William’s green rain jacket had gone missing. He stood before his closet, blinking in the watery light that reflected against the mirror beside him, and knew it was odd to think of missing clothing, not of the girl.

The first thing he had done upon waking was to pick up his phone and check the weather. Intermittent rain -- of course. He’d gone to his closet, looking for the spare jacket, as his usual had tea, creamer and all, spilled down the front. Now, after searching and searching, he could only conclude that it was gone.

And if that was gone, then...

He flung his door open, crossed the hall in two long, springing steps, and burst into the guest room. The breeze teased the curtains into a flutter, sending goosebumps prickling up his arms, bare in a tee shirt. Nothing was out of place, save for the blankets on the empty bed, bunched at its foot where she’d pushed them aside and slid free.

Senses dull, caught between soul-breaking disappointment and breath-giving relief, he touched his fingertips to the bed sheet. There was a dark smudge on the side nearest the window; mist had made its mark there, as well as in a circle on the floor. Everything within him was frozen as he pulled the window closed, and the curtains stilled.

Just like the minutes before he’d found her, he could not decide how he felt, or even how he should feel.

She could have at least thanked him, right?

Wrong.

He should be thanking her for not slitting his throat or cursing him in his sleep. His thoughts strayed back to her every time he tried to shove them away -- he could not think like that. The Celtic mythos was as venomous as it was enchanting: full of demons and devils and dark, dangerous things that lulled you in and clutched you and didn’t let go. There was a reason people still lined doorways with salt, and placed scissors by children’s beds, and hung ivy and rowan and blackberry around their homes.

Time to burn these sheets, he thought, deadpan.

But instead, he bundled them together, hefted them up, and carried them along the hallway, where he turned the corner into the laundry room. It was a dim, cool space, just large enough for a top-loading washer, dryer, and shelf holding boxes of supplies. He dumped the entire bundle into the washer, poured in a generous capful of detergent, and set it to intense wash with a beep.

When he dropped the lid, it clanged into place, and he imagined that he’d plunged the past six days’ problems into a soup of hot water and soap to scour them from existence.

The faerie. All of that blood. The fear, the dread that she wouldn’t live, the certainty that she would. Thomas, catching on.

And something else, a vagueness that had slept at the back of his brain for years upon years. His childhood dreams.

Forest, lush, alive with birdsong, sunshine streaming through the trees and cutting swirls in the mist. His feet sinking into a mossy carpet, fronds springing up around his toes. His teeth crunching through the sweetest fruit he’d ever tasted, dribbling pink juice down his chin, its texture sublime. He could recall no more detail than that -- only the brilliant, sparkling song that freedom and adventure wove together. The dreams had started when, by chance, he’d read a picture book that spread wondrous images of “fairyland” out before him, and after that, they wouldn’t leave his head.

He saw a flickering picture: himself, nine, sitting in the yard and wailing because his mother forbade him from wandering the summer woods alone.

Another: himself again, crying in his father’s embrace as he trembled in the wake of a nightmare. He remembered nothing more than running from someone.

William shook the memories away, envisioning what he was now: a student, a friend, the son of a surgeon. A faerie healer, apparently. He’d seen his first faerie at ten, a wizened thing, perhaps the height of a cat, pilfering dried apricots from a bowl on the kitchen table. The creature had frightened him so much that he’d decided to never enter the kitchen unaccompanied. It had scampered off to somewhere unseen, and insistent as he was, his parents blamed him, though their late-night conversation revealed just how confused they were that he’d steal apricots, of all things.

He’d seen his first dead one a month later, a pixie crushed against the wheelbarrow like a bug. In secret, he had gathered it into his palm and buried it by the flowerbed. Sickened, he’d skipped school the following Monday. Whatever these were, they could die. But if they could die, maybe they could be saved.

William breathed a heavy, huffing sigh, trying again to brush it all under the rug. It was time to go back to normal, and await the next being of the realm beyond his, and hope that one would only need stitches or a handful of triskele-stones.

And, like an ordinary university student attempting to go back to normal, William called his mother.

The phone rang twice before she picked up, her voice crisp, the clip of her shoes audible as she took purposeful strides down a linoleum floor. “Will, is it important? I’m on my way --”

“To a surgery?” His shoulders slumped. “I’ll call later.”

“No. I’m on my way to a lecture. What did you need?”

Having prepared no statement, no excuse, he faltered. “Just -- just to stop by, or have brunch, or something. It’s been a while. I’ve been busy.”

“Brunch... The lecture will take me two hours...” She was briefly quiet, and Will heard muffled voices and papers shuffling. He took the small fraction of time to thank whatever powers that be for his mother’s focus on her work. “Right, it’s eight thirty now. Be here at ten thirty. Is that good for you?”

“That’s good.” And, to maintain the illusion of being fine, he added, “Thanks. I’ll see you then.”

With that, he hung up and hurried to the bathroom for a hot shower.

❦❦❦

The sun had begun to peer from behind a layer of clouds once William was sitting adjacent his mother in the cafe attached to St. Albertus Mercy Hospital. It was not as cramped as he’d started to fear -- the crowds kept to the upper level, from whence came sporadic bursts of laughter and plate-clinking. Here, on the lower floor, the two had claimed a small corner table, minimizing opportunities for accidental bumps as people walked by.

William stirred a bowl of vegetable stew, and hadn’t yet spread butter onto the roll that came with it. He hoped that he appeared to be waiting for it to cool, rather than holding back a torrent of nerves and worries. Enticing aromas swirled from his bowl -- pepper, potato, butternut squash. Yet he could not bring himself to feel hungry.

Dr. Eleanor Whiteswift watched him with a hawk’s stare, eyes blue as the sky and glinting behind gold-framed glasses, blonde hair tied into a bun. The sharpness of her gaze lent her what her students called severity, her colleagues intensity, and William scientific analysis. She analyzed everything, from the sound of a person’s breath to the pauses between their words to even what color they wore that day, as she was surely doing with him right then. William glanced from his cream-colored turtleneck to her grey button-down, her satchel hanging from the back of her chair, and the glimpse of blue scrubs inside. Even as she cut a slice of cheese quiche with perfect, straight strokes, she watched him.

He attempted regular conversation. “How has work been? Any interesting surgeries?”

“They’re all interesting.” She took a forkful of quiche, still observing.

“Any... dangerous ones?”

That nudged her attention away from William. “I helped Dr. Pajeeri remove a neuroblastoma from a little girl last week. She’s set to make a steady recovery.” She spoke without any wonder or softness, only with the satisfaction of a job done and a life saved.

“How long did it take you?”

“Seven hours in all, including preparation and cleanup.” As his heartbeat was beginning to calm, signaling him to gradually let his guard down, her eyes snapped back to his. The analysis resumed without a beat missed. “What has you interested in surgeries again?”

William forced himself not to slump, and his gaze not to lower, and his hand not to shake as he sipped a spoonful of stew. After rooting fruitlessly for an explanation, he shrugged. “Interests change, I guess. People change.”

Eleanor arched a brow, just past the frame of her glasses. “William?”

“What?” He tried his best to feign innocence.

“Are your studies going well?”

He resisted the urge to sigh yet again, giving her a slow nod of agreement. “They’re going as well as ever. I’m still top of my class.”

“In which courses?”

“Comparative Botany, Organic Chemistry, Sustainable Ecology. I’ve come in second in Introduction to Agriculture, and I’m considering Theories of Evolution for the spring.”

Her hint of a smile revealed her approval, and at least that lifted some of the iron weight from his shoulders.

“Good,” she said. “What’s really going on, then?”

“Nothing.” His heart began to thud anew. This was going to be a repeat of his phone call with Thomas, and he could not hang up on a face-to-face discussion. Even if it were possible, the last person on Earth who would let that slide was Eleanor.

Instead of pushing the issue, she simply shook her head and finished off her quiche. “We can talk more when we aren’t so busy. I’ll have your soup put in a tub to go -- I’ve got ten minutes to get back. Dr. Kramer’s asked me to review a mountain of charts.”

William sent out a prayer, to whoever or whatever might have listened, that his relief was not evident. He mumbled his thanks and gave her a hesitant smile in return. With a pat on his shoulder, she was gone, swallowed into her world of tests and machines and life and death.

A server swept by and picked up his plate; behind the counter, they rushed to fulfill the request, all too familiar with Dr. Whiteswift’s hard-pressed, black-and-white sense of time. A brown bag, printed with the cafe’s logo -- a coffee cup, steam in the shape of a heart -- was soon deposited on his table. He grasped it by both the handles and the bottom.

The walk home was mottled in sunlight and clouds, muggy humidity thickening the air as though August had returned for one last bout of summertime heat. It strengthened autumn’s earthy smells, and William had to duck beneath many a tree to avoid russet leaves spilling water upon him. With every step, and every puddle he bypassed, doubt ran in rivulets into his mind.

Things weren’t normal.

Interest change. People change.

What else had changed?