The ‘acute stress response’ is a component of human physiology designed by evolution (or God, if that’s your thing) to prompt an appropriate fight-or-flight reaction to danger. It is activated by the sympathetic nervous system, which is known for mediating the body’s adrenaline levels and priming one for action in situations where survival is threatened, and which was, incidentally, the only one of the two nervous systems that Aaron tended to use very often.

The trigger-happy SNS has grown a reputation in recent years for reacting to the mundane challenges of contemporary life with inappropriate enthusiasm and, in light of the fact that the modern human is rarely confronted by a crocodile or a pack of wolves, many an overanxious millennial has commented that it might be best for evolution to scrap the entire process in favour of one that responds better to tedious workloads, university deadlines, and quibbles in the office—until, that is, one is forced too outrun a couple of frightening and unscrupulous employees from a highly suspicious collection agency. It was one of those rare situations where Aaron had the opportunity to put his adrenal response to use for exactly its intended purpose, and it was doing its finest work.

He made it from Broadway to Portage Avenue in what would have been a world record for sprinting in Sorels, had anyone been keeping track. His stomach churned as he imagined the two hulking pursuers a block behind him. He wondered whether he’d been allowed a head start—the alternative being that even two professional Collectors couldn’t keep pace with a wiry, panic-stricken drummer with surprisingly good cardio endurance for someone who had never intentionally exercised. He skidded on the icy sidewalk as a powerful gust of wind hit his back.

The frigid winds at Portage and Main were so infamously forceful that the intersection had been closed to pedestrians, for their own safety, many years before. The rule was enforced by a three-foot-thick, chest-high concrete barrier bordering the sidewalk on all corners of the intersection for a block or more, which Aaron hoisted himself over without hesitation. Fortunately, the cars on that side of the street were waiting on a red light.

Residents of the city who spent time any time downtown were aware of the strange phenomenon at this corner, whereby the wind blew at perfectly calculable even intervals that changed depending on the time of the year. In December, a ten-second period of calm was followed by a gale forty-four seconds in duration, during which time a person standing in its path would find themselves incapable of moving against the breeze and, if below the weight of one hundred and five pounds, physically lifted from the ground and carried as far as the concert hall three blocks away, where they would pick themselves up, slightly battered, and go collect their toques and scarves strewn across Main Street, muttering embarrassed jokes and receiving sympathetic smiles from passersby.

The Brzezinskis had exploited this scientific marvel on a number of occasions for the enjoyment of Rex, grabbing their hands at the last moment before they were carried off shrieking on a strong gust, until a year previous when Rex had become heavy enough to remain on their own two feet and too cool to plead for downtown adventures with their older brothers.

Aaron braced himself against the concrete as the glacial wind stung his cheeks and made his eyes water, then, guessing that he was about to have the benefit of the ten-second eye of the hurricane, threw himself in front of the line of traffic. The light turned green. Someone honked. He pushed himself into a hard sprint. A truck making a left turn braked hard and spun 180 degrees. Eight seconds later he was across the wide intersection, scrambling over the barrier, crouching on the other side to catch his breath. If he had looked back, he might have seen two large figures standing in the middle of the Main Street, petrified by a new blast of wind, cars honking and circling around them until the storm died down forty-four seconds later.

***

Jaymie had made it back to the middle of the bridge, where a group of women still stood shivering outside the front door. They’d been happy to welcome him into their circle, and he’d wasted no time lighting a cigarette and launching into a story about the time he’d dated twins.

When attempting to charm women you are meeting for the first time, the subject of your exes should probably be avoided at all costs, but Jaymie Brzezinski hadn’t learned this rule because Jaymie Brzezinski had never had a failed conversation.

“Yes, we are twins, thank you for asking, he’s headed to a show and can’t be late…” had led to someone saying “Aw, cute!” and someone else making a pointless comment about how they used to have a friend who was a twin, and within six degrees of conversational separation he’d landed on “But if you’re thinking of dating a twin, I can give you some words of warning,” and then he was off to the races.

Jaymie hadn’t been wrong in discerning that among his audience was the exquisite Daffodile, even with her padded coat and a full red carpet’s worth of scarf wrapped around her head. She stood with a cigarette in one hand and her phone in the other, casually capturing the night view from the bridge, taking a panorama shot which, in one graceful arc of her wrist, managed to include the sky full of stars, the frozen Red River, the classic view of downtown-at-night that was on all the postcards, and her own opposite hand, elegantly flicking her ashes over the railing of the bridge. She wasn’t particularly interested in Jaymie Brzezinski.

This had never stopped Jaymie before. (Except if a woman said she was in a monogamous relationship, or was clearly more interested in other woman, or tended towards asexuality, or appeared to be of questionably young age, or had obviously fallen head over heels for him and was sure to be a disaster, or told him outright that she was only into hockey players, or any of the other reasons why seducing someone might be a terrible idea.)

***

Aaron made it to the Millennium Library. Jo had complained at practice that she was scheduled to work every day until New Years regardless of whether she had a show, and he prayed that she might still be there closing up shop; the downtown library had long evening hours.

He arrived at 10:36, five minutes after the front doors had been locked. He pressed against the sliding glass door and searched desperately for signs of life. A movement caught his eye in the dim courtyard beyond.

“Jo? Hey, hello? I need help!” he called against the glass.

But the motion hadn’t come from a human; the revolving door, four slowly rotating panes of glass that hadn’t yet been powered down for the night, completed another turn. He let out a breath that stopped just short of a sob and glanced behind him.

An Anglican church loomed austerely from the other side of the street, its round sign casting a glare on the scuffed yellowy snow of its lawn. Today the letters were arranged to read, “God loves Diversity,” and Aaron wondered if God was progressive enough by now that he also loved clones, and the people who got mistaken for them. Two silhouettes rounded a corner behind the building. He didn’t bother looking closely enough to see if they were the ones he was fleeing. A wave of nausea ran through him.

He turned back to the glass and found himself face to face with the evilest Christmas elf he’d ever seen, standing less than a foot from him, hands reaching up to press against his mitts through the glass.

“Holyclusterfuckingchristalmighty—” Aaron stumbled back from the door.

The silence-enforcer stepped back and slowly waved its little urchin fingers at him. The only visible part of its face was a pasty smirk peeking from under its hood.

The odd little creature, a mischievous preteen who’d received less than the average amount of love in her young life, was back on community service for the holidays. This time she’d gotten busted playing Purple City, a game familiar to anyone who’d spent their youth in that city, whereby one would stare into the blinding spotlights that lit the Provincial Legislative Building long enough that anything they cast their gaze on for a few minutes afterward looked purple, provided they’d timed it so as to not lose their vision completely. That wasn’t what had gotten her in trouble; afterwards she’d attempted to reclaim the word “cunt” by handwriting it in violet spray paint, large loopy purple cursive that covered the entire rear of the huge building and somehow extended many feet higher than the young girl’s arms ever would.

She was caught the next day by a police force that recognized her instantly and already had her address on file, brought into the security office at the Legislature, and made to look upon what she’d done. She noted that the back of the building had security cameras pointing at all angles except from the southeast, and that the spray paint had actually been white all along.

“Hey, will you open this door?” Aaron called, recovering quickly. “Please?”

The gremlin cocked her head to one side.

“It’s just, I’m in a bit of a tight spot and, um, I don’t want to die so please please please will you—”

The girl, who had no authority over the locks on the library doors, had nonetheless carefully observed the locking ritual and was enthusiastic to try it herself, especially when she got the added thrill of letting this sketchy-looking man, who was clearly fleeing the police, run amok in the library. She tapped an ID card she’d swiped from one of the security guards against the alarm system and typed in a password. The doors glided open.

“Thanks,” Aaron panted. “I initially misjudged you.” She held her index finger to her lips and giggled. He dashed past her, and she unhurriedly relocked the door, pleased with her night’s work. She returned to the computer she’d claimed, its screen casting a glowing window of light in the dark library, and resumed researching a new synthetic drug called TwiLite, which was gaining popularity at parties and raves and which she fully intended to acquire and sell to people much older than herself.

Later that night the young girl would find out she was to be entrusted into the care of an older sister who, after years of hard work, had finally achieved an income stream she felt was steady enough to provide a stable home for a child. The girl would be well cared for by her sibling and sent to a new school offering special programming to support her studies, where she would realize she had a knack for math and languages and begin to channel her energy into healthier pursuits, while maintaining the lucrative side business she was currently getting off. the ground.

Aaron was not to experience such a lucky break.

***

“They were my first ever girlfriend!” Jaymie said. “They were sixteen and we were fourteen and we were still only like five feet tall, and had all our acne and braces and everything, and we were getting over this major shaming from grade seven when there was a hurricane warning, and all the kids had to go sit in the gym, and then we heard that the tornado had actually touched down, like, literally on our street, less than a block from school, and Aaron made a pretty good argument for why we were going to die, and we got scared and we hugged and held hands for a minute…”

He left the appropriate pause and continued once the women had said “Aw,” and “Ohmygod so scary.”

“Well, I think a tree or two lost some branches, but the storm was over twenty minutes later and we were getting ‘twincest’ jokes for the next year and half. Kids are the worst…Would you?” His cigarette had gone out and he leaned toward Daffodile, who’d pulled out a lighter while he was talking. She lit him back up, subtly raising her eyebrows at her friend, with whom she’d been having a discussion earlier about the sort of men who’d rather talk at you than with you. Jaymie didn’t know it, but Daffodile had endured a break-up with a particularly garrulous touring folk musician earlier that autumn.

“So anyway, they were way out of our league. But they saw something in us—the heart wants what it wants, right?” He winked at Daffodile, who finally decided that this ridiculous twenty-something was just polite enough and entertaining enough to tolerate until their ride arrived. After all, he didn’t seem to have the pushy, self-aggrandizing, type-A qualities that most loquacious, annoyingly confident men did. She knew his type, but she knew very few men who could pull off his type so well.