***

A swarm of eager parasites, congealed near the entrance to the apartment complex, frothing for the slightest taste of a good story. Theoline drove into the parking lot, taking in the crowed with an iron knot forming in her gut and iron edges sharpening her mind. Adam Kritzer, the nurse once responsible for Holly Monet's wellbeing, resided beyond those doors, protected and cursed by reporters that knew her own likeness too well.

Theoline found a vacant opening and pulled her car into the space, thanking whatever god saw her struggle worth blessing. She turned her exhausted attention to the chaos of her back seats, layered with the theater kits she had desperate need to replenish from her father's stock. She picked through the plethora of tattered wigs, diminished makeup stores, and outfits that had seen more than their lifetime of use.

Theoline tucked her tangle of platinum locks into a hair net before settling a curtain of raven black hair atop it. She kept her eyes on the entrance to the parking lot, and sure enough, clocked the arrival of a grumbling minivan, ancient beyond measure and well worked well beyond it's years. Several paper bags of groceries peeked up behind the back windshield, plastered with bumper stickers proclaiming exactly the persona that was needed to clear this particular hurtle. With a sequential series of motions, she reached into the seats behind her for the image she needed to present, completing her look with a set of sunglasses to hide her eyes. Alone, they would be fireworks, screaming for unwanted recognition.

"Ya Khalto!" Oh Aunty! Theoline rushed to the van, taking the groceries from the smaller, jumpy woman. She smiled, adjusting her Arabic to something purposfully more neutral.

The older woman paused, composing herself from the unexpected charity, and appraised Theoline with squinting eyes, "You are from Damascus?", She asked in her own dialect.

Theoline instantly layered a Levantine tone into her speech, "Indeed! But that would be my family. I am born here." She made sure to look wistful as she reached for the remaining groceries, nodding reassuringly.

The older woman pursed her lips, and Theoline held her breath as closely as the bags to her own rapidly beating chest.

"It is a surprise," The smaller woman chirped, sparking a smile, "But not an unwelcome one! Assist me, my dear!"

A warmth blossomed in her core as Theoline gave the older woman an appreciative squeeze on the arm.

They broke upon the crowd of reporters, Theoline calling through the riot, forcing a path among the wave of voices. She clutched one bag, laden with eggs and vegetables, close to her body, the other, gripping the worn but wizened hand of her momentary patron, as she plowed on through the crowd.

Every instinct cried in her mind to let go of the older woman, to fix her wig of raven hair, adjust her sunglasses. They would see, they would point and capture her in the lens of their narrative. Theoline became ever more presently aware of her contingency kit strapped to her upper right thigh but the impulse to grab a biological detergent was extinguished as they closed upon the building entrance with daring speed.

Theoline slowed as they broke from the crowd, making sure to allow the woman a momentary reprieve to lead them the rest of the way to the entrance. She made a similar motion for her own badge to unlock the front door but stopped her feint as the door clicked open and she was led into the foyer of the building.

"Bless your heart, child", The older women nodded to herself as she brought them to a door down the hall from the elevators, no doubt the entrance to her own apartment, placing her own bags inside and taking the one from Theoline.

Theoline tried to break a wide smile, but the awareness of her next conversation weighed too heavily upon her stomach to force a genuine sense of warmth.

She turned from the door before it shut, not waiting for any semblance of a goodbye. She stole what was needed from the woman. It was time for the real work. Time for answers.

The door cracked ajar after about the seventh round of knocking. Through the three-fingers of space between door and frame, she marked the paranoia of a darting eye below the chain lock.

"You a reporter?", A male voice said. It sounded worn, like a yellowed parchment that wanted no more than to be cast into flame and brought to peace.

"Thank goodness, no." Theoline removed her wig slowly, careful not to startle the man with the absurdity of such melodramatic theater. She bowed at the waist, attempting at some semblance of careful understanding, "It's me Adam. It's Theoline."

The door twitched. An instinctive desire to crash shut, or simply innocent surprise? The eye staring at her blinked hesitantly, Theoline felt her moment begin slipping away from beneath her like a sand dune escaping to sea.

"Please Adam," She pressed a hand to the door, a hedged bet, hoping he'd see the imploring visage of a grieving daughter, but planning for the impulsive slamming of a door all the same.

"Adam?" A distant voice shot out to Theoline from within the apartment, "Who is it?"

The man faltered, then held the door open, a doomed air settling onto him.

"Thank you, I will be very quick, I promise." Theoline resisted the urge to place a hand upon his, noting the reflexive instinct drawing the older man away from her. She followed him down the narrow hall, cluttered with a myriad of oddities.

"Yuki's an art teacher," Adam said, gesturing to the mess. They passed a bent looking cylinder, tall enough to reach Theoline's thigh. She frowned, momentarily confused by the contraption. An old stainless-steel garbage can, painted with a quilt patchwork of colors all screaming for attention. Some sort of art sculpture.

Some garbage can't be saved with makeup, she thought.

***