When I was a small child, my parents used to take me to the forest in the northern states. There, they must have thought to find something, or for me to find some sense of normalcy. Instead, I wandered for hours, just as I am now. Aimlessly. The trees stretch out endlessly in all directions, just as they had back then - great spires rooted to the Earth like landmarks - close enough to feel like an organized structure but still disconnected. They are quiet giants who exist close to humanity, though still individual. In their world, there is no sense of space, or time; no ordinary placemarkers for a suburban boy like myself. It is so easy to get lost beneath the canopy.

I’m rather fortunate that I’ve long since grown out of the irrational fears or mortal concerns I may have had when I was a child. Now, there is only a sense of contentment - of familiarity. There is something about the way that the branches move around me, as if they were reaching out, and the sound of the breeze as if it were whispering. The forest has a way of grounding me, which I cannot achieve anywhere else. One could get lost in themselves in such a place, and no matter how long it’s felt that I’ve been here, or how far that I have gone, it appears as though I haven’t moved at all. I leave no footprints, no path to follow.

Then, I heard it. Apart from the usual symphony, there was a sound.

Somewhere deep in the forest, there are sobs. Quiet, sorrowful sobs. It is a girl, lost in the trees with me. I call out to her. “Hello?” There is no reply but my own echo.

“Do you need help?” Surely it is but the two of us for miles. Still no reply.

The sobbing continues - now on all sides. It is closing in on me. “Where are you?” My voice is cast at the shadows that grow between the trees. Thick, black shadows, dark as night. Even the canopy seems to be dropping, as if to entomb me. It is alarming, but I fear no harm. Instead, my focus is on the sobs. There is now something familiar about them, too. As if they echo from my past. I take a step, followed by another, headed for the darkness.

I’m compelled in no particular direction, but forward, eventually stopping at the edge of a pond. If I were to look down, it may not be my own reflection upon the surface of the water - I know that - I feel that. Luckily, when my gaze falls, I have no reflection. All I see is that of a tall white tree, adorned with fire red leaves, painted over the mirrored surface. It stands opposite of the edge I am on, looking back at me.

A complex wave of emotion washes over me when I look upon that tree. Though, I suppose I could call it “relief” that calls me to cross over the pond between us, walking on the water as if it hadn't been there - or no longer remains. The tree waits for me. “Come out. I won’t harm you.”

Leaves shudder at the sound of my voice; a few even dropping at my feet. Then, the tree itself begins to turn. It twists around the middle, like a slender waist, with the branches shortening and falling to the sides of the trunk, as its bark is carved back to reveal a pale skin. Red leaves root into hair upon the delicately structured head of a young woman now looking back at me over a bare shoulder. Her eyes are colored unlike any I've ever seen; amber. I couldn’t begin to describe what I see in them. I might even suppose they weren’t real. None of this is real. The girl, the forest, myself. It is the same dream I’ve been having, every day, for the last week.

I know what comes next even before she reaches out to me. Before I feel the softness of her fingers traveling down the length of my face. Before she embraces me and I am pulled from the dream, awakened to the words of ‘Wicked Game’ being played on the radio.

“World was on fire...no one could save me but y---” I slap the snooze button and grumble away the morning lethargy as the numbers come into focus on the clock face.

“Oh shit!” I set my alarm late again. My girlfriend will be waiting for me at the coffee shop - for about half an hour now. I jump up from bed and rip through my closet for a halfway decent smelling shirt and a pair of jeans. Laundry day was two weeks ago at this point and I ran out of options on Monday. It’s Friday. A faded band T-shirt with an old pair of faded black denim will have to do. My girlfriend has never been bothered by it before. She is bothered, however, by my tardiness. I find her sitting in our usual spot, less than ten minutes later, with two empty cups in front of her and a deep frown wrinkling her pretty oval face. “I drank yours.”

I sit across from her and reach over the table for her hands, “I could think of a million excuses right now, but I’m just going to be honest with you. Still haven’t changed my clock...”

She laid the eyeliner on thick today and it closes around her eyes as she narrows them - pulling her hands from mine. A good moment of suspense to lay on the judgment, then she laughs, “I hope it was worth the cost of a third cup of java.”

“Honestly?” I run a hand through my shoulder length hair, noticing how my fingers stick to the strands, “Sure.” A shower would have been a good option, though they have been fewer these days. Without even looking in a mirror, I know my ordinarily brown hair has taken on a muddy hue.

The only thing I can count on anymore are my eyes. They remain their brilliant green, even when running on little rest. Quite possibly the only redeeming feature I’ve got left to keep my girlfriend around. Meanwhile, she is a picture of hygiene, taking care every day. Today, she bats a pair of dark brown eyes at me, with enough mascara to paint The Scream in monochrome. “It’s a few buttons, Vin. Though, I do suppose your laziness does benefit me. All the extra espresso is my lifeblood.” She lays a hand out on the table between us, palms up, “I’ll get you another if you can think up the best way to make it up to me, besides the coffee, of course.”

I lay a five dollar bill in her hand and watch her saunter away, forgetting to prepare my dialogue. I’m empty when she returns a few minutes later with a hot cup of coffee. “So,” She says, setting the beverage in front of me, before sitting down, “don’t make me wonder.”

Yesterday, I had to take her to the bookstore after this happened. The day before that, it was a 5-star dinner. Endless atonements for my unwillingness to adjust my clock, or charge my phone. I’ve run out of ideas. That is why she has to take over for me.

“You can decide this time.” I’ve got nothing. And from a young man with an epithet like mine, ‘nothing’ is bad. The two men I was named after had a world of ideas between them, and I’m slandering their legacy. At this point in my life, it’s a massacre. I am nowhere near where my parents wanted me to be - nowhere near as successful as they. I did become an artist, just less ambitious at what I do. My hands haven’t painted in months.

In fact, if I had to find my brushes or die in a fire, I might as well prepare my eulogy. Last I saw, they were drying out in an old cup somewhere, while I’ve spent most of my time sipping hot espresso with a girl my parents never approved of. I prefer it that way as some sort of direct disobedience against the life my parent’s constructed for me. My girlfriend, Viloria, is the perfect anarchy - with her goth look and spiritual lifestyle - she helps me stray from the confines of the McCaskill world. Across the table, she considers my offer, thoughtfully, while playing with the wooden pentagram that hangs on a chain around her neck. “That’s only fair. Now, drink that coffee, I’ve got a schedule to keep.”

“A schedule? What? More rituals?”

I drink the piping liquid while my girlfriend gives me a look from across the table, “Haha, funny, Vin. But, no. My mother and I have a thing.” She twirls a finger in the air on the last word, along with her eyes.

“A ‘thing’?” The tone used tells me that it’s more of an obligation than an interest.

“Yes, she ...thinks I need a makeover.”

I laugh into my coffee and get a punch to my shoulder, causing the hot liquid to splash onto my nose. “Oh, come on! I just can’t wait to see this. You coming over tonight?”

“If I don’t look like a princess.”

We stand up from the table and exit to the sidewalk, “Princess? I enjoy a harrowing rescue every once in a while. And by that, I mean me. You’ll have to rescue me. My parents asked me to prepare something for their next gallery.” They’ve been wanting me to do so for years, at this point, and my delaying isn’t going to be tolerated for much longer. Which means I’ll have to rescue those brushes from somewhere in my apartment. A task I know won’t be worth the outcome. Even if I happened to find them, my muse died long before they were lost.

“It would seem that we both have some peacekeeping to do,” Viloria leans in and gives me a kiss before turning and locating her car, “Good luck!”

She drives away, and I pass my own car on the way back to my place. No matter how rich my parents may be, what I drive is a rusty, sad excuse for a vehicle that somehow still runs. Let’s call it an artistic statement against all things beautiful - or functional; another anarchy. The inside is upholstered in a dingy off color that I can hardly identify through the years of coffee stains, and what isn’t upholstered is no better off beneath the layers of dust. Caring for the aesthetic value of the interior ended the last time I had a cigarette re-enter through one of the windows and burn the back seat. In hindsight, I’d have been better off if the whole car burst into flames. And, like my car, my apartment is its own disaster.

It is called an apartment and costs as much as one, but it’s more like a large studio, with a bed tucked into one corner. I arrived back and shut the door behind me. In my hurry to leave, I must have left the lights on and one more bulb burnt out while I was gone. That leaves only six remaining of the twelve I moved in with and, if they weren’t installed so damned high in the vaulted ceiling, I might be inclined to replace them. Instead, I have resigned myself to eventual darkness. Luckily for me, when that time comes, I’ll still have the light of day from the large windows to illuminate my pitiful lack of motivation.

I toss my keys somewhere and hear them land, then slide to where I’ll never think to look when I need them again. There’s some excitement to anticipate, I think, as I crash on the ratted couch that sits in the middle of the open floor. Decorating is also not my forte. Call this minimalism with an occasional pile of laundry or spoiled food. Some might call it lazy, I call it planning for my future. I’ve got an itinerary laid out for trips to the laundromat that stretches well past Christmas. And it’s April. I’d be well out of clothing by now if my parents didn’t insist on always bringing me back something new to wear, from France, England, or Malaysia. Somehow they know my size no matter which currency they use to clothe it. Or, I’m just that average.

My eyes wander back to the door and realize there’s yet another bag there. One I hadn’t left myself. Now I know who to blame for leaving the lights on. My parents must have gotten back from their trip to the art show in Paris. I stand up and walk over to the bag. Inside, are the latest fashions from some store windows in the romance capital of the world; a pair of brown pants that hug me tightly in places but I slip them on anyway, and a blue button up with some weird pattern on it. The buttons, I fix only to my sternum and leave the rest open. At the bottom of the bag, there is a dark blue waistcoat that I hang on the knob of my front door - for later, or never. A bit too fancy for me.

I turn around to face my work corner, opposite that of my bed, and in direct opposition of whatever I find beneath my sheets. The corner holds only frustration and disappointment. Whatever I created last is hidden shamefully against the wall. The only reason it still remains is because I haven’t had the muse to paint it over. I stare at the damned thing longer than I’d like to admit before walking over to my easel where a blank canvas awaits me - has awaited me - for months now. I search for inspiration, anything, and it brings me back to the girl in my dream. Her face fits in the white of the canvas, watching me with those amber eyes, and for a moment, I’m nearly inclined to find my brushes. But, I turn for my couch instead. It lost much of its cushion years ago, though my body has adjusted and I sink deep against the springs. Passing time this way has made up for most of my life till now, and eventually I close my eyes.

***

“Hello! I know you’re in there, Vin!” Knock knock, ring ring. “Hey!”

I open my eyes and sit up, throwing my feet to the bare wooden floor before I rise. “Coming. Coming.” The bag from earlier still sits near the door and I kick it to the side before opening my apartment to the cold hallway beyond. We freeze in the open doorway and stare at each other, then laugh in unison, “You look ridiculous.”

Viloria pushes her way past me, all while fussing at the curls in her long black hair - with newly manicured fingernails, “Ugh. My mother.” She tugs and pulls at them before reaching out to grab a scrunchie from the floor, tying the mess behind her head, then turning to me. “Your parents buy you that?”

My lips form a coy smile as I pull my fingers through a messy mop of my own, dirty, hair. I still haven’t showered and I file away a mental note of doing so, eventually. After all, eventualities are my bread and butter, “However did you guess?”

A slow swivel of Viloria’s head has her eyes canvasing the room around us. From there, she can see the entirety of my empty apartment. We are alone, “Where are they now?”

“Well, they dropped them off in person this time. So, I’d say... home.” I’m always rather dismissive of them; still having to deal with the hangover - called my childhood.

My girlfriend’s face falls, “Oh, so I need to keep my distance then?”

“Do I need to answer that?” I smile when she does.

“So, get any work done?”

A heavy sigh escapes as I glance over to my work corner, “We also know the answer to that.”

“It’ll come,” She lets herself fall into the couch and winces as it creaks, “You know, the best art comes from the strangest of places, and so does the worst of furniture. Are you gonna let your parents replace this yet?”

“Afraid not.”

“If I had rich parents, oh the wonderful things I would own.” Viloria lies back against one arm of the couch and looks up at the ceiling as if imagining it, “You lost another light.”

“That’s what happens when you have rich parents, you long for the darkness.” I walk over and lift her legs to sit beneath, letting them fall into my lap, “Pretty soon, I won’t have enough light to paint even if I wanted to.”

“So, it’s ‘I don’t want to’ now?” Her eyes fall to look at me. To shame me.

I shrug, “When it’s been this long, I can’t tell.” My hands reach for her shoes and I take each one off, along with her socks. They drop to the floor with an echo that returns to us from the dark ceiling. A pair of small, bare feet climb into my lap and bury their toes between my thighs.

“What’s on the agenda tonight?”

I shrug again, “I thought we could enjoy the company of each other’s misery. You know, parents driving us insane well after we’ve moved out and moved on?”

“Moving out, sure, but moving on? You’re wearing a pretty expensive ensemble that they traveled halfway round the world to drop at your door.” She sits up and tugs at the sleeve of my shirt.

“I never ask for it.” They just like to remind me how hopeless I am on my own. Without them, I’d still be in the same pants from high school and rotating between the same ten faded band tees. I unbutton the front of the shirt and pull it off of my arms, discarding it to the pile of other dying fabrics on my floor. “I can take a hint. You don’t like it.”

“I just like it better off.” Viloria smiles and stands up to drop her own shirt on the pile, then goes to unbutton her high-waisted jeans. If I could paint her, she’d be Venus standing amidst the waves, being gawked at by a dozen chubby angels. Her body isn’t perfect if judged by the standards of twenty-first century beauty magazines. But, to me, she is perfect.

Viloria grabs my hand and pulls me toward the bed while I struggle with my pants, freeing them halfway across the floor as she drops her undergarments and dives beneath the sheets. I climb in beside her and shiver as my hands run over the smoothness of her skin. The feeling is second only to a mellow high - the kind conducive to hours of mind-blowing philosophy. Normally, in our relationship, such conversation is revered over contact, but every now and then it is good to remind ourselves that there are other pleasures for us to engage in. Basal desires to ground us back to our beginnings.

I let my fingers explore her - beginning at her shoulders and ending between her thighs. She exhales softly as a moan and I enhance her excitement with my hands before she rolls me over to slide herself onto my lap. I focus on the entrancing way that her breasts move with her body over me, then my eyes move up to her face. A lot of makeup from earlier this morning has been wiped clean, leaving a more natural, but nonetheless beautiful, look. She moans again as her eyes flutter open and I freeze. They aren’t the usual deep brown eyes looking back at me, but instead a brilliant amber. Viloria stops, “You ok?”

“Yeah,” I shake my head and smile, “Why?”

“You frowned at me.”

“Sorry, it’s my back, do you mind?” I roll us over when she shakes her head and we resume till climax then lie side by side, in sweat. It’s not exactly awkward after sex, but tends to feel much like an anticlimax. A disappointing comedown from physical ecstasy. A real shame that good things never last long.

Viloria looks over to my bedside clock and messes with the buttons a moment - moving us forward into the future by an hour, putting the moment behind us, “Wanna get some food?”

“I’d love to shower first. If I may?”

“Absolutely, I’ve been waiting for you to say that for…. Two weeks?”

“You kill me.” I sit up and turn my legs off the side of the bed.

“If I were trying, you’d be dead and I’d be mooching off your parents and their endless gifts.” She slaps my butt as I stand, then lies back down. “I’ll wait here.”

I leave her on the bed and grab my clothes on the way to the small bathroom that is tucked between my work space and the front door. It is really the only separate room in the loft - an adequate place to find some privacy when it’s needed. But, only for so long. It isn’t the most comfortable room due to its small size and the water is only lukewarm. In my usual ritual, I hurry with the shampoo and soap, then step out into the bitter cold - like a newborn baby searching for a towel. I groan when my hands come up empty and realize the last towel had been used some days ago.

I’m a mess. That, I admitted to myself long before receiving my diploma and being cast out on my own. To my parents, independence is a sure sign of my success. Little do they know I left only so they wouldn’t see all the failures. Hopeless solitude is still better in that respect than having my overbearing parents explain self-worth and achievement, for the millionth time. My wet feet slap over to the door so I can shout into the large, mostly empty space, “Hey! Grab me a towel, would you? Any of them. Please.”

I hear Viloria groan, followed by her own bare feet on the wooden floor “Here.” A towel is shoved at me through the crack in the door and I quickly dry the extra moisture from my hair and body before dressing, then leaving the room. Viloria is already dressed and waiting near the front door, leaning against the counter between her and the small kitchen. “I’m driving, right?”

I shrug, “Lost my keys.”

“Nothing surprising there. Might I say, you look better.” My girlfriend looks me up and down, and I smile.

“Yeah?”

She throws me a look, “Don’t let it feed your ego too much. Do you want Asian, Mexican, or American tonight?”

“How about whatever is down the street, then neither of us has to drive.” I reach and grab a tie from the counter to pull my hair back into a messy bun. Let it be known that the length has gotten out of hand; Though, the trouble of this is relative to who you ask. I, myself, am too lazy to care. My mother, on the other hand, has taken to slipping salon and barber shop coupons under my door. They will make fine bookmarks - that is - whenever I get back to actually reading anything. Until then, I’ve got a stack a Bible high on my counter.

“First place we pass, then. I’m starving.” Viloria pulls me out the door and I let it slam behind me as we descend a flight of stairs to the ground level of the building; which I happen to share with a local pub. The noise from it often helps to drown out my agonizing loneliness - one of the main reasons I decided to live in what most would consider an undesirable location. There is always that one joy of living alone. I’ve got the freedom to choose, and better yet, my girlfriend doesn’t seem bothered to visit me every day.

We exit the hallway leading up to my loft and already I can hear patrons busy drinking in the pub. Good ‘ol Friday nights; The work week has ended and the booze is fresh on tap. They will be there all night. Viloria and I, however, find ourselves down the street at a run down pizza place. Inside, the walls are papered in an outdated print and the booths have been sat in by a dozen too many people; their faux leather barely holds onto its seams, and most bare tears that separate more and more every time someone sits down. We choose the one with the least damage and lower ourselves in to count the number of knife marks in the heavily lacquered table top until someone comes to take our order. Judy - by her name tag - walks over in a tired looking apron and a faded casual ensemble beneath it. “What’ll you have?”

“Pepperoni with a pan crust, please.” Viloria smiles at me, then at the waitress, “Water to drink. Thank you, Judy.”

“I’ll put the order in.” The woman walks away, leaving us to resume our count, along with light conversation - or otherwise.

“So, why now?”

“Why now what?” Her voice distracts me from playing with the little sugar packets at our table. I look up and see my girlfriend is staring at me, with her chin resting on top of her hands.

“Why is it so important to prepare for the gallery now. Haven’t they been asking for months?” She’s on to me. Then again, she is always on to me. Hiding isn’t an option for long. Though, I can’t tell her why exactly yet.

“I’m getting older. I guess I should before I miss the opportunity.” It’s as good an answer as the truth. Things can’t always remain the way they are now. There will be a time where I have to grow up and find myself - even if it’s the man I was named to be. Being someone is better than no-one.

“Well…,” Viloria ponders, “I’m glad to hear that, Vin. Our rebellious days are well behind us. I think it’d be nice to finally sign up for adulthood and get that white picket fence.” Her smile is light, still sniffing out my honesty. I know she is aware that changes like this don’t happen overnight. My reputation up till now has shown no indicators of growth, nor has my ambition. She’d be right to doubt me, about as much as I doubt myself. The incentives are falling into place, but the anarchy remains. “So..with that, I have a crazy idea....” My girlfriend leans over the table toward me while I pick at one of the knife marks in the table with my thumbnail. “You said I could choose this time. Sooooo, let’s go camping!” She grabs one of the greasy menus that is housed near the salt and pepper, turns it over twice in her hand, then submits it to its final resting place between the cushions of the booth. Gods know the employees never clean in there. I’m afraid to look at mine.

“Camping?”

“Yes! Just you, I, a blanket, and the stars. Can you think of a better way to find your muse?” She does the same to the second menu, then reaches for the salt. I watch her slowly dump a small pile out on the table, then she begins grinding it over the lacquer with her thumb.

“Nevermind what you are doing, but are you crazy?”

“Yes, we have established that many times,” Viloria looks up and smiles, then hides her salt pile with her hands as Judy walks over with a large pizza and pitcher of water, “Look, our Pizza!”

Judy lays the pie on a large pan between us and throws down the pitcher with the kind of emphasis only a minimum wage employee could, “Get you anything else?”

“We’re fine, Thank you,” I say, then watch her walk away before grabbing a piece.

Viloria goes for the piece beside mine and takes a quick bite. The food is trapped till she opens her mouth and a few small bits escape as she speaks, “Doesn’t matter what you think. I’ve got my car packed.”

“You hadn’t thought to ask me?” I take a bite of my own and savor it, even as it burns my tongue.

Viloria shrugs, “Trust me! This will be good for you. Besides, I figured you wouldn’t be doing anything else this weekend anyway.” She smiles before her next bite, and she’s right. I only had a busy weekend of sitting on my ass planned. It is so like her to come along and foil my lazy plans. “C’mon, eat quick. We have to get on the road.”

Viloria and I finish our first slices and then seconds before grabbing a box from Judy for the leftovers. There’s enough to feed us at the campfire - that is, if either of us can figure how. My parents had been into art and travel with little time to focus on survival skills that come as any benefit; unless, of course, you are trying to find the quickest metro to the Louvre, or how best to avoid excessive interaction on your way to the exit after an exhibit. While camping, they simply used a Zippo and we had a roaring fire in a matter of seconds.

I leave a fifty dollar bill on the table and we exit into what is now just a dark street lit by a hundred bulbs and neon lights. “You packed for me too, didn’t you?”

“While you were in the shower, yes. We’ll just need to run in and grab it. And by ‘we’, I really mean ‘you’. I’ll be in the car.”

We walk until we reach the pub - which is now swimming with patrons who have spilled out onto the sidewalk. Viloria pushes me lightly then goes for her car. The locks click at the press of a button and she seats herself behind the steering wheel. I turn toward the door adjacent to the pub that leads to the stairs that take me to my apartment, and I let myself in. My parents must already be lonely. At my feet, a small envelope lies face down - I recognize my mother’s decorative border running along the length of the seam. Bending down, I pick up the envelope and see the bag Viloria must have packed for me - one of my old bags from college. It is on the floor beside the counter waiting for me to sling it over my shoulder and lock out for the weekend.

Before I go, I am sure to check all of the lights, then I descend into the third verse of ‘Brown Eyed Girl’; It must be karaoke night. I linger for a moment near the stairs and sing along before Viloria honks her horn, signaling for me to hurry to the car.

“C’mon! I was feeling the music.”

“I’m feeling like we may get eaten by a bear before we pitch our tent. May need to sleep in the car tonight.”

I look into the back seat of her Corolla and shake my head, “A tent? You had said it was just you, I, and a blanket. I do suppose, however, we could just sleep on all the books and paper.” It’s a mess back there. A library of the occult. “What is all this?” I pick up one of the books as she backs us up onto the street, then shifts into drive.

Viloria glances down briefly before we have to turn North at the street corner, “Reading material.”

“For who? Satan?” I turn the book over and begin to read the back, “‘A journey into the strange, otherworldly,...the beginning. Not just an introduction, but immersion into what hides behind the veil.’ You read this?”

“Vin, how long have we been dating?” Viloria grabs the book and tosses it back behind her to land amongst the others of its kind.

“Long enough for me to realize how crazy it sounds?” Which means we are going on seven years. She and I have known each other our whole lives, but it wasn’t official till I asked her out on the night of our high school senior prom. We didn’t attend, but it was special nonetheless. She and I have always found our own ways of having fun and that night we spent on the roof of the gymnasium, dancing to our own music while in our pajamas. It was also our first kiss. Romantic, I know. Part of what made me ask her that night was how different she is. The books in the back seat are only a piece of what makes this girl fascinating to me. She gives me a side glance as we get closer to the middle of nowhere.

Fine thing about living in the middle of nowhere - it doesn’t take so long to get even further from civilization. I suppose that appeal is what first inspired my parents to call it home; their own little getaway from the bustle of their everyday lives. Though, I can’t even recall the last real time they had spent more than a few days at their manor here. Most days out of the year, it lies empty while they are away somewhere. If they weren’t in town now, I’d suggest we stay there. The idea of camping might have been fun as a child, but now, it’s exhausting. No adults to pitch our tent, or cook our food, or hunt our food. We are the adults. “When’s the last time we were out here?” Viloria asks.

“Before I had a beard.”

“I like the beard. But, I really miss those old days.” She makes one last right before we head off down an unpaved road. Out here, anywhere is sufficiently prepared for our tent, but Viloria seems indecisive.

“Did you also miss our turn? This is pretty far out.” Not that I miss the town lights, or the crooning of the drunks that could have been keeping me company right now, but the silence is deafening and the darkness is a new level of empty.

“Don’t worry, we’ll stop at the next turn.”

Viloria keeps her eyes on the gravel ahead of us and I dig for another book in the back. This one’s cover says it’s some oracle which holds a book and a deck of cards inside. I flip through each one; Two of swords, Four of cups, Judgement, and…,”Oh look! Death.” I hold up the card between us - depicting a skeleton knight on a white horse.

“It’s not what you think it is.”

“Foreboding. It’s a skeleton, Vil, not a unicorn.” I laugh and put the card back into the deck, then tuck them alongside the book behind my seat.

“You ought to let me do a reading for you once.”

Amazing that it took this long for it to come up. “Sure.”