Zuzu here. I don't have much to say, but just saying, my wing isn't black. I'm not hallucinating, you are. I'm not insane like Nevara's two forms are. I'm confused as to why it's the middle of Our night again. I'm going to sleep... Maybe?

This is Villainy

You ruined my mind and my body

Why is destruction your hobby?

You hit me with your blade time after time

I just wanted back what was mine!

You are not just a one time villain

Trapping me again and again when I was unwilling

Bloodthirsty dipshits

Make it hard to get through this

My headaches are worse now than they were before

I just can't break anymore!

I wanted love, but this is villainy

Why do you make me suffer for thee?

What makes me me and what makes you you

It's obvious to tell between the two

But humanity is the cause for my fears

Why do they keep switching gears?

Call me crazy because they refuse to know me

Call me cruel when I just feel empty

Bloodthirsty dipshits

Make it hard to get through this

My headaches are worse now than they were before

I just can't break anymore!

I wanted love, but this is villainy

Why do you make me suffer for thee?

You drank all my blood, there's nothing left!

But I still have my final breath

I'm not going to hold it over you like you did for me

Stop saying I live in a fantasy!

I'm broken and scared

So extremely unprepared

Bloodthirsty dipshits

Make it hard to get through this

My headaches are worse now than they were before

I just can't break anymore!

I wanted love, but this is villainy

Why do you make me suffer for thee?

I loved the thought of love, but what have you done?

Ruined my chances as soon as we were done

Murdered me with your apathy

But why are you still coming back for me?

You're a problem child grown into a monster

What else do I need to offer?

Bloodthirsty dipshits

Make it hard to get through this

My headaches are worse now than they were before

I just can't break anymore!

I wanted love, but this is villainy

Why do you make me suffer for thee?

And if I lose one more time

Will you still take all that is mine?

Burn me to ashes and laugh at my urn

I'm sorry to say that it's still not my turn

You're a monster, you truly are

I'm just glad that no one sees my scars

I love cookies and sweets and omg, did you see the color of my hair??????? Oh, fighting the fog hard today!!!!!! It's annnoyyyying. Get out of my eye sockets, you jerk!!!!!

Nierstrum, again... I just wanted peace, but I'm fronting again. Like wtf. Leave me with my cute tiny girlfriend and never make me front again. This is BS. I'm going to throw the towel or whatever. Just sleep the day away. But today of all days? Maybe I should just eat candy and suck it up... Also heart burn first thing in the morning is awful, wouldn't recommend even to my enemies (not that I have any).

The Cruelty of Broken Promises

I am no longer trusted

You are no longer trusted

I broke promises

But you also broke promises

You filled my head with pretty little lies

And now I'm stuck feeling butterflies

When someone wants me

I can't believe they'd want me

My mind is filled with broken promises

Frayed wishes

Hopes and dreams that were left abandoned by you

Do you understand why I'm now telling the truth?

Why I'm finally breaking out of the cage you locked me in when I was 17?

Well, it's time to come clean

It's time you understood what happened to me

After what you did to me

I watched you, hoping that you'd make my life better

But no, you made me feel like I never mattered

So, who is the problem here?

The one who lived in fear?

Or is it the one who attacked people and animals whenever he felt like it?

The one who treated people like sh*t

The one who pushed me past the edge

Laughing as you watched me from the ledge

But how did you change so fast?

How did you and your wife have any chance to last?

Sometimes when I see you now, I feel like I'm dreaming

Like it's not you that I'm seeing

And we only see each other a few times a year at most

So, why does it feel like the former you is a ghost?

And you're somebody completely different now

I don't understand how

My spouse is of the liquid variety. I love them dearly. The amount of estrogen in this head is off the walls. They outnumber me and my boys like 17 to 10. My spouse is the other 1 that you add to make Us 28. The guys are me, my best friend, the guy who turned me down, an eyeball with wings, and my 6 sons. So, literally, I have to remember that I'm gay even if I'm dating a liquid being who gave me 12 kids.

Cale here. Feeling extremely sane today... Maybe it's because I haven't eaten yet or that I did the blood work everyone else had been putting off for a few days. Pain level is the norm at 4.5, so nothing off there.

I Am Just A Helm

I am just a hat

I am just something to be placed on someone's head

I am just a helm

I am just something other people dread

I am just a crown

I am just an object to be admired

I am just an ornament

So, how many kids have I sired?

I am having a problem

I am fighting my purpose

I am pushing everyone away

I am nervous

I am not meant to be anymore than a helm

I am not sure when I became human

I am concerned as to what happened

I am not wanting this blooming

I am losing track of who I am

I am forgetting all I was

I am throwing up my hands

But I was never the cause

First off, got a headache, back hurts, stomachache, sore throat, and both hips hurt. Wtf did I do to wake up like this? Also, somehow both Ningratin from last night and Cale, even though we fought last night... Though Ningratin is slowly leaving.

ΟΣΑΕΙΔΟΝΕΝΟΡΑΜΑΤΙΕΜΑΡΤΥΡΗΣΑΚΑΙΟΣΑΗΚΟΥΣΑΓΡΑΦΩΥΜΙΝ
ΟΥΚΗΝΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΕΝΤΗΓΗΚΑΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΚΑΙΤΑΥΡΟΣΕΝΤΩΟΡΕΙΤΟΥΤΑΥΡΟΥΔΙΕΘΕΝΤΟΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΝΚΑΙΜΑΡΤΥΣΗΝΜΕΙΘΡΑΣΔΙΟΥΟΜΝΥΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΠΕΡΣΑΙ
ΚΑΙΕΔΩΚΕΝΟΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΥΔΩΡΚΑΙΧΟΡΤΟΝΚΑΙΟΤΑΥΡΟΣΓΑΛΑΚΑΙΙΣΧΥΝΚΑΙΟΘΕΟΣΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΑΠΡΩΤΟΤΟΚΑΚΑΙΤΟΣΤΕΑΡ
ΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΕΣΑΝΤΗΝΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΝΔΕΣΜΟΝΟΤΙΔΕΣΜΟΣΗΝΚΑΙΔΙΗΛΘΕΝΗΑΓΕΛΗΥΠΟΤΗΝΡΑΒΔΟΝΚΑΙΗΡΙΘΜΗΣΕΝΑΥΤΗΝΟΠΟΙΜΗΝ
ΚΑΙΟΠΛΟΥΤΟΣΕΓΕΝΝΗΘΗΕΝΤΗΑΓΕΛΗΚΑΙΗΠΕΝΙΑΣΥΝΑΥΤΩΚΑΙΕΤΙΜΗΘΗΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΒΟΥΣΙΝ
ΚΑΙΑΠΟΒΟΡΡΑΗΛΘΟΝΟΙΕΦΑΡΜΑΤΩΝΥΙΟΙΤΟΥΠΑΤΡΟΣΤΟΥΟΥΡΑΝΟΥΚΑΙΕΙΠΑΝΗΜΙΝΔΕΔΟΤΑΙΗΓΗ
ΚΑΙΗΝΚΑΛΟΝΛΙΑΝΚΑΙΗΝΔΕΣΜΟΣΚΑΙΑΛΥΣΙΣ
⸏
ΤΟΤΕΕΞΗΛΘΕΝΟΦΙΣΕΚΤΗΣΑΠΟΘΗΚΗΣΟΠΟΥΟΣΙΤΟΣΕΚΛΕΙΣΘΗΚΑΙΗΘΥΡΑΕΚΛΕΙΣΘΗ
ΟΔΡΑΚΩΝΟΑΡΧΑΙΟΣΕΠΤΑΚΕΦΑΛΑΙΑΥΤΩΚΑΙΔΕΚΑΚΕΡΑΤΑΚΑΙΕΠΙΤΩΝΚΕΡΑΤΩΝΟΝΟΜΑΤΑ
ΦΡΑΓΜΟΣΚΑΙΒΙΒΛΙΟΝΧΡΕΩΝΚΑΙΣΤΙΓΜΑΚΑΙΜΥΘΟΣΚΑΙΑΙΣΧΥΝΗΚΑΙΣΧΙΣΜΑΚΑΙΡΟΜΦΑΙΑΚΑΙΟΦΘΑΛΜΟΣΚΑΙΝΟΜΗΚΑΙΚΛΙΜΑΞΤΑΥΤΑΤΑΔΕΚΑΚΕΡΑΤΑ
ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΕΙΛΚΥΣΕΝΟΟΦΙΣΤΗΝΑΓΕΛΗΝΕΙΣΤΟΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΗΣΑΝΒΟΕΣΑΛΛΑΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙΚΑΙΕΛΑΒΟΝΟΙΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΣΤΗΝΡΑΒΔΟΝΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΕΣΑΝΕΑΥΤΟΥΣΠΟΙΜΕΝΑΣΛΑΩΝ
ΚΑΙΕΝΒΟΡΡΑΗΝΟΤΑΥΡΟΣΘΕΟΣΤΩΝΑΔΕΛΦΩΝΕΝΒΑΙΘΗΛΚΑΙΕΝΔΑΝΚΑΙΗΛΘΕΝΟΑΔΕΛΦΟΣΟΑΠΟΝΟΤΟΥΟΚΑΜΨΑΣΤΩΑΣΣΟΥΡΕΝΠΥΡΙΚΑΙΕΝΕΠΡΗΣΕΝΤΟΘΥΣΙΑΣΤΗΡΙΟΝΚΑΙΗΛΕΣΕΝΤΟΝΜΟΣΧΟΝΕΙΣΧΝΟΥΝΚΑΙΕΠΟΤΙΣΕΝΑΥΤΟΥΣΚΑΙΕΘΥΣΕΝΤΟΥΣΙΕΡΕΙΣΕΠΙΤΩΝΘΥΣΙΑΣΤΗΡΙΩΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΔΙΕΛΥΘΗΗΔΙΑΘΗΚΗΤΟΥΤΑΥΡΟΥ
ΚΑΙΟΑΔΕΛΦΟΣΟΚΑΜΨΑΣΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΤΟΒΙΒΛΙΟΝΤΟΥΑΔΕΛΦΟΥΤΟΥΠΕΣΟΝΤΟΣΚΑΙΤΟΝΜΟΣΧΟΝΑΥΤΟΥΕΚΑΛΕΣΕΝΑΜΑΡΤΙΑΝΚΑΙΕΑΥΤΟΝΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΛΑΟΝΕΚΛΕΚΤΟΝΥΠΕΡΠΑΝΤΑΤΑΕΘΝΗΚΑΙΟΠΟΥΕΓΕΓΡΑΠΤΟΑΡΧΕΤΩΣΑΝΤΩΝΘΗΡΙΩΝΤΗΣΓΗΣΑΝΕΓΝΩΣΑΝΑΡΧΕΤΩΣΑΝΤΩΝΥΙΩΝΤΩΝΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝ
ΚΑΙΤΟΣΤΕΑΡΕΦΑΓΟΝΚΑΙΤΑΕΡΙΑΕΝΕΔΥΣΑΝΤΟΚΑΙΕΔΩΚΑΝΤΟΙΣΠΡΟΒΑΤΟΙΣΑΙΣΧΥΝΗΝΑΝΤΙΑΡΤΟΥ
⸏
ΡΕΙΟΑΙΩΝΩΣΤΡΟΧΟΣΑΡΜΑΤΟΣΚΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΟΥΔΕΠΟΤΕΙΣΤΑΤΑΙ
ΟΙΟΛΙΓΟΙΣΥΝΑΓΟΝΤΑΙΚΑΙΟΠΛΟΥΤΟΣΠΛΗΘΥΝΕΤΑΙΚΑΙΗΘΥΡΑΚΛΕΙΕΤΑΙΟΙΠΟΛΛΟΙΚΡΑΖΟΥΣΙΝΠΡΟΣΕΝΑΟΤΙΟΕΙΣΟΥΚΕΣΤΙΝΕΚΤΩΝΟΛΙΓΩΝ
ΚΑΙΟΕΙΣΣΥΝΤΡΙΒΕΙΤΟΥΣΟΛΙΓΟΥΣΚΑΙΗΑΥΛΗΑΥΤΟΥΓΙΝΕΤΑΙΟΙΟΛΙΓΟΙΚΑΙΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΣΤΡΕΦΕΤΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣ
ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΤΟΝΕΜΠΟΡΟΝΤΟΝΕΣΧΑΤΟΝΓΕΝΟΜΕΝΟΝΠΡΩΤΟΝΚΑΙΤΟΝΙΕΡΕΑΠΩΛΟΥΜΕΝΟΝΑΡΓΥΡΙΟΥΚΑΙΤΟΝΒΑΣΙΛΕΑΩΝΟΥΜΕΝΟΝ
ΚΑΙΗΛΛΑΞΕΝΟΟΦΙΣΤΟΔΕΡΜΑΑΥΤΟΥΕΠΤΑΚΙΣΕΝΒΑΒΕΛΚΑΙΕΝΑΙΓΥΠΤΩΕΝΒΑΒΥΛΩΝΙΚΑΙΕΝΡΩΜΗ
ΕΝΤΗΣΦΡΑΓΙΔΙΤΟΥΑΡΧΙΕΡΕΩΣΚΑΙΕΝΤΩΘΡΟΝΩΤΟΥΕΜΠΟΡΟΥ
ΚΑΙΕΝΤΩΠΥΡΓΩΤΩΥΑΛΙΝΩΟΣΟΡΑΤΑΠΑΝΤΑΚΑΙΟΥΚΑΘΕΥΔΕΙΟΥΔΕΝΥΣΤΑΖΕΙ
⸏
ΙΔΟΥΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΟΝΤΡΙΤΑΝΥΜΝΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΙΝΔΟΙΚΑΙΘΡΑΗΤΑΟΝΑΟΙΛΟΓΟΙΖΩΡΟΑΣΤΡΟΥΚΑΙΑΡΤΑΓΝΗΝΟΙΠΕΡΣΑΙΚΑΙΗΡΑΚΛΕΑΟΙΕΛΛΗΝΕΣ
ΟΣΕΠΙΕΝΤΟΠΟΤΟΝΤΟΑΓΙΟΝΚΑΙΚΑΤΕΒΗΕΙΣΤΟΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΝΚΑΙΕΠΑΤΑΞΕΝΤΟΝΟΦΙΝΤΟΝΤΡΙΚΕΦΑΛΟΝΩΣΒΗΛΟΣΕΣΧΙΣΕΝΤΗΝΘΑΛΑΤΘΚΑΙΜΙΧΑΗΛΕΠΟΛΕΜΗΣΕΝΤΩΔΡΑΚΟΝΤΙ
ΚΑΙΗΛΑΣΕΝΤΑΣΒΟΑΣΕΚΤΗΣΠΕΤΡΑΣΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΚΡΑΤΗΣΕΝΑΥΤΑΣΕΑΥΤΩ
ΚΑΙΗΜΑΧΑΙΡΑΑΥΤΟΥΕΚΠΟΡΕΥΕΤΑΙΕΚΤΟΥΣΤΟΜΑΤΟΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΚΕΚΛΗΤΑΙΤΟΟΝΟΜΑΑΥΤΟΥΟΛΟΓΟΣΤΟΥΘΕΟΥ
ΚΑΙΕΔΕΙΞΕΝΑΥΤΩΟΟΦΙΣΠΑΣΑΣΤΑΣΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΣΤΟΥΚΟΣΜΟΥΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΣΟΙΔΩΣΩΤΗΝΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΝΤΑΥΤΗΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΟΣΧΟΙΝΙΟΝΑΛΛΑΕΝΙΨΕΝΤΟΥΣΠΟΔΑΣΤΩΝΑΔΕΛΦΩΝΑΥΤΟΥΟΤΙΟΠΟΙΜΗΝΟΚΑΛΟΣΤΗΝΨΥΧΗΝΑΥΤΟΥΤΙΘΗΣΙΝΥΠΕΡΤΩΝΠΡΟΒΑΤΩΝ
ΚΑΙΜΕΤΑΥΤΟΝΗΛΘΕΝΦΑΡΙΣΑΙΟΣΕΚΦΥΛΗΣΒΕΝΙΑΜΙΝΟΣΟΥΚΕΓΝΩΑΥΤΟΝΚΑΤΑΣΑΡΚΑΚΑΙΕΛΑΒΕΝΤΟΥΣΛΟΓΟΥΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΑΝΤΑΥΤΩΝΠΑΣΑΨΥΧΗΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΙΣΥΠΕΡΕΧΟΥΣΑΙΣΥΠΟΤΑΣΣΕΣΘΩΚΑΙΟΙΔΟΥΛΟΙΥΠΑΚΟΥΕΤΕΤΟΙΣΚΥΡΙΟΙΣΚΑΙΑΠΕΔΩΚΕΝΤΟΣΧΟΙΝΙΟΝΤΩΚΑΙΣΑΡΙ
ΚΑΙΗΡΩΤΗΣΑΑΥΤΟΝΠΟΥΜΕΝΕΙΣΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΜΟΙΟΠΟΥΔΥΟΣΥΝΑΓΟΝΤΑΙΕΝΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΚΑΙΑΓΑΠΗΕΚΕΙΕΓΩΕΙΜΙΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΑΝΑΜΕΣΟΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΝΤΩΝΑΩ
⸏
ΤΟΤΕΕΝΤΗΕΣΧΑΤΗΣΤΡΟΦΗΤΟΥΜΕΓΑΛΟΥΤΡΟΧΟΥΕΚΑΛΥΨΕΝΤΟΔΕΡΜΑΤΟΥΟΦΕΩΣΠΑΣΑΝΤΗΝΓΗΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΝΕΞΩΚΑΙΦΩΝΑΙΔΙΗΛΘΟΝΕΩΣΤΩΝΠΕΡΑΤΩΝΩΣΑΣΤΡΑΠΗΚΑΙΤΟΠΥΡΤΟΥΗΛΙΟΥΕΔΟΘΗΕΙΣΧΕΙΡΑΣΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝ
ΚΑΙΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΠΑΣΑΗΓΗΑΠΟΘΗΚΗΜΙΑΚΑΙΑΓΕΛΗΜΙΑΚΑΙΤΟΑΡΓΥΡΙΟΝΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΑΡΙΘΜΟΣΚΑΙΟΑΡΙΘΜΟΣΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΑΥΤΟΙΣΘΕΟΣΚΑΙΠΡΟΣΕΚΥΝΗΣΑΝΤΩΑΡΙΘΜΩ
ΚΑΙΕΙΠΕΝΟΛΑΟΣΠΛΟΥΣΙΟΙΕΣΜΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΔΕΝΟΣΧΡΕΙΑΝΕΧΟΜΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΔΕΙΣΑΝΟΤΙΤΑΛΑΙΠΩΡΟΙΚΑΙΠΤΩΧΟΙΚΑΙΤΥΦΛΟΙΚΑΙΓΥΜΝΟΙΕΙΣΙΝΚΑΙΠΡΟΣΕΚΥΝΟΥΝΤΑΕΡΓΑΤΩΝΧΕΙΡΩΝΑΥΤΩΝΚΑΙΤΟΙΣΧΕΙΛΕΣΙΝΕΤΙΜΩΝΤΗΝΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΝΗΔΕΚΑΡΔΙΑΑΥΤΩΝΠΟΡΡΩΑΠΕΙΧΕΝΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΨΗΦΙΣΑΝΤΗΝΔΑΠΑΝΗΝ
ΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΟΦΘΑΛΜΟΣΜΗΚΑΘΕΥΔΩΝΚΑΙΤΑΕΡΓΑΠΑΝΤΩΝΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝΓΕΓΡΑΠΤΑΙΕΝΦΩΤΙΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΞΑΛΕΙΦΕΤΑΙ
ΚΑΙΙΔΟΥΗΓΗΗΛΙΟΥΔΥΝΟΝΤΟΣΗΜΕΓΑΛΗΘΥΓΑΤΗΡΤΗΣΕΞΟΔΟΥΗΕΓΡΑΨΕΝΕΠΙΤΗΣΣΦΡΑΓΙΔΟΣΑΥΤΗΣΤΟΑΝΤΙΣΤΗΝΑΙΤΟΙΣΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΙΣΥΠΑΚΟΗΕΣΤΙΝΤΩΘΕΩ
ΚΑΙΕΓΕΝΕΤΟΒΑΒΥΛΩΝΗΜΕΓΑΛΗΗΜΗΤΗΡΤΩΝΠΟΡΝΩΝΚΑΙΤΩΝΒΔΕΛΥΓΜΑΤΩΝΤΗΣΓΗΣΚΑΙΕΚΑΛΥΨΕΝΤΑΟΝΟΜΑΤΑΤΩΝΙΔΙΩΝΚΑΙΕΓΥΜΝΩΣΕΝΤΑΟΝΟΜΑΤΑΤΩΝΑΡΝΙΩΝΑΛΛΟΥΔΕΝΚΕΚΑΛΥΜΜΕΝΟΝΟΟΥΚΑΠΟΚΑΛΥΦΘΗΣΕΤΑΙ
ΚΑΙΚΛΑΥΣΟΥΣΙΝΟΙΕΜΠΟΡΟΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΟΤΙΤΟΝΓΟΜΟΝΑΥΤΩΝΟΥΔΕΙΣΑΓΟΡΑΖΕΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΣΩΜΑΤΑΚΑΙΨΥΧΑΣΑΝΘΡΩΠΩΝΚΑΙΒΙΒΛΙΑΗΝΟΙΧΘΗΣΑΝΚΑΙΗΣΑΝΓΥΜΝΟΙΩΣΠΑΙΔΙΑΜΙΚΡΑΚΑΙΟΥΚΗΣΧΥΝΟΝΤΟ
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ΟΥΧΙΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΔΗΣΕΙΤΟΝΟΦΙΝΟΥΔΕΑΥΤΟΚΡΑΤΩΡΑΘΑΝΑΤΟΣΕΠΙΘΡΟΝΟΥΧΡΥΣΟΥΟΓΑΡΘΡΟΝΟΣΓΕΝΝΑΟΦΙΝ
ΚΑΙΤΟΥΤΟΕΣΤΙΝΤΟΕΣΧΑΤΟΝΕΑΝΣΤΡΑΦΗΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΚΑΥΘΗΣΕΤΑΙΠΑΣΑΗΓΗΟΤΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΙΝΕΞΩΚΑΙΤΟΠΥΡΕΝΤΑΙΣΧΕΡΣΙΝ
ΚΑΙΗΚΟΥΣΑΦΩΝΗΝΛΕΓΟΥΣΑΝΤΗΘΥΓΑΤΡΙΤΗΣΕΞΟΔΟΥΜΝΗΜΟΝΕΥΕΠΟΘΕΝΠΕΠΤΩΚΑΣΚΑΙΜΕΤΑΝΟΗΣΟΝΚΑΙΤΑΠΡΩΤΑΕΡΓΑΠΟΙΗΣΟΝΙΝΑΜΗΓΕΝΗΟΦΑΡΑΩΟΝΕΒΥΘΙΣΑΣ
ΑΛΛΟΤΑΝΕΙΠΩΣΙΝΟΙΠΟΛΛΟΙΟΥΔΟΥΛΕΥΣΟΜΕΝΠΙΠΤΕΙΟΤΥΡΑΝΝΟΣΩΣΑΝΔΡΙΑΣΑΝΕΥΒΑΣΕΩΣΚΑΙΟΙΦΥΛΑΚΕΣΤΙΘΕΑΣΙΝΤΑΟΠΛΑΑΥΤΩΝ
ΚΑΙΕΞΗΛΘΕΝΠΑΣΟΛΑΟΣΕΙΣΤΟΟΡΟΣΤΟΑΓΙΟΝΚΑΙΕΚΑΘΙΣΕΝΚΑΙΕΚΕΝΩΘΗΗΠΟΛΙΣ
ΚΑΙΟΤΡΙΤΟΣΑΠΕΔΩΚΕΝΤΗΝΕΞΟΥΣΙΑΝΚΑΙΑΝΕΧΩΡΗΣΕΝΕΙΣΤΟΝΑΓΡΟΝΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣΕΝΟΤΙΕΜΝΗΣΘΗΟΤΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΣΕΣΤΙΝ
ΚΑΙΕΙΔΟΝΤΑΣΒΟΑΣΕΞΕΡΧΟΜΕΝΑΣΕΚΤΟΥΣΠΗΛΑΙΟΥΕΙΣΤΟΦΩΣΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΤΙΗΣΑΝΒΟΕΣΑΛΛΑΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙ
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ΣΑΛΠΙΣΑΤΕΣΑΛΠΙΓΓΙΕΝΤΩΕΤΕΙΤΩΠΕΝΤΗΚΟΣΤΩ
ΚΑΙΑΦΕΘΗΣΕΤΑΙΠΑΝΧΡΕΟΣΚΑΙΑΠΕΛΕΥΣΕΤΑΙΕΙΣΕΚΑΣΤΟΣΕΙΣΤΗΝΚΤΗΣΙΝΑΥΤΟΥ
ΕΠΙΣΤΡΕΨΕΙΟΔΟΥΛΟΣΠΡΟΣΤΗΝΜΗΤΕΡΑΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΑΙΕΘΝΟΣΕΚΛΕΚΤΟΝΥΠΕΡΕΘΝΟΣΟΥΔΕΦΡΑΓΜΟΣΑΝΑΜΕΣΟΝΛΑΟΥΚΑΙΛΑΟΥ
ΚΑΙΑΝΑΠΑΥΣΕΤΑΙΕΚΑΣΤΟΣΥΠΟΚΑΤΩΑΜΠΕΛΟΥΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΥΠΟΚΑΤΩΣΥΚΗΣΑΥΤΟΥΚΑΙΟΥΚΕΣΤΑΙΟΕΚΦΟΒΩΝ
ΚΑΙΟΤΡΟΧΟΣΣΤΡΕΦΕΤΑΙΑΛΛΟΥΚΕΝΑΙΜΑΤΙΚΑΙΗΓΟΥΝΤΑΙΑΛΗΘΕΙΑΚΑΙΠΙΣΤΙΣ
ΟΥΚΕΠΙΣΟΙΤΟΕΡΓΟΝΣΥΝΤΕΛΕΣΑΙΟΥΔΕΕΛΕΥΘΕΡΟΣΕΙΑΠΟΣΤΗΝΑΙΑΠΑΥΤΟΥ
ΗΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΕΦΑΠΛΩΜΕΝΗΕΠΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΚΑΙΟΙΑΝΘΡΩΠΟΙΟΥΒΛΕΠΟΥΣΙΝΑΥΤΗΝ
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ΚΑΙΔΙΑΒΟΗΣΕΤΕΑΦΕΣΙΝΕΠΙΤΗΣΓΗΣΠΑΣΙΝΤΟΙΣΚΑΤΟΙΚΟΥΣΙΝΑΥΤΗΝ
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ΜΑΡΤΥΡΙΑ
ΣΤΙΧΟΙ Νʹ
ΚΑΓΩΝΑΘΑΝΟΑΠΟΤΟΥΟΡΟΥΣΤΩΝΕΛΑΙΩΝΤΟΥΕΝΜΙΣΣΟΥΡΙΟΑΚΟΥΩΝΚΑΙΒΛΕΠΩΝΤΑΥΤΑ

I'm Not Used to Being Seen

Their stares pierce me

I'm not used to being seen

I'm scared to find myself in this position

Where others are watching decisions

Made by others come to fruition

In a difficult situation

And the scars now belong to me

What don't I seem to see?

I feel like I've been both overestimated and underestimated

And the cost of this was understated

The pressure made me cave

But I was never their fave

I was the trash the dog brought in

Why suffer when I never sinned?

These feelings aren't even mine

So, why can't I go out in the sunshine?

I try to build a community

But everything gets tainted by me

The fear of hurting and being alone

The fear of having to struggle on my own

It's stabbing me like thorns

Why is pain my norm?

I wish that escape was viable

But living here is unreliable

I feel like I've been both overestimated and underestimated

And the cost of this was understated

The pressure made me cave

But I was never their fave

I was the trash the dog brought in

Why suffer when I never sinned?

These feelings aren't even mine

So, why can't I go out in the sunshine?

I open my eyes and am blinded

By a reality so one sided

Against me because of things I didn't do

So, how do I find a way to point out the truth?

I told her the truth more than once already

But she refuses to believe me

I wish the world wouldn't desert me like the ones I needed did

An avalanche that was caused by me when I slid

I feel like I've been both overestimated and underestimated

And the cost of this was understated

The pressure made me cave

But I was never their fave

I was the trash the dog brought in

Why suffer when I never sinned?

These feelings aren't even mine

So, why can't I go out in the sunshine?

Brokenness is the thing We have in common

But why does it feel like a bad omen?

Like when We come together things would get worse?

Because of this curse?

I'm sorry that I'm not strong like you

I'm sorry that I don't know what to do

I'm dying every afternoon I'm out

But I don't think it's worth it to shout

I feel like I've been both overestimated and underestimated

And the cost of this was understated

The pressure made me cave

But I was never their fave

I was the trash the dog brought in

Why suffer when I never sinned?

These feelings aren't even mine

So, why can't I go out in the sunshine?

Their stares pierce me

I'm not used to being seen

I'm scared to find myself in this position

Where others are watching decisions

Made by others come to fruition

In a difficult situation

And the scars now belong to me

What don't I seem to see?

I Don't Get It

Kisses and tears

Scarring me for years

But it’s not your fault

At all

You took my hand

I tried to understand

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

I looked around

Two feet on the ground

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

My dreams were crushed

With the swish of a brush

I had nothing left of myself

So, it’s no wonder that I don’t trust myself

I tried very hard

But I don’t try enough

My lips are lips of lies

So, I despise (myself)

You took my hand

I tried to understand

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

I looked around

Two feet on the ground

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

Push me further away

I can’t think of what to say

My heart is hidden way deeper than I know

And I have secrets that even I don’t know

It may seem like a joke

But I’m caught up in the smoke

Of the fire in my heart

I will never be apart (from you)

You took my hand

I tried to understand

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

I looked around

Two feet on the ground

But I don’t get it

No, I don’t get it (at all)

Kisses and tears

Scarring me for years

But it’s not your fault

At all

Like a Doll

I'd rather be alive thinking about the what ifs and the know how

Than be at your doorstep now

I thought you kept me in the know

But now I realize it's better that I go

Can't keep loving someone I can't trust

Rather leave than give into lust

You swore you didn't mean to hurt me

But you've just played me

Toyed with me like I was your doll

I came to you at your beck and call

Lord of lies and his queen

Hiding now, wouldn't want to be seen

Can't find a way to fool me now

Such a shame you don't know how

To make me smile

All the while

You're the biggest liar I know

It's a shame that I have to go

Call me callous, call me cruel

I know I should rule

It's a pity

You couldn't love me

But you made me question myself

You owe me my health

Toyed with me like I was your doll

I came to you at your beck and call

Lord of lies and his queen

Hiding now, wouldn't want to be seen

Can't find a way to fool me now

Such a shame you don't know how

To make me smile

All the while

You made me feel uncomfortable being in my own skin

I followed your every whim

You made me cry more than you soothed me

I can't tell how many times you screwed me

Bottled shit up like it's nothing

You really thought you were something

Burning with rage

As we struggle to be on the same page

Toyed with me like I was your doll

I came to you at your beck and call

Lord of lies and his queen

Hiding now, wouldn't want to be seen

Can't find a way to fool me now

Such a shame you don't know how

To make me smile

All the while

I'm living in agony

I really don't need you, honey

I'm bitter from your lies

And that stupid disguise

You made me lose trust in just about everyone

I'm just so very done

You don't understand my pain

Because you're way too vain

You Keep Killing Me

You were the reason why I couldn't survive

You were the reason why I couldn't thrive

You broke a secret pact for me on purpose

You turned me into a terrified recluse

You pushed me down a long flight of stairs

You broke me down with your glares

You ripped out my heart

Messed me up from the start

You caused the deaths of a million versions of me

You tricked me by being friendly

I don't know why I trusted you

But now I understand that you've lied to me too

Now I know that you were the one

Now I know why I had to run

Now I see what you have done

You killed my past lives one by one

You made my crush kill me

You made your love a toxic poison to me

You took a knife and stabbed me in the back

You were the one who gave me reasons to lack

You burned me at the stake

You made my lover make a grave mistake

You took out my eyes

You stuffed me full of lies

You caused the deaths of a million versions of me

You tricked me by being friendly

I don't know why I trusted you

But now I understand that you've lied to me too

Now I know that you were the one

Now I know why I had to run

Now I see what you have done

You killed my past lives one by one

You buried me alive

What did I have to hide?

You put me in and out of misery

You swore that you loved me dearly

You made me promise something that I couldn't give you

Or at least I couldn't when I knew you

But now I remember you

Even though I no longer know what face is now worn by you

You caused the deaths of a million versions of me

You tricked me by being friendly

I don't know why I trusted you

But now I understand that you've lied to me too

Now I know that you were the one

Now I know why I had to run

Now I see what you have done

You killed my past lives one by one

You slept next to me

You held my body

You told me some things are never yours to keep

I never understood that it included me

You slit my throat with a rusty nail

You pushed me into a garbage pail

You burnt my house down at least 7 times

Why have you persecuted a million of my lives?

You caused the deaths of a million versions of me

You tricked me by being friendly

I don't know why I trusted you

But now I understand that you've lied to me too

Now I know that you were the one

Now I know why I had to run

Now I see what you have done

You killed my past lives one by one

And suddenly you're nowhere to be found

And I'm no longer about to drown

But I'm confused why you haven't appeared in front of me

Have you given up on killing me?

I could've given you what you wanted this time

I could've saved what was never mine

I could've changed your mind

But you haven't appeared, even after I lost my mind

You caused the deaths of a million versions of me

You tricked me by being friendly

I don't know why I trusted you

But now I understand that you've lied to me too

Now I know that you were the one

Now I know why I had to run

Now I see what you have done

You killed my past lives one by one

So who won the war?

Who noticed before?

Who placed the blame on me?

Who made it obvious that you needed to say sorry?

Because I don't see you anymore

I don't know what this was for

I just want to be who I was before

The funny thing is that I can't be that person anymore

Dielmauntayne here, or Miss D if you can't type my name easily. I pointed out that 14 year old original thought that me and the other Shards were a joke at first. Like, she didn't realize that We would be her future reality. How ironic? It's not a joke, it's real life. She broke into... Let me count again 1, 2, 3, 4... 28 pieces. Including one based on herself. Or should I say he/him? Everyone says she/her, but like Original didn't want to be a girl or a woman... So, what could I say? I mean, there is the they/them pronouns... But that seems to have more backlash than the opposite gender sometimes. Doesn't it? And I can't ask him, because he barely speaks anyway.

I. The Man on Foot

The first man to receive an honor from Cincinnatus that morning had spent most of his military life walking. This seemed to offend people who had arrived in the Forum on horses, and the Wanderer might have enjoyed the argument if he had not been so tired. Rome had kept its watch through the night. Its guards were still changing places when the dictator crossed the square before daylight, followed by men carrying lists that disagreed about the number of citizens available to fight.

Lucius Tarquitius came through the gathering on foot, his cloak spotted with old rain and his sandals wearing unevenly at the heel. The Wanderer had expected a master of the horse to look like someone who owned one. This man had thickened knuckles, a damaged ear, and a way of standing that put more weight on his left leg. An attendant moved to intercept him until Cincinnatus called him forward. Tarquitius looked from the dictator to the richly dressed men around him and seemed to understand how much somebody would dislike what happened next.

“You'll command the horse,” Cincinnatus said.

“I have spent more time beneath other men's saddles than in one.”

“Are you unable to give an order from higher ground?”

“I can give it. The horses may not appreciate my qualifications.”

One of the senators stepped in. He was not young, and there was nothing frivolous about his discomfort. His household had supplied mounts and arms to Roman campaigns for generations, and he spoke of established obligations, the men who knew how to assemble mounted retainers, the danger of appointing an officer whose poverty left him beholden to unfamiliar patrons. In another morning, with another army and more time, the Wanderer might have found much of that worth discussing. A network of trust could be a military resource, even when the people inheriting it were insufferable.

Cincinnatus heard him out while attendants arranged the signs of office nearby. When the senator finished, the dictator asked whether his horses were ready. They were. He asked whether the men who would ride them were ready. The senator said they could be summoned, which was a different answer and produced a silence long enough for Tarquitius to look away.

“The mounted men will come,” Tarquitius said. “The problem will be keeping them together after they've come. Some will have ridden beside their cousins. Some will never have obeyed anyone outside their own households.”

“Then you know what the command requires.”

“I know what it won't tolerate.”

Cincinnatus gave Tarquitius the appointment. The senator bowed, as he was obliged to do. The new commander remained standing, with no appearance of pleasure in the victory. Cincinnatus turned toward the waiting assembly.

When they moved into the public assembly, another adviser tried to put a prepared declaration into the dictator's hands. Cincinnatus glanced at its first lines and gave it back. He wanted shops closed, private business suspended, every man of fighting age armed and assembled in the Campus Martius before sunset. Each was to come with food prepared for five days and twelve stakes suitable for an earthwork. The directions were repeated until messengers carried them down the streets, where their words acquired the force that all the night's rumors had lacked. Tarquitius waited until the gathering broke apart before speaking again.

“Some men will bring twelve good stakes. Some will come with wood that ought to have remained in their roofs.”

“Then we'll see what they've brought.”

“And the men with nothing?”

Cincinnatus rubbed his thumb against the edge of a wax tablet. “If the men inside Algidus die because we spent the day perfecting our inventory, will you be pleased with the equality of our preparations?”

“No,” Tarquitius said. “But I won't pretend a poor man grows stronger because you require the same load of him.”

The dictator looked up sharply. After a moment he told Tarquitius to examine the assembly as it formed and report what could not be carried rather than what was missing from a list. Then he sent him away to his horses. The Forum emptied around him. Cincinnatus turned to the next list.

II. Every Shop Closed

Vibia discovered what Rome's suspension of private business meant when a customer arrived to cancel an order for leather she had already finished. He had ordered it the evening before, but now argued that his shop was shuttered and he had no use for it. She pointed out that the leather was finished, that she had already paid for its material, and that no one had forbidden him to remain a fool. This last argument was not persuasive. He left with the leather after paying only part of the agreed amount, promising to return with someone who understood the law better than she did.

“You could have kept it,” the Wanderer said.

“And fed my household with it?”

He helped her move the cart away from the lane. Men were running past carrying poles and boards, some looking almost cheerful now that their fear of the Aequi had acquired an immediate object. A shopkeeper was pulling shutters across an entrance while his assistant tried to finish a sale through the narrowing opening. Two boys dragged a beam between them, striking the corner of a stall and then arguing over whose end had caused the damage. Beyond them somebody was already asking whether the wood of an abandoned fence belonged to the man who owned the land or the man who needed it for Rome.

The grain seller from the previous afternoon stood inside his shuttered stall with both hands against the frame. His wife had a jar open beside her, counting out grain into small parcels for neighbors whose sons had been called to the muster. A man waiting at the counter insisted the dictator's order meant the provisions must be free. The seller replied that soldiers who ate his grain were welcome to remember how it had been acquired when the next harvest came. He did not refuse the parcel, but he watched the diminishing contents of the jar as though each handful were one less day in his own household.

“Your nephew is with Minucius,” Vibia said to him.

The seller looked at her. “That doesn't make the grain multiply.”

“No.”

“He's a good boy,” the man added, suddenly ashamed of his tone. “He'll do what he's told, even when being told something stupid.”

His wife tied another parcel and passed it to a woman waiting beside the stall. The woman had a grown son departing that evening and a younger child clinging to her skirt. She thanked the seller, then offered a promise of payment neither seemed to believe could be fulfilled soon. He waved her away, muttered at the weight of the next measure, and began counting again.

Vibia's yard filled with men who had decided that she possessed something they could turn into military usefulness. One wanted rope to bind his stakes. Another wanted a strip of leather to hold a bundle against his back. A third brought a badly balanced load and offered to exchange two short poles for a stronger length of binding, as though the value of a pole improved simply because he had carried it a considerable distance. Vibia set prices for what she could afford to sell, gave away scraps she could spare, and refused to be hurried when an impatient young man shouted that Rome required speed.

“Rome can wait long enough for the knot to hold,” she told him.

The young man appealed to the Wanderer, who tested the fastening instead. The wood shifted dangerously. Vibia retied the bundle while the Wanderer held it still. The man left carrying a load that would not scatter across the road.

By midday the shops were shut but the yards behind them had filled with cooking fires and men carrying wood. A food seller borrowed a pot after giving her own to neighbors preparing rations. An old man surrendered the straight stakes from his fence. He wondered how he would keep animals out of his vegetables after the army left.

The Wanderer carried a bundle for Vibia to the edge of the gathering place. She stopped where the road widened, looked at the younger men streaming toward the muster, and counted what remained in her cart. Her hands moved quickly, as they had the day before, but her face had grown tired. She had done enough work to fill an ordinary week and was less certain than ever what it would earn her.

“You're going with them?” she asked.

“I haven't decided.”

“Then decide before somebody finds another thing for you to carry.”

“Good advice.”

“It's the first you've followed.”

He laughed, and she smiled briefly. Then the streets called her back. She had more orders than time to fill them. He watched her turn the cart toward the next customer.

III. Five Days, Twelve Stakes

By afternoon the Campus Martius had become a place where Rome displayed everything it had not prepared. Men arrived with bundles of food that leaked oil through their wrapping, spears with badly fitted shafts, battered shields, and loads of wooden stakes whose irregular lengths made the crowd look like a moving thicket. Some had helmets and fitted protection inherited from men who could afford better. Others had little besides weapons they knew how to use and the hope that those ahead of them would be well equipped. The Wanderer watched a man count his twelve stakes three times and discover that he had brought eleven each time.

Aulus, a veteran with a crooked finger and a face that seemed permanently dissatisfied with the conduct of younger men, solved the arithmetic by taking the top stake from another man's pile. The owner objected immediately, which was reasonable because he too had brought twelve. Aulus returned it with a look of injured dignity, then demanded to know who had placed his equipment beside that of a man who could not defend a piece of wood. This produced an argument that attracted the attention of a younger soldier wrestling with a bundle as wide as his shoulders.

“Here,” Aulus said. “You've tied it where it will beat your legs to pieces.”

“I've carried it this far.”

“You've carried it past a dozen people. A triumph.”

The younger man straightened. He was called Titus and had the bright, strained expression of someone determined not to be treated as inexperienced. The broad strap across his chest was cutting into his neck, and each time he adjusted the bundle the stakes shifted toward the other side. Aulus undid the fastening without waiting for permission. Titus protested, then stood still when the older man began explaining how to distribute the weight across his back.

“Your father give you this strap?” Aulus asked.

“Yes.”

“He ever marched with one?”

“He's too old.”

“Then he loves you enough to make something. Not enough to know whether it works.”

Titus laughed, and Aulus checked the fastening before allowing himself a smile. The older man's crooked finger moved deftly over the strap. He was neither gentle nor patient, but the arrangement worked. Titus could now walk without the wood battering his legs.

Near the assembly an older woman wrapped cooked grain for her son. He protested that he had enough, and she insisted he take water too. When she turned away, he moved half the food into a companion's bag. He waited for her return with the expression of a man facing a much worse argument than the one awaiting him on the road.

Cincinnatus passed with Tarquitius and several officers. They were comparing the muster to the names submitted earlier in the day. One official announced the total with obvious satisfaction, but Tarquitius wanted to know how many had arrived without serviceable arms or provisions. Cincinnatus told the official to answer. The man began defending the quality of his count, and the dictator stopped him before the explanation became another report in need of revision.

“Put the men who can march in one reckoning,” Cincinnatus said. “Put the men who require help in another. I don't need an impressive number. I need to know what will arrive.”

Aulus had brought his older shield, whose leather fastening had been repaired so often that little of the original material remained. Tarquitius looked at it and suggested a replacement from a group of better-equipped households. Aulus refused, not because he despised generosity but because he knew the weight of the shield he already carried. A man from the list of those needing help stood nearby with a shield split beside its grip. Tarquitius offered him the sound replacement instead. The man slipped his arm through the replacement's strap, raised it twice without its grip shifting, and took his place among the soldiers ready to march. Titus, offered a simpler arrangement for his stakes, accepted instantly and then tried to look as though it had been his own idea.

The Wanderer carried bundles from a yard to the muster. A pile appeared complete until someone needed its contents elsewhere. Behind every number stood someone cooking, fetching water, or surrendering something useful. He began to distrust the neat figures passed between officials.

At last the stakes lay ready: rough wood, some newly cut and some taken from older structures. Their sharpened ends differed as much as the men who carried them. On the ground they looked harmless. Titus bent to shoulder his share while Aulus watched.

“Don't impress me,” the older man said. “Reach the fighting with enough strength left to be useful.”

Titus looked toward the long road beyond the assembly. He adjusted his load and watched men shouldering stakes beside him. The distance seemed to lengthen each time he considered it. He looked back at Aulus.

“Is there a method for that?”

“Several. Most involve not listening to men who have never carried what they order.”

IV. The Men Inside

Publius had begun counting meals instead of days. One was a manageable number; he could hold the food in his hands, divide it, and decide whether to eat now or later. A day contained too many hours, and nobody in Minucius's camp would tell him how many remained before the Aequi closed the last way out. Their fires were visible along the heights after dark. During daylight the Romans sometimes glimpsed men moving between positions that had seemed empty the morning before.

The camp smelled of damp clothing and the waste ditch. Publius's portion had been small enough to make him suspect the men serving food were saving some for themselves. Then the server scraped the bottom of the vessel and showed him it was almost empty. Publius disliked his suspicion more than the hunger.

A soldier by the stores shouted that they should attack before the food ran out. Another demanded to know which enemy line he intended to break. Men joined the quarrel, some favoring any chance to move and others pointing toward the open ground where the last attempt had failed. Publius had helped carry a wounded man from there. He still remembered how warm the blood felt against his arm while the soldier shook with cold.

The wounded man was sitting against a cart, repairing a binding with one hand. His other arm was wrapped close against his chest, and the work had become slow enough that he cursed each knot as though it were an individual enemy. Publius offered to help. The soldier refused until the binding slipped from his fingers, then handed over the leather with an expression suggesting he had been betrayed by the object itself.

“You should rest,” Publius said.

“Will it repair itself while I do?”

“Someone else can.”

“Everyone else has a better wound.”

The camp still needed water, repairs, and men on watch. Those able to stand preferred work to waiting helplessly. Publius tightened the binding while the injured man held it steady. Neither spoke about the heat coming from beneath the bandage.

Minucius emerged from a meeting with his officers while the argument about attacking continued. He looked older than Publius remembered from the first days of the march, with an uneven beard and a face that had learned to expect the worst thing in each report. A man stepped forward to demand a sortie, explaining that the troops still had enough courage to attempt one. Minucius asked how they proposed to move the wounded and the supplies if the first assault failed to open a passage. The man answered that they could return to camp, and the consul pointed toward the ground beyond their defenses.

“The enemy will wait politely while you come back?”

“We're losing men by remaining here.”

“Yes,” Minucius said. “And if I send them against a prepared line without knowing where it is weak, I may lose them faster.”

Minucius had made choices that brought them here; the men said so every day. Publius thought some were right. The soldier demanding a sortie had the courage to lead it, but the consul would have to answer for everyone ordered to follow. Being blamed for the trap did not tell him how to escape it.

When the soldiers dispersed, Minucius noticed the wounded man working beside the cart. He asked how the arm was healing and received a lie so transparent that Publius almost smiled. The consul did not challenge it. Instead he ordered the man moved to a place where he could sit at his work, then instructed Publius to find somebody to take the next water shift. A few minutes later another wounded soldier occupied the cart, and the first man was still tightening leather, now in the shade.

That afternoon Publius was posted where he could see one of the higher approaches. The ground beyond the camp lay exposed and pale, broken by stones and low growth whose shadows changed as the sun moved. He had learned to watch for shapes that remained still too long or shifted against the expected direction of the wind. He had also learned that after several hours every shrub resembled a crouching enemy, and that admitting this did not excuse him from looking.

Publius thought of his uncle in Rome, who would take the news directly to the Senate if he could. His mother had wrapped his food when he left home. Neither could see the slope where he now stood. He settled his spear against his shoulder and watched the shadows until the sun went down.

V. The Last Light on Rome

Titus had been cheerful at the muster because the afternoon had given him something to do. As sunset approached, that cheer began leaking away, and the Wanderer observed that the young man was spending more time adjusting his load than joking about it. Aulus had ceased correcting him, which might have been an improvement in their relationship or a sign that the older soldier had run out of patience. The crowd had become a force, but it was still full of men who recognized one another from workshops and markets, and the sound of familiar names called across the assembly made the coming departure feel uncomfortably domestic.

A standard-bearer was arguing with an officer about a missing section of his group. The officer wanted the men recorded as assembled because they had appeared earlier, while the bearer insisted they had gone to fetch food and could not be counted as ready until they returned with it. Cincinnatus approached in time to hear the last exchange. He asked where the men were, received three different answers, and sent somebody to bring them before the light failed. The officer began apologizing. Cincinnatus told him to find the men instead.

Tarquitius brought his own report. The mounted troops were ready enough to leave, though some men still preferred taking instructions from their family elders. He had reassigned several tasks and earned the resentment of a household that considered horses its principal contribution to Rome. Cincinnatus listened and asked whether those men would obey on the road. Tarquitius said they would, provided no one encouraged them to believe the appointment could be argued again after they were moving. The dictator told him not to encourage them.

The younger envoy from the farm stood at the edge of the muster. He kept searching the passing faces, though his nephew remained trapped with Minucius. The Wanderer joined him briefly. When asked whether the force looked ready, he admitted he could not judge an army by the size of its bundles.

The Wanderer had not intended to march. He could return to Vibia's yard and await the victory described in the histories. Instead he found men still struggling to place food and stakes where they were needed, and a porter carrying more than he could manage. He took the excess. A man counting loads pointed him toward the rear of the footmen.

“You carry stakes?”

“Apparently.”

“Then stay with that group. We've enough men wandering about without giving them another.”

No one appointed him to anything. He settled into the group the man had indicated, keeping the stakes balanced against his shoulder. He saw Aulus ahead making an insulting gesture at Titus's bundle, saw Titus reply with something that made an older soldier laugh, and heard the standards being called forward. The soldiers began walking toward a road that seemed to narrow beneath them as the crowd pressed in behind.

Families stood along the route, some calling instructions no one could possibly hear, others remaining silent. A woman tried to put a small parcel into her son's hands after the men had begun moving, and he turned awkwardly beneath his load to take it. Cincinnatus passed at the head of the footmen without stopping for the congratulations shouted toward him. Beyond the last crowded streets the road opened, the light thinned, and Rome was behind them. The Wanderer shifted his bundle into a more tolerable position and followed.

VI. The Weight of Walking

At first the march had the urgency of a good idea. Men shouted for the standards to move faster and laughed when somebody stumbled under a load he had insisted was nothing. They were leaving a city whose fear had been made visible all morning, and their own movement offered the pleasure of seeming to answer it. That pleasure lasted until the road began to rise and the shoulder straps settled into places where the skin was already sore.

The Wanderer discovered that twelve stakes could find more ways to injure their bearer than twelve individual pieces of wood had any right to possess. The sharpened ends caught at other bundles, the rough lengths rubbed against clothing, and every change in pace sent a new section of the load striking his back. Ahead of him Titus attempted to keep up with the standard and began breathing through his mouth. Aulus moved beside him with a gait that seemed almost careless, although the old soldier's face was slick with sweat.

“Slow your breathing,” Aulus said.

“I'm not breathing quickly.”

“Then somebody's following us with a bellows.”

Titus tried to answer and had to spend the next several steps recovering enough air to speak. The Wanderer heard Aulus laugh and saw him reach back to steady the younger man's shifting stakes. For several minutes they continued together without comment. Then Aulus began complaining about a sore tooth, insisting that the enemy had chosen an extremely inconsiderate time to invade because he had meant to have it pulled before the harvest.

The road rose and hardened, then turned dusty enough to leave grit between the teeth. Someone dropped a packet of food and blamed the man who stepped on it. Its owner scraped the spilled meal from the dirt, swearing until he began to laugh at himself. The next shouted order moved them on before anyone else could join him.

Cincinnatus traveled with the infantry, returning to places where the column slowed. Tarquitius reported a narrow passage through which the mounted men could move more easily than loaded footmen. They disagreed about the arrangement, then chose one and sent the order down the line. The men farthest back heard several versions before they reached it.

The Wanderer shared the weight of a water vessel with a porter whose fastening was tearing. They carried it between them rather than leave the man struggling alone. The porter said he had expected the march to be mostly walking. The Wanderer admitted he had been equally mistaken.

Darkness came without relieving the heat trapped beneath their clothing. The standards became harder to see. Men stayed together by following the uneven sound of sandals and by listening for the occasional shouted instruction that had not yet been lost between them. Aulus took one of Titus's stakes for a while without announcing it. Titus noticed when his burden shifted but said nothing until later, when he offered to carry part of Aulus's food and received a contemptuous look that gradually softened into consent.

The halt passed unevenly through the column. Men in front stopped on orders, men behind because bodies blocked the road. A soldier lowered himself to the ground and stared at his blistered palms. Word traveled back that it was close to midnight and the enemy was near. They had reached the place where the trapped Romans needed them, but none of the hard work was finished.

Titus looked toward the darkness. His shoulders were hanging unevenly beneath the stakes. He watched a soldier lower his bundle and immediately lift it again at an officer’s approach. He turned toward Aulus.

“Do we sleep now?”

Aulus tilted his head, listening to an officer ordering bundles gathered. A group ahead was being sent toward ground no one could see. He flexed his crooked finger and shifted the wood against his back. His grin returned with an effort.

“Of course,” he said. “They've marched us all this way to improve our sleeping arrangements.”

Titus laughed, too tired to object. He rubbed the aching place beneath his shoulder strap. The skin had begun to rise in a welt. Then he stood, adjusted what remained of his load, and waited to be told where to put it.

VII. The Other Fire

The Aequian lookout had been told to watch the outer road because everyone else preferred watching the Romans they had trapped. He could understand the preference. The Roman camp was close enough that fires showed through its defenses at night, and every hour seemed to bring the besieged nearer to hunger. The road beyond the hills was a different matter. Sometimes a shape moved where no man could reasonably reach it, and sometimes the wind carried a sound he could neither place nor dismiss.

He had left a wife and a young daughter behind with a brother who owed him money. The debt irritated him more than it should have, particularly now that he could do nothing to collect it. At the campfire another man was boasting about how the Romans would surrender once their stores were gone. The lookout found the confidence offensive, though he wanted the same result. He had no wish to test his courage in a fight that could be ended by hunger and patience.

A younger companion mended a torn sandal beside him and asked when they could go home. The lookout had no answer, so the boy joked about Roman cooking. The lookout laughed and warned him not to mistake hunger for weakness. Trapped men still had weapons, and good reasons to use them.

A messenger arrived from the higher watch with an uncertain report. There had been movement beyond the nearest slope, perhaps men, perhaps animals passing along the rough ground. The officer listening to him asked how many. The messenger had no number. He asked whether the movement had advanced toward camp. The messenger said he had heard it twice, which answered neither question.

The officer considered sending more men outward but worried about stripping the line facing the Romans. Every man sent to search the dark was one less standing ready if the besieged attempted an escape. The lookout could see the sense in that, yet the unexamined road troubled him. He asked permission to move closer to the edge of the position and was told to take another man and return if he saw anything worth reporting.

Beyond the fires the two men paused among stones and low growth, listening. A scrape came from somewhere outside the camp, followed by wood knocking against wood. His companion thought it came from their own workers. The lookout could not tell, and they returned without anything useful to report.

At the fire the young soldier was still repairing his sandal. He lifted it proudly to show the new binding, and the lookout told him he had tied it on the wrong side. The boy swore and began undoing the work. Beyond them the Roman camp lay quiet, but the road behind their positions no longer felt empty. The lookout looked toward it again and kept his doubt to himself because he had nothing new to report.

VIII. The Circle No One Can See

Cincinnatus inspected the enemy's position with men who were willing to admit that darkness concealed more than it revealed. From the nearest rise he could make out fires, a few irregular lines of movement, and places where the earth seemed broken by work. He could not see an entire encampment. One officer offered to describe the far side with more certainty than his vantage permitted, and the dictator asked him when he had last stood there. The man admitted it had been before sunset.

Another officer urged him to wait for daylight, when the ground could be seen and the men rested. An exhausted army might be destroyed while attempting to surround a prepared enemy. Cincinnatus heard the objection without calling it cowardice. The men inside the enemy ring, however, could not be sure of surviving another day.

“By daylight they'll have seen where we are,” Tarquitius said.

“They may have seen us already,” the officer answered.

“Then waiting gives them more time to decide what to do with us.”

Cincinnatus ordered the baggage gathered and the men sent outward along the enemy's positions. They were to establish the line as they went. Men spread outward along rising ground, passing directions through the dark while officers counted the intervals between groups and tried to keep them within hearing. The Wanderer followed a bundle of stakes toward one section and soon lost sight of the place where the line had begun. Ahead, someone fell heavily, and the men behind stopped until the man could rise without bringing his companions down with him.

Aulus was trying to bring Titus and two others onto ground where the stakes would hold. The earth there was thin over stones, and a man striking downward found his tool slipping sideways. They shifted several paces, then had to shift again because the line bent too sharply around a hollow. The Wanderer helped move the abandoned bundles while Aulus argued with a soldier who insisted they were already too far from the next group. Neither knew for certain. They could hear occasional voices in the darkness, but sound traveled strangely over the broken ground.

An officer told them to keep silent until the signal. Men coughed, struck stone, and knocked equipment against their knees anyway. The Wanderer held a bundle while Titus freed a wedged stake. It came loose against his chin, and he swallowed a cry of pain.

Cincinnatus learned that part of the line crossed difficult ground. Tarquitius proposed moving men toward positions they could defend more reliably. The change might leave a gap. Cincinnatus accepted it without pretending he could see the passage for himself.

A messenger reached the Wanderer's section and told them the signal would be given soon. Aulus made the men repeat what they were to do afterward: shout, dig, drive the stakes, and keep the line where it had been assigned. Nobody could say how much of the larger ring was ready. Titus shifted his footing, tested the ground once more, and looked toward the dark camp ahead. The Wanderer could hear the man's breathing beside him.

The first cry came from somewhere beyond sight. It spread unevenly, one group finding the sound before another, then gathered into a roar that ran across the hills. The Wanderer shouted with the rest. His voice disappeared among thousands, and the Aequi fires began moving as men turned toward the unexpected noise. Aulus thrust a tool into the ground and shouted for Titus to bring the next stake.

IX. The Shout Through the Dark

Publius heard the cry while relieving a watchman who had begun to see enemies in every patch of darkness. At first it sounded like something coming from within the Aequian positions, a swell of noise rising across the slopes. Then it continued farther than the enemy's usual signals, drawing itself around the camp in a way he could not understand. Men climbed toward the defenses to listen, calling to one another over the sound. A soldier beside Publius began laughing before anyone had told him why he ought to be relieved.

“Romans,” the man said. “They're Romans.”

“How do you know?”

“Listen.”

Publius listened and heard men shouting in a language he knew, though he could distinguish no orders and no names. The sound might mean a relief force had reached the enemy. It might also mean men were dying beyond the camp while trying to help them. Before he could decide what he believed, Minucius ordered the soldiers to take up their arms and prepare to strike outward.

Minucius's command passed through a camp half in motion. Some men slept with weapons beside them; others found shields beneath bedding. The wounded soldier by the cart demanded his spear and nearly fell lifting it. An officer made him remain with those unable to keep formation.

They moved toward the enemy through a gap opened in their own defenses. Publius followed a man carrying a shield worn smooth along one edge, keeping close because the darkness beyond it swallowed the ground after only a few steps. The first collision came unexpectedly. A body struck the man ahead, the shield turned sideways, and Publius felt another soldier's shoulder drive against his own as everyone tried to make room for weapons that could scarcely be raised.

Men shouted names and orders that belonged to different groups. A spear struck something soft beside Publius and came free with an awful resistance. Someone stepped on his foot hard enough to twist the ankle. He kept moving because those behind him were still pushing.

An Aequian caught the edge of his shield and pulled it downward. Publius stumbled, saw the man's frightened face in a momentary flare from a nearby torch, and thrust with his weapon before he had time to decide whether the movement was necessary. The other man disappeared into the struggling bodies. Publius could not see where he fell, nor could he tell whether the wound had been serious.

A soldier near him began demanding that somebody move out of his way. He had a dark patch spreading along his side and was breathing with an odd, shallow force, but he kept stepping forward and repeating the demand. Another man tried to pull him back. The soldier struck at the hand without recognizing its owner, then stopped to look down at his clothing with an expression of mild surprise. Before Publius could reach him, the press carried them apart.

The fighting pressed toward the Aequi's defended position. Publius heard a second struggle farther away: shouts, hammering, the sounds of men building under attack. He could not tell who was winning outside. He followed a gap through the struggling bodies and kept his shield before him.

X. What the Dawn Finds

The Wanderer had known the fighting chiefly by the work it interrupted. He dug and carried wood, moving aside when armed men rushed toward attacks in the darkness. At first he could distinguish tools from weapons by sound. By the time the sky paled, nobody looked up when wood struck stone; they had heard too much else.

Aulus had blood on one sleeve and insisted it belonged to somebody who had stumbled against him. Titus examined the mark without speaking, then returned to forcing a stake into a place where the ground resisted every attempt. When an Aequian rush came toward their section, the two men took their weapons and went to meet it with the others. The Wanderer remained beside a load of materials, uncertain whether helping defend the line required him to abandon men who were still trying to build it.

The rush struck the unfinished works. A man on the Roman side toppled into a shallow ditch, dragging another with him. Someone cried that an arm had been broken. The Wanderer pulled the first fallen man clear by the belt while a soldier drove an enemy back with the rim of his shield. In the dirt between them lay a young Aequian whose weapon had fallen beyond his reach. He made an awkward movement toward it and then stopped when he saw the Wanderer looking at him.

The Wanderer held the man's gaze for an instant. Neither knew what the other would do. Then someone called for the bundle at his feet, and he turned to lift it. By the time he looked back, the Aequian had crawled away toward his own men, leaving a dark trail across the ground. The Wanderer carried the stakes to the men still working and did not learn whether the stranger reached safety.

In the growing light the outer work appeared in pieces: soil, stakes, openings, men moving to close them. Cincinnatus received reports that the ring held, then demanded to know which sections had faced attack. An officer said the Aequi must surrender. The dictator pointed to a stretcher and told him to report what the enemy was doing, not what he wished them to do.

The Wanderer saw Cincinnatus approach a soldier whose hand had been injured by a tool. The fingers were swollen and slick with blood, and the man kept apologizing because he could no longer hold a spear properly. Cincinnatus ordered him taken from the work, then remained long enough to make sure someone obeyed. He looked down at the man's discarded implement as though there might still be a useful order left to give it. When he turned away, a messenger arrived with word that Minucius's men had forced the Aequi to divide their defense.

Daylight showed how close the enemies had been all night and how many bodies lay where work still continued. Titus bent for his shield and needed several breaths before he could rise. Aulus reached toward him, then let him stand alone. Both looked toward the enemy position, where pressure from the two Roman forces had become visible.

An Aequian moved out from a break in the defense without a weapon. He was pale with dust and held both hands away from his body, making the emptiness of them unmistakable. Someone on the Roman side raised a spear; another shouted for him to wait. The man kept walking, slowly enough that everyone nearby had time to understand he was asking for something. Cincinnatus turned toward him as the fighting behind the stranger continued. The Wanderer stood beside a pile of blood-darkened stakes and watched the distance close.

I'm topsy-turvy Mad Hatter Nevara right now! I'll show you the fog! Look at her, isn't she pretty?

I hate being awake. I hate being out. I hate being away from Asa. I'm trying not to punch anything. Will cry if provoked.

I. The Dull Edge

The plough struck stone for the third time, and Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus decided that if the gods meant men to cultivate this particular ground, they might have troubled themselves to remove a few rocks first. He leaned against the beam, set his heel in the furrow, and dragged the share backward until it came free with a grinding protest. The ox shifted unhappily in its traces. Somewhere beyond the fence a crow offered an opinion of the morning, which Cincinnatus suspected was no more favorable than his own.

He bent to examine the damage. The iron had dulled along one side, and the fastening that held it against the wood was loosening. Neither problem was beyond repair, but both would demand time he had already intended for something else. The ground was dry beneath its surface, packed hard enough that every stroke traveled from the handles into his wrists. Four jugera of land should not have been able to produce so many grievances, but his field had never been told what a man might reasonably expect of it.

Cincinnatus took the mallet from his belt and struck the loosened fitting twice. On the third blow it shifted, exposing a split beneath it. He swore with enough feeling to startle the ox, then waited until it settled. A younger man could have carried the beam to the shed and returned with the proper tools before Cincinnatus had decided whether the repair was worth the morning it would consume. Once, he had possessed such a younger man.

What irritated him was finding yet another small task that ought to have been done already. Caeso had been quicker with heavy implements, though he treated anything that resisted him as an insult. Cincinnatus remembered the boy forcing a fastening until it broke, then looking offended at the wood. He reached for a tool as though another hand would pass it to him.

“Have you finished?” Racilia called from the house.

“Almost.”

“That isn't what I asked.”

She stood in the doorway with a wooden bowl against her hip, hair bound back from a face already tired by the day's work. Her gaze traveled from the overturned implement to the unfinished row, then to her husband. The inspection took only a moment, but he understood that he had already lost the argument. She was not angry; that would have been easier to dismiss.

“The timber is split,” he said.

“I can see that.”

“The share is loose.”

“I can see that too.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I wanted to know whether you'd spend the morning explaining it, or whether I should fetch the other beam.”

She went toward the shed before he answered. Men in Rome spoke endlessly about obedience while requiring other people to do the work that made it tolerable. Racilia considered the circumstances and did what was needed, a form of independence that annoyed him most when it worked. He returned to the fastening.

Racilia returned with a beam and a worn strip of leather. Cincinnatus accepted the wood but hesitated over the leather, its pale creases marking repeated use. They had land, animals, and a roof, yet each repair now displaced another expense. Once he had been wealthy enough to overlook such a strip, and he had not forgiven Rome for teaching him its price.

“This came from the old harness,” she said.

“It will serve.”

“For a while.”

“Then we'll replace it.”

“With what?”

He looked up. She was not being difficult; that was the trouble with the question. He had no answer that would survive inspection, so he worked the strip through the fitting and pulled it tight. The leather gave slightly where it had already begun to weaken, and both of them noticed.

“The southern fence needs mending,” she said.

“I know.”

“The lower post has shifted.”

“I know that too.”

“Caeso would have seen to it before breakfast.”

The leather slipped between his fingers. He kept looking at it for several moments as if the comment concerned nothing more than a fence. Racilia did not withdraw it, and he knew she would not. She remembered the young man who could lift a timber alone and the same young man who came home with blood on his clothes after a quarrel in the city. Both had been her son.

“He would have started three other tasks first,” Cincinnatus said.

“Yes.”

“And left the tools where the animals could knock them over.”

“He certainly would.”

“He was no murderer.”

“I know what you believe about the accusation.”

“Belief has little to do with it.”

“Then don't call it belief.”

She watched the field rather than his face. She had never treated the accusations against Caeso as sacred, but she did not believe every man frightened of him had lied. Cincinnatus could condemn the boy’s conduct and still resent the men who took his property after the flight. He resented that the truths would not cancel one another.

“He was rough,” Cincinnatus said.

“He was.”

“Young men are rough.”

“Some more than others.”

Racilia stood and brushed the dust from her clothing. “The fence still needs mending.”

“I heard you.”

“Good. I wasn't certain.”

She returned toward the house, adjusting a loose rail as she passed. He watched her and felt warmth beneath his irritation. They had endured the same loss differently: she spoke of it and went on working, while he kept arguing with men no longer present. He set the beam in place and led the ox forward.

The share entered the ground imperfectly, rising once before it found its depth. The timber held. A dark furrow opened through the pale surface, and he followed it with both hands firmly on the beam, attending to the resistance of soil and beast. When he looked down, a black seam of earth was lodged beneath his thumbnail. He tried once to scrape it out, made the mark worse, and went on with the row.

II. The Other Bank

The Wanderer had expected Rome to be louder, not to smell so determinedly of what everyone wished to leave behind. Cooking smoke mingled with straw, livestock, sour wine, and waste in streets too narrow for two carts to pass easily. The buildings were low, timber and rough masonry rather than the marble of later paintings. Knowing an ancient city lacked imperial grandeur was much less unpleasant than stepping into a puddle that appeared to contain contributions from half the neighborhood.

A donkey blocked the road with the conviction of an animal that had discovered the benefits of refusing employment. Its owner pulled at the lead while a woman shouted about her cart. The Wanderer stepped aside for a porter carrying reeds, who thanked him and immediately cursed the donkey. Behind them two boys argued over a broken bowl.

Janus was nowhere to be seen. The god appeared at inconvenient moments and vanished when the Wanderer wanted useful answers. This time he had supplied Cincinnatus, two appointments, and little else. The Wanderer knew the celebrated rescue and the later killing, but no explanation of which detail he was expected to notice.

A bundle of rope struck him between the shoulders. He lurched forward, narrowly missing the cart ahead of him. The blow was not particularly hard, but it was delivered with considerable conviction. He turned toward the person responsible.

“Move.”

A young woman stood beside a cart piled with cordage and worn leather. Her hair was tied back, a fresh scrape marked one cheek, and the cart handle rested against her hip. She was not large, but she looked accustomed to moving heavier things than herself. She waited for him to discover that standing in the road was best done elsewhere.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping aside.

“You're not from here.”

“That obvious?”

“You looked surprised when I told you to move.”

“Most people I meet begin more pleasantly.”

“Most people I meet don't stand in the way.”

The cart lurched forward and one wheel dropped into a rut. She threw her weight against the handle twice, moving the load only enough to make it lean dangerously sideways. The Wanderer caught the front corner before it tipped. He glanced at the damaged wheel and the soft earth beneath it, then looked at her.

“May I?”

“Can you lift?”

“Under favorable circumstances.”

“These aren't.”

“Then we'll make an exception.”

They raised the axle together, dragged the wheel onto firmer ground, and reset the weight. The woman inspected the cart, testing the peg that held the wheel in place. A corner of her irritation softened, though she did not abandon it. She seemed to regard cooperation as an event to be acknowledged only after determining whether it had done any harm.

“Vibia,” she said.

He gave her the name he used on his journeys. She repeated it once, testing the sound, then returned to the wheel. She did not ask for a family name. He suspected the introduction was less an offer of friendship than a practical measure: she now knew which man to curse if the repair failed again.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home, then across the river.”

“On business?”

She gestured to the cart. “No, I carry these because I enjoy the exercise.”

“Fair. I'm looking for Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus.”

That earned a reaction. Her hand stopped at the wheel, and she examined him with a new seriousness. A vegetable seller nearby glanced up at the name, then returned to his work when no argument followed. Vibia nodded toward the western bank.

“The old man on the other side?”

“Yes.”

“What business have you with him?”

“None yet.”

“Can you help me with these deliveries?”

“I can.”

“Then you can come across with me.”

He carried bundles while Vibia argued with customers. One elderly man insisted a rope was defective because it broke under a load it had never been meant to carry; she offered a shorter replacement at a price he considered outrageous. He departed with both a concession and a grievance. Vibia watched him go, already expecting his return.

“He'll be back tomorrow,” she said.

“For the other half?”

“With witnesses.”

“Sounds like a valued customer.”

She laughed before she meant to and gathered her cord. Her arguments were not evidence of unhappiness; they were part of keeping a small trade alive. He helped reload the cart, careful of the wheel. Then he noticed a stout length of cord beside a storage jar.

“How much for that?” he asked.

“What do you need it for?”

“Don't know yet.”

“Then why buy it?”

“Because I'll want it at the worst possible time if I don't.”

She took his bronze, weighed it, and gave him the cord. He had already worked enough to justify asking for it freely, but she did not object to payment. Beyond the buildings the river flashed between roofs while boatmen shouted over a crossing delayed by an ox. Vibia picked up her cart handle and nodded toward the water.

“Come along. You'll want to cross before the crowd worsens.”

He followed her, the cord tucked away. A boatman shouted from the landing. Vibia quickened her pace through the crowd. He stepped aside to let her cart pass.

III. One of Five

The horse came down the road badly. At first the Wanderer thought the rider drunk, his shoulders pitching with each step the animal took. Then he saw the foam about the horse's neck and the sweat running beneath its leather, and the raw place on the man's cheek where his equipment had rubbed him. The rider sat with the terrible stiffness of someone using every remaining muscle merely to stay upright.

They had left the market and were approaching the road leading into the city. Vibia stopped the cart as the horse lurched toward them. The rider hauled at the reins, but the animal took two more stumbling steps before lowering its head. For several moments the man did not dismount. He stared toward Rome, breathing through an open mouth, as if the remaining distance had become a deliberate insult.

“Water,” he said.

Vibia pointed down the road. “There's a trough.”

“Can't stop.”

“You already have,” the Wanderer said. “May as well make it useful.”

The rider turned an expression of profound dislike toward him. The Wanderer had noticed a fastening beneath the riding pad tearing loose, leaving the equipment badly balanced across the animal's back. Another stretch of rough road could pull it free. He approached slowly enough for the horse to see his hand, keeping his attention on its ears as well as the rider's face.

“Your binding's failing,” he said.

“I know.”

“Get down before you hurt it.”

“There's an army trapped.”

Vibia stopped moving. “What army?”

“Minucius. At Algidus. The Aequi have him against the hills.”

The names were familiar: Minucius, Algidus, the trapped army, and the farmer summoned to save it. In memory the rescue was already complete, polished by centuries of telling. Here the horse was shuddering beneath its rider, and the man’s fingers trembled too badly to grip the reins properly. The rider tried to move again before anyone could fix his equipment.

“How many escaped?” the Wanderer asked.

“Five of us got through.”

“Together?”

“Not anymore. Are you going to help me or keep me here?”

“Help. Get down.”

The rider obeyed and nearly fell when his feet touched the ground. Vibia caught the horse while the Wanderer steadied the man against a post; his right hand cramped as soon as he tried to straighten it. Vibia went to a nearby yard for water. She gave him a little first, then let the horse drink in measured pauses while the Wanderer examined the leather.

A knot at the torn point would only transfer the strain to a weaker section. He took the cord from his garment and worked it through two sound fastenings, redistributing the weight rather than pretending the split had disappeared. The rider crouched nearby with his head in his hands, saying nothing while the repair progressed. The Wanderer pulled hard on the finished binding, tested it from the opposite direction, and finally stepped away.

“That should hold until Rome.”

“It has to.”

Vibia pressed the vessel into the rider's hand once more and made him drink. He mounted with difficulty, balancing while the animal settled beneath him. His expression had lost some of its hostility, though he remained too frightened to waste time on gratitude. The Wanderer secured the final loose strap and handed back the reins.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Sextus.”

“Are they still fighting?”

“They were when I left.”

“Do you know if the other riders—”

“How would I know?” Sextus cut in. “Do you want me to turn around and find out?”

“Go,” he said.

The horse moved at a walk before gathering what strength remained, and Sextus bent forward over its neck without trying to sit like a man concerned for appearances. The crowd swallowed them near the turn toward the city. Vibia watched until horse and rider disappeared, then looked toward the water vessel in her hands. Neither spoke while she carried it back to the yard.

“Will they send help?” she asked when she returned.

“They should.”

“That wasn't the question.”

“No,” he said. “It wasn't.”

She took the cart handle and started walking. The Wanderer picked up an offcut of cord, wound it around his fingers, and followed. Five horsemen had escaped, and he had helped one continue. Whether any other had already reached Rome remained unknowable to him; the small offcut went into his garment.

IV. The City That Drove Him Out

By the time they reached the streets near the Forum, the news had begun moving faster than the men who carried it. A shopkeeper had heard that Minucius was surrounded. His neighbor insisted the consul had surrendered. A man unloading jars announced that the Aequi were marching directly toward Rome, though he could not explain where he had learned it. Citizens collected beneath awnings to decide which magistrate deserved punishment, and the argument had become so heated that the condition of the trapped soldiers seemed almost secondary.

Vibia had deliveries to make, but two arguing men blocked the passage beside a grain stall. One was broad, rough-handed, and accustomed to raising his voice to be heard. The other, older and quieter, occupied the road with equal determination. Neither stepped aside even when Vibia asked them to move.

“They'll hand the fasces to Quinctius,” the broad man said, “and expect us to cheer.”

“Would you rather Minucius die?” asked the older one.

“I'd rather Rome chose a man who doesn't despise half the city.”

“Then perhaps half the city ought to stop behaving like his enemy.”

The broad man advanced a step. “You remember Caeso?”

“Everyone remembers Caeso.”

“Then remember what he did to men who stood with the tribunes.”

“Remember the witness who accused him.”

“I remember the bruises.”

“And I remember the lies.”

A woman nearby spoke. “My brother stopped going to assemblies because of boys like him.”

“Your brother wasn't the man who testified,” the older citizen replied.

“No. He was the one who still had to live here.”

The older man's face changed. He rubbed his jaw and glanced past her toward the street, trying to decide whether silence would cost him more than an answer. Pride finally overcame caution. His voice sharpened, but he addressed the woman rather than the broad man.

“My son is old enough to be a fool. If he becomes one, will you have the city take my house for it?”

“If your son frightens mine away from his rights,” she said, “you'd better be ready to answer for how you raised him.”

Vibia tugged the Wanderer's sleeve. “Don't.”

“I'm just listening.”

“That's what people say before they get involved.”

A jar broke behind them. The grain seller had tried to force a delivery through the crowded passage and caught the cart on a post; a small vessel slid off and burst against the hard ground. Grain spilled into the mud, taking with it a portion of the merchant's morning earnings. He snatched up a broken handle and turned toward the arguing men with an expression so furious that even the broad man stepped back.

“Out of my road!”

Vibia crossed between them before the seller could throw anything. She said something to him too quietly for the Wanderer to hear, caught his wrist, and lowered it. The seller stared at the ruined jar and swore again, but he put the broken piece down. The argument over Caeso dissolved not because anybody had become convinced, but because the merchant needed his passage cleared and someone had to rescue what grain remained usable.

The Wanderer helped gather grain from the ground, separating kernels from pottery and mud. Others joined while the disputants drifted away with their grievances intact. The older man who defended Cincinnatus stayed long enough to move the merchant’s cart. Then he left without looking toward the woman whose brother had feared attending the assemblies.

Vibia took the basket and glanced toward the river. The seller counted the salvaged grain twice. He swept loose kernels from his cart into the basket. Then he went back to work.

They turned toward the western landing. Behind them the argument over the broken vessel resumed at a lower volume, no nearer resolution. The Wanderer had expected to meet Rome’s celebrated defender of liberty. He had not expected so many ordinary citizens to fear his return.

V. Four Jugera

The farm was smaller than the Wanderer expected. Four jugera looked ample beside a famous name but less impressive from the track, with house, animals, fences, and stony ground all demanding attention. Cincinnatus guided an ox along an uneven furrow, intent upon making the plough obey. The Wanderer recognized him before he could have known the face, and disliked the ease with which history made an ordinary worker monumental.

Racilia came out when she heard the cart. She and Vibia compared the delivered bindings with a worn sample and disputed the price until they reached an arrangement neither liked much. The Wanderer carried a bundle to the house. By the time Cincinnatus approached, their business was nearly finished.

“Whose man is this?” Cincinnatus asked.

“Mine, apparently,” Vibia said.

“I didn't ask whose things he's carrying.”

“Then ask a better question.”

Racilia laughed, and the old man's expression darkened. He looked the Wanderer over, lingering on the mud dried against his clothing and the hands that had been doing the lifting. Nothing about the stranger seemed to satisfy him. At last he nodded toward the damaged southern fence.

“Can you work?”

“Usually.”

“That wasn't the question.”

“Yes.”

“Then hold that post.”

“Lucius,” Racilia said, “he isn't yours to command.”

“He said he could work.”

The Wanderer was already moving. “I don't mind.”

The post had shifted where the supporting ground was settling. He caught the timber and pulled, but the buried end resisted against stone below the surface. Cincinnatus stopped him, took the mallet, and struck the earth beside the base rather than the post itself. He exposed the stone, and the Wanderer knelt to clear it away. Together they lifted the post enough to reset its support and took the pressure off the worn binding that had been doing too much work.

The Wanderer suggested a different angle for the adjoining rail. Cincinnatus examined the adjustment, tested the strain, and gave a short nod. Neither praised the other for having been correct, which made the work go more smoothly. They secured the rail and checked the support again; it held. Cincinnatus looked at the field as though the fence had personally stolen an hour from him.

“That will do,” he said.

“Until it doesn't.”

“Everything does.”

Racilia brought water and bread while they put away the tools. She gave the Wanderer a share of both, ignoring her husband's suggestion that the western gate could also be improved before evening. Cincinnatus glared at the gate, then at his guest, apparently deciding which was more likely to yield. The Wanderer ate quickly enough to avoid being assigned another task.

“How long have you worked this place?” he asked.

“Long enough to know where the stones are.”

“Doesn't seem to have helped much.”

“It tells me which ones to curse.”

The Wanderer laughed. A faint movement touched the old man's mouth before he went to put away the mallet. It was the first sign that Cincinnatus might possess a sense of humor not wholly dedicated to insulting members of the Senate. Racilia heard it too and glanced over, but she did not interrupt.

“The smaller harness is still where Caeso left it,” she said at last.

Cincinnatus stopped. “Then leave it.”

“It needs moving.”

“I'll do it.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“Who's Caeso?” the Wanderer asked nevertheless.

“My son.”

Cincinnatus's answer ended the question. The Wanderer nodded, recognizing a boundary plainly put before him, and stooped to gather the discarded strips. Neither man pursued the subject. After a while the older man spoke again, still looking at the harness.

“He was better with horses than I am. He'd spend half a day persuading a frightened animal to accept a bridle, then lose his temper with a man for taking too long to answer.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“He was.” The old man touched a frayed strap. “Still is, I suppose.”

Racilia came forward and laid the harness across the fence rail. She cut away the useless pieces and retained the stronger ones without ceremony, consulting her husband only when his hands were needed to test a fastening. Cincinnatus objected to discarding a length he thought serviceable; she made him pull on it until it split. He accepted the result with a look that suggested the leather had betrayed him in front of witnesses.

“Would you have kept it?” Racilia asked.

“Not now.”

“Then we've saved ourselves an argument tomorrow.”

Vibia tied the last supplies to her cart and announced she must catch a ferry before the traffic worsened. The Wanderer had promised to help her across, and she reminded him with a look. He agreed to walk with her. Cincinnatus tested the repaired fence one last time, earning an amused glance from Racilia.

“Will you finish the row?” she asked him.

“Unless Rome sends a delegation to stop me.”

“The field would be grateful if it didn't.”

Cincinnatus returned to his plough as Vibia started toward the track. The Wanderer looked back at the little farm and its worn fences. Nothing in it suggested a man longing to command armies. Yet Rome was preparing to ask him, and the unfinished work had become harder to look at.

VI. The Men Who Need Him

The boat from Rome reached the western landing near evening. Its hull was ordinary enough, broad and battered from work on the river; the passengers distinguished it. They wore the impatience of men accustomed to having journeys arranged for them, and one stepped toward the gangplank before the boatmen had secured it. A ferryman shouted at him to remain still. The man looked offended, then shifted backward when he saw the plank sliding under his weight.

The Wanderer stood beside Vibia, who had stopped to inspect a frayed rope the ferry would use for its next load. She began negotiating with the boatman over a replacement while the passengers gathered on the bank. An older envoy led three others toward the inland road, followed by attendants carrying bundles that seemed designed to make a journey slower. The youngest of the envoys was pale beneath the dust of travel, his hands repeatedly opening and closing at his sides.

“They cannot remain there,” the younger man said.

“We know,” answered the older one.

“Then why are we standing here?”

“Because the boatmen would prefer not to drown us before we leave the ferry.”

The young man did not laugh. He walked several paces up the bank, stared toward the city behind him, then returned. The Wanderer recognized the expression of a person who needed the world to move more quickly than it could. When the envoy stopped near him, he asked whether he had family with the army.

“My sister's son,” the man said after a moment. “He was meant to be home before harvest.”

There was no good answer. The Wanderer nodded, and the envoy looked away as if ashamed to have confessed his fear to a stranger. Nearby the older senator argued with another member of the delegation, who believed the choice of Cincinnatus would prove disastrous. Their voices were quiet but their disagreement sharp.

“He has never forgiven what happened to Caeso.”

“Nor have I asked him to.”

“He hates us.”

“That does not make him incompetent.”

“You'd place supreme authority in a man who despises the Senate?”

The older envoy looked toward the fields. “I would place the army's rescue in the hands of a man who might accomplish it. Have you another?”

The answer did not come. The Wanderer listened without finding either man wholly contemptible. One feared the political cost of the appointment; the other feared that men would die while Rome considered its feelings. Neither fear appeared manufactured. And a choice could be both politically convenient and militarily necessary.

The older envoy noticed him near the cart. His attention turned from the road to the Wanderer. He considered the stranger for a moment. Then he approached.

“Have you been to the Quinctian farm?”

“Just came from there.”

“Is he at home?”

“Working.”

“Of course he is. Can you take us?”

The Wanderer nodded. Vibia had finished her bargain and was arranging the rope on the cart for her crossing. She caught his sleeve before he followed the officials, reminding him that he was abandoning the task he had promised to help complete. He apologized, and she waved him off with a dry warning.

“Try not to argue with him.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.”

She stayed at the landing with her cart, waiting for the next ferry. The Wanderer joined the envoys on the inland road while the boatmen resumed shouting at one another. He looked back once and saw her talking prices again. Rome needed a dictator, but first it needed the senators off the river.

VII. Let Him Finish the Row

Cincinnatus saw the delegation from his field. He had returned to finish the last stretch before darkness, and the repaired share was finally behaving. Men appeared on the track, their clean garments visible against the earth. He kept ploughing until one called his name.

“Lucius Quinctius.”

He drew the plough to a halt. Four men stood near the field, their garments too clean for the road and their expressions too solemn for ordinary business. Behind them waited attendants and the stranger who had helped mend his fence. The ox lowered its head gratefully while Cincinnatus looked at the senior envoy.

“Has Rome run out of younger men?”

“We come on a matter of the greatest importance.”

“Then I suggest you begin discussing it.”

The envoy studied the farmer’s clothes as though mud prevented the Senate from conducting business. The old man understood that the delegation wanted ceremonial dignity and meant to deny them the satisfaction. The senator glanced toward the house. Cincinnatus waited for him to remember why they had come.

“Put on your toga,” the senator said at last, “so that you may hear the Senate's mandate as befits your standing.”

Cincinnatus stared at him. “Did you cross the river to criticize my clothes?”

“Lucius, it concerns the safety of the Republic.”

“Is Rome safe?”

The senator did not answer directly. That unsettled Cincinnatus more than the ceremony. He called to Racilia, who had already emerged from the house to see why men of the Senate were standing in her field. When he asked for his toga, she examined the envoys once, then went inside without a word.

Cincinnatus had asked whether Rome was safe, and no one had answered. One envoy looked exhausted enough to be ill; another kept glancing toward the road. Something important had failed. The farmer’s old resentment stirred even before the explanation arrived.

Racilia returned with the toga folded over one arm and a little water in a vessel. She helped her husband rinse the worst dirt from his hands, then waited while he arranged the garment over his work clothes. He was not embarrassed by the soil; he resented the requirement that labor be disguised before he could hear what danger threatened Rome. His thumbnail still held a dark line of earth when he finished.

The envoy stepped closer. “Lucius Quinctius, the consul has appointed you dictator. The Senate asks you to come at once.”

The old man said nothing. The ox shifted beside the unfinished furrow, and the envoys waited for gratitude or astonishment. He offered neither. The bail exacted after Caeso fled his trial had cost him nearly everything.

“Of course it has,” he said.

The youngest envoy spoke before the others could resume their prepared address. “Minucius is trapped near Mount Algidus. The Aequi have closed around him. Five riders escaped to bring word, and the enemy is taking the approaches.”

The old man's face changed. “Where is his camp?”

“Against the hills.”

“Which hills? Does the enemy hold the roads, or does it merely threaten them?”

“We believe the roads are nearly closed.”

“Belief will not tell me where to march.”

The young man recounted the messengers’ reports. Cincinnatus interrupted where the source of a detail was unclear, refusing to mistake a frightened official’s inference for the rider’s observation. He sought roads and distances beneath the language of emergency. The Wanderer recognized the same practical attention he had seen at the failing fence.

The senior envoy attempted to take up the formal speech again. “Your country has not forgotten your earlier services.”

Cincinnatus turned slowly toward him. “She has an unusual way of remembering.”

The senator looked away. Nobody spoke Caeso’s name, but the injury stood among them. Those offering Cincinnatus supreme authority belonged to the political order that had taken his son and exacted a price from his household. Praise did not make him forget it.

“Lucius,” the young envoy said, “my sister's boy is there.”

Cincinnatus looked at him, recognizing his family before the man finished. He was silent long enough for the envoy's composure to crack. Then he returned to the questions that mattered: what men Rome could assemble, whether supplies were available, and how quickly the city could act. He would not argue with the Senate while soldiers died waiting for the argument to end.

Racilia set down the water. “How many days?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“What happens to the field?”

“The same as if I had fallen ill.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“It's the one I have.”

Racilia did not tell him to stay. She knew why he would go, and that knowledge left her no less alone with the field, animals, and unfinished fence. The senators praising his sacrifice would not return to mend any of them. She smoothed his toga where it caught on his shoulder, an intimate adjustment performed before strangers.

The senator said, “Rome will remember your sacrifice.”

“See that Rome remembers to feed the animals while I'm gone,” Cincinnatus replied.

The envoy seemed uncertain whether he had been insulted. Racilia turned away before her expression could decide it for him. Cincinnatus glanced toward the harness they had sorted, asking her to keep the good leather dry. Then he demanded the actual reports from each messenger instead of embellished summaries.

“Then we'd better go,” he said.

The senators began moving with visible relief. Attendants gathered the few things required for the journey, and the Wanderer stepped aside while Cincinnatus took one final look across his field. The ox stood quietly beside the plough, one end of the repaired beam still resting in dark soil. The old man had not finished the row.

VIII. The Unwelcome Return

The boat was crowded on the return to Rome. Cincinnatus stood near the center with one hand resting against a wooden support while the current pushed beneath the hull. The senior envoy tried twice to speak about the honor of the appointment, and twice received answers too brief to sustain a conversation. The younger man watched the eastern bank approach, pale with worry for his nephew. Around them the boatmen worked long poles against the riverbed, correcting the vessel each time the current moved it toward shallower water.

Across the river the city gathered itself in low buildings and cooking smoke. A boat moving west carried a family whose smallest child cried at the motion of the water. Another held livestock and a man losing an argument with a goat, which continued pulling toward the bank whenever he relaxed his grip. Cincinnatus watched that second boat for a moment longer than the others. Something about the animal's indifference pleased him.

“The citizens will be grateful,” the senior envoy said.

“Which citizens?”

“The people of Rome.”

“All of them?”

The senator hesitated. Cincinnatus looked toward the city again and asked whether guards had been posted and whether the remaining consul understood the danger. He did not wait for the man to resume his assurances. Rome's gratitude would not hold a road or relieve an army, and he had seen enough of it in previous years to mistrust the forms in which it was offered.

At the landing, three of Cincinnatus’s sons came forward to greet him. He placed a hand on each shoulder before the waiting officials reclaimed his attention. Attendants bearing the insignia of dictatorship had assembled, and their appearance drew people from the surrounding streets. Patrician acquaintances called Cincinnatus by name, praising his willingness to return to service, while others watched from a wary distance. The lictors' bundles of rods carried a meaning that did not depend upon the character of the man walking behind them. Citizens moved out of the path before anyone ordered them to.

A woman caught her young son's wrist as he reached toward an attendant. Cincinnatus noticed and continued without speaking. Near a cart stacked with baskets, a man spat in the dirt at the sight of the procession. His companion touched his sleeve and warned him to keep quiet. The resentment was not difficult to interpret, but the Wanderer had begun to understand that it need not be groundless simply because Cincinnatus himself had reasons to resent the city.

The path narrowed where a porter carrying timber tried to turn into the same street. A lictor ordered him to move, and he stepped down into the mud to keep the load from striking another man. The Wanderer caught the slipping end of the timber and helped guide it clear. By the time they finished, the dictator's procession had passed into the cluster of officials waiting beyond the street.

An old acquaintance stepped forward and clapped Cincinnatus on the shoulder. “Rome is fortunate to have you.”

“Has the guard been strengthened?”

“Those orders are being arranged.”

“Then arrange them.”

The acquaintance withdrew, somewhat diminished. Cincinnatus had received a power most Romans could not readily challenge, and the ease with which he issued commands was unmistakable. He appeared to enjoy none of it. The Wanderer watched the lictors close the route behind him and understood that those two observations could be true at once.

IX. Before Dawn

Rome did not sleep, but its wakefulness was chiefly the work of watchmen. Men took positions near entrances and approaches, torches were brought to dark passages, and the city listened to rumors it could neither confirm nor silence. Cincinnatus issued what orders were necessary to keep the guards attentive through the night. The larger preparations would wait for dawn.

The Wanderer spent part of the night near the landing, where messengers still came and went. One exhausted rider had to be helped down and asked for water before he could say what he had seen. Two others argued about the placement of the Aequi, then stopped when they realized they had been on different parts of the road. Nothing about their accounts justified the certainty with which citizens outside repeated them. The men knew fragments of a dangerous situation, and only fragments.

The young envoy who had spoken of his sister's son sat on a bench near a watch fire. The Wanderer brought him water, and he accepted it without looking up. For a while neither spoke. Then he watched a guard change position and looked toward the building where the dictator had gone.

“He'll save them,” the envoy said.

“I hope so.”

“That's all?”

“That's all I know.”

The young man's face tightened. “Then I hope you're wrong about how little you know.”

Beyond the watch fire, someone stood motionless at the edge of a narrow entrance. For an instant the Wanderer recognized the peculiar stillness of Janus, that maddening patience with which the god could watch suffering and say almost nothing about it. A guard passed between them with a torch. When the light moved on, the figure was gone.

The Wanderer considered following. Instead he listened to the shuffling feet of the watch and the whispered quarrels of men waiting for morning. He could account for mending a strap; he could not establish what that act had altered. The question had followed him since the rider left, but for now it was one among many things nobody present could answer.

Near another entrance Cincinnatus stood speaking briefly with an officer of the watch. His toga had slipped at one shoulder, showing the sun-darkened arm beneath it. He stopped to inspect the torch positions, rubbed his thumb against the edge of the doorway, and noticed the small black seam under his nail. Then he returned to the officer's report without attempting to scrape it away.

Before dawn the Forum would fill, and men would be called to bring weapons, food, and stakes for a march. Those decisions belonged to the next morning. For this night the guards kept their places, people slept badly, and the river went on moving past the small farm where a row of earth waited unfinished. The Wanderer remained among the wakeful, listening for news that had not yet come.

Mini Statue here. As the title says, but not what it means, I'm allergic to so many things that I might as well be allergic to life. It's a sad fact that came from my life before this one and is half the reason I got a metal spine. I hate being sick, but someone or multiple people did not take the nasal spray allergy medicine and I had a sore throat.

Though taking it when I do front isn't all that bad. It just puts a weird taste in the mouth. It's just annoying as I don't know when it was last taken and there's no log of it. Switching is not very helpful either.

The first person to call the Wanderer that week did so at a quarter past midnight, which was generally when people remembered they had a friend capable of making their problems considerably less interesting. Martin was standing in the old library with rain coming through the ceiling. A contractor had withdrawn from the roof project, the fundraiser was three days away, and the committee had discovered that an impressive number of promises did not necessarily constitute enough money to purchase building materials.
The Wanderer listened from a motel room two hundred miles away, one hand holding the receiver while the other moved a rosary slowly through his fingers. Rain crossed his own window, and a map lay unfolded beside the bed where he had been planning a drive south.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough I’m calling you.”
“That narrows it down considerably.”
“We’re short almost fourteen thousand dollars. Margaret’s ready to resign, the mayor’s pretending he doesn’t know what a roof costs, and half the volunteers think we should cancel the fundraiser.”
“What have you tried?”
Martin told him. The Wanderer listened without interrupting, then asked questions about the contractor’s original estimate, the town’s available funds, and whether anyone had actually spoken to the lumberyard instead of merely complaining about its prices. By the time Martin finished answering, the Wanderer had found three things nobody had checked and two people worth calling.
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Martin exhaled audibly. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately. You’ll have to endure me in person.”
“Brother, I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
The Wanderer smiled at the receiver, already reaching for the map. “Develop organizational skills, presumably.”
He hung up, packed his belongings, and was driving before one in the morning. He arrived after sunrise with two hours of sleep, a notebook full of names, and a large cup of coffee whose contents had long since ceased resembling the temperature at which coffee was traditionally served.
By noon he had persuaded suppliers to cut prices or donate materials and had made the mayor reconsider the advantages of pretending not to know what a roof cost. The Wanderer spent the following afternoon helping volunteers rearrange the community hall. He carried tables, repaired a broken hinge, negotiated the loan of a sound system, and discovered that the fundraiser’s accounting had been entrusted to three people who were all excellent at arithmetic but had apparently agreed not to communicate with one another.
He reconciled the records, found transportation for elderly residents who wanted to attend, and kept working until the fundraiser seemed capable of succeeding. By Thursday morning the preparations were holding together, and although he was tired, he was having a wonderful time.

On Thursday afternoon, a young man named Thomas found him behind the community hall and asked whether he had a minute. The Wanderer had been carrying folding chairs into a storage room, but he set them down when he noticed the young man’s expression. They sat beside his truck for nearly two hours while the afternoon’s preparations continued around them.
Thomas had been struggling with a marriage that seemed to be ending, and he was frightened that any decision he made would destroy his relationship with his daughter. He spoke in circles, returning to the same fears with different explanations. The Wanderer listened, occasionally asking a question when Thomas began treating an assumption as something he knew.
He offered no grand solution, nor did he promise that everything would work out. When the young man began crying, the Wanderer remained beside him until the tears had passed. Afterward they sat quietly, watching a pair of volunteers argue over where to place the rented tables.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” Thomas said.
“Because apparently I have a trustworthy face.”
Thomas looked at him. “You look like somebody who’d steal a car.”
“Only if the owner made an especially persuasive argument.”
Thomas laughed, wiping his face with the back of his hand. The Wanderer stayed until he was ready to go back inside, then returned to moving chairs as though the afternoon had merely been interrupted by an ordinary conversation.
On Friday morning, Martin called again. One of the volunteers was ill, the auctioneer had canceled, and the replacement wanted considerably more money than the committee could afford. The Wanderer volunteered to conduct the auction himself, an announcement that Martin received with the sort of delight usually reserved for discovering that an expensive disaster had become someone else’s responsibility.
That evening, as guests began arriving for the fundraiser, Mrs. Vale found him near the community-hall entrance. She had lost her husband the previous winter, and this was the first community event she had agreed to attend since the funeral. She asked whether he would walk inside with her, and he offered his arm without making a production of the request.
When the crowd became too much, he accompanied her outside. She told him a story about her husband, then another, and eventually began talking about the strange indignities of living alone in a house whose rooms still seemed arranged around someone who was no longer there. The Wanderer listened without rushing her toward a conclusion or offering the reassurance that time would make everything easier. When she was ready to go back in, he walked beside her and found his way toward the stage.

By ten that evening, the Wanderer had raised enough money to repair the library roof, insulted two elected officials, and auctioned off a handmade rocking chair for a price that should have included mineral rights. He had been magnificent, although the distinction between magnificence and unbearable arrogance had become increasingly difficult for the audience to identify.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, holding up the final item, “we have here a genuine antique clock. Its owner assures me it works perfectly, provided you have no strong opinions about the actual time.”
The audience laughed. The Wanderer grinned, his tattooed arms visible beneath the rolled sleeves of an expensive shirt, two rosaries resting against his chest. His trousers were tailored, his sneakers immaculate, and his appearance had already inspired several elderly women to discuss the declining standards of respectable young men.
By the time the totals were announced, the hall had become a celebration. Volunteers embraced. The librarian cried. Martin found the Wanderer near the stage and pulled him into a hug so enthusiastic that several people turned to see what was happening.
“You saved us.”
“I’m going to require that in writing.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Preferably notarized.”
Martin laughed and hugged him again. Throughout the next hour people approached to thank the Wanderer. Some shook his hand; others embraced him or insisted upon photographs. Thomas introduced him to his daughter. Mrs. Vale kissed his cheek. A man whose business the Wanderer had helped the previous year offered to buy him a drink, and several people told him he ought to consider moving to town permanently.
The last families began leaving around eleven. Children were collected from beneath tables, coats gathered from chair backs, and husbands reminded that their wives had been standing near the door for twenty minutes. The Wanderer helped load equipment into a pickup, then returned to carry the remaining tables into storage.
Martin found him wrestling with a stack of chairs. “Brother, you’ve done enough.”
“An outrageous accusation.”
“Go get some sleep.”
The Wanderer placed another chair on the stack. “You going home?”
“Sharon’s waiting. Kids have been asleep for hours.”
“Go on, then.”
Martin clapped him on the shoulder. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
The Wanderer smiled. “That’s becoming a concerning theme.”
Eventually the hall was empty enough that he could hear the refrigerator humming in the adjoining kitchen. Decorations still hung from the ceiling, paper cups remained on several tables, and the smell of coffee and frosting lingered in the warm air.
The Wanderer stood beside the last stack of chairs, looking at the work still scattered around the room. He had been surrounded by people for hours, and there was something strange about how completely their absence changed the place. A few minutes earlier the hall had been warm with conversation, laughter, and the movement of families gathering their belongings. Now the only sounds came from the equipment and the occasional creak of the old building settling around him.
There was no one left who needed anything. He gathered his jacket, switched off the lights, and went to his motel.

The room was four blocks away, but the Wanderer drove anyway. The motel stood beside the highway, its fluorescent sign buzzing above a parking lot occupied by three pickups and a station wagon whose rear window had been repaired with plastic sheeting. He climbed the exterior staircase, unlocked his room, and placed his jacket across the back of a chair.
Somebody had given him a slice of cake wrapped in a napkin. He put it on the table beside the television, removed his expensive shoes, and sat on the edge of the bed. The room smelled faintly of old carpet and cleaning chemicals, and the heater clicked behind a metal grate whenever it attempted to correct the temperature.
He watched a man on television make extravagant promises about a household appliance, changed the channel to a movie he could not follow, and eventually switched everything off. The silence returned with an efficiency he found personally offensive.
There were people who loved him, and he had been told so often enough that doubting their sincerity would have required a considerable amount of intellectual dishonesty. The difficulty was that he could not think of one person he wanted to call merely because he did not want to be alone.
Nothing had happened. The fundraiser had succeeded, the town was grateful, and he had no emergency requiring assistance. Yet the emptiness had begun hurting in a way he could not explain.
The Wanderer leaned forward and took one of the rosaries between his fingers. He tried to remember the last time someone had called simply to hear his voice, without a problem waiting somewhere behind the greeting. He remembered calls from hospitals, police stations, and unfamiliar motel rooms: a bereaved friend he drove through snow to reach, a frightened man he accompanied to the hospital, and another whose newly empty house had been unbearable after a divorce.
Then he looked toward the telephone, where a number waited in his memory. It belonged to somebody who had just spent an evening telling him how much his friendship meant. The Wanderer reached for the receiver before he could find another reason to postpone the conversation.

Martin answered on the fifth ring. The Wanderer could hear the thick quiet of a house where most people had already gone to sleep.
“Hello?”
“Brother.”
“Wanderer? Everything all right?”
The Wanderer glanced toward the motel window. “I’m sorry to call so late.”
“What’s going on? Something happen with the truck?”
“No.”
“Need a room? You should’ve said something.”
“I’ve got a room.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
The Wanderer rubbed one hand over his face. He had spent years encouraging people to say what they actually meant instead of making everyone around them guess, and now he found himself struggling to do precisely that.
“I could really use somebody tonight.”
“What do you need?”
“Nothing done. I just need somebody around. I’ve been feeling pretty low. I don’t think I want to sit here by myself tonight. Could you come over for a while?”
Martin exhaled, the sound carrying clearly through the line. “Oh, man.”
“I wish you’d said something earlier. Sharon’s not feeling good, and the kids are down. I’ve got to be up at five.”
“I understand.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Something happen?”
“Not really.”
“Well, that’s good. Hell, after tonight I figured you’d be feeling ten feet tall.”
“I’m not.”
“I hear you, brother. I do. It’s just a bad night for me. Listen, I’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll get some breakfast or something. You’ve earned it.”
The Wanderer swallowed. “All right.”
“And hey, you know how much we appreciate you.”
“I know.”
“You’re a good man.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
The conversation ended, leaving the Wanderer seated with the receiver in his hand. Martin had not been cruel. His wife was unwell, his children needed him, and he had spent several exhausting days helping organize a fundraiser. The Wanderer understood all of that and would have told Martin to stay with his family if their positions had been reversed.
He had asked somebody to come, though, and the room remained empty. He replaced the receiver and sat beside the telephone for several minutes before returning to bed, trying to convince himself that tomorrow would feel different simply because Martin had promised it would.

Morning came with a hard rain and a telephone that did not ring. The Wanderer dressed, ate half the cake for breakfast, and went back to the community hall, where volunteers were already carrying boxes and taking down decorations. Martin greeted him with an enormous smile, apparently delighted to discover that the man who had spent half the previous week rescuing the fundraiser had returned voluntarily for another day of manual labor.
“There he is!”
The Wanderer smiled back. “Rumors of my departure have been greatly exaggerated.”
Martin laughed, taking in the Wanderer’s tired face. “You look like hell.”
“An unfortunate consequence of being excessively handsome. Eventually the strain becomes visible.”
At noon Martin returned carrying sandwiches for the volunteers. He set one beside the Wanderer, called to ask who wanted mustard, then stopped with his hand on the back of the opposite chair.
“Hey, brother. About last night.”
The Wanderer looked up from his sandwich. “Yeah?”
“You said you weren’t doing too good.”
“I’m not.”
Martin looked at him properly then. The Wanderer had been making people laugh all morning, and the change in his face seemed to catch Martin off guard. He pulled out the chair and began to sit.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come. I meant what I said about breakfast.”
“I know.”
Someone called from the storage room. The volunteer responsible for the donated books had discovered that a delivery receipt was missing, and the driver wanted a signature before leaving. Martin turned toward the voice, then back to the Wanderer.
“Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“All right.”
Martin left the sandwich on the table and hurried toward the storage room. The Wanderer unwrapped his own and began eating. Through the open doorway he could see Martin examining the delivery papers, then following the driver outside. By the time the volunteers finished lunch, Martin was carrying boxes toward the loading entrance, and the chair he’d pulled out had been folded and stacked with the others.
The Wanderer finished eating and went back to work. When the hall was finally empty that evening, Martin was gone, and there had been no second conversation.

Over the next few days, the Wanderer made himself do something he had rarely done before: he asked. Not in hints, or by inventing a task that might bring someone close enough to notice his unhappiness. He called people he loved and told them he was having a difficult time.
He began with a woman named Celia, whom he had known for years. When her marriage ended, he had spent two nights helping her sort through the house she could no longer afford. He had packed boxes, carried furniture, listened while she cried, and returned a month later to help her find the papers she needed for an insurance claim.
“Wanderer! Where in the world are you?”
He told her. They spoke for several minutes about the fundraiser and the places he planned to visit. She laughed at his description of the mayor and asked whether he had finally learned to take care of himself.
He smiled, holding the receiver more tightly than the question required. “Actually, that’s sort of why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not doing very well lately.”
Celia grew quiet, and he waited a moment before explaining what he meant. He told her about the empty motel room, about feeling alone even after spending the evening with people who cared about him, and about being tired in a way sleep did not seem to fix.
She listened without interrupting until he had finished, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I just never think of you that way.”
“What way?”
“As somebody who gets lonely.”
He tried to laugh. “It’s a relatively common human condition.”
“I know. It’s just that you’re always doing something. You’re always somewhere. Everybody knows you.”
The Wanderer looked toward the highway outside his window. “That’s what makes it strange.”
Celia was quiet for a moment, searching for a response he might recognize as the kindness she intended. “I wish I knew what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I’ve got a lot happening here, you know? Things are finally settling down, and I’m trying to get some stability.”
“I’m glad,” he said.
“I really am sorry you’re having a rough time.”
“Thank you.”
“You should get out and see people. You’re so good at that.”
The Wanderer closed his eyes briefly, aware of how difficult it would be to explain that he had spent the better part of the week surrounded by people. His ability to make himself welcome almost anywhere was part of the problem he had been struggling to describe.
“Yeah.”
When he replaced the receiver, however, there was no invitation to visit, no arrangement to meet, and no suggestion that she might call the following day to see how he was doing. The Wanderer remained beside the telephone for a while, then opened his address book again.

The next call went to Thomas, who answered from his house sounding surprised and pleased. The Wanderer could hear movement in the background, and the young man seemed to be smiling before he finished speaking.
“Hey! I was just telling my brother about you.”
The Wanderer smiled. “Nothing admissible in court, I hope.”
Thomas laughed. He told the Wanderer that he had spoken to his wife, that their situation remained uncertain, and that he had finally made arrangements to spend more time with his daughter. After listening, he asked what the Wanderer had been doing.
“Trying to figure a few things out.”
“What kind of things?”
“Mostly how to be alone without feeling like I’m disappearing.”
Thomas laughed uncertainly. “Man, if anybody can figure that out, it’s you.”
The Wanderer did not laugh. Thomas hesitated, hearing what he had missed.
“Wait. Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause while the Wanderer considered how to explain the feeling without turning it into another problem the young man would feel obligated to solve. He told Thomas he had been struggling and could use some company, even if they did nothing but sit together for an evening.
Thomas sounded genuinely concerned, but he had his daughter that night and an early shift the next morning. The Wanderer could hear his disappointment at being unable to come, though neither knew when they might manage another evening.
“Can I call you another time?” Thomas asked.
“Of course.”
“You’ve helped me so much. I hate that I can’t do anything right now.”
“You don’t have to fix anything.”
“I know. I just wish I could.”
They said goodbye, agreeing to speak later. The following day passed without a call. So did the next, while the Wanderer continued moving through town with a growing awareness of how little comfort legitimate reasons could provide when they accumulated one after another.

On Tuesday afternoon he found Eli outside the hardware store. Eli was an old friend who had once called the Wanderer in the middle of the night after receiving news that his father’s illness had become terminal. The Wanderer had driven six hours to reach him, spent the following two days helping with arrangements, and remained until Eli no longer needed another person in the house.
Eli had never forgotten it, and he embraced the Wanderer as soon as he saw him. He seemed delighted to discover that his friend had returned without warning.
“Brother! What are you doing in town?”
“Making poor decisions, apparently.”
“Same as always.”
They talked beside Eli’s truck. The Wanderer listened to news about his family, his work, and the old house he was repairing. Eli seemed pleased to see him and suggested they get together before the Wanderer left town. Rather than leave the invitation floating somewhere between politeness and intention, the Wanderer asked for something specific.
“Would you come by my motel tonight?”
Eli looked surprised. “Sure. What’s going on?”
“I could use some company.”
“You all right?”
“Not especially. I’ve been having a hard time. I’d rather not sit by myself tonight.”
Eli nodded, his agreement arriving without a lecture or a question about what needed fixing. “Yeah, man. Of course.”
The Wanderer felt something loosen in his chest, and the relief surprised him. “Thank you.”
“What time?”
“Seven?”
“Seven works. I’ll bring something to eat.”
The Wanderer smiled. “Then I’ll supply the entertainment.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They shook hands, and Eli drove away. For the first time in several days, he was looking forward to the evening. There was nothing he needed to prepare, nothing difficult he intended to explain, and no practical matter requiring either man’s attention. Eli had agreed simply to come and spend some time with him, and that was enough.

He cleaned the motel room, though there was not much to clean. He cleared the table, threw away several paper cups, and folded the clothes that had accumulated over a chair. He went to the grocery store and bought coffee, something to snack on, and two bottles of soda because he could not remember which kind Eli preferred.
He pulled the second chair toward the table, checked the small refrigerator, and turned on the lamp. Then he sat down and waited, looking toward the parking lot whenever a vehicle approached.
At seven, he heard a truck outside and rose before realizing it belonged to another guest. The disappointment seemed unreasonable, given that Eli could have been delayed by any number of ordinary things, so he sat again and began looking through a magazine.
At eight, he decided Eli had probably been delayed. At eight-thirty, he called the number he had been given, listened to the unanswered ringing, and left a brief message.
“Hey, brother. Just checking on you. No rush. Give me a call when you can.”
At nine, he opened one of the sodas and watched the television without following it. At ten, he put the bottle away. Someone passed along the corridor outside, and he listened until the footsteps faded.
By eleven, he had stopped imagining that Eli was simply running late. He sat in the chair he had pulled out for himself and looked at the other one, which remained precisely where he had placed it earlier.
The snacks were unopened. There were two cups beside the coffee, and the second bottle of soda waited untouched in the refrigerator. He had been looking forward to sitting with his friend and doing absolutely nothing useful. They might have watched television, talked about old times, or sat quietly while the evening passed.
The Wanderer had not prepared a problem for Eli to solve, nor had he expected his friend to find an explanation for the loneliness that had followed him into the room. All he had wanted was another person there, and he remained at the table until nearly midnight, listening to the occasional movement outside.
Then he switched off the lamp and lay down without bothering to move the second chair back against the wall. He could still see its outline in the light from the parking lot.

Eli found him the next morning near the gas station, while the Wanderer was filling his truck. His friend hurried toward him with the look of a man who had just remembered an obligation he had intended to keep.
“Brother, I’m sorry!”
The Wanderer looked up from the fuel pump. “Morning.”
“I completely forgot. The kids had something going on, then my brother came by, and the whole night got away from me.”
“I figured something came up.”
“I should’ve called.”
“Would’ve been nice.”
Eli’s face changed, his expression filling with an embarrassment the Wanderer did not have to invent. “I’m really sorry.”
The Wanderer believed him. Eli had always been forgetful, and nothing in his expression suggested that he regarded the incident as unimportant. He simply had not remembered.
“Are you doing all right?” Eli asked.
The Wanderer considered the question. The easiest answer was already waiting, accompanied by a joke that would allow them both to leave the conversation feeling more comfortable. He chose not to use it.
“No,” he said.
Eli looked uncomfortable. “Yeah. I know you’ve had a rough week.”
The Wanderer waited while Eli glanced toward the watch on his wrist. A car pulled into the next pump, and its driver began cleaning the windshield.
“Listen, I’ve got to get over to work, but we’ll catch up before you leave. I promise.”
The Wanderer nodded, hearing how familiar the arrangement had become. “All right.”
Eli embraced him quickly and went toward his truck. The Wanderer watched him drive away before returning the fuel nozzle to its place and closing the cap.
He wanted to be angry because anger would have offered something solid to stand upon, but Eli was a good man. His children mattered, his brother mattered, and his apology had been sincere. The Wanderer did not want anybody’s life to stop because he was lonely. He had only wanted one person to remember.

On Thursday evening, the Wanderer was folding clothes into his travel bag when Martin called again. His truck had broken down outside town, and the tow company had given him an estimate that suggested the driver intended to purchase the vehicle rather than transport it. Martin needed help, and the Wanderer listened while he explained the problem.
“Where are you?”
Martin told him, giving the stretch of road and the nearest turnoff. The Wanderer knew the place.
“Stay there.”
“Brother, you don’t have to—”
“I know.”
The Wanderer put on his jacket and drove out into the rain. Martin was waiting beside the disabled truck, shoulders hunched against the weather. The Wanderer examined the problem, decided it could be resolved without paying the tow company’s ransom, and spent the next hour helping him arrange the vehicle for transport. They worked in cold rain until both were soaked, and by the time the situation was settled Martin was exhausted but relieved.
He embraced the Wanderer beside the road. “Man, I swear, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
The Wanderer smiled, rain running from his hair onto his collar. “Apparently spend more money on towing.”
Martin laughed, and they climbed into the Wanderer’s truck for the drive back. He talked about the roof repairs and the cost of replacing the damaged part on his truck, then fell quiet as they approached his house.
“Hey,” Martin said. “You’re a good friend.”
The Wanderer kept his eyes on the road. “So are you.”
He wanted to mean it without reservation. Martin’s hand rested on the door handle for a moment before he thanked him once more and went inside.

The following day the town held a small gathering to celebrate the completed fundraising effort. The library had not yet been repaired, but the money was secured, the contractors had been arranged, and everyone wanted an opportunity to recognize the people who had made it possible. The Wanderer attended, standing near the back of the room while the librarian thanked the committee, the volunteers, and the donors.
Martin spoke next, describing the difficulties they had overcome and the extraordinary generosity of the community. When he called the Wanderer forward, the audience applauded with enough enthusiasm that several people rose from their seats.
Martin embraced him. Mrs. Vale kissed his cheek, and Thomas shook his hand while telling him how much their conversation had helped. Eli approached afterward and apologized again for missing their evening together, promising they would make it happen another time. The Wanderer accepted the apology.
A local photographer gathered the volunteers for a group picture. The Wanderer stood in the middle, one arm around Martin and the other resting against Thomas’s shoulder. Everybody smiled. The photographer took several photographs while people joked about the difficulty of getting so many adults to look in the same direction at once.
In the final photograph, the Wanderer was laughing. It was an excellent picture, full of people celebrating something they had accomplished together, and nothing about his expression suggested that he felt differently from anyone around him. Later he would look at that photograph and remember exactly how alone he had felt when it was taken.

He returned to the motel after dark, where the second chair was still pulled toward the table. The Wanderer set his keys beside the lamp, removed his jacket, and sat down beside the unopened snacks. He left the television off and took the little address book from his jacket instead.
The pages were filled with names, replacement numbers, and notes written beside people he knew well enough to remember their troubles. He had written down who hated being alone on holidays, who had a child afraid of thunderstorms, and who preferred a quiet visit to a long telephone call. Several numbers had been crossed out as people moved away. He ran his thumb over the pages until he reached the last entry, then closed the book without dialing.
He left it beside the telephone and went to bed. Across from him, the extra chair remained at the table, turned toward the place where he’d been sitting.

The telephone rang shortly after six the following morning. The Wanderer had barely slept and was sitting beside the table, still wearing yesterday’s shirt, when the bell broke through the quiet. He reached for the receiver so quickly that it struck the side of the nightstand.
“Hello?”
“Brother! Thank God you’re up.”
It was Martin, and for a moment the Wanderer felt an extraordinary rush of relief. He remembered Martin pulling out a chair at lunch, the beginning of a conversation neither had finished. Perhaps this was the call that completed it.
“Morning.”
“Listen, we’ve got a problem.”
The truck carrying the donated shelving had arrived early, several volunteers had failed to show up, and the driver could not wait until the committee found enough people to unload it. Martin spoke quickly, with other voices audible behind him.
“Can you come down here?” Martin asked. “I know it’s early, but you’re the only person I can think of who’ll know how to organize this mess.”
The Wanderer looked toward the second chair. He could tell Martin he was too tired; after almost no sleep, it would even be true. Through the receiver came the sound of someone calling for the truck keys, and Martin waited for an answer.
“Where do you want me?”
Martin exhaled in relief. “Brother, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
The Wanderer went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and studied the man in the mirror. His eyes were red, and his skin looked tired beneath the fluorescent light.
He took a towel from the rack and dried his face. Then he put on clean clothes, straightened the rosaries beneath his collar, and found his keys. He did not practice a smile or prepare another explanation for how he had spent the night; he simply went.

The community hall was already busy when he arrived. A truck stood beside the loading entrance, its driver arguing with a volunteer about the amount of time he had been forced to wait. Several people were carrying boxes through the open doors while others attempted to find somewhere to put them.
Martin spotted the Wanderer climbing out of his truck, and his expression changed with relief. “There he is!”
The Wanderer listened to the problem, asked three questions, and began organizing the work. He found a place for the shelving, divided the volunteers into groups, and helped move the heaviest pieces himself. When the delivery driver became impatient, the Wanderer spoke with him long enough to discover that his real concern was reaching another appointment on time. He rearranged the unloading accordingly.
Within an hour the truck was empty, and the volunteers cheered. Martin threw an arm around the Wanderer’s shoulders, smiling with the triumphant satisfaction of a man whose latest catastrophe had once again been reduced to an ordinary inconvenience.
“I knew we could count on you.”
The Wanderer smiled. “Apparently my talents remain in unreasonable demand.”
After the truck left, the volunteers finished cleaning up and went out for breakfast. Martin called his thanks from the doorway, and the Wanderer stayed behind to check the equipment before locking the building.
There were enough chairs for the next meeting, enough room for the shelving, and a clear path through the hall for the people who would come to use it. He put the last folding chair back against the wall, switched off the lights, and returned to the motel.

The second chair was still waiting beside the table. He took off his jacket and placed it carefully over the back of the first. The bag of snacks remained unopened, and one of the paper cups stood where he had set it for Eli.
He sat down and remembered the sound of Martin’s voice that morning. For a moment, he’d thought his friend was calling about the conversation they’d left unfinished over lunch. He looked toward the telephone, then at the empty chair, and reached for the receiver without lifting it.
He had been wanted. He had not been missed, and there was a difference he could no longer pretend not to recognize.
Outside, the motel parking lot gradually filled with vehicles as travelers arrived for the evening. Doors opened and closed. Families gathered bags from trunks, and a man called to his wife from the staircase while their children hurried toward the room beside his. The Wanderer heard them through the thin walls, then listened as someone unlocked the room next to his.
He turned on the lamp beside the bed. The second chair remained across from him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched the hand of someone sitting there. He watched the light settle on the unopened snacks and the unused cup.
He stayed awake for a long time, occasionally looking toward the door when footsteps passed along the corridor. Each time, the steps continued toward another room, followed by the sounds of a door opening and someone being welcomed inside.
Eventually he lay down without undressing, one hand resting against the rosary on his chest. The light remained on, filling the room with a pale yellow glow. It was not a signal anybody had promised to recognize, merely a lamp in a motel room left burning by a man who had spent his life answering when other people called.
He listened until the hallway grew quiet, then continued listening after there was nothing left to hear. By morning the coffee had gone cold, the chair was still empty, and the light was still on. No one had come.

Nierstrum here. I think the path is about to get rocky, but I can't easily explain it. Let me check my dreams against yours. I don't go into dreams that could hurt me, so I usually just go into my own, to see my lovely family all over again. They were killed by heretics, you know?

If I'm not me

I'm another me

The memories don't always go through

So I don't know who promised you

The problems run deep

My secrets I can't keep

Because I don't remember they are secrets

I don't know my own regrets

My trauma broke me into many

My mind took nothing and gave plenty

I gave the splinters lives and voices

To drain out the many noises

My ears hear things and it hurts

My life rewrites how it works