Grunsburrow Avenue looked like it needed to start over. I held the crumpled paper up to check the address again. When I lowered it the desolation of the neighborhood seemed to grow more intense, like desperation and poverty were weeds winding their way through cracks in the sidewalk. There was a lone liquor store on the corner where Grunsburrow began at an intersection with Willow Street. On both sides were vacant lots where the grass grew tall enough for brown spokes to poke out of the snow and tires and old boxy televisions were thrown sporadically around. I heard something scuttle in the debris but nothing living could be seen.

There were bars on the windows, which wasn’t unusual for businesses on this end of town. It was, however, unusual for them to be bent wide enough for a thin person to fit through. The neon lighting for the store name was all out except the “t” in Martini’s. We walked past t’s and down Grunsburrow avenue. There was one street light barely flickering for every four that were out. Have You Seen Me? posters tattered and torn, lined the telephone poles like tiles in the Taj Mahal. The buildings were boarded up, and it was hard to tell in the dark if it was shadows or stains from fires that danced on the bricks.

Sam coughed, and a pile of newspapers stirred at the sound in a blackened doorway. A large hand poked out the newspaper blanket, and a glass bottle tumbled out of the calloused palm and onto the cracked cement. I watched it roll down the walkway and stop at the entrance to a drain where two tiny reflective lights of rat eyes flashed for a moment.

4568 Grunsburrow seemed to be the only inhabited property on the street. There was a burnt out lot next door, and a building with more holes than walls on the other side. A faint glow in a side window told us that anyone was there at all. We walked up the creaking steps and stopped. I peered into the window next to the door. Nothing could be made out through the thick, red curtains and grime.

“Should we knock?” asked Sam. I took the paper out of my pocket once more. I rubbed my fingers over the words “Start Over”. My stomach tightened. Then the door opened before either of us had touched the wooden panel. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. At first I could see only a shadow of a portly figure. The muted light behind cast the person all in black.

The porch light switched on, “Welcome,” smiled a well dressed woman. She seemed out of place in the dingy doorway. Her hair was short, white, and curly. A grandmotherly face, framed nicely by half moon glasses. Her outfit gave a more professional feel. A turquoise pant suit, and gold jewelry on both wrists and on her ring finger. “I thought I heard voices outside,” she grinned. “Don’t worry, many people aren't sure at first, but I can guarantee you that this is the right choice. You are helping yourself and others by starting over, and we can even deliver your body back to your home for a small fee. Your loved ones will appreciate it.”

She opened the door wider and made a wide gesture for us to come inside. When we didn’t move she grabbed me by the wrist and pulled gently. It was a warm feeling that spread through my flesh from her touch. How could an old woman like her cause any harm? Sam was soon inside behind me. The door shut and the porch light was turned off.

“Ma’am, I am not here to, uh,” I couldn’t bring myself to use the word suicide. It felt unfamiliar and taboo on my tongue.

“Start over, dear,” she cooed.

“Right, I’m not here for that. I am looking for a man-”

“Oh, yes. Of course, we allow people to be with their loved ones before they leave. Perhaps, he is already downstairs. Is he your grandfather, father, husband? A brother, perhaps?” Her voice was velvety like rich chocolate, as though selling suicide was akin to describing the desert choices on a menu.

“No, I’m looking for the man who gave me this.” I showed her the piece of paper.

“Oh, he isn’t back yet. I can answer any questions you have, dear.” She opened a rough looking wooden door. Soft music came floating up. The stairs were carpeted white and the railing down was a polished bronze. “The upstairs is more of a front,” she smiled. “Down here is where we conduct our business.”

“The Speakeasy, you mean.”

“Yes,” she chuckled softly, “I suppose that is what people are calling us. We aren't what the media says we are. People, like you, come to us. We just provide the service the people ask for. Come down, and we’ll get started.” She put her hand on my back and gave a gentle push.

“We’re not here for that. I am only looking for,” and there he was. The man in the trench coat. At the bottom of the steps with a blue syringe staring up at me.

“Sam! Run!” and that was all I got out before the little old lady gave a push with a strength that surprised me. I didn’t see the stairs as I tumbled down; I saw white, felt pain, and the world went black.