of his voice lingering in my ears. They had taken everything from me when I arrived: my phone, my wallet, my keys. Even the pennies—those cursed little artifacts of pain and revelation—were sealed in a clear evidence bag on the other side of the room. For now, all I had was my story, and I had to convince these detectives that I was not their enemy.

The door creaked open abruptly, and Detective Gould strode in, his sharp suit betraying an air of impatience. He was younger than I realized the night before, his clean-shaven face making him look fresh out of the academy despite the stern demeanor he tried to project. Behind him came Detective Hawk, his senior partner, a man whose weathered face and salt-and-pepper hair suggested decades of solving crimes—or at least sitting across from suspects like me.

“Mr. Adams,” Gould began, sliding into the chair across from me. Hawk took his time, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, observing me like a hawk indeed. Gould opened a thin manila folder and laid out a few pieces of paper, neatly arranging them as though their order somehow mattered. “Let’s start from the beginning. Tell us again what happened this morning.”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the glass of water they had provided. “I woke up around 8:30, maybe closer to nine. I was in the shower when I got the call.”

Gould held up a hand, cutting me off. “Let’s be specific here. You’re talking about the call from Greg’s phone. Correct?”

“Yes. I saw his name pop up on my screen,” I replied. “But when I answered, it wasn’t Greg.”

“Who was it?” Hawk asked, his voice low and gravelly. He finally pushed off the wall and sat beside Gould, his gaze drilling into me.

I hesitated, the memory of that sinister voice on the other end making my skin crawl. “I don’t know. A man. Older, maybe in his sixties. He sounded… amused. Like he was enjoying himself.”

Gould’s eyebrows rose. “And what did he say?”

“He said he had been looking for me for a long time. That Greg had chosen the hard way.” My voice faltered. “Then there was a knock at my door.”

“Your front door?” Hawk asked, leaning forward.

“Yes. I didn’t answer. I… I grabbed my cat, went out through the garage, and called 911. I didn’t stay to see who it was.”

Gould scribbled something in his notebook, the faint scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the room for a moment. “So let me get this straight. A mysterious man calls you from your dead friend’s phone, and then someone—you don’t know who—knocks on your door. Did you see anyone? Did you check?”

“No, I didn’t check, but I did get a glimpse through the window on the door as I ran past” I lied, frustrated. “But I know what I heard. And when I left, I heard the door being kicked in.” Gould leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “And when the responding officers arrived, there was no one there. Just a busted door and an empty house, shower running.”

“What are you trying to say?” I snapped. “That I made it up?”

“We’re not saying anything,” Hawk said calmly, though his tone suggested otherwise. “We’re just trying to figure out why someone would target you. Or Greg, for that matter. Let’s talk about the store. You stayed with Greg and his wife the night before, right?”

I nodded. “Yes, but that has nothing to do with this.”

Gould smirked, as if he knew better. “Doesn’t it? You’re close with Liz Patterson, aren’t you? Spent a lot of time at their house?”

“What are you implying?” I asked, my voice rising.

“We’re just exploring all possibilities,” Hawk interjected smoothly. “It’s our job to ask questions. Like, for instance, why someone would want Greg out of the picture.”

“You think I had something to do with this?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Greg was my best friend. My brother. I would never…”

“We’re not accusing you,” Gould said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “But you have to admit, it’s a little convenient. You’re the last person to see him alive. You find his body. And now you’re telling us some ghost story about a mysterious man who just so happens to call you on Greg’s phone.”

“It’s not a ghost story,” I shot back. “And I’m not the one you should be interrogating. The man who killed Greg is out there, and you’re wasting time questioning me.”

Hawk leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Then help us find him. Describe him.”

I took a deep breath, focusing on the memory from the penny. “He’s white. Early sixties. Bald, except for some thin gray hair on the sides. Stocky build, maybe 5’10”. And he’s dangerous. He said he was looking for me.”

Hawk and Gould exchanged a glance. Hawk stood and headed for the door. “Stay here,” he instructed before stepping out. Gould remained, watching me carefully.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said finally. “What are you hiding?”

I clenched my fists under the table, willing myself to stay calm. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

Gould’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought he might push further. But then the door opened, and Hawk returned, holding a file.

“We might have something,” Hawk said, sliding the file onto the table. Inside was a grainy photo of a man who fit my description taken apparently by the security camera in the alley behind the bookstore. “Recognize him?” I leaned forward, my heart pounding. It was him. The man from the penny. The man who had killed Greg.

“That’s him,” I said, my voice trembling. “That’s the man who called me this morning.”

Hawk nodded slowly. “His name is Michael Conti. Former military contractor. Went off the grid about ten years ago. If he’s after you, Mr. Adams, you’re in more danger than you realize.”

Liz had finished before me and the police had driven her back to the hotel. I left the station alone but wished she was there to steady me. It felt like I was walking on a knife’s edge and might slip off at any moment.The revelation about Michael Conti didn’t provide the relief I’d hoped for. Instead, it opened a dozen new doors of dread. I tried to calm the storm of thoughts raging in my mind, but all I could hear was Hawk’s words echoing: “You’re in more danger than you realize.”

By the time I reached the car, my hands were trembling. I didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, I sat there gripping the steering wheel, trying to ground myself. I had always prided myself on being logical, on being able to think my way out of any problem. But this wasn’t a problem - it was a nightmare.

I pulled into the hotel parking lot just as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink that felt out of place against the bleak darkness inside of me. Liz was waiting at the door of the room when I arrived, her arms crossed and her face a mixture of worry and relief. King sat at her feet, letting out a soft meow when he saw me.

“You were there a long time,” she said as I stepped inside.

“The cops didn’t make it easy,” I muttered, dropping my bag onto the chair. “But they confirmed one thing. The man who killed Greg… his name is Michael Conti.”

Liz’s face paled. “Who is he?”

“Former military contractor. Went off the grid a decade ago. The police say he’s dangerous, and based on everything that’s happened, I believe them.” I paused, running a hand through my hair. “I tried asking about his past, but there’s nothing more they’ll share with me right now. It’s like he’s a ghost.”

Liz sank onto the edge of the bed, her shoulders slumping. I sat at the desk, opening my laptop and typing the name Michael Conti into every method of search engine and social media I could think of. Liz made her way to where I sat, looking over my shoulder.

“Nothing. No social media, no news articles, no public records. He doesn’t exist, Scott,” Liz sighed.

“He exists,” I said grimly. “We just don’t know where or why he’s targeting me. But one thing’s for sure - he won’t stop.”

The room fell into silence as we both processed the gravity of the situation. I knew what I had to do, but saying it out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.

“You need to leave,” I said finally, breaking the quiet.

Liz’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You need to take the kids and King. Go to your parents’ place or somewhere safe. If Conti’s after me, I can’t risk him coming after you or the kids. I’ll stay behind and deal with this.”

“No,” Liz said firmly, standing up. “You can’t just put yourself in his crosshairs like that. We need to figure this out together.”

“Liz, he’s not after you,” I said, my voice softening. “He’s after me. Greg… Greg died because he was in the way. I can’t let that happen to you or the kids.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t argue further. “What are you going to do?”

I hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. “I’m going to draw him out. If he wants me, I’ll make sure he finds me.”

“That’s insane,” Liz whispered.

“Maybe,” I admitted. “But it’s the only way to end this. I’ll figure out what he wants and why he’s targeting me. And if it comes down to it…” I trailed off, unwilling to finish the thought.

Liz looked at me for a long moment, her expression a mixture of fear and resignation. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

I hugged her tightly, letting her tears soak into my shirt. King meowed indignantly from the carrier Liz had brought with her, but it was a small comfort to know he’d be safe with her and the kids.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Liz whispered as she pulled away.

“No promises,” I replied with a weak smile.

After she left, the silence in the hotel room was deafening. I sat down at the small desk to think If I was going to use myself as bait, I needed a plan.

I leaned back in the chair, staring at the blank wall in front of me. If the internet couldn’t help, I’d have to get creative. I began making a list of places Conti might look for me—public spots where I could blend in but still keep an eye on my surroundings. The bookstore, the diner, even the park near Greg’s house. I didn’t know where or when he’d strike, but I had to be ready.

By the time I closed the laptop, exhaustion was starting to set in. I lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of everything - Greg’s death, Liz’s grief, the looming threat of Conti - pressed down on me, but I couldn’t afford to give in. Not yet.

My eyelids sank, and sleep gathered me gently into its arms. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.

[Friday, May 8]

The next day, I woke up with a jolt, the events of the past few days replaying in my mind like a horror film on repeat. The sunlight streaming through the curtains did little to dispel the darkness that had settled over me. I forced myself out of bed, every muscle protesting, and headed to the coffee shop by the bookstore. This seemed like a logical first stop in the hunt for my hunter.

The familiar aroma of coffee and the murmur of conversations around me provided a semblance of normalcy, but it was a thin veil. As soon as I approached the counter, the look on the face of my regular barista, Maya, told me she had heard all about Greg’s death.

“Scott,” Maya exhaled, “we are all so sorry about Greg. We hadn’t heard anything about the service yet, do you know any details?”

Unable and unwilling to explain the complexities surrounding the loss and the delay on his funeral, I kept my response to a brief thank you and promise of any news before taking a seat at a small table facing the front door, my back against the wall. As I took a sip of my coffee, I couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were on me, that every shadow held a potential threat. I found myself scanning the faces around me, searching for any sign of Michael Conti.

Later, after no sightings or incidents at the cafe, I found myself doing something I never dreamed I was capable of. After a quick stop at the bank, I went to a shady little pawn shop I had driven by countless times but had never visited.

The door of the pawn shop chimed as I pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit space. The scent of old leather, dust, and metal hit me immediately. The shop was cluttered with the usual odds and ends: a stack of records, an old television with a cracked screen, tarnished silverware glinting from a shelf. There was a lot to see, but none of it was what I was looking for.

Behind the counter, a man who appeared to be as old as the antiques he sold looked up from a newspaper. His eyes were sharp, weathered by years of seeing all kinds of deals and dealers. He didn’t smile, but his eyes narrowed just slightly, sizing me up. He didn’t seem like the type to waste time, so neither would I.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice rough, like he hadn’t used it much today.

“I’m looking for a gun and some ammunition,” I said, leaning on the counter, keeping my tone casual but firm. “Something small, something easy to hide. A pistol, maybe.”

“We got guns. You know the rules, though,” he said, flicking a glance toward the back room. “Three-day waiting period.”

I didn’t flinch.I pulled out the envelope. It wasn’t bulky, but the faint rustle of cash inside made sure he’d take notice. I slid it across the counter without a word. The pawn shop owner’s eyes flicked from my face to the envelope. His gaze lingered on it for a moment too long. I could almost hear his thoughts running, but I kept my face neutral, patient.

He hesitated, tapping a finger against the counter. “I’m not sure what you think you’re doing,” he muttered, though his eyes lingered on the envelope for a second too long. “I don’t break the law for anyone.”

“I’m not asking you to break anything,” I said, my voice low. “I’m asking you to bend it. Just to speed things up. A little something for your trouble. No one needs to know, right?”

He looked at me for a long while. The silence stretched out between us like a taut wire, and I knew he was weighing his options. He was experienced enough to know what this could cost him, both financially and legally. But he also knew something else: there were plenty of people who came in here looking to cut corners. It wasn’t a secret.

I pushed the envelope a little closer, letting the rustle of cash fill the silence between us. It was enough for him to bite, enough to make him forget about the risk.

He sighed, almost imperceptibly, and reached for the envelope. Slowly, deliberately, he opened it, his fingers brushing against the bills inside. I saw his jaw tighten as he counted the stacks in his mind. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and for a second, I thought he might back out. But then he nodded once, sharp, like a man who had made up his mind.

He walked toward the back, and I stayed where I was, pretending to browse through a display of watches. The man came back with a small black case, setting it on the counter without a word. The gun inside was exactly what I’d expected - compact, sleek, and just heavy enough to feel real.

“You keep this quiet, got it?” he said, sliding the case toward me, his fingers brushing the edge of the envelope before he tucked it into the pocket of his apron.

“Of course,” I replied, snapping the case shut with a click. “This never happened.”

I picked up the case, feeling the weight of it in my hands, the finality of the transaction settling into my bones, and feeling a little bit safer knowing that I had a bit of protection from whatever might be coming. I climbed back in the car, sliding the discreet case under the passenger seat and headed toward the park. This was the same park where Greg and I used to hang out, talking about books and dreaming of a better future. The laughter of children playing nearby felt like a cruel mockery of the pain I was feeling. I pulled out my phone and texted Liz.

"Hey, just checking in. How are you and the kids holding up?"

Her response came a few minutes later, "Hanging in there. It's tough, but we're managing. You?"

"I'm... getting by," I typed back, hating the lie. "I'm going to the police station later today. I'll let you know what I find out."

The thought of facing the police again made my stomach churn, especially given my own illegal activity, but I had to know more about Conti, about why he was after me. As the day wore on, the anxiety gnawed at me, each tick of the clock a reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I dialed the police station, my hand shaking slightly.

"Detective Hawk," a gruff voice answered.

"It's Scott Adams," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I need to talk."

"About time," Hawk replied. "We were just about to send out a search party for you."

"I'm at the park," I said, my voice catching in my throat. "I think he's watching me."

"Stay where you are," Hawk ordered. "We're sending a car over right now. And Adams?"

"Yes?"

"Don't do anything stupid."

I hung up, my heart pounding against my ribs. I scanned the park, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of danger. The minutes felt like hours as I waited for the police to arrive.

A black sedan pulled up beside me, and Detective Hawk stepped out, his face grim. "Get in," he said, his voice brooking no argument.

As we drove off, I looked back. A chill crept through me. I was prey, and whoever was out there was getting closer.

"We can provide a police guard for you," Hawk said as we sat in the interrogation room.

"A police guard?" I scoffed. "I can’t live my life with a fulltime babysitter."

"It's not a permanent solution, but it will keep you safe while we figure this out," Hawk insisted.

I hesitated, torn between the desire for protection and the fear of losing my freedom. "I don't know," I said, my voice heavy with doubt. "I need to think."

Hawk nodded, his expression understanding. "Take your time," he said. "But don't wait too long. Conti won't."

As much as I feared hearing from Conti, his silence was even more disturbing. Was it possible I hadn’t been able to draw him out today because he was after Liz and the kids? This thought made my decision an easy one.

“I appreciate the offer, Detective, but one way or another, I need this thing with Conti to end. I can’t stay hidden and I can’t put anyone else at risk,” I told Hawk.

Hawk’s expression did not give away any emotion he may have been feeling. He slowly nodded. “I understand where you are coming from, but I will say I find this quite risky. I will respect your wishes and won’t have an officer with you full time, but we will have one posted near the hotel and I encourage you to call us if anything feels amiss.”

A uniformed officer drove me back to the park to retrieve my car and followed me through the Wendy’s drive-thru where I picked up a greasy but easy dinner, and then back to the hotel. I offered him a brief wave with one hand, the Wendy’s bag and (luckily inconspicuous) gun case in the other. Inside my room I did a quick scan and then securely latched all the locks. Even if it couldn’t stop a madman, they would at least slow him down while I drew my weapon.

I couldn’t help but think about how surreal everything had become. One day, I was a guy living an ordinary life, trying to get by. Now, I was a man on the run, preparing for the worst. I pulled the gun out of the case. My hands were steady, but my mind was racing, replaying every interaction, every warning, every moment that had led me to this.

I set the gun down on the desk, taking a long breath before grabbing the small box of ammunition and loading the magazine. My fingers moved almost mechanically, but a pit settled in my stomach. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. The normalcy I once took for granted was gone, replaced by the constant, gnawing fear of being hunted.

The sound of a distant siren wailed outside, and I glanced toward the window as though I could see through the curtains I had pulled tight. The noises outside were a reminder that the world was still turning, even as mine seemed to have ground to a halt. I pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the task at hand. I needed to be ready. Whether I liked it or not, I was in this fight now.

I walked to the nightstand and put the gun in the top drawer. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I fished it out quickly. Liz had texted again.

"Be careful. Don't do anything rash."

I stared at the message for a long moment, the words pressing into my mind like a warning. But the problem was, I had already done something rash. I had crossed a line, and now there was no turning back. I couldn’t just hide and hope it would all blow over. Not when Conti was still out there, still coming for me—or worse, coming for the people I cared about.

I typed a quick reply. “I’m doing what I have to. I’ll be fine.”

I didn’t believe it, but I couldn’t say the real truth. That I was scared. That I had no idea how to end this, or if I even could. The thought of taking someone’s life was almost too much to bear, but the reality of my situation was clearer than ever. Conti wasn’t going to stop until this was over—until he had what he wanted. And the only way to make sure it wasn’t me lying in a gutter somewhere was to end this first. I sat down on the edge of the bed, my fingers drumming lightly against the nightstand. The waiting was the worst part. Waiting for Conti to make his move, or worse, for him to stay silent and let the tension stretch out into something far more dangerous.

I had no idea what tomorrow would bring, but I did know one thing: this nightmare wasn’t going to end until one of us was dead.And I wasn’t planning on it being me. With that grim thought in mind, I turned off the lamp, letting the darkness settle in around me, and I waited.

[Saturday, May 9]

The ringing of my phone sliced through the stillness of the hotel room like a blade, pulling me from the edge of a restless sleep. For a moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart hammering as I wondered if this was it, if this was the moment when everything I feared would finally come crashing down.

I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating my face in the dim room.

A text from Greg’s number.

“Meet me at the warehouse district by building 27. 9 AM. Come alone.”

I let the phone slip from my hand as I processed the words, each one sinking into my chest like a weight I couldn’t push away. It had been coming. I knew it had, although I couldn’t explain how. The silence in the air around me these past few days had been suffocating, and now, finally, Conti was ready to make his move.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the room spinning slightly as I stood. I had to get moving. I had to get ready. But for the first time in days, I wasn’t sure if I was prepared. Not for this.

I walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, my hands trembling slightly as I gripped the sink. A reflection stared back at me, one I hardly recognized. The face was the same, but the eyes, those were different. Harder, haunted. They’d seen too much. They’d felt too much. I didn’t know who I was becoming, but I knew there was no going back.

I dressed quickly, pulling on a jacket over the gun, making sure the weapon was secure but within reach. I stuffed my phone into my pocket, along with the last of the cash I’d withdrawn earlier. As I looked at my reflection one more time, and realized I was a stranger to myself. Once I walked out that door, there would be no more normal. No more pretending.

I made my way to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer out. The morning was quiet for 7:30. I closed my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. I could feel the weight of the gun under my jacket, the cool metal a steady reminder of the position I’d put myself in. I hadn’t been sure about carrying it. But now, standing on the precipice of whatever awaited me in that warehouse, the weight felt like a lifeline. It might not be enough. It might not stop Conti. But it was the only thing I had left.

I grabbed the keys to my car, the click of the lock echoing in the silence of the room, and headed out. The car engine started with a low hum as I pulled away from the hotel. My hands were steady on the wheel, but my mind was anything but calm. I glanced in my rearview mirror to be certain the police weren’t following behind.

The warehouse district wasn’t far. I’d been there before, passing through it on my way to other parts of the city, never giving it a second thought. This morning, though, the idea of it felt different. Today, it felt like the edge of something alive - breathing, watching, waiting for me to step too close.

As I drove, I tried to steady my breathing, but the closer I got, the harder it became to control the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. It was still a little early, so I drove to a gas station and got myself a cup of gritty, bitter coffee. The caffeine made my heart beat even faster as I faced the immutable truth that this was it. This was the moment I’d been simultaneously avoiding and searching for - the moment when I would face Greg’s killer. Conti was waiting for me, and I was walking right into his trap.

I didn’t know what would happen once I got there. Part of me wanted to turn around, to drive far away and never look back. But the other part, the part that had been screaming inside since Greg died, was ready. I had to face this. I had to end it.

I pulled into the pothole ridden parking lot, the large, dilapidated buildings looming around me like silent sentinels. I parked the car and sat for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles went white. The gun at my side seemed heavier now, its presence undeniable, almost suffocating. I filled my clenched lungs with the deepest breath I could muster, steadying myself as best as I could. I opened the door and stepped into the morning air, the coolness of it stinging my skin, sharpening my senses. My boots crunched on the gravel as I walked toward the entrance of one of the larger warehouses, the heavy metal doors slightly ajar. I paused for a moment, looking around. The place was eerily quiet and I realized that it was Saturday. The regular 40-hour workers were enjoying a weekend at home. I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on me, the choices I had made, the life I had lost, all culminating in this moment. My mind flashed back to Greg, his face, his voice, the way we’d laughed together like the world was still a good place. Now he was gone, and in his place was this, this twisted game between me and Conti.

I walked on. Building 27 was a large, red beast of a warehouse. I cautiously circled the perimeter, peeking around corners and watching my back. There was no sign of him. I opened the heavy door and peered inside.

“Conti!” I called, my voice echoing as it bounced throughout the mostly empty space. My grip tightened on the gun hidden under my jacket as I stepped inside. “I’m here. Let’s end this.”

And then I heard it. The faint sound of footsteps in the shadows, the shift of a figure moving, slow and deliberate. My pulse quickened and I took three steps back onto the gravel.

My body tensed, every instinct screaming at me to be ready. At that moment, I knew that this was the last time I’d ever be the same. The man I had been was gone. The man I had to become was standing right in front of me.

“I have some questions for you, Conti,” I managed to say, despite my nerves.

The only answer I got was the explosion of a gun.

The first sensation was almost surreal - less pain and more like a sudden, searing heat, as if someone had pressed a branding iron against my skin. The sharp crack of the gunshot echoed in my ears, but the sound felt distant, as though it was happening in another world. My mind struggled to catch up, to piece together what had just happened. I had expected a fight, but I thought there would be answers first.

My breath hitched, sharp and shallow, as if my lungs had been punched and refused to cooperate. The air around me grew heavy, and I swayed, my knees buckling under the sudden weight of my body, dropping me to the ground. Time slowed, the seconds stretching endlessly. I instinctively pressed my hand against the wound to my abdomen, the warmth of my blood spilling over my fingers, slick and terrifyingly real. Each heartbeat sent a fresh wave of agony through me, a reminder that I was still alive - barely.

“It is almost disappointing how easy you made this in the end,” Conti said, standing over me.

I gasped, the weight of Conti's words hitting me almost as hard as the bullet itself. My vision blurred, but I could still make out his silhouette towering above me. The smug smirk on his face made my blood boil, even as it poured out onto the cold, unforgiving ground beneath me.

"Easy?" I croaked, the word leaving my mouth in a hoarse whisper. My hand pressed harder against the wound in my abdomen, the pressure doing little to stem the flow of blood. "You think this is easy? You killed Greg... and for what? Why? Why are you after me?"

Conti crouched down, his face now inches from mine. His eyes were cold, calculating, as if he were dissecting me with his gaze. "Greg got in the way," he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "He was collateral damage. You, though? You’ve been fun, Scott. Watching you run, squirm, grasp for answers, it’s been... entertaining. You are nothing more than an overlooked detail in an experiment gone wrong."

I forced myself to focus, to meet his gaze despite the pain that was threatening to swallow me whole. "You're a coward," I spat, my voice trembling but firm. "Hiding in the shadows, pulling strings, killing from a distance. Greg was twice the man you'll ever be."

His smirk faltered for a brief moment, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. "Careful, Scott," he warned, his voice dropping to a low growl. "You’re not exactly in a position to throw insults."

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound laced with pain. "Go ahead," I said, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Finish it. Kill me. But don't think for a second that you'll get away with this. People know, Conti. They know about Greg, about me. You think you're untouchable, but you're not."

Conti straightened, his smirk returning as he tucked the gun into his holster. "Oh, Scott," he said, almost pityingly. "I don’t need to kill you. Not yet. Watching you bleed out here, knowing you’ll die alone in this warehouse, that’s enough for me."

He turned and began to walk away, his boots crunching a slow rythym. I wanted to yell, to curse him, to lunge at him and drag him down with me, but my body refused to move. The pain was too much, and the edges of my vision were darkening fast.

“Conti!” I called, my voice weak but defiant. He paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You’ll answer for this,” I said, the words barely audible but laced with every ounce of resolve I had left. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But you’ll pay.” He shook his head, almost amused, and kept walking.

The world around me began to blur, the pain giving way to a cold, creeping numbness. My hand slipped from the wound, too weak to keep the pressure. The blood pooling beneath me was warm, a stark contrast to the icy fear that gripped my chest.

I thought of Greg, of Liz, of the life I’d once had. And then, just as the darkness began to close in, I thought of Conti. I wasn’t done. Not yet. Not until I made him pay.

And now, we are all caught up. This is where we began, listening to the approaching steps of a killer, coming back to finish what he started.

The sound of footsteps grows louder. Slow, deliberate. Each step feels like a hammer driving nails into my coffin. My mind races as I struggle to keep my eyes open. I’m a detail in what experiment? I try to move, to crawl away, but my body refuses to obey. Blood pools around me, sticky and warm against the cold pavement.

But the footsteps stop.

A shadow falls over me, blocking the mocking brightness of the perfect sky. My heart slams against my ribs as I brace for the fatal blow.

“Scott Adams?” a voice calls.

Not the cold, sneering voice I expect. This voice is calm, authoritative - familiar.

I force my eyes open, squinting up into the sun. Two figures loom above me, silhouetted against the light. As my vision adjusts, I make out the older, weathered face of Detective Hawk and the sharper, younger features of Detective Gould.

“Adams, can you hear me?” Hawk crouches down, his hand resting on my shoulder.

I want to scream at him, to tell him to run, that the man is still out there. But all that comes out is a hoarse whisper.

Hawk exchanges a look with Gould, his jaw tightening. “Who was it, Scott? Was it Conti?”

Light drains from the edges of my vision until there's nothing.

Epilogue

The first thing I noticed was the light - bright, sterile, and relentless. It cut through the fog in my brain like a scalpel, slicing through my eyelids and forcing them open. My vision blurred, halos of white swirling above me before sharpening into the harsh overhead lights of a hospital room. My head swam, the room tilting in a nauseating rhythm as I tried to orient myself.

Then came the pain. Not sharp and sudden, but a dull, insistent ache that radiated from my abdomen. Every breath sent a ripple of fire through my chest, as if my body was reminding me how close I’d come to losing everything. Each shallow inhale was deliberate, controlled, and excruciating. Machines beeped around me in steady, rhythmic tones. These clinical sounds that were somehow both comforting and terrifying.

I blinked hard, trying to focus. My lips felt cracked and dry, and my throat was raw, like I’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel. I tried to shift, but the weight of the hospital blankets and the ache that spread through my body kept me pinned in place.

"Scott?" The voice came softly at first, barely breaking through the haze in my head. But it was enough. Familiar. Grounding. Liz.

I turned my head, slowly, painfully, the stiffness in my neck evidence that I’d been unconscious for hours if not days. Liz was sitting beside me, her face pale and drawn, her hair slightly disheveled, like she hadn’t moved from that chair all night. Her eyes locked onto mine, wide with relief and brimming with emotion. She leaned forward slightly, the movement cautious, like she was afraid I might disappear.

"You're awake," she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her exhaustion and relief.

I tried to respond, but my throat felt like sandpaper. When I finally managed to speak, it came out as a rasp, barely audible. "Con...Conti?"

Her face darkened for a moment, her jaw tightening. Then, she nodded. "They caught him," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "After he shot you. I—" Her voice faltered, and she looked down for a moment, gathering herself. "I told the police about the text from Greg’s phone. The one telling you to meet him. I saw it on his iPad after I realized something wasn’t right. They tracked Conti before he could get away."

A wave of relief swept over me, though it did little to ease the heaviness pressing down on my chest, or the guilt that gnawed at the edges of my mind. Liz’s quick thinking had saved me. It had stopped Conti. But Greg, Greg hadn’t been so lucky.

Liz’s expression shifted, her relief replaced by something heavier. She looked down at her hands, gripping the edge of the hospital bed so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"Scott," she began hesitantly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "There’s… something else."

My stomach twisted. Even through the fog of painkillers and exhaustion, I could hear the weight in her tone, the hesitation that came before bad news. "What?" I croaked, forcing the word out even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

She glanced at me, her eyes filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place, fear, sadness, maybe both. "Conti talked," she said, her voice shaky. "He told the police about you. About…what you are."

I frowned, confused. "What I am?" My voice was little more than a whisper, but the question felt deafening in my head.

Liz nodded slowly. "He said you were part of an experiment. Conducted by a government contractor. They raised kids - babies actually - to have abilities. They wanted to use you for the military, but the project failed. And when it did…" She trailed off, swallowing hard, hesitant to finish the sentence, “they eliminated all the other subjects.”

My vision blurred as the weight of her words settled over me. The room seemed to spin, the walls closing in as fragments of memories, disjointed and nonsensical until now, clicked into place like pieces of a grotesque puzzle.

"They lost track of you," Liz continued, her voice trembling. "After your adoptive parents, who weren’t even your real parents, but agents assigned to monitor you, disappeared. When your abilities showed up this week, it triggered some kind of alert. That’s how Conti found out you were still alive. He thought you’d been eliminated, just like the others. Until now."

"My parents?" I whispered, hope flaring for a brief moment. But Liz shook her head apologetically, her expression filled with sorrow.

"I’m sorry, Scott," she said softly. "There’s no record of them. Whoever they were, they’re gone."

My mind raced, the truth of it all unraveling in my head. The pennies, the visions, the way my entire life had seemed to orbit around chaos and tragedy, it wasn’t random, it wasn’t bad luck or coincidence. It was by design.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, but the weight of it was impossible to ignore. "This is my fault," I muttered, barely audible.

"No," Liz said sharply, shaking her head. She reached out, gripping my hand tightly in hers. "None of this is your fault, Scott. It’s Conti’s. And he’s in custody. It’s over."

I swallowed hard, my throat constricting as Greg’s face flashed in my mind. His voice, his laughter, the way he always managed to make me believe everything would be okay. He’d died protecting me. His final act had been to ensure I had a chance to survive. A chance to figure out the truth.

I opened my eyes, forcing myself to meet Liz’s gaze. "Greg gave his life for me," I said, my voice steadier this time. "I won’t let that be for nothing."

Tears welled in Liz’s eyes, spilling over as she nodded. "We’ll get through this," she said, her voice breaking. "Together."

I didn’t have all the answers. I didn’t even know where to start. But for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope.

Six Months Later

The apartment was small, but it was enough. More than enough, really. It was tucked neatly behind Liz’s new house, a cozy little carriage home with its own entrance, a modest kitchen, and just enough space for me and King. Moving in behind Liz and the kids wasn’t just about proximity. It was about staying close to the family that still tethered me to this world, a way to keep Greg’s memory alive while helping Liz rebuild the life Conti had shattered.

Boxes were scattered across the floor, some half-opened, others still taped shut. King darted between them, his tail flicking curiously as he sniffed out his new domain. I knelt on the hardwood, pulling books from one of the boxes and stacking them on a shelf. Each title brought a memory - of Greg, of the store, of a simpler time when our biggest concern was which author to feature next.

I glanced out the window toward Liz’s house. The kids were running around the backyard, their laughter carrying on the crisp autumn breeze. Liz was sitting on the porch swing, a cup of tea in her hands. For a moment, I let myself just watch them, a pang of bittersweet longing settling in my chest. Greg should have been here to see this.

I turned back to the box, wiping at my eyes before the tears could spill over. At the very bottom, beneath a stack of worn paperbacks, was the one and only picture I had of me and my parents.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, seeing that the glass had shattered. How could I have been so careless?

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at it. It was me - young, maybe five or six - grinning widely as I sat perched on my father’s shoulders. My mother stood beside him, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight as she laughed, her hand resting protectively on my small leg.

I traced the edges of the photo, my fingers trembling. Memories I thought I’d lost forever flickered at the edges of my mind. The way my mom used to hum when she cooked. The scent of my dad’s aftershave when he hugged me. It was like looking at ghosts - tangible, but just out of reach.

Frowning, I slid my finger between the shards and pulled out the picture, which had lived in this frame my entire life. There, on the back of the photo was a penny, taped carefully in place. Beneath it, a single line was written: “Some memories are worth keeping.”

My chest tightened as I peeled the tape away, freeing the penny. It was old, the copper worn and tarnished. My heart raced as I pinched it between my fingers.

[The final penny]
The world shifted again, and I felt that now-familiar pull, the disorienting sensation of being torn through space and time. When everything stilled, I found myself in a room I hadn’t seen in decades. My childhood bedroom. A soft, rocket-shaped nightlight cast a faint glow across the walls, illuminating shelves lined with books, toys, and scattered building blocks. The air carried the faint scent of lavender, my mother’s signature, blending with the sweet innocence of a child’s world.
I glanced down at my hands and froze. These weren’t my hands—too large, too rough. My body felt heavier, stronger. My breath caught when I looked into the small window across the room and saw the reflection of my father staring back. I was inside him, a passenger in his body, watching a memory unfold through his eyes.
The door creaked open, and my mother stepped inside. The sight of her hit me like a punch to the chest. Her fiery red curls glowed in the faint light, a halo around her weary, beautiful face. She moved carefully, quietly, as though not wanting to disturb the small figure asleep in the bed.
It was me. Six-year-old me. I lay curled up under a blue race car blanket, clutching Patchy, my worn stuffed bear. My tiny chest rose and fell in peaceful slumber, utterly unaware of what was about to happen. She crossed the room and sat gently on the edge of the bed, her movements deliberate but heavy, as though the weight of her decision made every step harder. She hesitated, staring at the sleeping boy—at me—with an expression that was equal parts love and heartbreak.
"Scott," she whispered softly.
The boy stirred but didn’t wake. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.
"You’re such a special boy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "So bright, so kind, so full of wonder. Your dad and I…" Her voice caught, and she paused, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Your dad and I love you more than anything in this world."
I wanted to speak, to tell her I knew, that I’d always known. But I couldn’t. My father’s body wasn’t mine to control. I could only watch, helpless, as her words spilled out.
"We weren’t supposed to love you," she said after a moment, her voice trembling. "When they brought you to us, we were just supposed to be your watchers. Agents. Our job was to keep an eye on you, monitor your progress, and report back. That was all it was supposed to be. A mission. A duty."
Her hand lingered on my cheek, and her face crumpled as tears began to fall. "But the moment we saw you, Scott…that all changed. You weren’t just a mission. You were a little boy who needed love, who needed a family. And we couldn’t help it. We fell in love with you."
My chest tightened as her words settled over me. Even as a passive observer, I could feel the depth of her emotions, the overwhelming love and guilt that warred within her.
"You’re not like other kids," she continued, her voice soft but firm. "You’re special. And not just to us, but to them. The people who started this whole experiment. They wanted to use you, to turn you into something you were never meant to be. And when it didn’t work the way they hoped, they decided to erase it all. Erase you."
Her hand moved to grasp my tiny fingers, holding them tightly. "We couldn’t let that happen," she said fiercely. "We couldn’t let them take you. So we ran. We’ve been running ever since, doing everything we can to keep you safe. But it’s not enough anymore."
She looked down at the sleeping boy, her tears falling freely now. "They’ll find us, Scott. It’s only a matter of time. And if they do, they’ll find you, too. That’s why we have to go. We are going back and telling them you died so they’ll think you’re gone, and they’ll leave you alone."
Her voice broke, and she leaned down, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "This isn’t fair," she whispered, her words muffled against my skin. "It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to us. But it’s the only way to protect you. I hope one day, you’ll understand. I hope you’ll forgive us."
I felt my father’s heart ache within me, his love for her and for me radiating through every fiber of his being. He wanted to speak, to comfort her, but he stayed silent, letting her pour out the words she needed to say. She sat back, her fingers brushing lightly against my hand. "Your dad and I…we don’t regret anything," she said, her voice steadier now. "Not one moment. Loving you, raising you, being your parents—it’s been the greatest privilege of our lives. And no matter what happens, no matter where we are, you’ll always be our son."
Her hand lingered for a moment longer before she stood, her movements slow and reluctant. She turned to the door, pausing to glance back one last time. Her eyes met mine—or rather, his—and I saw everything she felt in that moment. Love. Fear. Hope.
Then she slipped into the hallway, the door closing softly behind her.
I released the penny.

The memory faded, dissolving into the dim light of the apartment. My chest ached, not from the injury that had nearly killed me months ago, but from the weight of what I’d just experienced. The penny was still clutched in my hand, warm now, as though it carried the lingering heat of the past.

I stared at it, my mind spinning. Her echoed in my ears. We weren’t supposed to love you… But they did. Against orders, against logic, against everything, they loved me.

I barely noticed the sound of the front door creaking open. It wasn’t until Liz’s voice broke through the haze that I realized I wasn’t alone.

"Scott?"

Her tone was soft, cautious, like she wasn’t sure if she was intruding. I blinked, the present rushing back in sharp detail - the cluttered apartment, the faint scent of cardboard from the moving boxes, the cool autumn breeze drifting in through the open window.

"Liz," I said hoarsely, my voice still shaky. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Hey."

She stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning my face with concern. "I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I got worried."

I looked down at the penny in my hand, then at the photo resting on the floor beside me. My throat tightened again as I picked up the picture and held it out to her.

Her brow furrowed as she set the grocery bag down on the counter and took the photo from me. Her eyes softened as she studied it. "Your parents," she murmured.

"Yeah," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I’d never taken it out of its frame before, but the glass broke. I found it with this." I held up the penny.

Liz looked at it, her expression shifting into something unreadable. She knelt beside me, the photo still in her hand. "Did you…" She hesitated, then glanced at me. "Did you see something?"

I nodded slowly, my hand tightening around the penny. "I saw her. My mom. She was sitting beside my bed, talking to me while I slept. She told me they weren’t supposed to love me. That they were agents assigned to watch me, not…not care for me." My voice cracked, and I took a shaky breath. "But they couldn’t help it. They did. And when the experiment failed, when the others were…eliminated, they had to leave to protect me."

Liz’s hand rested on my arm, steadying me. "Scott…"

I shook my head, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She told me they had to disappear so the people behind the experiment would think I was gone too. That it was the only way to keep me safe. She hoped I’d understand one day, that I’d forgive them."

Tears welled in Liz’s eyes as she listened, her grip on my arm tightening. "And do you?" she asked softly.

I stared at the penny for a long moment, the memory of my mother’s voice echoing in my mind. "Yeah," I said finally, my voice trembling. "I do."

Liz reached for the photo again, tracing her fingers over the image of my parents. "They must have been amazing people," she said quietly. "To risk everything for you like that."

I nodded, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak, as Liz wrapped me into a hug.

After a moment, Liz pulled back and gave me a small, reassuring smile. "Come on," she said, standing and grabbing the grocery bag. "I made dinner and the kids are dying to show you the new fort they built. They’re convinced it’s the next architectural wonder."

I managed a small laugh, slipping the penny into my pocket and standing. "Sounds like Sawyer."

"Brinley, too," Liz said as she headed for the kitchen. "You better come over. They’re waiting for Uncle Scott’s official approval."

"Can’t wait," I said, following her with a lighter heart.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t just carrying my past. I was moving forward - with Liz, the kids, and the faint but steady hope that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

my happily ever after

Wednesday, July 30, 2025

The Penny Pincher

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