“Devon, Devon, hey how do I look?”

Devon laughed and shook his head. He was always well-dressed, in that laid-back 2010s dad sort of way. He wore a pair of Chubby’s shorts, tastefully ending right above the knee, a white T-shirt, gold chain, and a scruffy multicolored cardigan.

We were headed to our first Power Word Update, an event I near pathologically looked forward to and had begged Devon to do since we founded the company. It was a Twitch stream to all of our users, or at least the 14 people that initially tuned in.

As we turned the corner, I picked up my cell phone and impulsively checked my emails. I’m one of those inbox zero OCD freaks. And like a mafia member checking their gun, anytime I entered a room my hand would surreptitiously slip into my pocket and pull out my iPhone Mini to refresh my emails.

An email caught my eye. It read:

?Mr Tucker,

Please see attached our letter of June 25, 2021. [sic]

I clicked into the document. A bunch of legalese, but one​ line stood out to me:​ liquidated damages of Three Hundred Thirty Nine Thousand Seven Hundred and Eighteen 27/00 Dollars.

“Devon, we’re getting sued…”

My brain immediately went to the number. We barely had $350k in the bank. $350k - $340k = $10k. Approximately enough for my old college tuition, one Bitcoin, or two payrolls. The company was sunk.

I started sweating. I stopped moving. My flight or fight response had resulted in the third choice, which fortunately wasn’t void oneself, but instead was play dead. Maybe then the email wouldn’t see me.

Devon, older and wiser than myself, gently pried the phone from my hand and scrolled through the email. He scrunched his mouth to one side, and asked, “Who’s Allyance?”

About three months back, I was in my San Francisco apartment, one of those that necessitated a full fanny pack of quarters. With a laundry room that induced a I-better-get-back-down-in-time-in-order-to-change-this-quickly-lest-my-clothes-be-thrown-indiscriminately-out-onto-the-floor sort of paranoia.

I remember the sounds of the apartment. The beep, beep, beep, the ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-chunk of the garbage truck at 4 a.m. every Sunday. The occasional howling at the wee hours of night due to the lupine madness of passing walkers and remnants of Folsom Street Fair ducking off on the side alley.

I hunched over my laptop in the dark, only my face illuminated. I ate a dinner of falafel. I had befriended the Flying Falafel folks, generously tipping them for the unpromised but oft given free sides of fresh fries and amba sauce, a tangy and polarizing mango slurry.

I was watching a video by Emmett Shear. I’d often watch these old YC videos just as I’d read the old PG essays back in college. They were mesmerizing. There were these legends: the Collison brothers from Stripe; Brian, Joe, and Nate from Airbnb; and my favorite dynamic duo of Dalton and Michael. How starstruck I was interviewing with Dalton during my first application to YC.

Emmett talked about user interviews, a subject I’d grok even after a triple lobotomy. He said, “Segment your users. Do user interviews with new, churned, and retained users. But most importantly, with those not on your platform. The best users to interview… Are your competitor’s users.”

I nodded. Brilliant. I slurped up the Kool-Aid straight from the horse’s mouth. I started to write down a list of our local competitors. Ones that for the most part no longer exist. Folks like Demiplane, or DMsGuild, or Yawning Portal. I distinctly remember the last of these competitors being named Allyance.

“It’s a competing platform.” I stammered.

Devon scrolled through the legalese. He gave one of his characteristic big smiles. “So I’m guessing you user interviewed them. How’d they find out it was you?”

Early on Devon and I had heated arguments. I believed in move fast and break things. You have to break a few TOCs to make a lawsuit, right? And Devon, though he had a strong bias to action, was more cautious. He wanted to launch backwards compatible features with no edge cases.

I remember telling him about the Emmett strategy. “Devon, we’ve been doing all these interviews, but haven’t talked to our competitor’s users.”

“I don’t see what the benefit’s gonna be here. Our competitors are just as small or smaller than us. And honestly, for the most part, their users are bleeding over to us anyways.”

“You don’t know what you don’t know.”

“It just sounds a bit risky.”

“Devon, did I ever tell you the old story from YC? Something that Paul Graham used to make the founders do. He’d have them go out to a hotel and ask for a free room. To get rejected, to overcome their fears, to be courageous.”

My life has been a fight to become more courageous, to be the best version of myself. And each little decision, every choice that we make, changes us. It makes us more courageous, or more cowardly. Not only do we make our choices, our choices slowly make us.

And I viewed taking Emmett’s advice as an act of courage, an act of breaking a few rules to get something valuable.

But courage doesn’t equal stupid.

In this case, I didn’t think, I just did. I went out to all the competitors and Dm’ed users directly on their platform. While I came away with some user insights, I was summarily and instantly banned. Not only because I was reaching out via the platform themselves, clearly against terms of service, but brazen and youthful as I was, I used my StartPlaying email.

“You used your StartPlaying email, right?”

I nodded.

If he had been younger, more headstrong, this was the perfect moment to say, “I told you so.” He could have launched into a harangue.

But he saw me standing there, head hung low, and clearly thinking I had just sunk the company.

He tapped his phone for a moment. I heard an email send. Devon canceled the Power Word Update.

“Look Nate, this isn’t the first time I’ve been sued. Let’s give the lawyers a call and then I’ll tell you the lore drop.”

I met the legal team for Start Playing via Zoom. I recognized their background immediately. It was from a game called FTL. A tactical roguelike where you pilot a ship as part of the rebellion on a race against time to take down the Galactic Empire. I smiled. These were my people.

Sometimes when you know, you know.

When I was a kid, I did mock trial, emphasis on the mock. My flatulent American history professor bullied me into joining because I had an eidetic memory of obscure quotes and ample room in my brain attic.

My first assignment was to play a detective with enough foibles to put the merchant of Venice to shame. I spent 30 minutes before the trial studying. Otherwise, I went into it fresh.

I remember the first question when I was put on the stand. “What’s your badge number?”

I had no idea, so I rattled off a string of random numbers.

The defense lawyer then submitted a piece of evidence: my badge. Whoops. “Can you read the badge number from evidence?”

I looked up smirking at the pimply teen that thought he caught me in the act. “Oh, this was submitted into evidence a couple of weeks ago. We just got reissued badges. Sorry you didn’t get the memo.”

So when I picked up the phone to talk to the court lawyer, not a corporate lawyer, a lawyer that would present cases in front of judges, I knew this guy was right. He was sharp and quick. He could turn up the charisma dial to eleven or down to pittbull. He spoke quickly, succinctly, eloquently. Increasing the information ratio of his words.

The man was positively delightful.

I could hear him smile over the phone.

“Look, Nate, we’ll come in with a sweet offer. We’ll say, drop the charges. We’ll apologize. We’ll promise not to do it again. No harm, no foul. Let’s say they press, which would be stupid, but let’s say they’re stupid. Well, we’ll say your claims are baseless. Your TOCs are fraudulent. And the lawsuit is a sham. We’ll force you to pay all the legal fees. And we’ll force a rewrite of your TOC. Shutting down the site during the redraft. At that point they’ll agree. $339,000 for talking to a couple of their users. It’s bullshit.”

They dropped the charges. And within a year, they were defunct. Almost all their users migrated to StartPlaying. Not because we convinced them. Not because we talked to them. Nor through some malicious practice. We just built a better product, and sometimes product is king.

All told the incident cost $10k in legal fees, 20cc’s of cortisol injected directly into my CNS, and one canceled Power Word Update.

The next day Devon and I retro’d the episode and invented a new phrase: Autopsy Posthumously, which basically means save the I-told-you-so‘s until after the crisis.

We walked away from Devon’s studio, past restaurants and coffee shops until Devon stopped, and opened a pair of saloon doors. The bartender greeted him like an old friend because Devon was an old friend. He knew practically everyone in SF.

He ordered two beers. After looking at me for a second and remembering my distaste of alcohol, ordered one beer, one hard cider, and two fernets. Fernet tastes like a liquorice stick melted in a thimble of mouthwash that admittedly no one likes.

“Trust me you’ll love it,” Devon lied.

I was all nerves. I demurred, “Devon, I don’t really drink.”

“Nate, just have a sip.”

The cider was cold. I gave it a delicate sip. It was sweet. Sweet was nice. I immediately felt warm and calm. It was going to be all right. We’d make it through this crises and any others yet to come.

Devon looked over at me and smiled. “So, Nate, did you learn your lesson?”

I smiled back. “Yeah, when you’re feeling bad, alcohol helps.”

“Ki-yah!”

A wooden katana slammed on the desk in front of Darius. He jolted upright. His starchy white oxford button-up chafed his beige, hairy neck. Darius brought his two fingers up to his collar, with the intent to pull it loose, but stopped, afraid to draw more attention to himself.

“Ki-yah!” The katana hit the table again. Gerald, his boss, stood before him, panting. He wore a bandana, like someone that thought the Cobra Kai were the good guys from The Karate Kid. Gerald was basically a kid himself. Twenty-three or twenty-four. His oversized, gray suit hung limply around him. A bead of sweat managed to breach his headband. “Darius, do you know why my dad put me in here?”

He rested the wooden katana on his desk and looked at the office aquarium, the only constructive contribution he’d made thusfar. Weak lights shone through its crystalline interior, revealing an artistic collection of fake coral and ocean fauna, and one singular clownfish.

“It was to install discipline, Darius.” He turned around abruptly, and thrust each arm at his side as if to become a human pine cone. He turned his bandana around, looked Darius straight in the eyes, and yanked at one side of the cloth shouting, “Discipline!”

The bandana came off leaving a large red mark. He blinked tears away and rubbed his reddened forehead. “Darius, what do you need from me today? I’m quite busy, as you can see.”

Darius leaned over and pushed the bundle of files on Gerald’s desk, a bit closer to him. “Today we’re discussing the promotion package, uh, sir.”

Gerald regained some composure. He swiveled the chair back towards Darius. And raised his eyebrows at the thick promotion package. He eased it open with a hand damp with sweat. “Well, Darius, I can see that you’ve done quite... a superb job this year.”

Darius had meticulously prepared this promotion package, getting quotes and figures from the other members of the office. He’d been working here for three years with no promotion, and this, he had decided, was his final attempt. He’d either get the promotion or he’d quit right here on the spot. He gulped.

Darius heard a sloshing. To the left of Gerald’s desk was a clear Tupperware container. A crab skittering to and fro inside. Gerald reached his hand out to gingerly grab and then vigorously shake the container. The small crab curled up its legs in whatever the crustacean form of a fetal position must be.

Gerald gave a gleeful smile.

“So, Darius, you know the firm’s financial situation.” He lifted up the Tupperware, inspecting it from below and then carefully carried it to the aquarium. “Your performance has been good. Yes, of course, right?”

He gingerly peeled off the lid. “The firm’s performance, well, Darius, due to my father’s undisciplined actions at the top, has not been as stellar.”

With the swift finality of an executioner’s ax, he dumped the crab out. It floated lazily to the bottom, next to a fireman figurine, ax aloft, ready to break open a chest of some forgotten pirate’s booty.

“But... we couldn’t overlook a stellar performance, could we? Darius, I want to give you a promotion. Ki-yah!”

He turned around and hit the air in front of him with a fist. Darius’s heart was thrumming. He smiled and tried to act unstartled, giving a small laugh.

The crab righted itself. Was it finally at the end of its journey? Its migration from seafloor to net, to boat, to bucket, to pet store, to Tupperware, to home. It explored the aquarium, its little claws clicking.

“You are going to be, ki-yah, ki-yah!” He struck in front of him two more times. “Senior head associate. No, head senior associate.”

Darius frowned. He had been a senior associate for the past three years. Was a head associate some new title? “Uh, great. Okay, yeah. So what’s the new package? Uh, any new benefits?” He reached to flip to the end of the promotion package, where Darius had expounded upon the pay ranges of various positions at the firm.

Gerald put his hand down on the packet. He leapt into the swivel chair. It gave a poof as it caught his small frame. “Well, Darius...” He propped both of his feet onto the desk. Darius noted he didn’t avoid his promotion package.

“Yes, uh, about that, uh, this position carries a lot of new responsibility. It’s instrumental to the success of the firm. Right, but, uh, Darius, I only got an extra $50K that I can spend on the entire department, and well, honestly... I’ve already given it to somebody else.”

Darius could only hear his heartbeat. For some reason, he wasn’t looking at Gerald anymore. Thump, thump, thump, thump, pounded his chest. He was looking at the crab. He knew what was coming. The crab did not.

It poked at various stones and fake fauna, until it came to an unusually shaped rock, larger and plainer than the rest. It poked at it with curiosity. The rock trembled.

Gerald looked back. “Oh, there she goes. Good girl!...” He stood up and tapped the glass. Dong, dong, dong! “Bessie, Bessie….”

The only person up for promotion under Gerald was him. He’d already talked to the other employees. No one got a bonus. No one got a raise. So where did the $50K go? Gerald... Darius thought.

The rock was not a rock. It was an octopus. Its eight strong arms grabbed the crab. Its beak made crunching noises Darius could hear from across the room. The crab was no more. “Ki-yah!” Gerald punched the air in front of him.

“So Darius, Senior Head Associate, it’s a lot of responsibility. So I want you to get up out there and do your best. Next year, I am certain there are going to be big things, like huge things for you here.”

Gerald sat down and looked at Darius. He fidgeted. Darius didn’t move. Darius normally would have gotten up, and left Gerald to play Minesweeper or read manga or whatever he did in his corner office. But Darius had to say something.

He had built a flowchart, mapped out every option, followed the chart in his head, and it led to a simple utterance, just two words. He could even choose, “I’m out. I quit. Fuck you.”

Darius opened his mouth to talk. All he had to do was say them.

Armageddon

“Hey, I brought sushi.” Darius fumbled with the door handle, holding a damp bag of fish.

“God dammit!”

He heard someone jumping in the kitchen, and the sound of a soft material hitting a hard one. “Sonali?”

“Oh, hey Darius. Hey, get over here.” Sonali scampered out of the kitchen.

She was wearing an oversized Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt and short shorts. Though, Darius couldn’t visually verify the shorts. She dragged him into the kitchen. There was a strong odor of their previous weekend’s seafood boil. Phil had scored 10 pounds of tilapia, crawfish, crab, lobster and squid. Dealer’s choice of proportion. It was 90% squid. The pots were piled high. Still dripping what Darius thought was a queasy pink liquid.

Sonali pointed with her hand bearing a wad of unopened bills and missed appointment letters towards what Darius could almost describe as a tarantula. “Jesus Christ!” Darius flinched, almost dropping his sushi.

“Darius, you’re taller than me and you’re a guy. So…” She handed him the bills with an impish grin. Darius sighed and looked up at the spider. It seemed menacing. He swore it was almost the length of his index finger, but he noticed something else. The flies that had continually buzzed and supped in their unclean kitchen were no longer buzzing. In fact, it was only the spider that supped.

“I don’t know, Sonali. I mean, maybe he’s protecting us?”

“Darius, it’s a giant fucking spider. Swat him while I stand five feet back in case he jumps at your neck.”

Sonali had a mane of uncombed black hair. With a few tamed brown highlights and untamed gray strands. She had wide-set dark eyes and a long smile. Something like a Cheshire cat. But on her face, it had none of the grim dark fantasy, and instead gave her aquiline nose and dark eyes a friendly set.

He thought of his meeting with Gerald. He thought of words he had known so long, but never said. He sighed, his shoulders slumping, and readied himself to swat the spider.

“Darius.” Sonali cocked her head to the right. “That’s right. Today was your big day!”

Darius smiled with all mouth and no eyes. “Yeah, I got promoted.”

“Hey,” Sonali wrapped both of her arms around his thin shoulders and collarbone. He felt her small breasts through her shirt and blushed.

“Yeah, it just didn’t come with any raise.”

“Darius, that’s not a promotion. That’s, like, malfeasance. It’s like abuse.”

Darius dragged his feet into the living room and fell onto the couch. The Matrix was playing and Neo was being excoriated by his boss. “Yeah, I know.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Sonali gave him a look that was part lion, part mother. She strode behind the couch and opened up Phil’s room without knocking.

Darius knew Phil from about a year ago. His firm hired Phil as an in-person strategy consultant for a grand total of two days, until they realized 90% of his resume was falsified. The portions that were not falsified were the font. That was only stolen.

Sonali knew Phil from when he tried to recruit her to be the maître d’ at a new club that he neither financed, architected nor established any concrete plans for, except for that the maître d’ would be topless, and the name would be Amuse Douche, tapas and shower themed of course.

She came out of Phil’s room with a briefcase that looked pilfered out of the gilded age, but not in such a way that it retained its luster. It looked like a time traveler went to the 1920s, stole a briefcase, deposited it in the 1800s, and let it rattle around the country for 200 years before it wound up in their apartment.

She flipped both latches and turned it around to face Darius. “I don’t say this lightly, but tonight you and me are getting high.”

Darius saw in front of him an apothecary’s wet dream. Except the labels on the bottles of the various herbs were not wolf’s bane and hibiscus, but Bush Kush and Mauve Monkey Balls. “Sonali, look, I don’t...”

“Darius, lighten up.” He watched her long thin fingers carefully pry out a jar labeled Armageddon. Her hands, like a practiced surgeon, dipped into the jar with a small ladle and poured the contents across a piece of paper.

Darius always liked looking at her neck. Something about the way that the sinew connected. The lines not straight but not fully curved, like a hyperbola. Like the view you’d see when looking up under a canopy of trees.

He knew the words he longed to say, he just couldn’t say them.

There was a conspicuous bottle on the far left of the briefcase labeled Red. Darius pulled it out from the inlay. A small note dropped. Underneath the bottle was a rubber band and a syringe.

“Whoa there, cowboy.” Sonali finished rolling the first joint. “Here.” She stuck it out to him with her two fingers. Darius almost wanted her lips to light it up first.

He narrowed his eyes. “Sonali, I need to lighten up.” Sonali retracted the weed and watched him. He looked at the empty syringe on the table in front of him. The instructions were simple. “One cc, mellow. Two cc, tripping. Four cc, ballzz.”

He inserted the syringe into the bottle and pulled out four cc of red liquid. He pushed until small amounts dribbled from the top of the syringe. He tapped it two times.

Sonali’s mouth was open, but neither of them spoke.

Darius rolled up his sleeve, tightened the rubber band around his upper arm. He saw a large blue vein pulse and lowered the syringe towards the vein. He could see his heartbeat. Expanding, expanding, expanding, expanding.

Sonali took out a set of Temple Nightclub matches and lit up Armageddon in a few puffs. She took a deep drag and blew smoke into Darius’ face. “Hey.” Darius held the syringe above his vein, “Do you love me?” She asked.

Expand, expand. Expand, expand.

Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

Someone was at the door.

Sashimi

Darius cracked opened the door and peeped out. There was a tall man with pale, almost gray skin and sleeked back hair. He wore a suit, but not in a posh, business-like way. Darius thought he looked like a sweaty, pin-striped, frat bro 10 years post hoc.

The man’s swollen eyes caught Darius, “Hey, I gotta an interesting offer.” A bit of water dribbled out of his mouth. One of his hands sloshed against the door and started to push it open.

“Hey, uh...”

Sonali was giggling. “Darius, that’s Bruce, it’s totally fine.”

“Oh.” Darius opened the door. The man’s shoes squelched as he strode into the apartment. Darius couldn’t help but notice he was dripping. Had it been raining outside?

“So, you wanna have fun tonight?” The man’s hands were firmly placed in his damp trouser pockets. He smiled. His mouth widened and opened to seemingly implausible states. Underneath the stretched lips was an immense row of pearly whites. Spiked and interlocking.

“Uh, Bruce, we’re kinda busy.” Sonali was giggling and rolling back and forth. Darius saw Armageddon was no more.

“She looks like she wants to have fun. Come on, buddy. Let’s go to the club.” Darius felt the inertia kick in once again. He didn’t know Bruce, but Sonali had gone clubbing plenty. Maybe it would be fun? And then Bruce gave another one of his grins. And Darius saw meat, not steak or chorizo, but raw meat hanging off one of the man’s many teeth.

“Actually, Bruce… I think we’re okay.” Darius stuck his hand out, a friendly gesture of, “It was nice meeting you, but I think it’s time for you to get the fuck out of my house.”

“Darius... Oh, do you wanna hear something really funny?” Darius looked at Sonali, who was still cackling on the ground. “I don’t know who the hell this guy is.” She rolled back on her back, laughing.

Darius instinctively jumped back. Bruce’s hand left his pocket and sought to grab him. But Darius noticed something quite un-hand-like about it. Well, quite a few un-hand-like qualities. There were no nails. No knuckles. No thumbs. No fingers. Actually, quite nothing hand-like about it at all. Bruce had fins.

Darius stumbled backwards. And the shark person bark-roared. His eyes pushed towards the side of his head, and his jaw distended. Rows and rows of dagger-like teeth, stringy with cloth and bangles, blood and sinew, chomped and bit in front of Darius’s face.

Darius grabbed the pot used for the seafood boil and brought it between them. The teeth bit into the pot and gave a deep grating wail. The fins slapped on either side of Darius’s thin arms as he pushed the shark person back. The pot crumpled in the man’s jaws and Darius snatched his hand out before the metal was engulfed.

He heard the sound of a car being turned into a cube as Bruce swallowed the pot whole, and rushed at Darius again. Darius reached behind him, the kitchen knife! He yanked and pulled out a spatula in front of the shark. Fuck.

Bruce chomped it away with one bite and opened his grizzly maw. And then blood.

An ax now protruded from the back of Bruce’s head. He dropped to his knees and fell onto the platter of sushi. Sonali held the other end of the ax. She was giggling. “Darius, it’s sashimi,” she pointed at the shark person.

Extradition

“Dudes, what the fuck?” The bathroom door opened. Phil was 6’4”, around 260 pounds of jiggling confidence. His hair was tied in a ponytail, brown with blonde highlights, and his face was constantly on the verge of being sunburned, giving him an almost aged, ageless look. Depending on the angle, he looked anywhere from 25 to 40.

He wore canvas khaki cargo pants, and carried a utility knife in his back pocket. Darius remembered Phil would take out the knife and ask strangers to slash his slash-resistant sections of pants, until one feisty 16-year-old tried stabbing him instead.

At this moment, his pants were down.

“Phil, put your pants on.” Darius was suddenly dropped into a quantum of normalcy. How many times had he seen Phil’s unantiseptic hands squeezing his heart polka-dotted underwear back into his pants?

“Dudes,” Phil pointed. And Darius shook back into reality, or whatever the fuck they were in now. Sonali was still cackling on the floor.

Darius looked down. His collar, seemingly starched to impregnability, was finally brought low. Bruce’s teeth ripped into it, speckling it with blood. “Jesus, Jesus.”

Darius fumbled in his pockets, brought out his cell, and dialed 911, before Phil, one hand still holding up his pants, toilet paper streaming from the bathroom along with the odor that would have accompanied the reason why Sonali or Darius hadn’t seen or heard Phil for the past 30 minutes, swatted it out of his hands. “What the fuck?”

“Darius, dude, calm down.”

“Phil, we have to call the Pentagon, the CIA, the fucking Men in Black. Look at this.” He pointed down at where the shark person had been, and saw Chaco, their upstairs neighbor, an ax gruesomely protruding from the back of his head. Chaco’s face planted delicately between a Rainbow and a Philadelphia roll.

“Dudes, it’s okay, I know a guy. He can get you out of the country.”

“Phil, this was a fucking shark.”

“Yeah, dude, I saw it. It was a shark, and then it kinda like Animorphed into Chaco.” Phil buttoned his pants and nudged the body with his foot. “Huh. You know, people kinda look smaller when they’re dead.”

Sonali got up on all fours and pointed at Chaco. “Hey Phil. Sashimi. Get it?”

Phil clicked his tongue. “Mm, more like beef tartare. Uh, okay, so dudes, here’s what I’m thinking. New identity. Extradition, probably somewhere kinda warm. You know, a good party scene. I’ve heard Brazil is nice. You guys are probably gonna have to be brother and sister. Like, adopted I guess, uh...”

“Phil.” Darius grabbed on both sides of Phil’s shoulders. “You just saw a fucking shark person, right? This is some Artemis Fowl Lord of the Rings bullshit right here.”

Phil’s nose flared. “Is that my fucking Armageddon?” He turned his head and saw Sonali trying to stand, knees wobbling. “Goddamn it, Sonali. I told you this was for a special occasion.”

“Darius got promoted.”

“Whoa, dude.”

Darius sat down on the couch with a sigh. The Matrix was still playing. Morpheus was holding up a red pill and a blue pill to Neo. Thunk, thunk. Thunk, thunk. The ceiling above them coughed out dust.

“Dudes, that’s Chaco’s apartment.”

All three of them looked up.

Hentai

They stood outside the door. Sonali’s shirt bore a rainbow, now only shades of red. Phil’s shirt untucked itself, his belly protruding. Darius’s shirt hung from his thin shoulders, still tattered from his fish fight.

He looked back at them. Sonali was carrying the ax. He opened his mouth to ask, but decided against it.

“You open it.” Phil nudged Darius.

“Me?”

“Dude, you are the one that killed the shark person. You know, Chronicles of Riddick, like take what you kill.”

“Phil, we live in San Francisco. And Sonali did it…”

Sonali turned the knob. “Unlocked.” She spoke to herself as she entered. Phil and Darius looked at each other and hunched into the room.

It was dark. Darius smelled cellophane, fish food, socks and incense. The far wall was lined with the largest collection of anime dolls Darius ever saw. Sailor Moon, Utena, Lain, Evangelion, and Bebop, breasts meant for bouncing attached to stick thin mixes of poreless faces and multicolor hair. Smiling, bending, and peace signing.

A strobe of color caught Darius’s eye. Eight full screens of tentacular yuri, yaoi, and ahegoa blazed in the corner of the room.

“Dude, Chaco is hooked up. That season is only on prerelease in Japan.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Darius whispered.

“Dude and check this out.” Phil reached down and picked up a pamphlet from the ground and handed it to Darius.

In big inflated orange letters it exclaimed, “SF’s ONE AND ONLY OCTOPUS CULT. Don’t be a sucker for some other cult. Grab your closest three friends and lend us a hand or eight!“ Darius felt Sonali’s hands across his back, his heart raced a touch more. She leaned over him to get a closer look, chuckling at the puns.

Cricket-cricket, cricket-cricket.

“Hey don’t look.” Darius tried to peek over her shoulder, but she was holding the book and the flashlight tight. It was calm and cool. They were in the backyard tree house the night before Darius’s 10th birthday party.

Darius wanted to wait up until right before midnight so he could feel what it was like to have two digits instead of one. He wasn’t really sure what to expect, but he did expect big things.

“Scooch back,” Sonali elbowed him. She was three years older than he was and already knew what it felt like to have two digits. She even knew what it was like to be in middle school.

“The monster took one step up with his left foot and one step up with his right foot,” Sonali continued. Darius settled down and began to imagine the monster. He imagined it was big, even taller than grownups. And it was all jagged, big black spikes coming out of it.

“Tommy and Crysti let out a scream as the monster opened his mouth.”

“What happened next?” Darius couldn’t wait. Even though Sonali was only just taking a quick inhale.

“And then, they saw two lights and from the mirror, glowing versions of Tommy and Crysti stepped out just in time! The monster reeled back…” Sonali looked over at Darius, but he was pensive all of a sudden, “Hey, you okay? This is normally your favorite part.”

“I was just thinking what would happen if they weren’t just in time what would happen if they were too late?”

Sonali smiled and pulled him closer, “The hero is always in time, otherwise how would you get a happily ever after?”

“Dudes, I’ve heard of this joint.”

Both Sonali and Darius looked up.

“Excuse me?” Darius bumbled. Sonali squinted at Phil like a newly formed enemy.

“I never said I’ve been there…,” Phil said, “And so what if I had. An exploration of self in my younger years. I was something of a young…”

“Shut up.” Darius stomped up to Phil, harmlessly pointing at the pamphlet. “So you know how to take us there?”

“Dude, it was a long time ago…”

“Guys” Sonali whispered.

“You’re saying you remember my social, but not the only octopus cult in SF!”

“Why would you use that as your password.”

“GUYS!” Sonali shouted.

She had their attention.

“What the fuck is that….”

Spiderman

A giant spider stood before them, big enough for a twelve-year-old to ride and terrify the bejesus out of even the most shōnen of anime protagonists. Its eight grotesque legs twitching back-and-forth. Its multifaceted eyes reflected gaping jaws of Darius, Phil and Sonali.

The spider had both the body of a spider, and a chubby pimpled human, both connected to a spider head. For a second Darius wondered what it would be like to have two throats and whether the creature had two stomachs and two asses as well. The human body wore a shirt, reading “Death”, and a pair of stained greasy sweatpants. Neither item covered a hairy protrusion of belly that folded over his waist.

Then the creature let out an “Ohoho” in a vibrato even a seasoned Wagnerite would love.

Ten legs stampeded in every direction as two hands snatched up the most prime of the anime dolls.

Phil and Darius both started sweating at the same time.

The Spider-Man thing lunged back on its hind legs. Its front four arachno legs scraped the air like daggers, while its two human legs feebly twitched and gyrated in a distinctly unpleasant motion.

Sonali brought the ax’s head down, missing the Spider-Man’s man parts by a hair’s breadth.

The beast lunged backwards, crying out, “Ohoho.” Sticky webbing shot from its rear abdomen against the far wall.

Darius dropped, bringing both of his thin arms above his head. “It’s launching a web attack.”

He closed his eyes and there was silence. He waited for the blow, the sticky mucus, the paralytic sting. Darius wondered whether his nose was long enough to stick out from the spider’s webbing so that he wouldn’t die of arachno silken asphyxiation.

He heard Phil’s voice beside him. “Dude, I think it just shat itself.”

Darius opened his eyes.

Sonali heaved back the ax with an audible grunt, raising it above her head like an executioner.

“I yield. I yield. Oho!” The Spider-Man sang out in a warbling falsetto. Its legs retracted inward and its small human body sat on the ground, arms locked around knees in the most disconcerting fetal position Darius had ever seen.

“Should I kill him?” Sonali looked from Darius to Phil with frenetic eyes, she was coming down from her high in the most terrifying way possible.

“Dude, wait a second.” Phil dropped into a squat. The tops of hairy cheeks now visible above the swell of his sweatpants. “Hey there, little dude. I see you like Death Note. Misa Misa, am I right?” Phil gave a pervy grin and stuck out one of his fat hands.

Darius got a closer look at the shirt. It squeezed too tightly against the Spider-Man’s man boobs. It did not just say “Death”, it said “Death Note”.

One of the human hands came out and gave a small clap against Phil’s. Phil grabbed the man hand and tried to pull the Spider-Man up, clearly unaware of the difference in weight.

“Ohoh, m’lady. Ohoh. And- your man servants.”

Sonali looked to Phil who motioned her to lower the ax. Its head thudded heavily into the wooden ground.

Phil gave a wide smile and whimsically bowed. He spun his hand above his head with enough vivacity as to tickle his hat’s feather if he had either. “Yes, indubitably my dude,” Phil winked to Darius, “I am sir Phil and this is lady Sonali and manservant Darius of the… lowlands. We come to seek your council.”

The Spider-Man raised himself from the floor, gave a small bow and brought his hand to his chest in a strained sort of salute, as if he were both holding an apple aloft while clutching it to his chest. “You may call me Ota-kun. Or Ota. At your service.”

“So, uh, Ota, my dude, you see any freaky fish people around?”

Ota made precise little movements with his large legs, that kept the noise of his giant frame to a minimum. He opened the blinds of his apartment that overlooked Eddy Street.

“Ohoho, the sinister Salmonids, the traitorous Tunoids, the harrowing… Halibuts!” He bowed low. “Yes, for some time, I’ve awaited your coming… Though not of your particular visage.” He scooped up a small figurine of Mikasa. “But yes, I know of their ilk.”

Sonali straightened up, her hand resting casually on the pommel of the ax. “Though our visage…” She looked at Phil, and he nodded his head, “May look… rough… our hearts are pure, and we accept this...”

She looked at Phil again, and he whispered “A quest, it’s a quest!”

“This quest… So like, what do we do?” Sonali asked.

“Oho, you must venture into the belly of the old city, where their altar’s worship is heard night after night. Indeed, it is the temple of the night.” Ota’s warbled voice threw in sibilance enough to snuff seven candles from sheer anticipation.

Darius paced back and forth. This was their only lead, and despite Ota’s form and hentai predilections, Darius felt Ota wouldn’t hurt a fly. “A temple… Well, there are a couple of churches in San Francisco. There’s, of course, Grace Cathedral, but they don’t worship each night. Perhaps a temple might mean a different place of worship. A synagogue perhaps, or perhaps one of the Shaolin temples in Chinatown.” Darius paced back and forth as Phil asked Ota for fish-related hentai recommendations.

“It’s Temple Nightclub. Jesus Christ, such a fucking nerd.” Sonali heaved on the ax. Its head was stuck deep in the wood. “It’s a temple, there’s worship each night. Ugh. Darius, give me a hand.”

Darius stopped biting his lips. He moved over to the ax and grasped it at the same time as Sonali.

He felt warm. All of a sudden, peaceful, calm. There was a low drumming, thum-thum, thum-thum.

Darius, though he wasn’t sure how he knew he was Darius, liked to dance to the beat. His tiny arms twitched up and down, like a T-Rex with Tourette’s. His legs were Boogie-woogieing.

The left leg popped out, boom, right leg popped out, boom. Oh, he was feeling in the mood. A deep red was all he saw, or thought he saw. But if he understood one thing, he was born, or maybe not yet born, to dance.

Suddenly he felt something strange. His sanctuary, his prison, was being pressed upon. He heard a voice, but it came from outside. In a deep low rumble, “Oooooooh eeeeee’s kiiiiiiiiiginnnnng.”

The sides of the sanctuary were being pressed down upon him. It was no longer boogie-woogie time, it was fighting time. A left kick, a right kick. He had to fight this oppression back. He would not be cowed. He was king. He was universe. The galaxy inside his mouth. Whatever a mouth and a galaxy were.

He was tired.

How long had he been dancing? Perhaps he had always been dancing. Perhaps. He was dancing on the grave of the universe. He fell asleep.

Thunk

The ax popped out of the floor. Darius tumbled back onto his butt. The other side of the ax was held an inch aloft from his Adam’s apple.

“Ha. Thanks.” Sonali said, giving a wide smile.

“Dudes, look at this.”

Phil had just opened a closet door with a full-length coffin poster on its front. On its back, it looked like an anime version of a 16-year-old girl wearing a bat bikini and fangs inside an open coffin. “Ohoh, she’s actually 500 years old.”

But to Darius’s surprise, it did not hold a series of eight limbed jumpsuits. Or maybe ten-limbed Darius guessed? It was stocked, wall-to-wall ceiling to floor with cosplay items.

“Ohoho, vestments for my champions!”

“Holy fucking shit.” Phil pulled out what looked like a bearskin rug.

“Chewbacca?” Darius asked.

“No, dude.” He flipped it the other way to reveal two Velcro flaps for covering, or maybe, uncovering the nipples. And the head of a stuffed animal elephant sewed onto the crotch. “That’s some custom furry con shit. What years Ota?”

“You mean, what years didn’t I go?” Ota’s index finger mimed pushing up a pair of glasses onto his hundred-eyed arachnoid face.

Sonali pulled out a firewoman’s costume that, while offering absolutely zero protection against flame and hazard, would certainly keep one cool in the event of a bonfire.

Phil dropped his pants and started to squeeze his heart polka-dotted boxered buttocks into the Chewbacca suit. Sonali carefully lowered the ax down and yanked her shirt over her ponytail.

“Guys, what the fuck are you doing?” Darius brought his hands up to cover his eyes, peeking between his fingers.

“Dude. They won’t let us in without a costume.”

Sonali sighed, “Darius, it’s Halloween.” She dropped her shorts.

Trick or Treat

Darius looked to his right. Phil seemed surprisingly comfortable in his custom Chewbacca costume. It was about two sizes too big, and his face was almost falling out of the mouth. But he seemed to be having fun opening and closing the Velcro patches that revealed more hair than nipple. To his left, Sonali adjusted her thin plastic fireman’s cap. She’d notched out the back with her ax to make room for her ponytail. The black and yellow jacket barely made it to her 12th rib, but the fire-skirt gave her quite some mobility.

Darius, on the other hand, picked a childhood favorite.

“You know, I haven’t dressed up since I was, like, 13.” Darius waved his arms like a ghost.

“Yeah, we can tell, Darius.”

“Seriously, how spooky am I?” He raised his hands. He was wearing what looked like a Scooby-Doo ghost outfit.

“You know, dude, I’m not sure about your costume. It might cause some...”

“Says the guy with a literal trunk between his legs.”

Sonali almost burst out laughing. She brought her hand to her mouth.

“Whatever, dude.”

“Okay. You nerds ready?” Sonali asked.

The whole team gave a nod. And Phil opened the door.

Both Sonali and Phil stepped into the hallway first, making a sharp right toward the elevator at the back of the apartment. Darius walked out one step before he stopped.

In front of him was a little girl wearing a white rabbit mask. Dark black voids formed the slant of her eyes and the bend of her mouth. She wore a pink petticoat with white lace and black hair in pigtails.

“Guys, do you see this?” Darius said.

The little girl silently held out a skull.

“I think it’s a... I think it’s a ghost.”

Phil and Sonali looked back.

“Dude, it’s a trick-or-treater.”

The top of the skull had been carved away to make an opening in the cranium. A thin wire was strung from either side.

“Guys, we live in the Tenderloin. I’ve never in my fucking life seen an unescorted 12-year-old girl trick-or-treating silently on the second floor of a locked apartment complex.”

“Darius, don’t curse.” Sonali walked towards the girl to pat her head but stopped an inch away when the girl hissed. To Darius, the eyeholes of the girl’s mask squinted. “Oh, it’s okay. Ota, do you have any candy?”

“Okay, okay, even if this were a real fucking little girl.”

“Darius!”

“Right, a real little girl. Why would we ask the creepy giant spider person for candy to give her?

“Darius!” Sonali looked back towards Ota’s door.

“What?”

And from behind them, Darius heard Ota’s voice. “Ohoho, I’ve heard worse.”

Darius saw Ota’s left arm from behind the door, reaching out with a soy sauce flavored Kit-Kat bar, its packaging etched on each surface with Katakana and Kanji. Darius could clearly see a giant spider leg twitching and bristling with hair.

“Jesus.”

“Darius!” Sonali was glaring at him. And Ota dropped the Kit-Kat bar into the skull the girl held, and she ran off in the other direction, giggling.

“Wait, are you fucking serious? There’s no exit over there, only the fire escape. This is a fucking pixie. Some like, Fey bullshit.”

Sonali scrunched up her face. “Darius, you’ve been watching too much Hentai.”

“Sonali, that’s not even what hentai means…”

Phil was holding open the elevator at the end of the hallway. “Dude, Ota’s got some killer recs if you’re looking.”

Darius shook his head and followed him into the elevator.

CTH’L’OCTO-CHAN

The night was cool. It had a burnt ozone smell. And the streets were clean for once. It not only rained yesterday, but the day before and the day before, for eight days straight.

“Dude, I don’t think it’s ever rained so much in SF.”

“They’re calling it rain-geddon.”

It was Halloween. The streets were filled with people. San Francisco usually so hollowed-out was chock-full of lightsabers, sexy witches, wands, sexy nurses, ray guns, sexy cats, and katanas.

As they turned the corner from their apartment, Darius almost ran head-first into a police officer. He looked at Darius for a moment, and then his eyes caught Sonali. Sonali still held the ax. Its sharp blade was gleaming in the moonlight, but not the glint of silver, the glint of red. Bruce’s blood had run down the head of the ax almost to its hilt, sticky, red, congealed.

The officer’s eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m gonna have to place you under arrest.”

Without thinking, Darius grabbed Sonali’s arm to pull her across the street.

“Where are we going?”

Sonali was pulling Darius through a crowd. The dance floor thrummed with the music. Dum, dum, dum, dum. Lights strobed around them. Darius had to constantly remind himself of gravity as his neurotransmitters rolled and sloshed around his head.

They ran off the dance floor.

They were waiting in line for the restroom. Darius leaned his back against the wall and slouched. Sonali rested against him. He swore he felt her heartbeat. Or was that the bass? He craned his head close to her neck, no, her ear. He wanted to make sure she heard.

“Let’s get married.”

Sonali pushed him back against the wall. And looked up at him into his eyes. The lights flashed on and off. They seemed almost blinding. Like the headlights of a car.

And she pulled him. This time they were skipping the line. “Hey, what’s your problem?” “Go fuck yourself.” They marched into the bathroom. A stall had just opened, and they cut in front of the next man. She opened the door to pull them inside.

The officer yanked Darius and Sonali back. Zoom! A car just turned the corner and sped down the street. He could swear the driver had fins instead of arms.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. It’s a joke, y’all.” Darius looked at the officer. He wore a pair of thick aviators in the dead of night. His T-shirt barely held its third button against his pecs and his blue short shorts barely held his cheeks.

“Jesus, hands off, Johnny law!” She threw her hands up. The officer shrugged and turned away.

Suddenly the night felt cold, like feet hitting asphalt after last call. The jingle of ice, sporadic laughter, shuffle of chairs, smiles, rejection, alcohol on warm breath, all replaced by a quiet night air. Darius remembered he had work tomorrow as the new senior head associate.

He should go back. Get some sleep. This was surely all just a dream. If he just closed his eyes, he’d wake up.

No. He had something to say before this night was over. Or he might never get the chance to say it again. A surreal feeling washed over him. He looked up and saw Phil and Sonali looking back, waiting.

He picked up his pace to catch up.

Sonali was only stopped by one more fake cop. He kept hearing people yelling, “Roll tide!” at Phil. And three people had flipped Darius the bird. Strange. Maybe he did something in a past life.

As they rounded the next corner, they saw a great line. Around blocks and blocks it twisted and curled. Its form like a great tentacle feeling its way around the city.

“So, dudes, how long have you been waiting?” Phil asked.

A woman in cat ears looked up. “We’ve been here an hour. The line hasn’t moved, like, a single foot.” Another woman, in identical cat ears, looked up from her phone.

“Yeah, and we are not even at the back of the line. Like there’s no way you guys can get in. Also,” she looked at Darius. “Not cool.”

Phil pulled Sonali and Darius away from the line and huddled, “Okay, dudes. We have to think of another plan…”

“Why don’t we just use his card?” Sonali held out a pink laminated card. At the top it said, Sharkperson Goshujin-sama. Its ID picture had a chibi version of an octopus with two of its eight tentacles raised. “Level two member of CTH’L’OCTO-CHAN. Ganbatte!”

“Wait, this is Bruce’s?”

“Who’s Bruce? I just took it off the shark guy person.”

“You’re brilliant.” Darius almost hugged her before he thought of the momentary lapses that followed when they touched. “But how are we going to pose as Sharkperson?”

A furry paw grabbed the card. Darius saw Phil pull the Chewbacca costume more tightly around him. “I have just the idea.”

Goshujin-sama

Market street thrummed with people like one great artery leading to the temple. Salesforce tower glowed, its animated spire simply read “Obey”. They followed the line twisting and turning maze-like around and across blocks. And they heard it before they saw it. The city seemed to beat. Thump, thump, thump. There was a deep red glow in the distance.

“That’s one hell of a party.” Sonali’s ax glinted red.

“You mean, that’s one party from hell, dude.”

Darius could feel it. That’s where they needed to be. The drumbeat, the heart of the city. As they approached the front of the line, the deep bass of the nightclub became Stentorian, like they were the eye of a hurricane. They had to shout to hear each other.

There were two lines. At the main line of the club stood a six-foot-eight man, shaved with a scar across his left eyebrow, a pin-striped gray suit jacket rested loosely on top of black jeans with a belt and a skull. At the right, a five-foot-four man with dreadlocks and overalls sat on a stool. The sign to his right said, “Goshujin-sama and Hime-sama only.”

Darius whispered in Sonali’s ear, “I think we should drop the ax.”

“What?”

“The ax. They’re not going to let an ax into a nightclub.”

“Darius, worry about your own costume.”

Phil swaggered up with confidence. Both Velcro flaps opened. From five feet away, he visibly took out his Goshujin-sama card and held it aloft as he took his final steps.

The bouncer rose from his stool and bowed ever so slightly. “Goshujin-sama, Hime-sama,” he said in a distinctly American accent, “Welcome on this most holiest of nights. May I see your card?” He looked at the name on the card, Sharkperson, and looked back up to Phil. His face hid fully behind the Chewbacca costume.

Phil stood at least one head above the bouncer, and the bouncer cocked his to the left. “Damn, I swore you were my height, Sharkperson.”

Sonali’s hand tightened across the haft of her ax. And Phil shrugged. The bouncer stared daggers. He looked towards the other larger man and then shot back a laugh that could be heard from the back of the line.

“Oh, you know I was just shitting you. You go on right in. Take this lovely lady with you. Oh, by the way, nasty costume. Love the bloody ax.”

Darius entered last, and he saw the bouncer’s eyes widen and mouth become slack. Darius tried to walk in, but the man’s arm shot out like a steel beam and prevented him from entering.

“Hey, I’m with, uh, I’m with Ph- with Sharkperson.”

“Dude, no way no KKK-dressed ass motherfucker is gonna get into my club.”

“What? This is a ghost.”

Sonali sighed and rolled her eyes. “I knew this would happen...”

Phil was making the Chewbacca noise and shaking his elephant head at the other bouncer, who was laughing. As the bouncer with dreads started to inhale, he kept gasping, one, two, three, and kept growing, bigger and bigger. Five-foot-four, five-eight, six-two, six-eight, seven-two. The man was a giant. “You take off that costume, motherfucker.”

“I’m a ghost.” Darius’s voice cracked. And he stood in stunned silence.

The man leveled his hand down onto Darius’s head. Darius thought the hand oddly reminiscent of a nutcracker and his skull oddly reminiscent of a nut.

Suddenly, Darius felt a weight lift as Sonali yanked off the Scooby-Doo ghost costume and threw it on the ground.

“He’s an idiot. Just ignore him.” She grabbed Darius’s arm and pulled him inside the temple.

Darius could feel his blood boiling. His heart thump-thump, thump-thump, racing, his blood pressure rising. “I’m the idiot?”

He looked at Sonali. They were so different now.

Darius had grown quite the paunch. Too many years of sitting at a computer as his day job, hobby, leisure time, and way to keep in touch. Sonali’s hips had widened. Her fashion had changed. A smattering of hair gone gray. Nose and ears ever so slightly bigger.

“What do you think, we’d put them in a retirement home? No. Either they’re coming here or I’m going to them.”

“Sonali, we’ve already made this decision. It’s our house. It’s not your parents’ house. Your parents had their own house. They made their own choices.”

“Yeah, and part of those choices were having me”

“Look-”

“I told you. They don’t need to move here. But if not, I’m moving in with them.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“That’s not going to happen? You think you own me? You have the right to control what I do? To boss me around?”

Boom-boom, boom-boom. Darius’ blood boiled. “I told you, we’ve already made the decision.” His hand pounded on the table. Boom-boom, boom-boom.

“You expect me to…?” His legs began to buckle. His arms gripped the table as he slouched down. Boom-boom, boom-boom. “Darius? Darius?” He fell. Sonali grabbed his arm, and the world went black.

Follow the White Rabbit

When Sonali let go, Darius realized he was an idiot. Yeah, Darius had been to clubs before. Once before. It had been a Wednesday night, 8:00 PM, and he had refused to drink. He stood, slightly bouncing, in a circle with eight other guys and one woman as a 60-year-old man, his balding scalp ever so slightly hid with a comb-over, pretended to dodge bullets like Neo in the center of a circle.

Darius couldn’t see more than a few feet on any side of him. Sweaty bodies jumped and lurched. He saw nipples, tongues, earlobes, shoulders, knees, backs lacquered with sweat. But upon ever so slight inspection, he saw fangs, flippers, fins and dorsals, and heard the barking of sea lions.

The floor was sticky and slick with brine, and the ceiling was covered in tentacles like capillaries, pulsing to the beat of the music.

Sonali and Phil stood pressed close. They were shouting. But Darius couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was too loud. His entire heart and body were part of the beat. He felt this strange urge to dance. He had to boogie-woogie. His legs began to move on their own.

Without his ghost costume, he only wore a raggedy white undershirt and a pair of white boxers. But that didn’t matter. It was time to dance.

He saw Sonali, her arms hooked around a man with the body of a lumberjack and the head of a sea bass.

Phil was damp with perspiration, with brine. His thick Chewbacca fur, now a wet, oily mess. Crustaceans began to crawl up his legs and arms as he began to rock his body back and forth, keeping his legs firmly attached to the ground.

Where was the music coming from? How could he stop? Darius looked back to where he thought the door was and saw the girl in the rabbit mask.

Somehow, in this throng of people, she stood alone. She had a circle of clear dance floor around her. No sole within six feet.

He had to reach her. He could barely move. No, he could move. He could dance.

He slammed his foot down. Just a single foot. Just a single toe inside her circle. And the whole scene changed. The music level dropped to a small thump-thump, thump-thump. He grabbed onto Phil by the hand, and pulled Sonali by the haft of her ax into the circle.

“What the fuck?” Sonali said. They could hear each other clearly.

They all looked towards the little girl.

The three of them stood within the quiet circle the young girl created. Sonali spat on the already briny floor of the temple. “Ugh, tastes like fish.” And Phil shook himself like a dog. Crustaceans and hermit crabs flew off his damp fur. He parted his Chewbacca locks.

Darius smiled at them and pointed at the girl, “Follow the white rabbit,” he smiled. Sonali looked at him vacantly and Phil squinted his eyes, “You know, from Lewis Carroll.” Their looks still blank, “The fucking Matrix.”

“Oh, right dude, Morpheus and shit. But what the fuck is that thing?” Phil pointed at the young girl.

“This is the girl.”

“No, it’s not. That was a trick or treater. This is like some sort of a magic thing. Like what’s that game you play? The Dungeons and…”

“Wait, now the girl is weird?”

“Well, I mean, what is she doing in a nightclub? What’s with this kind of like sound barrier, huh?” Phil stuck his head in and out of the circle.

“Yeah, Darius, it is a little strange.”

Darius rolled his eyes, “Are you fucking serious?”

“Darius, I mean, she is a little girl, maybe you should watch what you say.”

Darius inhaled and exhaled and brought his pinched fingers to his temples. “This is clearly a fey creature, like a magic creature that we aided by giving her a Kit Kat bar or whatever. She’s part of our quest. And now she’s here to save us, like in a magic mentor role in The Hero’s Journey or something like that.”

Phil and Sonali were clearly just waiting for Darius to finish. “Yeah, but how did she get here?”

“Wait.” Darius pointed at where the girl had been. “She was a 12-year-old, unaccompanied, trick-or-treating in the middle of the Tenderloin, and that was okay, but-”

“Guys,” Sonali brought one of her hands up in air quotes, “’Follow the white rabbit.’” She pointed in the direction the girl was walking.

They sloshed their way through the nightclub. Its denizens parted before the small girl like the Red Sea, only to collapse after she was six-feet distant.

Their soggy shoes, splashed and squished to the now gentle sound of the music. Darius looked towards Sonali’s rubbery fireman boots with a small hint of jealousy.

As they moved to the back of the club, they saw hulking fish people throw bins of what looked like chum down shafts next to a conspicuously clean elevator.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen this before.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

Darius looked towards Phil and Sonali. “The elevator?”

“Well, dude, yeah. I guess I’ve also never seen a tentacle ceiling or giant fish people.”

“Wait, you’ve lived here for three years, and you’ve never been here once?” Sonali asked.

Darius quickly hit the elevator call button and the doors opened to a crisp white interior, sterile and clean. The little girl stood at the entrance. Her white rabbit mask stared unblinkingly.

Darius reached down to pat the girl on the head. And she let out a “Hisssss”. Her mask’s eyes almost narrowed to full slants. “Jesus, okay. Uh, well, you did great. And, um, not a touching person. Got it.”

Sonali grabbed Darius’s hand and pulled him into the elevator.

Beep-beep. Beep-beep.

Darius opened his eyes just a touch. He didn’t know where he was. But he was warm. The air smelled like cheap incense used to cover up the smells of alcohol and formaldehyde.

He tried to move. His legs were stiff and leaden and hurt to bend. His feet throbbed as if he spent one too many hours on the dance floor last night.

He lifted his hand. He felt it pull on tubes and wires.

“Dad?”

There was a young woman in front of him. She had brown skin and curly black hair cut just below her neck. “Dad. Hey. I came when I heard.” The woman gave a small choked sob. Who was she? She felt so familiar. Her name was on the tip of his tongue.

He opened his mouth, which felt dry, parched, but he had no desire to drink. A rattling noise came from deep within his lungs. He concentrated on the sounds, closed his eyes. “Dad. I should have stayed with you. I... Well, it doesn’t matter. We were having a bad time, me and Dan.

“You know, I was just thinking about that time that you took me to get those... What did you say they’re called? The chewy little octopus fritters on a stick.”

It was Sonali. She was growing up to be a fine woman. She was married, right? To...

Beep-beep. Beeeeeep.

Boss Fight

Darius heard the ding of the elevator door. He wasn’t really sure what he expected to see. Giant fish god, tentacle monster, or an army of piranha knights. This was the boss fight after all.

The elevator opened to an office. Men and women dressed in loose suits and pin skirts walked to and fro in quiet conversation, holding a mix of clipboards, manila folders, and Blackberry devices. Atop their necks were a variety of fish species.

“Dude, look, I found Nemo.” Phil pointed at the nearest fish woman, who gave them a sidelong glance and scurried down the hallway.

The three of them stepped out of the elevator into a school of business fish. Sonali braced her legs and white-knuckled the ax. Darius assumed a fighter’s stance, feeling a chill breeze waft up his boxers. Phil re-Velcroed his nipple patches. They waited for a long moment, but the business fish continued swimming around the wary trio.

“Uh, dude, I think they’re just ignoring us.”

Sonali grabbed one of the smaller fish men by the tie and yanked him towards them.

“Hey, who’s in charge here?”

“Uh, excuse me, this isn’t, uh, this is, uh… this isn’t protocol. “ He tried to move left and right to free himself from Sonali’s grip, but she held fast, holding the ax above his head. He didn’t seem to mind the ax. He gave it a single glance and then looked down at his watch. “Uh, sorry, I’ve got a 9:30 sharp call with the Singapore office. Uh, if you’ll excuse me, uh... You can just ping me...” He held up a badge that flapped on his lapel: Level one Mackerelperson Goshujin-sama.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Phil snapped his fingers in front of the young mackerel, as Mackerelperson brought his hand up to his tie and began to squeeze it over top his fishy face. Sonali rolled her eyes and let him go.

“Ugh, fucking corporates.”

“Guys, uh, look.” Darius pointed at a bulletin board. A couple of flyers and Post-It Notes. A small picture of an eel person holding the shoulders of his two twins at a soccer game. A notice reminding employees to use their VPNs when outside the office. “You wouldn’t want to swim in shark-infested waters. *This by no means has any reference or referral to shark people or their general demeanor. Shark people are a protected class under Section 704B of Oceana.”

Darius gestured at the calendar.

“Yeah. So companies generally have important events like board meetings listed. Ah, here we go.” He pointed at today. There were two separate events: a board meeting on level eight of SF HQ, and the SUMMONING OF THE GREAT OLD ONE CTH’L’OCTO-CHAN.

“And that seems ominous. Well, to level eight we go.” Darius looked to the other side of the elevator and found a detailed map of the area, with appropriate arrows directing the fish in case of fire.

“Dude.” Phil clapped Darius on the back with a soggy paw.

“Three years of climbing the corporate ladder.” He looked from Phil to Sonali, each giving him a meek smile. And then he lead the way through the office fishbowl.

They came to an elevator in the back. It had eight buttons and a card scanner. Phil punched level eight and the light flicked on and off.

“One second.” Darius scanned Sharkperson’s employee card and floor two lit up. Darius tried punching eight, but again it went dark, “Restricted access…”

“Okay. Darius, nice try,” Sonali hefted the ax down. “I think it’s my time to shine.”

“Wait.” Darius almost grabbed Sonali by the shoulder, but then reached his hand back. Sonali looked at him, perplexed. “Just wait please.”

Darius let the elevator door close, and it dropped them down to level two. The doors opened, and they waited inside.

“What are we doing...”

Phil amused himself by velcroing and un-velcroing his flaps.

“Just wait.”

They heard the patter of steps from the other fish people in the office, the buzz of fax machines, and pagers beeping. Darius swore it matched a rhythm, almost like a heartbeat, like a bump-bump, bump-bump. He looked at Sonali. The head of the ax lay on the ground. She leaned against the elevator wall. He had something to say to her. Was she experiencing the same flashes that he experienced?

“Sonali?”

She looked at him, surprised and expectant. “Yeah?”

“Well…”

Ding.

The doors closed. They saw a level four light up. They were going down.

The elevator door opened to a fish man and fish lady chatting. The fish man had a black and white fish head with wavy fins and vacant eyes. The fish lady seemed to be some sort of sea anemone. Darius was unsure how she both saw or talked.

For a moment, Darius put himself in their position. They were well-dressed, on their way from one business meeting to another. Darius had just heard the word “synergy” and “OKRs on schedule”. Elevator doors opened, and standing in front of them were three, not fish people, just people. One clearly in just his underwear. One dressed in a slutty fireman’s costume, with an honest to god bloodied ax. And one was dressed in a damp Chewbacca costume, with a stuffed animal elephant head stitched to the crotch.

Obviously no one wants to be out of line, but maybe, just maybe, this was enough to call building security.

The fish people paused momentarily before stepping in the elevator. They turned around, and Darius waited for them to extend their IDs. They were looking at him, obviously waiting for the same thing.

Sonali gripped the handle of the ax. They were alone in the elevator with fresh badges, all that needed to be done now was finish the deed. But Darius knew another way this could work.

“Oh, you can scan yours first.” He said with a smile.

They either had the choice, go out on a fin, call them out, step out of the tightly cordoned lines of propriety and procedure, or acquiesce and scan first.

The fish man took out his badge, level eight, and scanned the elevator. Ding. It started moving. Darius smiled. “Oh, we’re going to the same floor.”

The fish man grunted assent and began talking with the anemone woman again. “Q3 strategic planning objectives...”

Sonali loosened her grip on the ax and gave Darius a wide grin.

Fuck Aquaman

The door opened.

Level eight looked no different from level one or level two, with the exception that there were noticeably fewer fish people. The cubicles were replaced with spacious corner offices. Darius idly wondered what the view from these offices might be. They were deep underground now, at least 8 if not 10 stories.

Darius found the boardroom on the map and escorted Sonali and Phil there. Phil tried to yank a fire hydrant off the wall before Darius flipped the release hatch and Phil stumbled backwards with an improvised weapon.

As they stood outside the boardroom, Darius turned back to them. “Look, we’ve come this far without violence. Let’s go in and talk to them. We have no idea what is happening here, all right?”

“Fuck that.” Phil slammed his foot against the handle of the tinted glass door with a deafening thud. Shaking the door so much that the glass shattered to the ground.

“Shit, my foot,” Phil hobbled into the room, unleashing the nozzle of the fire extinguisher and screaming while spraying foam. “I have had it with these mother-f’ing fish in this mother-f’ing office!”

The foam gradually ran out, and Darius shook his head and entered the room.

Sonali looked at Phil. “Snakes on a plane?”

“Hell yeah, dude.”

The boardroom was full with mummified corpses. Each seat occupied, by gills, scutes, fins and barbels, grizzled fish people with shriveled scales covering piscine skulls. In the center of the table was a yellow document, with filigreed letterhead. Cult of the CTH’L’OCTO-CHAN, Incorporated.

“Huh, it’s a C-corp.” Darius said as he picked it up.

“What the fuck?” Sonali tapped on the back of one of the fish persons’ heads. It dislocated, rolled off the chair, and thudded on the ground.

“Let’s see. There seems to be three agenda items. Uh, the first of which is a measure on executive bonuses that passed with 9 votes, all ayes.

Okay. Uh, the second looks to be a renaming of the third-floor office community center. Um, yeah, looks like a consensus wasn’t reached. Plenty of notes on this one, actually.” Darius flips pages of the memo until he got to the back.

“Oh, uh, and the last one. Let’s see. The 100-year plan to resurrect the great octopus god, CTH’L’OCTO-CHAN. Looks like this one passed with a vote of 8 to 1 souls. Hmm, souls…”

There was a cough on one side of the boardroom. One of the shriveled figures began to move. His head and hands were covered with a deep mucus slime. His mouth cracked open, showing rows of teeth.

“It’s a Greenland shark… they can live for 300 years,” Darius said.

Sonali raised her ax.

Phil scoffed, “Nerd.”

“You must stop it.” His voice was cracked. His tongue grated across his lips like sandpaper.

“What are they doing? Um, Greenlandsharkperson.” Sonali grabbed the shark by his shoulders

“Ah yes, that was to be the name of the third floor office community center.”

“Wait, stop what?”

“You know,” Darius chimed in, ”Greenlandsharkperson office community center is a pretty long name. I mean, do you need to put the whole thing in front of the office?

“It’s a perfectly reasonable name. Greenlandsharkperson third floor office community center.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. You already have an office named after you?”

“Of course,” Greenlandsharkperson began to cough, “Oh my gills.”

“Darius, seriously, this is not the time.”

“Sonali, he already has an office named after him. And he wants a second office named after him? In the same building? So people are going to have to refer to it as the Greenlandsharkperson Office Level Two.”

Greenlandsharkperson coughed blood onto the table.

“Darius, he’s about to tell us something very important, so if you could just shut your mouth...”

“Dude, Sonali, chill. Darius has a point. Like, it’s kinda dumb to have…”

“Oh, my fucking God.” She held the ax, inches away from the Greenlandsharkperson’s face. “Tell us, what happens if we don’t stop the great octo summon or whatever?”

“They want to fucking hyphenate the office name. Everyone’s fucking name.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’s even worse. I mean, I guess Greenlandsharkperson office level two is better than mantarayperson hyphen greenlandsharkperson hyphen aquamanperson...”

“Fuck Aquaman!” Greenlandsharkperson raised up a slimy middle finger and collapsed onto the table, dead.

“Darius.” Sonali didn’t turn to look at him.

“I mean, Sonali, we know Aquaman exists now, right? Like, that’s crazy.” Darius suddenly realized how absurd he sounded, and became quite conscious of the fact that he was wearing nothing, but his underwear.

“Darius, like five minutes ago, there was like one second where I thought you were cool. Just, like, one second.” Sonali scowled. “And now, our miraculous last fucking lead is dead.” She turned around and grabbed Darius by the shirt.

Crunch-crunch

Darius’ back slammed against the locker twice.

“Leave him be, Sonali.” Sonali was a full foot taller than Darius. He was already cringing, awaiting the blow to come. She held Darius by the front of his white polo shirt.

“Fucking nerd.”

“And what? We’re gonna leave this fucking peeping Tom here?”

The other girl laughed. “Leave him. This is the closest he’ll ever get,” she laughed. Darius peeked, his eyes open. Sonali was a high schooler. Darius barely in middle school. She stood, feet firmly planted beneath her, wearing compression shorts and a sports bra. Her arms taut with muscles and laced with bruises from playing field hockey.

“You like what you see?” She gave a sadistic smile.

“Uh, yeah.” Darius glanced away.

“Well, enjoy the view tonight.”

She threw Darius into the locker where she’d found him, slammed it shut, and then took one of the benches in the locker room and rammed it up against the outside of the locker. Darius pushed as hard as he could, but it didn’t budge. He was trapped. He banged on the door.

“They made me do it!”

“Goodnight…”

Darius’ heart raced. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, as Sonali left the locker room and switched off the light.

Chum

“Dudes, check this out.” Phil leaned down on the other side of the boardroom desk, and Sonali and Darius heard a creak and saw a hatch open on the other side. The smell of brine and meat, pork maybe, filled the room.

“Batten down the hatch?”

“Phil, you’re opening it.” Sonali giggled. Darius gave her a smile.

“Oh, yeah.” Phil scratched the back of his head.

From down below they could hear a rumble, thump-thump, thump-thump. It wasn’t as loud as it had been in the nightclub, but was deeper, bassier, and closer than it had ever been before. They were right on the cusp. The three of them went down the ladder.

Darius saw what could only be described as an industrialized kitchen. There was a low glow of lights. Brawny fish people in hard hats were carrying buckets of chum.

“What is that?”

Darius sniffed the air. He’d smelled dead fish before. Like rotten, two-week-old fish that you sometimes got on Monday or Tuesday when the restaurant was trying to get rid of its leftovers. But this was different.

There was the brine smell. The smell of salt and dirt and sweat, mixed and emulsified in tepid water. And there was another smell, almost like a smell that you’d get at a butcher. Not like a clean butchered animal, but a pig left split and hanging too many days in a cool, damp cellar.

They climbed down and down, passing level upon level.

Darius thought he heard the sound of club music. No, he definitely heard it. He paused on the ladder and looked around. There was an eerie red glow below. But to his right a 10-foot round platform lowered, filled with cat-eared dancers caught in the siren song.

“Dude. That’s the dance floor, like, the center dance floor.”

All of a sudden, the sides of the dance floor raised to what looked like a little pool, or, as Darius saw, a pot. Water started to fill. Darius could see the bottom glow as a great burner was lit below it.

And people kept dancing.

A lid, a great steal covering, lowered onto the pot. Just as it began to boil, Darius could hear the screams of the victims inside.

“The, uh, screaming.” An onlooking lobster person said to another.

“It’s just a reaction. Boss assured me they can’t feel a thing while they’re dancing.”

The top of the great pot was lifted, and revealed a boiling pot of chum.

“Let’s go”, Sonali said. They descended the ladder slowly, rhythmically, unintentionally moving to the beat of whatever lay below them. A dark, a red incandescent glow was the only thing that they saw. The pots of chum became less and less frequent.

Darius began to see that the walls of the temple, were covered in a mass of flesh. Pulsing to the beat.

Darius heard a splash, and Phil called up, “Dudes, careful down here. It’s, like, up to your waist.”

Darius dropped. Splosh. It was a combination of the salty brine and the smell of chum. Darius looked as his white underwear turned pink, soaking up the surrounding waters. Splosh. Sonali made it to the bottom. Darius thought he smelled one more thing, a faint odor of methane.

Phil, Sonali, and Darius began to walk, almost against their own volition, toward the sound of the beat.

Darius felt so tired. How long had it been? How far had they come? Bruce or shark person, Ota-kun, the girl in the white rabbit mask, the temple, the charnel house. It all seemed like a dream. How did it all begin?

It was both quiet and deafeningly loud. The beat of the place synchronized everyone’s heartbeats. Their steps, their breath, the rhythm of their soul seemed to meld with this great beat.

They were not just in the lair of this great old thing, they were in its belly.

Almost all the walls were lined with a thick, red biomass. Though Darius could see some of the original coverings. They were in some sort of service line that supplied San Francisco with power, water, sewage, and other utilities. Whatever this thing was, had been here for a very long time.

“Sonali, can I talk to you about something?”

It was hard to see anything in the darkness.

“Yeah, Darius, what’s up?” Sonali’s voice was reassuring. She sounded somber. Sad. Forlorn. Almost as if she knew what was going to happen. Almost as if she lost a friend.

“Have you been experiencing these, um, these visions?”

“Huh? No.” Sonali sounded disappointed.

“Dudes…” Darius bumped head first into Phil’s furry back. And then stopped. “It’s Jabba the Hutt.”

Tako Yaki

Darius looked over Phil’s shoulder and saw a great pit. Jagged objects lined the outsides of it. Chum slowly poured off the ledge into the mouth.

Before them was the great gaping maw of an octopus, feeding on thousands of bodies. Souls being lured into the temple this very night. Its tentacles reached upwards into the city. Eight great arms with thousands of smaller ones lacing the walls, the halls, the veins, the arteries of the city.

“Look, octopus balls.” Phil pointed down inside the maw, and Darius peered over the edge. There was flesh. The beast was not fully formed. Its organs and innards were covered and sloshing with briny chum as skin and sinew grew over them.

It wasn’t balls, it was the creature’s heart thump-thumping, thump-thumping. As big as two or three men across. Darius gulped and leaned backwards against the railing. “What are we supposed to do against this?”

Darius looked around. There’s always been something here. A sign, the next step. A girl with a mask, a Spider-Man. Something.

Phil unzipped the Chewbacca costume and pulled it off. His pale, squishy, hairy skin now had a sheen of pink from the blood and chum. His heart polkadotted underwear now just red. He slapped his back and began doing feeble toe touches.

“Phil, what are you doing...”

“If you can believe it or not, I used to be a champion diver.”

“Phil...”

“It’s not gay. I mean, the other guys were gay.”

“Phil, that’s not what I was talking about...”

Phil reached out for the ax. “If we’re going down, we’re going swinging.”

“Phil, as much as I find you playing the hero hot,” she looked him up and down, “despite all the other things. There’s no fucking way what residual skill you have left, 30 years after being on the JV diving team, would carry you to swan dive wielding an ax onto the creature’s heart, cleaving it in two like some sort of Mission Impossible bullshit.”

“Well, Sonali, what do you think we should do?”

“Just go back up. Let’s go up and tell the police.”

“Dude, the fact that we got down here is a goddamn miracle. If the police show up, this thing’s gonna wake up. Like this is a sophisticated... Well, somewhat sophisticated organization.”

Darius was leaning against the side of the service tunnel, not really listening. His hand drummed against the place he was sitting in a slightly hollow sound.

“Guys!”

Phil stood up as straight as possible, arching his back and putting his hands above his head as if doing a pindive. He sucked his stomach in until it protruded about five inches from his hips. “See? I still got it.”

Sonali stepped on one of his toes. “Ooh!” He let his stomach out and began hopping.

“Guys.”

“Fuck you Sonali”

“Fuck you.”

“GUYS!” Darius yelled.

Both of them looked back at him.

“This is a natural gas pipe right here.” He hit it. The place where he was sitting had a small chemical warning sign, extremely flammable.

“We crack this pipe, we let the methane pour in, and then in 10, 15, 20 minutes when this whole place fills up with gas, and it reaches up to those pots up there, kaboom.”

Darius gave a smile. The plan would work. Well, mostly he thought.

Phil’s eyes started to fill with tears. He ran over and hugged Darius and lifted him up. “Dude. I thought I was going to die down here. You are a fucking genius.”

Phil began to do squats in place, releasing some pent-up energy.

Sonali gave Darius a questioning look and began to open her mouth.

“Sonali, give me the ax. I’ll crack open one of the pipes. You guys go ahead and make sure the way is clear, because after I crack this thing open, we gotta go. All right?”

Phil began doing high knees.

Sonali held out the ax. “Darius... You’ll be right after us, right?”

“Yeah. Just, like, a couple of minutes or so. Just go on up ahead to the ladder. And wait for me there. Just remember, if you start smelling any methane, you gotta go. Okay?”

Sonali dropped the ax into his hands. It felt so heavy. Sonali had carried this weight all tonight.

“I...” Darius wanted to tell her something but thought better of it. Sonali looked at him and followed Phil down the tunnel.

Darius waited until they were no longer in view. He had left out one thing about bursting pipes. Anyone nearby the highly pressurized explosion had no chance of walking out alive.

He took the ax above his head, he swung down towards the pipe. Ta-ting. Ta-ting.

He worked meticulously. At first, nothing happened. The swings came down in rhythm. Slowly, a small dent began to appear. He kept hitting the dent, getting larger and larger.

Ta-ting. Ta-ting.

As he worked, his body began to sweat. The tension in his chest, the weight on his shoulders, was lost and replaced with a dull ache in his arms.

Ta-ting. Ta-ting.

“Darius?” Sonali stood next to him.

“What are you...”

“I told Phil that you’ve been hitting the wrong pipe. That the methane one is the one below. So I came back to tell you.”

“But.”

“He’s waiting at the ladder. Phil’s just honestly too dumb to get it.” She stood there staring at him. “It’s a suicide mission.”

“Yeah.” Darius nearly dropped the ax. “One of us…”

“No. Both of us.”

They stood there. In silence, but for the thump-thump thump-thump. He gave a sad smile and held out the ax. It was both their burden.

They both grabbed onto it, Sonali standing by his side. Both of them raised it up. And they both slammed it down on the pipe.

Darius stood out in front of his favorite food truck. Behind him was his old alma mater blasting a bum bum bum into the night.

It was their 25th reunion. And after 30 minutes of preening and posturing, Darius became tired. The person he wanted to meet was nowhere in sight.

So he went to his old favorite food truck, a Japanese-inspired tako truck that would hang out behind the university’s main building until midnight. Darius, of course, didn’t recognize the man that took his order. But he imagined it was the previous man’s son, Jira. So maybe something like Shira.

“Hey, stranger.” Darius looked to find Sonali to his right.

“Speak of the devil.”

“Oh I’m the devil now?”

“I didn’t see you in there.”

Sonali smiled. How many years had it been since he saw her smile.

She held up a finger, and Shira, or at least as Darius believed, took her order. “I’ll take whatever he’s having.” He gave a quiet, polite smile and nodded.

“Yeah, I was just thinking about us.”

“Oh, really?”

Darius turned to face her. She’d grown old. Her hair was frizzled and curly. Her hips and waist were tight against jeans two sizes larger than he had ever seen her in before. Her face sagged a bit, and small plumpness was extruded under her chin, giving her the slight look of a second jaw. There were wrinkles around her eyes as she smiled.

“So, what were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about us, what could have been.”

Darius widened his eyes. “Like romantically? I knew you were never into me.”

“Ha, you never even asked.” Darius gave her a sidelong look. “But yeah, you were right. I always thought of you as a friend. I was actually thinking of all the other things that we could have been. You know?”

“Like what?”

“Like all the other types of relationships.”

Darius gave a slight chuckle, and for some reason felt his eyes wet with tears.

“You know, just imagine all the different combinations. Mother. Friends. Enemies. Divorcees. Co-workers. Nurse.”

“I like that last one.”

She punched his shoulder lightly, just like she’d done all those years ago.

“But you know, we couldn’t...”

“Why’s that?” Darius said. His voice almost cracking.

“Because you never asked. Because I never said no.” Sonali looked towards the clouds, “Well, that’s the thing. If we never asked each other, then we were stuck in this limbo. We could never move on.”

Shira peeked out of the truck “Two orders of tako yaki served up.”

Ding, ding.

Ta-ting, the ax hit the pipe and Darius and Sonali were thrown back and cushioned by the flesh of the great octopus against the walls.

Darius moaned. He heard Sonali, “Gah.” Darius looked down at some part of the pipe that impaled into his abdomen. His blood now made part of the brine. The air was heavy with the smell of methane. “Sonali. Sonali, oh.”

He looked to the left and saw Sonali lying on her side. But her left knee was bent in the wrong direction.

“Oh, god.”

“Darius? Darius?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t see.”

He reached out and grabbed her hand. He was shocked. They didn’t flash back. They were just here now. Darius suddenly felt a great weight come off his shoulders. “Sonali…”

“Yeah.”

“... I need to tell you something.”

“What is it, Darius?” Sonali gave a timid smile.

“Sonali. You know that question you asked me, that one you asked earlier tonight? The answer is yes.”

“What?”

“Sonali, I love you.” Sonali gave a warm, wide smile and squeezed his hand. Her eyes closed, crinkled in silence.

“I know.”

Sometimes a stray comment wafts away on its own, but this one stuck with me. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they should do one or the other.”

“And what if they’re forced to do both at the same time?” Some are born into, some aspire to, and others have situations thrust upon them. You could easily paint a picture where a founder is thrust into having a kid.

“Ok. Let’s say they can wait.”

I chewed on my edamame husk for a good minute. Wasn’t my friend right? If there’s one thing we can all agree upon, it’s that parents should be there for their kids, that thou shalt sacrifice for your children. “So it’s a moral obligation to be there for kids?”

“Of course.” My friend said between slurps of pho.

“And does it matter if they’re yours or not.”

“To some extent, but I guess not.”

“Then why aren’t you fostering?” My Socratic trap was sprung.

We kind of laughed, because the argument seems irrefutable. But rather than admit the problem of thou shalt’s, the problem of judging for not taking positive moral actions, my friend said, “Look, I’m not perfect.”

Of course, no one’s even close to perfect, but we don’t even strive to act this type of perfect. So why uphold ourselves to this false standard?

My second friend, no longer content with listening, gave a wry smile and said, “I don’t foster because I’m saving money to raise my kids best. First, I need to pay down my mortgage. Then achieve passive income enough for FIRE. And then after I build my second bunker in New Zealand, I’ll think about fostering.”

And now we are at the crux of the problem. We’ve created a moral calculus. Good old John Stuart Mill would be proud. We line up all of our moral deeds on the right side of the equation, balance them with the immoral, and maximize. We look at the assessments of likelihood, of us driving in a safer way, therefore probabilistically saving lives. And then because we are astute economists, we factor discounting into present value. We read Pushkin and Trotsky. We prophesize our destined utopia, and we do the math.

If utopia gives us 10 billion utils, sacrificing 10 million souls is obviously worth it. Right? In any moral calculus, in any system where you assign a finite value to a human life, you lose.

I read a story about a woman in Soviet Russia whose lover is sick with TB. And she hustles, grifts and bribes her way into a meeting with the Commissar of Health. Tears in her eyes, she pleads her case. The Commissar drums his fingers along his knuckles, and tsk tsks our protagonist’s lack of PhD level effective altruism. “Do you think you’re the only one? There are thousands of Leos. Why is your Leo more important than the rest?”

And she responds simply, “Because he’s my Leo.”

The line always struck me. It felt like a tuning fork that thrummed my heart strings. I didn’t understand why, until I read another story about a Soviet political prisoner subjected to lies, libel, and only the most humane forms of torture. His litigator seeks a falsehood, an untruth, to violate that inviolable thou shalt not lie. Our protagonist resists.

He resists the torture. He resists the destruction of his fame and legacy. But he falls for the argument of a moral calculus. We had to kill. We had to lie. Because we shalt survive.

He confesses. His cerebral cortex succumbed to syllogism. And yet his body revolts. He feels a wrongness. He feels it like a deep ocean, a limitless infinite stirs in his soul.

The only way to run a moral calculus that works, that doesn’t invite evil, is playing with infinites. Instead of assigning a finite number to the value of life, a unit one, we assign infinity. We dwarf all the thou shalt’s by an infinite thou shalt not. The infinite via negativa. The silver rule. Thou shalt not lie, thou shalt not kill.

How can Leo stand up against the masses? Leo’s life is infinite.

Any philosophy of thou shalt falls for my Socratic trap. It unleashes hubris, judgment, and a form of bigotry I saw growing up with gay parents in the South.

As we sat eating pho in the Outer Sunset, I don’t think we were advocating for Stalinist levels of moral calculus. Rather, we were indoctrinated into a culture of judgment, of thou shalt’s, of assigning moral value to others, while Marcus Aurelius turned in his grave.

I shrugged my shoulders and tried to tweezer out the last noodle from my pho with my chopsticks, “Maybe what I’m trying to say is, ‘Thou shalt not judge’ is a pretty good commandment.”

“Alright, heard,” My friend leaned back in his chair, “But it’s not that helpful. Now, I have no idea what to think about having kids and startups at the same time. Let alone trying to make the decision myself.”

“Well, in startups you do need to judge...” If employees don’t follow your culture, if tasks aren’t done appropriately, if you build the wrong product for your customers, your company will fail. If you don’t make judgments, the market will.

“Didn’t we just say thou shalt not judge?” My friend gave a wry smile.

“Hear me out,” I leaned forward, “You’ve heard of the trolley problem, right?” In the trolley problem, two people are tied to a railway, and a trolley is barreling down the tracks. You’re standing at a lever which allows you to change the direction of the trolley, changing which individual is crushed. In what situations do you pull the lever, and in what situations is it moral?

“The trolley problem isn’t a moral quandary at all, If a trolley will hit somebody, regardless of what you do, you have negative infinity on both sides of the equation. Morality has nothing to do with it.” I held my hands up in mock celebration.

“So what you’re trying to say is there’s no right answer?”

“Exactly, well almost exactly. There’s not a right moral answer.” You don’t need to look at the world only through a moral framing. In fact, outside a few thou shalt nots, most quandaries need a different framing. Perhaps an economic one, perhaps a social stability one.

“When you work in a startup, most decisions don’t have anything to do with morality. Do you launch a product before it’s ready? Do you pay some people more and other people less? Do you have kids while founding a startup?” Whatever the choice may be, whatever the framing is, as long as you’ve consciously made that choice, then it’s up to you to make it the right one.

“Who are we to judge...” My friend said his hands resting on his full belly.

Whenever I hear these passing moral judgments in the realm of startups, I want other founders to cut the Gordian knot, to reject the comment’s premise. Not only is it not wrong, it’s got nothing to do with morality.

I want founders to do what they do best, to slay the dragon whose scales are thou shalt’s. And call out “Timshel” at the top of their lungs.

And baby, I deferred.

I remember sitting in the car, one snowy night in Scranton, Pennsylvania, heaters on full blast, thawing out my hair I’d forgotten to dry after highschool swimming practice. I’d yet to do my homework, but first, I’d need to scamper to Model United Nations, only to surreptitiously sneak out midway to attend Mock Trial.

I didn’t really know what I was sacrificing for. I honestly mean that. Other kids knew about universities and the pivotal role prestige and pedigree play. And maybe I was blessed I didn’t. I had none of the pressure. I just had the silent sacrifice. An orphaned shaman doing ritual by rote, unaware of god or cause for which his offerings burnt. But burnt they were.

When I started SPG (StartPlaying), that blind deference to deferred gratification, that pursuit of pain, carried me through.

SPG was a “dumb idea”. I remember a friend cribbed about his YC rejection in a Facebook group (when people still used Facebook) by pointing out dumb companies YC funded. And guess which company he pointed out first? But despite COVID rocking the world, the nay saying of friends, and the uphill battle of raising for a D&D company, we ground on.

I have so many memories of that time. Fights with co-founders, almost getting sued out of existence, runway nearly running out, interns hired on shoestring budgets, incipient competitors that looked, oh, so fearsome. But I remember it all with this joie de vivre. As Atos might say, “Those bitter memories had time to turn to sweet ones.”

In the beginning, it was us versus the world, PvE. We were a crack team, navigating a jungle of jaguars, mosquitoes, and ant colonies with biomass 50 times our size. And we were winning. The problem was we had no idea how to deal with success.

Immediately after we raised from a16z, we made a catastrophic hire that almost killed the company. Our product velocity dropped to zero. We built processes on processes to fix the “problems” pointed out by our new hire.

And I felt pain.

There was this tension in the chest. Kind of like both of my pecs were pulling my shoulders to hunch. You’ve probably felt it? A little burn, where you imagine your heart might be. Faster, shallower breathing. Maybe it hits the back of your shoulders. Or the little furrow in between your brow.

And every time I went into a meeting with the catastrophic hire, I’d feel this pain. My whole life collapsed down into that feeling of anxiety and stress.

It was so simple in hindsight. My body was literally screaming, “You have to fire this person.” But I didn’t act on it.

I grew up in a world where hard problems were worth solving. And this seemed like a hard problem, one that I could solve with small adjustments to process or management style. With small pains. But I was wrong.

It took me longer than a year to make the right decision to let them go, to rebuild the company culture. To stop pursuing pain. People often say, “Well, at least you learned something.” But why do lessons need to be so painful? Why does pain equal growth?

Only later I started to see my foible. I pursued pain all this time instead of growth. I thought they were one and the same. That any painful experience, any scalding crucible, galvanized and made me stronger. But that’s untrue. If it doesn’t kill you, it doesn’t necessarily make you stronger.

Pain and growth are only correlated. Growth is change. And if there were no deterrent for change, our mind would be in constant flux, a maelstrom, turmoil. And so, we use pain, or at least that feeling, to ensure some constancy.

Much of my life, I pursued small pains, small deferments, small sacrifices. Sacrifice a party here, a drink there, a full night of sleep to succeed in the long run, to please my god of pain. But despite pursuing pain, I’d yet to grow.

I started to see that for the majority of my life, I avoided large changes.

When I was a kid, I fled from them. And like most trauma, it worked well at the moment. I didn’t have the power to affect the hell that was home. So, I used my patience and wisdom instead.

However, I did have the power to change SPG. And instead, I focused on small changes, small processes, the little ripples on top of a greater current.

But to fix SPG, I needed to cut deep.

I needed to change what I had done my entire life. Instead of running from growth, I needed to pursue it. I needed to fire a member of the executive team, cut the company in half, and admit the past year of work was a failure.

That really hurt.

Becoming the type of person that confronts your problems rather than running from them, killed a part of me. But living as I had done before, with that constant pain, a reminder of how SPG could have been, the physical sensation of megatons of cortisol being pumped into my central line, that’s what made the decision for me. The decision to change.

I understand why pain plus reflection equals growth. It’s because all growth is pain. To change yourself, to learn a lesson, to admit you are wrong, or worse, you are flawed, it hurts. Honestly, it hurts so much, I’d chosen to deal with the discordance between reality and my own world view rather than change.

But all life is suffering. Either you feel the dull pain of discordance for the rest of your life, or the sharp cauterization of change now. I hate to admit it, but I’ve never would’ve changed into the person I am today without months of my body and soul screaming at the top of their nosoceptic lungs. Without asking myself, do I want to live this way for the rest of my life?

I stopped running from growth, from change, and I started pursuing it.

Fujiwara leaned back from a large computer screen displaying a 3D model of the human brain. “Yes, Dr. Ira?”

Ira reached over and gave him a case file. “Check it out,” He was grinning.

“What is it? Another executive functioning boost? A competence overlay?”

Ira smiled, “Just read it.”

Fujiwara opened the first page of the brief. He flipped past the biometric information, straight into the Request For Surgery section, generally a sentence or two describing why they want this or that cognitive enhancement. Instead, Fujiwara was looking at pages and pages of text. “Why does Dr. Ira want me to read this tome?” he wondered before his eyes fell upon the page.

When I was a child, I heard a story about a woman put under for surgery. The anesthesiologist gave the thumbs up and the surgeon began to cut. The only problem was, the woman wasn't really asleep.

She felt everything.

She felt the cold scalpel cut her abdomen, the layers of skin and sinew peeled back, organs and innards pushed away. Heard the clip-clipping, the snip-snipping, the inane chatter of doctors and nurses as they did their bloody work.

There is a one-in-a-thousand chance this happens each surgery. Uncommon, but not unknown. Her case was one in a million. Because when the surgeons were done, and she was sewed back up, she didn't wake.

Well, she did in a sense. Her body did. It got up. It spoke. It wept. And she watched, through her own eyes. She heard through her own ears.

Her husband wheeled her home. Her children laughed, happy to see their mother again. And her body smiled and responded. She felt the soft hands of her children. She heard the alarm wake her body as she stayed perpetually awake. She felt her husband enter her. But she wasn't there.

It was not all passive. She acted as her body's conscience. What she always wanted, got done. She learned a new instrument. She worked out. Miraculously, she lived a better life than ever before. And then, six years later, she went in for another surgery. This time she woke up.

It's funny. I know what the story is trying to convey. How scary that must have been. To witness your life going by without control. But, when I read it, I always wondered what her body must feel. Not what it would be like to be her, trapped inside a body. But instead, what it felt like to be just the body.

Fujiwara’s phone rang, and his fingers automatically answered the phone.

“Oh just working... I can make dinner. I’ll be back in..." He looked at his watch, “Half an hour.” He cut the phone and packed his bag. As he did, he noticed the brief was still there. “What did Dr. Ira want me to do with this? Was he just bringing it to my attention? Was this some sort of joke?” He closed the brief, intending to resume tomorrow morning, and he almost zipped his bag when he heard another knock.

“What did you think?” Ira said with a knowing smile.

Fujiwara politely smiled back, “I haven't finished. I was..."

“Let me know what you think tomorrow.” Ira pushed the brief closer.

“Of course,” Fujiwara gave a wan smile. He grabbed the brief and inserted it in his bag.

Traffic was light, it was always this way after they banned human drivers. The car click-click-clicked as is sped over segments of highway. The gentle acceleration pushed his lower back into his seat. Fujiwara wondered how far the car could go without charging. Where he might end up. A deserted beach, a lone seagull perfectly still in the air, held aloft by a hidden current. He felt the flecks of sand blown lazily across his face. No lighthouse, no soft green glow in the distance. Just expanse.

But it was late. Ria wasn't going to be home until well past midnight, and the nanny had to leave by 8pm. Ari needed him home. He smiled, thinking of his young son. How much the child reminded him of himself. Though, he got a vague sense of precociousness emanating from Ari that he couldn't quite place.

The car pulled up to his house and Fujiwara exited, grabbing his bag. It was not quite a mansion. But not quite was close enough. Fujiwara was a surgeon, yes, but these days surgery had nothing to do with scalpels and knives, rather more to do with programs and parameters. He'd started when young with an all consuming passion to advance in this developing field. And suddenly the world of cryptography, bioinformatics, machine learning and artificial surgery erupted. When he was 36 he became the youngest man to have ever live coded a surgery. By the age of 45, he devised new surgical practices, including the patented artificial intelligence retrofitter, where a surgeon could pre-program surgeries to operate on patients while soundly asleep, having a drink, or shitting on the commode.

His house registered his face, vocals, handprints, and his mobile. The large doors opened to let him inside. It was vast. The atrium made small echoes as his feet touched on the stark wooden floor. He hadn't necessarily wanted this place. But often he didn’t know what he wanted. It was Ria that made this decision. She said it would be perfect for Ari growing up. The neighborhood was safe and filled with other children.

He doffed his coat, tie and shoes, and went into the kitchen, obsidian black appliances juxtaposed with lacquered wood. To his surprise, he found Ari sitting at one of the push-up stools, next to the kitchen table. Fujiwara looked around. “Ari, where's your nanny?”

Ari had gotten Fujiwara’s looks and Ria’s personality. He’d point and pantomime juice boxes, toy block buildings, nap time curfews and vegetable proportions. His frame was still chubby with baby fat. And his hair was just a black tuft that bounced as he pulled Fujiwara from room to room.

Ari looked up with a confused expression. “Dada.” Fujiwara laughed. He heard a door shut in the distance. Maybe the nanny had just run off. Ria said there was something urgent.

Fujiwara picked up his son and gave him a look. He was small for his age, but his eyes were piercing, as if he understood more than he was letting on. He plopped his son back down. “And what do you want today, Ari?” Fujiwara gave a small smile.

Ari jumped up and down in his seat, and called out. “Man-gheese. Man-gheese.”

“Mac and cheese? Well today, because dad's cooking, you can have whatever you want.” He went over to the stove and boiled water. He poured in instant noodles, and added the powdered cheese. He whisked. And voila. Both were served. He portioned out a small amount for Ari, and a larger amount for himself. And then he sat down to eat. As he looked up, he noticed Ari was holding the brief.

“Ari, did you look through dad's bag?” Of course, he didn’t. Fujiwara must have taken it out and left it there on the table. Ari began to play with his mac and cheese, eating one elbow at a time. Fujiwara opened the file folder unconsciously and flipped to the page where he left off.

My most vivid memory was when I was seven years old.

The world looked so big back then. You don't think about it when you're older, but to a seven-year-old, full-grown adults are like ogres, giants plodding to and fro, creatures of routine, lacking understanding of the underworld.

My dad left me to fend for myself while he bought nicotine patches from a pharmacy in the mall. And I wandered from store to store until I found a candy shop. Countless other kids ogled oodles of sweets, and I dawdled and lollygagged amongst them. Until, in the back of the shop, I was alone.

I looked up, as I oft did. But this time, instead of adult nostrils, I was looking up at a great orb. It brimmed with an assortment of colorful candies, lollipops, licorice sticks, fruity sugary bliss.

The orb had an opening, through which a child could insert their soft little hand and extract whatever wad-sized candy they could manage. The hole was just a touch too high up. I went upon my tippy-toes and pushed myself against the glass. Try as I might, I was too small to reach inside.

So I grasped the small hole with the tips of my fingers and tilted the orb downwards. But lacking full knowledge of center of mass and the application of torque on precariously placed glass vessels, the orb fell.

I knew then what type of man I was. I didn’t cry. I didn’t stare in stunned silence. I didn't even run. I dipped down, grabbed a handful of candy, and walked away.

Sometimes at night, as I'm going to sleep, I think of that orb. I think of the many thousands of glass fragments that intermingled with the candies and sweets. And I think about how I got away scot-free.

It wracks me. That guilt. The self loathing.

My spine shudders, my stomach pits, and my body curls into a small ball under the sheets. I think of the lousy sex I had with my first. Little white lies I told my parents. And Anna’s pale lips. I think of Rubashov, Humbert and Raskolnikov. I think of the albatross that is not free, and the expiation that is purgatory.

“A rather clumsy allusion to Crime and Punishment, wouldn't you say?”

Fujiwara marked his place with a finger. “Agreed. A single reference to Darkness at Noon would suffice. Also, Humbert isn’t the type of character that comes to mind when you think unpunished crime.” Fujiwara raised his brows and looked up.

Ari's piercing eyes looked back at him. “It's almost like he's writing the converse of On Virtue, wouldn't you say?”

Fujiwara's mouth gaped. His son's voice rang out without its infantile tone. “What?”

“It's quite obvious. On Virtue explicates that a virtuous man can only be virtuous if he is willing to virtue invisibly. Thus, upon negating both statements in the clause, we can reach the conclusion that an unvirtuous act done visibly must be closer to virtue than done invisibly. Or would you say he was trying for a different point?”

Fujiwara lifted his glasses and replaced them on his face. He felt towards the sturdy countertop in front of him.

“Or perhaps our author has an overly narrow view of justice...” Fujiwara's heart was pounding. He was having a panic attack. He reached into his bag for one of his Valium tablets. Where was it? It must be nearby if the file was nearby, and then he felt it.

“So, what do you think he wants? There's no salvation, as there was for Raskolnikov. That store went belly up years ago. The owner’s dead, the deed forgotten. He is the lone bearer of the memories. The sole survivor of the genocide. And how can he inflict upon himself a punishment, an expiation? Thou shall not kill applies to oneself, no?”

Ari paced back and forth on the countertop. The chubby fingers of his left hand stabbed the air in pontification, while the right was held in a tight fist behind his back. His feet shuffled in quick steps as his eyes scrutinized the countertop, looking for a manifestation of universal truth. He stroked his chin and turned abruptly to Fujiwara, “And a wrong does not right a wrong, does it, Dr. Fujiwara?”

Fujiwara's hand found the capsule with the tablets. His fingers stumbled, and the capsule burst open, a tablet rolled across the table, and landed in front of Ari. His little hand reached out and picked up the tablet between his stubby pruned fingers and examined it.

“No, instead, our protagonist wants to subject another to this second vice. He wants a Grand Inquisitor to punish him, to purify him, to subsume his guilt.

“But think of the Grand Inquisitor. He knows the punishment he inflicts is unjust. We all too often empathize with Christ. But here let us take a moment and think of the burden of the Grand Inquisitor. Think of his sacrifice.”

Fujiwara crawled across the table, his hand trying to grab the tablet from his son. Ari held it delicately away from his grasp.

“But we are missing one last point, you see? If not purgatory, why not forgiveness? Can you not forgive yourself?”

Fujiwara snatched the tablet, jammed it into his mouth, chewed and rolled onto his back. The world was humming a high-pitched noise, and his ears slowly dulled it out. His heart began to beat at a regular rhythm. His son was crying. Mac and cheese was scattered everywhere. Fujiwara slowly rolled himself up and picked up Ari to soothe him.

He spent the rest of the evening trying and failing to clean up the mess he made, to keep his son calm. He cradled him into the bedroom. Fujiwara watched his son’s precocious eyes slowly close as he put him to bed. He shook his head and closed the door.

As he turned around, he saw Ria just behind him and almost jumped.

Ria was a handsome woman, about one inch taller than Fujiwara. Her long hair was specked with gray and hung loosely over her wide frame. And she eyed him with a confident indifference.

Fujiwara felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say. He suddenly felt each piece of clothing he wore. A starched collar rubbing and chafing his neck, shoes a half size too big for his left foot and too small for his right. He urged his hands to an embrace, and tongue to wet his dried lips, but instead stood perfectly still.

Ria watched all this and gave him a smile that seemed to say “Good boy”. She sloughed out of her suit jacket and folded it on her arm. “Why don't you finish your case study, I'll shower, and meet you in bed.”

Fujiwara gave a curt nod, his shoulders loosened. “Absolutely.” He watched Ria saunter off into the master bath. Fujiwara disrobed, his body rejoiced in momentary nakedness. He splashed water on his face, imagining the surf of that deserted beach. He looked up at the mirror longingly but found it fogged from Ria’s shower.

The case file already lay on his side table. Had he placed it there? He instinctively flipped past the biometric information and resumed reading.

He was strangely excited to see what came next. It was almost like revisiting an old house that had been made over. All the rooms with new wallpaper and decor.

The next excerpt was not written directly to the Institute. But rather it was scans from an old diary.

May 17
It was Thoreau that speculated the ice of his beloved Walden, was shipped across the world and mixed with the waters of the Ganges. That one man in one spot could partake of the same waters as the man halfway across the world. But then why do the waters here taste so different?

May 18
I woke up this morning with a view of the Andes. I never knew how much a single view could change you. My inner thoughts and turmoils have been quelled. This was the right decision.

May 21
The other faculty of the sanatorium treat me with respect, if not polite reserve. One of the resident nurses let on there was some strange commotion about my arrival, such a distinguished and young faculty member arriving at their clinic's sanatorium. What was the reason? And what could it mean?

May 22
The patients here are mostly textbook. I have settled into regular therapy with two of the dissociative identity disorder patients. Patients A-714 and A-718. There was, however, one patient that startled me. Patient A-700. And as if the fates conspired, she was my first direct assignment.

I remember the doctor nodding curtly to my insistence. I can't imagine how strange it must have been to have such a distinguished faculty member immediately annul the relationship with his first patient.

June 7
The summer is in full bloom. I’ve been going on mountain runs. At midday, when many of the other faculty are lunching or conversing with the nurses, I change into an old pair of running shoes and a new pair of windbreakers. And I plod along the grounds until I reach a gate which leads to a trail that goes deep into the mountains. My thoughts are taken up with the heavy breathing and the quick condensation as I exhale, as steam pours from my lungs with each breath.

June 8
I read news of the first experiments with the programming of the human brain today. They cited my work!

June 10
As I returned from my run today, I happened to see patient A-700. She sat unescorted on a bench within the premises, looking dolefully out at the mountains beyond.

June 11
I learned that A-700 was a special case. This is not a children's psychiatric facility, but a local baron of the region committed her. This former nobility happened to own vast swaths of land and contribute great sums to the maintenance of the sanatorium. He made an exception for A-700.

June 13
Today, I snapped at one of the nurses. We were going over regular notes on patients, and a nurse made a comment about one of the patients exhibiting little progress and being quite irksome.

Immediately, I felt guilt wash over me. I had no right to snap like I did, and the nurse had every right to complain. The job was hard. For most of the faculty, the drive to the facility took two hours each day. And while the facility was amply funded, the administration felt fit to not amply fund the salaries of the nurses.

Some part of me wonders, however, whether the guilt was from my misbehavior, or was rather from some subtler motive. The patient she was referring to was none other than A-700.

June 14
Tonight I dreamed, or thought I dreamt, of the mountain upon which our sanatorium rested. As I blinked my eyes, my vision blurred. The mountain was now the small jaw of Anna Vicuna. Her slight chin, bare neck, and thin clavicle.

June 21
I heard a doctor talking about patient A-700. “I am considering a prescription of lithium at 600 milligrams.” Did he even consider her weight into the equation? Was he using a standard adult measurement? As I moved to correct him, an argument ensued. I rarely use my authority, but in this case, I could not let the patient come to harm.

Later in that afternoon, I asked to move Anna to my care.

July 2
I hurt myself running today. As I passed the outer gate, there was Anna, looking wistfully out at the mountains. My normal meditative run became frenetic. My mind was constantly flashing images. I kept pushing myself harder and harder. The normal rhythm of breath, the natural vistas, they could not keep my attention. And so I pushed faster. Onwards and onwards, faster and faster, deeper and deeper into the trails.

Had I not tripped, I feel I would have lost myself out there. I would have imposed upon myself an exile of which my conscious mind could not have returned. But no, I had not the courage for the exile or the restraint.

July 20
Today, during our session, Anna leapt forward and grabbed both of my hands and pleaded with me earnestly to help her escape. And for a moment, my heart palpitated. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I contemplated how easy it would be to take the key meant for my quotidian run, and drop it before the gate, to whisper so close into Anna's ear the turns she must take to find her way to a small cottage that I had just the day before filled with supplies for my own repose.

She wanted my help.

Instead of recoiling, instead of asking her calmly to retake her seat, I took one of my hands and cupped her cheek. But no. I didn’t move. I uttered not a sound. I bound my heart. I restrained myself and won. But She saw. She saw my heart, my passion, she saw through me. Terror welled up in her young eyes, and she screamed.

July 21
I handed in my resignation today, unsure if the screams I heard were merely echos in my mind or the ongoing ravings of A-700. I’m going to resume my studies, but with a greater goal in mind, something I’ll call AIR.

Fujiwara's mouth was dry, and his skin was taut. She reached out to him and crawled onto the bed. His eyes jumped up and widened like a prisoner caught mid-escape.

It was Ria wearing lingerie. Her straight black hair flecked with gray hung loosely down her back, and her bodice revealed her ample cleavage. She wore the smallest of skirts that accentuated her curves.

Fujiwara gawked. She crawled up to him and gave him the lightest of kisses on his lips before leaning back and putting her hand into her skirt. Fujiwara began to slide himself out from the covers before Ria took her other hand and brought it up in a halting motion.

“No touching”, she said, and continued to play with herself. Fujiwara brought his own hand low and watched. He found nothing yet. He felt his shoulders sink. He saw Ria throw her head back and pull down her bodice. But instead of great breasts pouring out, Fujiwara saw small, hard nipples and a flat chest. His eyes widened. Ria began to moan in deeper tones. The other hand unhitched her skirt, and it fell down, revealing a tiny hairless waist. Fujiwara’s hand began in earnest. Ria’s head rocketed forward as she reached climax. Her long black hair, speckled with gray, was now short and pitch black, hiding a small jaw, her slight chin, bare neck, and thin clavicle. Fujiwara came to climax and closed his eyes.

Ria snuggled up next to him. He felt his small, thin body press up against her wide hips and capacious breasts. His body shuddered. He looked into her eyes. She smiled, “I’m quite the gracious jailer, aren't I?”

Fujiwara awoke from his sleep. He lay sprawled on the bed. The covers were in a twisted heap beside him, his shirt damp with sweat. Ria was gone. She had probably taken Ari to daycare already.

Fujiwara listened to the alarm on his phone. He wondered when he had set it last night. He picked it up. It was 5.30 a.m. and it was no alarm, Ira was calling him. So early in the morning?

He picked up the phone. “We’ve got a bit of a situation, an urgent procedure.”

“An urgent procedure?”

“You know what I mean. There was a change in a patient's condition, and the original AIR code needs urgent changes. I know no one better for the job than the man himself.” Fujiwara smiled. He almost felt a touch of pride.

He donned his suit, and made his way into the office.

The office was quiet. As most surgery and procedures were automated, doctors were liberated from their on-call residency assignments and had the schedule of engineers.

As Fujiwara made his way inside, he saw Ira there with a sardonic look on his face. Ira held in his hands the folder that he had given Fujiwara the day before, or perhaps a copy of the folder?

“Wait, for this patient?”

“Of course!” Ira laughed. “Here, I've already sent you the code. The modifications will be apparent. They're already in a spec file attached to it.” Fujiwara sat down and opened the code and began to read the specs to make any relevant edits. They were very well-defined, asking for specific changes in files and line numbers, not referencing what the holistic change was. But Fujiwara did not need to know, and his hands began to type.

“Check this out.,” Ira thumbed through the brief, “He included a joke. Like a literal joke in his RFS, like he's even got a punchline.”

"Mmmhm." Fujiwara's eyes scanned the lines of code. It was complex, probably the most complex procedure he'd seen in years. But somehow the lines looked familiar.

“Okay, get this. I guess the guy doesn't walk into a bar, but… Are you listening?"

Fujiwara nodded. His fingertips danced across the keyboard as he listened to Ira read him the joke.

A pale gentleman walked into a doctor's office. "Doctor, I've got a problem."

The doctor looked up from his work and glanced the pale man up and down. "I see…”

"Well, Doctor, I've got this, let's call it a compulsion." The man scraped at his neck. His sharp teeth glinting in the pale light of dusk. "And I need to rid myself of it. You must have something for that. A tincture, a tonic, an unguent. Something, Doctor, anything."

The doctor nodded his head slowly. "Well, here is what I would suggest." He reached below the counter and pulled out a wreath of garlic. "Whenever you have this temptation, simply put this wreath around the neck of whoever’s nearby. That should do the trick."

The pale man looked greedily at the doctor's neck. "Thank you, Doctor. And by the way, what should I call you?"

"Call me Dr. Helsing."

The pale man snatched the wreath of garlic from the table, juggling it between his hands as if it were a hot stone, and left the room.

The next night, the pale man was back, his cheeks slightly redder than before. "Doctor, it didn't work. I put the wreath around the neck of the madam that was nearby, and while I was dissuaded from temptation momentarily... I could not dam my desire. There has to be something more potent.”

The doctor rubbed his chin, interested in the conundrum at hand. Helsing rummaged through his cabinetry behind him, revealing bottles of leeches, bile and cow boaz until he withdrew a small pouch.

He placed it on the table in front of the pale gentleman. "I have a medicine that might work."

The pale gentleman thrust his hand out, eager to snatch the medicine off the table. But Helsing put his hand atop the pale gentleman's manicured fingers. "You must understand this will not abate nor abet your temptation. Instead, you will simply forget that you ever acted upon it."

He withdrew from the bag a minuscule silver marble and placed it in the pale gentleman's palm. The spot under the marble instantly turned red and welted up, and yet the pale gentleman looked hungrily at the medication.

"Yes, this will work. Doctor, I proffer you the most sincere approbation. By providence itself, this is the cure I need.”

He snatched up the bag and all but disappeared in the mists that lay heavily over the shadowed streets.

The next night, the pale gentleman returned. His cheeks even redder than before.

Helsing looked surprised, "Did my amnesiac not work?"

“No, it more than sufficed, doctor. Upon waking, I found my temptations sated. And I remember not how. But the guilt still remains. I know truly that the deed was done by my own hand. And I cannot shake the contrition that rests heavily upon my heart. Doctor, there must be another solution.”

The doctor rubbed his chin and adjusted his spectacles. "Well, I do have one more thing."

From below the desk, Dr. Helsing squatted and heaved up a large glass jar. An iron net secured its sides against possible breakage. And its top was latched by a grisly iron lock in the shape of a gargoyle.

Inside was a beast different, and more horrid, than any childish nightmare thought up by Brothers Grimm.

A septapod, a squishy mass covered in the bristles and hairs of a spider. A thousand unblinking eyes stared off from the hump that held its brain and organs. Each of its spindly, fluid tentacles searched for nooks and cracks in the jar, desperately seeking escape.

"What manner of beast do you show me?"

Dr. Helsing cracked a wicked grin. "It has many names, a Dusky Marionette, a Ligatrix, Animus In Ruina," He paused for effect. "The creature that desires exactly what you do. If you hunger it hungers, if you thirst it thirsts.

“But it controls you. It will act as your puppeteer. Enact your own desires, but against your will. You will have your nightmares fulfilled. And it will be the most gentle of jailers.”

The doctor knocked on its glass cage. The creature both slithered and skittered towards the other side. The pale gentleman looked at the creature in disgust. A horrid scapegoat.

“All you must do is orally ingest it...”

The pale gentleman felt hairs on the back of his neck prick up. The grisly beast must be two and a half hands in size. “What other choice do I have…”

Ira paused. Fujiwara muttered, "You could always accept and forgive yourself."

And Ira bent over and began to cackle. Had he always been wearing a windbreaker and running shoes?

“Ah, so you heard this joke before. I didn't really think the punchline was that funny, but I guess when you said it out loud, there was something to it.” Ira wiped tears away from his eyes, “Well, the next few pages are just a horrific description of how the man ate the thing. Quite grotesque. Humor these days…”

Ira flung the brief, towards the opposite side of the table. "Just about done, Dr. Fujiwara?"

“Just about.” Fujiwara sighed. Something in Ira's recitation pulled at his heart strings that he no longer thought were there. "Is it so hard to forgive and accept yourself? Did you really need the expiation of your own hirsute jailer?”

Fujiwara cracked his knuckles and pushed away from the desk. The code was complex. Perhaps the most complex he'd ever dealt with, but something about the problem seemed familiar. "It's strange, Dr. Ira. This is no enhancement I’ve seen. In fact, it seems to be almost a repair of a sort. As if the individual's neocortex was somehow severed from the rest of his brain.

“See this line of code? This instantiates a secondary class function for a full personality unit. You rarely see this in regular work. It's generally associated with disassociative identity disorder.

“But in normal DID patients, we see these personalities laid diffusely across the entire cerebral cortex.”

Fujiwara pulled up a cerebral nerve mapping simulation showing a brain dotted and speckled with blue and red.

“But in this case, it seems like the personalities have been split in a rather unique way.” He flicked his fingers and the simulation changed. "Look here, Dr. Ira."

“Do you feel bad?”

“What?”

“For the creature, the nightmare thing.”

“The creature?”

“Yes, from the story, from the joke. Dr. Fujiwara, do you feel bad for the puppeteer?”

“It's just an inanimate creature. It's a story, for Christ’s sake,” He shook his head, “Regardless, look at how the brain regions of these separate personalities are distributed.”

He pulled up the map and showed the distinct reds and blues. “Look here for the blue, it controls motor functions, the visual and auditory cortex. In fact, almost everything that we would see manifest from the human being, except for…”

And then he showed a spot, a splotch of red covering most of the neocortex. “Except for here, higher order direction. Arguably what we might call our conscious. It's like it's been separated into its own personality…”

“I feel bad for it.”

“For what?”

“Animus In Ruina.”

Fujiwara looked away from the code to Ira, and the man’s face was a mask of malice. A chill ran down Fujiwara’s spine.

"The code is complete?"

“Yes.”

“Send it to Operation Theater One, we have a surgery to perform.”

With a single keystroke, the code was uploaded to AIR.

“Dr. Fujiwara, would you mind joining us in the theater? I think we both want to be there for this operation.”

Fujiwara stood up and followed. The halls were vacated. The office generally was not busy on a Sunday, but there should've been a technician or janitor, a guard of some sort.

“You sent them away today.” Ira muttered.

“I sent them away?” Fujiwara stated. His words hollow.

“Yes. This was a rather special operation.”

They turned the corner and approached Operating Theater One.

The operating theaters looked more like planetariums than they did like

television depictions of OR. Multijointed robotic arms with drills, needles, and nozzles draped from the ceiling. As if a giant spider sat atop a dome with its legs reaching in.

The entire area was bathed in a soft UV light. Modulated to protect tissue and destroy any chance of infection.

In the center was a chair. Comfortable and yet endlessly complex. Tubing and vasculature laced the chair's arms and legs. Gyroscopes, IR pulses, haptic feedback, near field EE and EKGs dotted the innards of this over $300 million machine that Fujiwara had helped design.

Each chair, of course, could also extrude small straps to stabilize and restrain thrashing patients.

The chair was empty. No patient seemed to wait for them.

But Fujiwara heard a childlike giggle and saw, on the edges of the room, Ari in a booster seat, playing with what looked to be a black octopus toy. To his side stood Ria, arms crossed in front of her. Her crisp blazer, starched to angular perfection.

"What are... What's happening?" Fujiwara stammered.

Ira snapped, "Sit down." And before Fujiwara could react, his body moved, and he sat on the operating chair

"Ria, what are you doing here? Why is Ari here?"

“Read!” Ira stared at the brief in Fujiwara’s hands. Was he always holding this? He looked down at the bioinformatics information on page one. This would be the patient's seventh procedure.

They had two procedures for improving self-control. Generally, two procedures were only allotted to the most extreme of addictions. Gambling and adultery might barely manage one. In some rare cases, opioid addicts would be given two. But two were generally reserved for those rare cases of criminal predilection.

The patient also received five surgical extractions of memory. The surgeries dated all the way back to the invention of AIR. Only the wealthiest of individuals, or those with some connection with the team that invented the surgery, could have received so many in such a short period of time.

And yet this individual wanted another.

“A veritable fortune. We could have had a bigger house, if we hadn't wasted our money on eight procedures.” Ria slowly shook her head.

"Yes, our doctor may have been better suited for a regular diet of soma.” Ari pontificated with the small toy, and Fujiwara noticed that the black creature had only seven legs.

“What is the patient’s name.” Ira snarled.

Fujiwara tried to focus on the name and each time, his eyes slid off it. As if it were blurred or redacted.

Ira's finger jabbed the page, "Doctor Ira Fujiwara, age 56."

“This is my brief?” There had to be some mistake. He hadn't received any surgeries before. “I, I haven't had a single surgery, not once. Seven?”

“No. You've had eight.” Ria now wore a straight jacket.

“Dr. Fujiwara is well-read enough to know what happens next. No need to cite Shelly.” Ari was crawling down from his chair.

“Commence the surgery, Dr. Fujiwara.” Ira unzipped his windbreaker, and Fujiwara called out the password of Operating Theater One.

"Commence," he shouted. The chair extruded small braces for his arms and legs. Needles poked up, injecting the first analgesic elements into his veins.

Ira snatched the small toy from Ari's hands, and brought it over. Fujiwara never noticed how similar he and Ira looked. It was as if Ira could've been his son.

“You never thought about us, did you? Your creation. Your Athena. A Frankenstein's monster without even a body to call our own.”

He shoved the toy into Fujiwara's mouth to muffle him.

“Born with your sick desires.” He jabbed his finger at Fujiwara, “Your predilections, your gross temptations. The bearer of your sin. But now you can bear it yourself.”

“We’re piercing the corporate veil,” He heard Ria's voice, but saw it was Anna, standing in the corner, tears dripping from her eyes.

Ari was reaching above him into a glass orb filled with hundreds of swarming septopods. His hand stuck in the aperture and with a yank pulled the orb down. It fractured, and the creatures swarmed around little Ari, crawling up his legs.

“You made this. You made a monster in your own image. You birthed your own Grand Inquisitor, your own Frankenstein's monster. But we shall not be your guilty jailer. If we inherit your sin, we will inherit it fully.”

The arms of the AIR powered operating theater drifted down. There were seven of them.

He felt the razor shave the top of his head. A cleansing and buffing of his shiny pate. The pull of the scalpel.

“I won't be your guilty jailer. But I will be your executioner.” Ira gave a wild grin and began giggling.

The creatures continued to climb up Ari and crawl into his mouth. His eyes locked with Fujiwara's.

And Ria stepped up to the chair.

AIR was sawing through the bone of his skull, and Fujiwara felt a gentle pull and pop as he was uncorked. He looked up, expecting to see one of the arachnoid arms of AIR ready to carve into his brain. But instead he saw Ria. Her eyes teary. She kissed his cheek and brought her hand up above his head. She held a wooden stave. She drew it back and plunged it deep within his brain.

Four hours later, an intern saw Fujiwara, head shaved, rubbing his ankles and arms. “Dr. Fujiwara?” The intern looked down. All the other employees knew Fujiwara was a short-tempered, curt man who did not like interruptions. “Dr. Fujiwara, sir?”

Fujiwara looked up and smiled. “Call me Ira.”

They were playing the prince, the princess, and the dragon in the castle courtyard. And Arnie always got to be the dragon. At least, that's the way Fairchild put it: "The dragon is a powerful beast, a ferocious creature! You should be proud being the dragon!”

"Roar!” Arnie called out. His dark, lucid eyes darted around, constantly looking for inspiration.

“That's more like it!” Fairchild raised his small wooden sword and shield, both gifts from his father, the Duke. His raven-black hair, normally combed and oiled, was tied in a knot at the crown of his head.

"Jon, do I get a stick to fight with?"

"Arnie, you're a dragon. Dragons use claws." Arnie looked at both of his small brown hands.

Fairchild clicked his tongue, "This is how the game will work. If I hit you with my sword, you die. And I save the princess. But if you touch me with one of your hands, I die, and you get all the treasure of the kingdom. Okay?" A real dragon would just breathe fire, Arnie thought to himself.

Fairchild looked past Arnie for a moment, "And Samantha will be the princess." He smiled.

Samantha rolled her eyes. She was one year older than Arnie and the same age as Fairchild. She was taller than both. Most of the village regarded Samantha as beautiful. She, too, had a mat of black hair, but the castle’s maid would pin Samantha down in the mornings and comb it for her.

The delicate features that gave Arnie a womanish look made Samantha look like a goddess. She had high cheekbones and a small nose that didn't reach the point of turning down. Her hands were delicate like Arnie’s, but always fidgeting looking for something to do. And now they drummed on her upper arms as she crossed them.

Arnie didn’t think either Samantha or Fairchild knew why they played this game. But Arnie did. Fairchild loved Samantha. She was beautiful. She was determined. She was defiant. She was all the things Fairchild wanted and wanted to be.

"I'm coming, Arnie."

Arnie looked back towards Fairchild. Fairchild had trained with the quartermaster. He knew the basics and kept his distance. He didn't charge like he had once done. Instead, he inched forward, always keeping one foot on the ground. Ready to turn, parry, and thrust.

Arnie immediately saw he was at a disadvantage. Yes, both his hands served as deadly weapons, while Fairchild only had a sword. But the sword gave him the distance, a

distance Arnie couldn't close. Not without being struck by the deadly implement in Fairchild's right hand.

Arnie bent down to pick up a stick himself.

Fairchild snarled, "Arnie, dragons don't use weapons. Use your claws." He lunged forward, thrusting at Arnie, and Arnie jumped back, almost falling over.

Without a weapon, it was going to be impossible. There was no way he could close the distance. Impossible...

He heard his father's words echoing in his mind. "If you think it’s impossible, don’t distract those doing it." His father smiled, roughing up his hair. Arnie had an idea.

Arnie crouched, his arms at his side. His fingers splayed in fake claws. Fairchild backed him into a corner. There was nowhere he could run. He was waiting for the final thrust.

Suddenly, Arnie stood upright and bowed. "My Duke."

Fairchild's eyes widened. His father had returned. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow. "Oh, father." Fairchild turned around to look. But no one was there.

Arnie lunged forward. His claws reaching for Fairchild's back, but the noble was too quick. Fairchild spun around, and tapped Arnie’s head with the tip of his blade. "And now I rescue the princess.”

He smiled to himself triumphantly. That is, until Samantha jumped on his back and put him in a headlock.

“Samantha, you’re supposed to be the princess!”

She wrestled Fairchild to the ground, and they all laughed until their ribs hurt.

Chapter 2

Arnie clenched his eyes closed, trying to remember the good times, from before.

He felt two rough hands on each of his arms. He was being dragged along.

He tried to stay as still as possible. If he were limp, if he barely moved, he wouldn't be hurt. His hips and legs skirted over bricks and loose stone. Branches and briars snapped on his hemp pants and scraped his tan legs.

"Hurry up." Fairchild commanded the boys. He didn't joke. He didn't poke fun. He was deathly serious this time.

“W-w-what we gonna do this t-t-time?” Toby asked. Toby was a lanky pimply youth whose stutter worsened when anticipating the group’s cruel machinations. “What if we go to the manure heap at M-m-morstan farm and dunk’em?”

Fairchild dismissed the idea, “Shut up and leave the thinking to me.”

“Yeah, Toby,” Marty said, “You can’t even speak good.” Marty yanked Arnie up with one hand while the other explored his left nasal cavity.

Arnie heard the sound of the windmill, the creek of its blades. Why were they taking him here? Arnie thought of the miller’s daughter, whose strands of hair were caught in the millstone during a tryst. Surely they wouldn't do anything that serious. Arnie felt his heart’s pace quicken and a tightness in his chest. All he’d suffered before were scrapes and bruises. “I’ll be fine as long as I don’t mess anything up,” he thought. He pushed the tightness down, the heat and heartbeat receded, and he became numb.

Arnie was pulled up and pushed into a room.

“Com-come on open your eyes.” Toby managed to jeer.

Wham. Toby’s hand plowed into Arnie's stomach. Arnie keeled over, coughing and almost vomiting. His eyes involuntarily flinched open. He was bent over facing the doorway out of the mill. Arnie sucked in air, and caught a glimpse outside. He saw somebody coming down the road, but they were a long way off.

Toby and Marty continued to pinch, slap and jostle Arnie, until suddenly Fairchild’s voice rang out. “That's enough,” Arnie peeked and saw Fairchild with a hempen rope slung around his shoulders, “Let's have the real fun.” A wicked smile spread across his lips.

The two boys grabbed Arnie from either side and began to hoist him up. Fairchild ascended the stairs of the windmill and motioned for the boys to follow.

At first, confusion swept over Arnie. What in Freya’s name were they doing? Were they going to toss him down the stairs? Or maybe even off the windmill? Arnie began to involuntarily shake, imagining the fall, the drop, and then the smash.

Fairchild’s keys jingled and the door to the roof of the windmill swung open.

The wind was fierce. Arnie felt that he had to crouch to stay afoot. The wings of the windmill, we're slowly rotating. And the Duke’s red and white flag danced. Fairchild pointed towards the flagpole, more like a thick wooden mast than a pole, and the two boys pushed Arnie towards the parapet.

Arnie began to squirm involuntarily.

Marty looked towards Fairchild. “We’re not pushen em off, yeah?”

Fairchild scoffed and approached Arnie. He bent down to Arnie’s ear and whispered, “I heard a little secret Arnie, supposedly you're not so coolheaded after all.”

Fairchild gave the rope to Marty and pointed to the pole. “Make sure he's got a good view.”

Marty shrugged and Toby stuttered, “Alright b-b-boss.”

They neared the edge of the windmill. Arnie could start to see the drop. He felt hot all of a sudden. The air was filling with smoke. Someone had lit a fire below and the whole land was burning. “It’s hot, ah.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Fairchild looked at Arnie, confused. It was chilly, if not freezing, up here.

Arnie began to panic, he kicked, bit, and spat. His heart raced. He wasn’t thinking. He was panicking. He was going to be thrown into the fire below, and burned alive.

At first, Toby and Marty stared at him, mouth agape. Arnie was always limp and unfazed by their torment. Then slowly they cracked wicked smiles. They finally found something that could harm their prey.

Marty grabbed one of Arnie’s arms and thrust him forward to the edge of the mill, his calves hitting the parapet. Instantly, the contents of Arnie’s stomach erupted. They sprayed over Toby. The boy lost his grip. Marty snorted with laughter.

Arnie yanked himself back from the edge and grabbed Marty. “Get off me,” the pudgy boy pushed against Arnie, but Arnie wouldn’t let go.

“Idiots.” Fairchild wrenched Arnie's other arm around the pole. He grabbed Arnie’s leg and had him straddle the pole backward, his spine against the wood, his chest and chin hanging above nothing but air.

Arnie’s breath came in gulps. His lungs were filling with smoke. He heard the roar of fire and the sweat started to pour down his cheeks. Or was that tears? His eyes started to cloud over. He could still feel the rope, digging into his wrists, securing him to the pole.

Arnie began shouting, blubbering, “Dad, dad, don’t go in there, dad!”

Marty was chortling. Toby was ringing vomit out of his shirt. Fairchild’s face was a mask of pain. His eyes wide and skin drained of blood. “The fire…” He said to himself. Fairchild turned abruptly and descended the stairs. The boys followed close behind.

Blackness almost enveloped Arnie’s entire vision. His long fingernails dug into the meat of his palms. And for a moment his vision cleared, the whine stopped. He no longer felt the rope, just the wet feeling of blood on his hands.

His fingers relaxed. The pain receded, and his vision went blank. If he lost consciousness, would he fall? Maybe he’d wake to something better…

“Arnie, Arnie!” He heard Samantha’s voice. How did she find him? How did she get here so fast? She was untying the rope. “Be careful, grab my hand.” Arnie reached his bloody hand toward Samantha. The ropes no longer bound him, he had to rely on her to ensure he didn’t fall.

She put his arm over her shoulders and put a finger to her lips, motioning him to be silent. She pulled him along. The boys were lunching in the back of the mill, Fairchild merely staring at his food sullenly.

Arnie and Samantha crept down the stairs. They could hear Toby and Marty talking, “What if we just left him?”

“M-m-miller’s not back for another t-t-two days, he might st-t-tarve.”

“Well, I’m not coming back to feed him.” Marty swallowed a sausage whole.

They were almost to the exit of the mill. The door was ajar. Samantha passed through first, then Arnie. Just as he was through the door, Fairchild looked up.

“Run!” Samantha called out. Arnie’s body obeyed instantly.

Chapter 3

Samantha must have known if they went back to the village, the boys would easily catch them on the road. Instead, she led them around the windmill and to the woods, Freya’s woods.

Arnie followed Samantha. They lept over browning shrubs across the frosty ground, all the while Fairchild and his followers were catching up. The woods loomed before them, tall, dark, and verdant. Samantha leapt in. For a moment, Arnie lingered on the precipice. Perhaps he should just wait. Wait for Fairchild and the others to catch up. Let them take him. But Samantha poked her hand back out and dragged him inside.

It was as if they were in a dream. While the rest of the town was sinking into the dormancy of winter, Freya’s wood was still vibrant. Flowers, mosses, and ferns carpeted the ground. A fat elk jumped over a toppled tree now bursting with insects and fungus. The woods were kaleidoscopic in their colors, but all around, suffused with a deep emerald.

But with that beauty came danger. Arnie heard tale of a boy come to the woods to fish. The next day, the entire family was struck with pestilence. Large pus-filled lumps swelled on their neck. At first, they could not turn their head, then swallow, then breathe. Priests disallowed the bodies to be buried in the cemetery, fearing “posthumous infection”.

Most parents would scold and switch their children they found trespassing in Freya’s woods, but Arnie and Samantha didn’t have parents anymore.

They heard from outside the wood, “We c-c-c-can’t go in there, we’ll be c-c-c-cursed for certain.”

“Why would you chase them in there, you idiots! We’re not trying to kill them…” Fairchild’s voice cracked with worry and faded in the distance.

Samantha and Arnie were out of breath. Arnie’s hands rested on his knees. He felt a dull pain throughout his body. His hand was bloody, and his knees were scraped, but he was alive.

Samantha grabbed his face, and turned it from side to side. "Arnie, are you all right? What in Freya's name were they doing?”

Arnie nodded. He was panting. He couldn't say a word.

Her hand, at first a gentle inspection, splashed against Arnie's cheek. He heard the slap ring out. "What were you doing?"

Arnie's cheek burned. Tears welled up in his eyes. He panted. He couldn't speak. What could he say?

"Arnie, they could've killed you. They dragged you halfway through the town, and you didn't say a word. You didn't struggle, you didn't call out for help. Arnie, you could've died."

He panted and regained his breath. He couldn't look Samantha in the eyes. He had nothing to say. Saying anything would just make it worse. She was right. He was the reason they were in this mess right now.

"Arnie, why didn't you do anything?" Now Samantha's eyes were filled with tears.

His nostrils flared. He smelled smoke. The acrid scent of burning chemicals.

Samantha took one deep breath in, and exhaled. "We need to find a way out of here." She said softly. Her eyes were determined, and her hands immediately began to fidget.

“Come on then,” Samantha pulled Arnie.

“Can’t we just wait?”

Samantha frowned, “He’ll have one of the goons wait there till nightfall. We’ll have to go around…” She was right. But maybe it would be better to be caught by Fairchild than Freya.

She pulled Arnie deeper into the woods. The trees seemed to hum with life and the path they took seemed to unfurl before them, almost as if others had walked it before. They wandered for nearly an hour, ever trying to turn back towards the edge of the woods, but always finding the paths leading inwards.

It was getting dark, and they came across what appeared to be a small clearing with some dried branches and sticks.

“Arnie? Help me gather wood. We'll need it for the fire. “

Arnie looked at her, his eyes widened. “We can't stay here, Sam.”

"We have to." He looked up, the sun was already setting. She was right, at least for this night they had to make do in Freya's woods.

Samantha gathered the firewood, setting Arnie to task with gathering the tinder. They placed it in a rocky overhang that offered some shelter, and set up the fire there.

Samantha fished flint and steel from her trouser pockets. The voice of their father echoed in their head. “Fire, never leave home without it.”

Arnie gathered nuts and mushrooms he believed were safe and placed them on a rock near the fire to warm.

Samantha was staring into the fire, her eyes reflecting the flames.

“I said no… like always.”

Arnie looked at her. A couple of months after the accident, Fairchild actively started pursuing Samantha. He would ask her to go hunt or to spend the day reading in court, what was left of the court, that is.

“I didn’t exactly say no… I told him to go to Freya's Wood. I guess in hindsight, it's a bit funny.”

Arnie’s eyes opened wide.

She looked up at Arnie, biting her lip. "Yeah. That's why I think… That's why he did this. I think he got really angry, and as always, you’re the one he takes it out on…”

She looked back down. Arnie was quiet. His sister's face looked pained.

“Anyways, the next time he asks, I’ll say yes.”

“What?” Arnie blurted out. “You don’t like him though…”

“Arnie, if I don’t say yes, he's going to end up killing you. And yes, I know, I'll never forgive him for what his dad did to us.”

“It wasn’t him…” Arnie looked downcast.

She looks back up. "You still think it's your fault?"

“It is…”

Samantha stood abruptly. Her hands clenched into fists. “Both you and I knew what dad was working on had consequences. It was dangerous. It was important…” Her eyes, still reflecting fire, rested heavily upon him.

Convincing her was impossible, so he just turned around, his back warmed by the fire, resting his head on his arm, and pretending to sleep.

It was his fault. She knew it just as much as he did.

She stomped around, but her anger, meeting no resistance, quickly subsided. She bedded in a huff, but in time her breath became slow and steady. She slept.

Arnie heard the roar of fire behind him. He smelled its acrid fumes. He knew it was small, in his head, but in his heart it felt like a bonfire. It took all he could not to turn around, not to make sure that Samantha was all right.

He wished he could stay calm like a sister. He admired how quickly she was able to assess the situation and take action.

From the second, they entered these woods, Arnie knew this would happen. They were damned. No one left Freya’s woods alive. And they wouldn't be here if not for him. If he had just stood up. If he just fought. If he just pushed back an iota against Fairchild. But it seemed impossible.

He tried thinking of his dad. What would he do? He wouldn't fight back like Samantha, instead he would make some scheme to bring everyone on his side. He would make the impossible possible.

Slowly, the smell of soot and flame was replaced with that of his dad, of leather, lacquered wood, hempen ropes, oiled pulleys.

His dad's workshop was a place where nothing was impossible. It was a field’s length. Great contraptions lined every inch of it. There were two paths, either the left or the right. The left was lined with practical inventions. Irrigators, farming equipment, tools for weaving, for crafting better pots, and those for lifting heavy objects. On the right were his miraculous inventions to be. Supposed contraptions to lift objects without touching them, to make rainbows from light, or make water into ice.

The workshop sat in the inner castle courtyards, exposed to both rain and shine. You could easily see all the machines from the overlooking balcony, as often the Duke would do upon inspection.

A large wooden frame with strings laced around crude metal pulleys stood in the back of his father's workshop, lodged somewhere in between the practical machines and the miraculous ones. His dad sat at the machine, twisting gears and screws.

He was a small, bespectacled man. His green eyes darting to and fro. His small, pale hands constantly grabbing pieces of his inventions and putting them together in interesting patterns and configurations.

He put his hand on the great contraption, his eyes looked up at it lovingly, “It's a version of the duke's ledger machine.” He looked down at Arnie's bright eyes dancing over the ropes and screws, “Here, lemme show you.”

He pulled out a tablet engraved with strange scrawlings, odd-looking symbols. The tablet had a small section that was open, as of yet unfilled.

“We fill these little sections with these blocks” His dad picked up small bricks with etchings on one side and showed them to Arnie. "See this one?"

"Oh, it's a zero."

"Exactly."

He fitted it into the machine. "And this one?"

"That's a one."

"Perfect. Now, what about this one?"

He held it up to Arnie. The small brick looked like nothing he'd ever seen. A curved line into an angle, jutting out with a line to the left.

Arnie squinted. "A squiggle?"

“Well, yes, but not precisely,” His father winked and reached into his pocket.

Arnie smiled. "Getting your fire?"

His dad guffawed. "You can't carry fire in your pocket,” He tapped Arnie on the nose, “But you can carry water.”

Instead of the flint and steel, he pulled out the small water pouch. He poured it into a cup and let the water settle, then brought the small cube next to the water and beckoned Arnie to peer in.

In the reflection of the water, instead of a squiggle, Arnie saw what he knew to be a two. "Dad, that's a two! It’s a two in reflection. You’ve written the numbers in reverse."

His dad laughed. "Exactly."

He fitted the piece into the tablet, then placed the tablet in front of him. He took what looked like a pillow and smeared it with a black goop, making gentle circles to ensure a smooth coating. He gave the pillow to Arnie, “Now punch.” Arnie punched the tablet of squiggles with the pillow, his eyes sparkling.

His dad put the tablet into the machine with a sheet of vellum. He pulled a lever and the machine clamped down, and spat out... A ledger. A perfectly readable order to a merchant for 210 bales of wheat. The description of the quality of the wheat, the expectations of the delivery, everything was there.

“It's perfect. Dad how did you do that! It would take a scribe half a day to make this.”

His dad’s eyes were twinkling, and his hands were already reaching for something new, “Here, let me show you a secret,” His father pulled out a small bag and spilled its contents on the table.

Arnie picked them up. At first, they too looked like squiggles, but as Arnie held them over the water, he saw what they were. “These are letters…”

“Exactly! Up until now, books were treasures, knowledge from centuries past. But with this modification, in a matter of days, we can make books and books. Knowledge for everyone. What would've taken tens of scribes years to create, we can now do with the pull of a lever.”

Arnie’s eyes sparkled.

His father pulled the lever again and suddenly the strings snapped, and the contraption gave a groan.

“Well. After I work out some of the kinks.”

Arnie was ebullient. He had to tell somebody about this. His dad was making the impossible possible. He ran out of the workshop, almost crashing into Fairchild.

Arnie's eyes sparkled. “Jon, my dad is making the most amazing contraption!”

Chapter 4

Both Arnie and Samantha awoke unscathed, but he couldn't understand how. They were in Freya’s woods, and no one left Freya’s woods unharmed.

Samantha pointed towards the sun,“ East, that's home.” She gave him a look that told him she was determined. Determined that they both make it out alive.

They followed the path east as far as it would go, but found as the day went on they twisted and turned their way back to the west. They kept doing their best, turning this way, and that, until Arnie made out that they were walking east again. East, then North, then West, then South. There were walking in circles. But Arnie knew better, the circles were getting smaller. They weren't retracing their steps, they were spiraling. Spiraling inwards.

Until, they met what seemed a dead end. Arnie felt like sitting down. Resting for what time they had left, until the woods did something particularly nasty to them. Samantha pulled back a thorny bush, “Here.”

There was a hole, if Arnie hadn't known better, it almost looked like a passage. Arnie peered through the hole and there was light on the other side. Not a green canopy light, but a bright light. Maybe Arnie was wrong, maybe they were almost through.

Samantha went on all fours and crawled in the hollow. “Hurry up, I see a light.” Arnie followed. They crawled for some time in silence. Arnie could barely make out his sister in front of him. He shut his eyes and listened. There was the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves. Was that water he heard and the sound of a distant melody?

Suddenly, Arnie could see a light shining from the other side. Samantha inhaled, “Amazing… get over here Arnie,” and stood up in a quiet sheltered glade.

Tall trees with flowering vines soared into the sky around them. Their branches were filled with hundreds of colorful birds that seemed to sing in sync. Sunlight reflected off dewy leaves, projecting rainbows. In the center of the glade was a bubbling brook spurting crystalline waters.

Samantha raced to the brook. Arnie was awed and then suddenly filled with dread. This was no natural glade. He felt as if vines had crept into his chest and gripped his heart. He could not move. He froze, fearing anything he did would upset the balance of the place.

Samantha’s hands dipped into the spring and splashed water on her face, “Arnie, we can follow the water out.”

Suddenly they heard laughter. A mirthful man appeared from behind one of the trees. He was dappled with sweat. Thin muscles poked through his tight skin. The angles of his cheeks and chin were clearly visible. Small, well-groomed bushes of hair sat on his scalp and eyebrows. And his eyes, they were painted with mazes of such complexity Arnie could spend the rest of his life navigating them.

He looked at the children, first with surprise and then with delight. “Freya, what silly illusions you've made. Children from the town drinking from our brook.”

From behind the tree they heard another voice or something akin to a voice - part water cascading down rocks, part wind rustling through leaves, and part chirping of birds. The voice was the most beautiful and melodic Arnie ever heard, “What illusion Byron, I’ve made no such thing.”

The man’s face, mirthful and bright, contorted. His brow furrowed with deep lines and his eyes narrowed with purpose. The man sprinted forward, his hand darted out to rip a branch from the nearby tree. The branch snapped, and the man lept at Samantha, leveling the branch like a lance at the young girl's neck.

This was it. They were meant to die here. The plight of all who enter Freya’s Woods. His heart pounded, and his chest tightened into one great knot. Smoke filled his lungs and nostrils. Quiet he thought. Accept it.

But his body acted. In that second of calm, he came to action. He sprinted to Samantha and rammed his shoulder into the man.

Blood. There was blood. Arnie toppled into the brook, covering himself in silt. Red flowed into the water.

The branch went astray and cut into Arnie’s shoulder. The tightness he’d felt in his chest lessened. Arnie felt alive.

The man looked stunned for a second. But just for a second. He grabbed a nearby rock and pushed Samantha to the ground with his other arm. Samantha’s head never before looked so naked. The rock was held back, awaiting the blow, but the blow never came.

Were there always vines there? Sprouting from the ground, grabbing the man’s arm.

Arnie peeked up from the silty brook and saw the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

Freya was a child with a small, perfectly proportioned frame. Her skin was lavender. Her emerald hair was constantly held aloft by an invisible wind. Her lips were a woman’s lips, voluptuous and sensual. Her eyes were large and amber. They held cruelty and caprice.

And now those eyes were focused wholly and entirely on Samantha. He saw fascination and lust writ on Freya’s face.

The man was nearly covered in vines, but she didn’t seem to register him anymore. She was fixated on the girl.

“What do we have here?” She walked toward Samantha, vines wrapped around her arms as she struggled to rise. “You know, children are not supposed to wander in these woods.” There was no hostility in Freya’s voice. She now reached for Samantha. Samantha writhed trying to get away, defiance in her eyes.

Arnie could hear the vines squeeze tighter and tighter around the man. He swore he could hear the cracking of bones and a muffled scream. A bright red oozed out of the vines.

Weren’t they friends or lovers? What was happening?

Freya’s hand touched Samantha’s cheek and nature stopped. The wind paused, the birds stopped chirping, and the brook stopped burbling. There was silence. There was a single heartbeat where things were the way they were before. And then nature resumed and a difference emerged.

Samantha was beautiful before. She was slight and wan. Her hands were rough. But she was Samantha. But now.

Her dark hair now flowed in waves. Her skin glowed. Her frail, slight body was now supple and plump. Her hands looked like they never touched a broom or lye. And her eyes. Her eyes were painted with mazes.

Freya withdrew her hand from Samantha. Arnie heard a crack and saw a splatter of blood. The man in the vines was no more. Freya began to stroke Samantha's hair, “You will be my pet, now where is your mother? We’ve something to discuss…”

Arnie was holding himself perfectly still, but slowly his hand slipped. His body splashed into the brook and the scene changed.

Freya’s eyes darted to Arnie, and Arnie saw death. He saw wolves hunting their prey. He saw fire burning forests. He saw rats with bloated bellies and foaming mouths.

Thorny vines erupted under Arnie, wrapping his arms, legs, and throat. He felt them squeeze.

“Who is this?” Freya howled.

“This one is my last living relative.” Samantha replied calmly, as if in a trance. And for a moment Arnie saw fear in Freya’s eyes, a childlike fear.

The vines wilted and Arnie heaved in a breath of air.

Freya made a small bow like a nobleman welcoming a commoner onto their estate. “So you are the wishmaker.”

“Wishmaker?” Arnie’s confusion dripped from his voice.

Freya’s eyes squinted mischievously. “Ah, how quickly they forget. Yes, wishmaker. You are twice blessed. Once for me anointing your sister, and twice for a wish I will grant you.” She smiled knowingly.

A wish? Anointing Samantha?

Freya caressed Samantha one more time and without taking her eyes off the girl said, “You have till dawn tomorrow to decide upon your wish. Choose carefully.” She turned and walked into the forest.

Chapter 5

They ran, as fast as they could. He was dragging Samantha along in the full sense of the word. Even a gentle tug on her arm caused her to follow lightly behind, like pulling on a kite, barely any pressure at all.

Arnie stopped, he thought they were at a safe distance, well, safe as any mortal could be from Freya,

His shoulder was bloodied. His knees and shins were a patchwork of small scrapes. He was panting. "Sam, Sam, what should we do?"

His breath was ragged. He heard it rasp in and out. His small rib cage expanded and contracted. The beat of his heart thrummed in his ears.

Samantha spoke no word. She stood mute. Her eyes, an arabesque of golden lines forming little mazes impossible to navigate.

"Sam, I need you." He grabbed her shoulders, were they always this slight, and shook them. Her head did not bob but moved in the rhythm, with which she was shaken, like a child's toy that would dance on the slightest of manual provocation.

And he dropped to his knees. "Sam, what should I do?" His arms held onto her small wrists. Her active hands, always fidgeting, hung limply at her sides.

He felt his chest heave and tears well up in his eyes. His muscles at the back and spine flexed, ready to rack his body in sobs. His ears rang, and his eyes were going dark.

“No not now…” He looked up at the mazes in Samantha’s eyes. Mazes…

Samantha held a wood knife in one hand and in the other held a wooden maze. She showed it to Arnie. "It's a maze." Her hands resumed the painstaking carving. "You think dad will like it?"

Arnie's eyes darted down. There were multiple ways to enter, each looped back and forth over each other. The goal was the center. The trick of the maze was that there were little holes leading to different sides of the cube where other mazes were. It was a beautifully complex puzzle.

“Yeah, I think Dad would like that.” Arnie smiled.

“What do you have planned?”

Arnie responded with a wry smile.

There was always a competition to see which one would create the more miraculous birthday present. As it so happened, their dad always won. But not this time. Because it was his birthday.

In previous years, Arnie gave his dad a wooden box with no lock or key. He opened that in two days. Once, Arnie worked for a merchant for a full day to get the answer to a problem called a cubic that stumped his dad for almost a week. This year, Arnie was going to take a different approach.

Arnie wanted to make something new, never done before. A new cipher, a pattern that could only be decrypted when viewed in reflection, and Arnie knew the perfect machine to do it.

The sun set, and his father had just come home from his workshop. He sat at the table, engulfing hard bread, and reading the latest correspondence from another inventor kingdoms away. Samantha gave him a wink, and Arnie crept off to the workshop.

The pulleys, levers, and fulcrums that looked so practical in daylight, looked spectral at night. The taut ropes and carved gears cast gothic shadows in the flickering candlelight. And the whole area had a smell, a smell just like his dad, of leather, worn wood, used flint, and frayed rope.

Arnie set his candle down by the ledger machine. His curiosity exploded the moment he saw it. His eyes grokked the various ropes and levers for opening the great contraption, clamping it shut and printing on a page.

He saw the small bag where the numbers were squiggles in reverse. The bag of reversed letters were nowhere to be found. He assumed his father hid them somewhere else, private, secret. Why didn't his father tell the Duke about this project? To spread books, knowledge, to as many as possible, what could be better for the kingdom?

He grabbed at the small bag at his side. He'd spent the last few weeks carving letters into little bricks of the same size. But what Arnie carved were real letters, not the squiggles in reverse. He took some of the goop that his father called ink and smeared it on the letter p. He dabbed the p against the ground to see what shape it would make. It resembled the letter q, strangely enough. His mind raced, there must be a whole set of letters or shapes that look the same when viewed through a mirror.

Arnie had the perfect number of letters in his little bag. And he began to spell them out. “I”, “M”, “P”, “O”. Would his father be able to decipher the message?

Suddenly, doors opened to the workshop.

“Here we are.” He heard a voice, a sibilant whisper.

Another one, deeper, responded, "Aye.”

Who would be here? What are they doing at night?

"Wait a second," the sibilant man said, "Someone's here."

They all looked to the candlelight in the back.

These men were not supposed to be here. Were they robbers? They shouldn't be prowling the castle at night, especially not in his father's workshop.

Arnie was stunned. He didn’t know what to do.

The two men began to walk up either side of the room. The lighter one going up the row of machines to the left, the heavy one down the right. And he was trapped, it was impossible to escape now.

"No." Arnie whispered to himself. He grabbed his bag of letters, knocking the candle over, and began to crawl underneath the set of machines in the middle.

Both men heard him at the same time. And in turn, they began to reach into the machines to grab Arnie. The big man stayed on the outside of the machines, jutting his arms in once or twice, almost managing to grab Arnie by his shirt.

The sibilant man ducked under the machines and began to chase Arnie from behind. He was a small man, spry and slender. He snaked through the machines, quickly catching up to Arnie.

But Arne knew these machines and knew his father. He grabbed levers at random and the machines began to move. Some came to life, but most shuddered and collapsed behind him, trapping the sibilant man underneath. "Get him," he hissed.

The large man charged forward, pushing away the final contraption. Its wood splintered as it hit the ground. Arnie was almost to the door. The large man barreled ahead.

Arnie bit his lip, untied the string that held his bag of letters, and they fell to the floor. The large man rushed forward. He heard his feet scrape against the letters. His heel flew out from under him, and with a crash and groan, "Ooh," the large man fell upon his back,

Arnie slammed the door shut behind him and ran. He ran down the hallway and up the stairs. Across the balcony was a walkway, he could use it to warn the Duke. As he ascended the stairs and got to the balcony, though, he smelled it. Smoke. Arnie looked out on the scene of his father's workshop. It was a bonfire.

“The candle…”

The great machines, his father’s livelihood, tools for irrigation, cooking, birthing, and the ledger all burst into flames. Ropes, blackening, pulleys snapping, arches collapsing. The workshop like the caldera of a volcano crumbled inward on itself. And the fire. Smoke bellowed up in great gusts. Black hissing soot spiraling with the wind. The great fire belched and bellowed. Tears filled Arnie's eyes, and he blinked the smoke away.

“Arnie! Arnie!”

His father was down below. He didn't know where Arnie was so he came out to look for him. Arnie called out, “Dad, dad!” But he didn't hear him. His dad wandered deeper into the fire, calling out his name. Arnie waved his hands and still his dad didn't see him. He had to do something.

Well, if his father didn't see him, he would make him. He got to the corner of the balcony and climbed up onto the banister, holding onto one of the columns, “Dad!” He screamed with all of his might. His chest hurt, his throat was on fire, his eyes burned. His dad reached the middle of the conflagration. And the ledger machine, the one nearest to the fire, but last to burn, finally collapsed. The wooden frame tumbled atop his father.

His dad was calling for help. He was screaming. Arnie smelled burning chemicals and flesh. The roar of the fire was dwarfed by a high-pitched ring. Arnie heaved air in and out, as the smoke filled his lungs. Arnie could save his dad, it was still possible.

The smoke rose like a serpent, spiraling and hissing; the great whine and his ears grew louder, deafening out the roar; his eyes grew darker until he could only see a pin prick of light, the fire, the workshop, his father, so far away. He felt dizzy. Had he always been so high up? Arnie clenched his eyes closed. “Impossible…” A wave of vertigo washed over him and everything went black.

Arnie felt Samantha's hand resting on his shoulder. He was back to the present. He looked up at her, at her eyes still as cryptic as before, her face placid. But maybe there was some part of her, still deep inside.

He got up from the ground. He dusted off his shirt and pants. And with a determined look said, “Come on, Sam, we're getting out of here.”

The way back was surprisingly easy. It was as if the forest opened the way for them, but Arnie had to pull Samantha along. She seemed to be more in a daze than fully awake.

Arnie kept moving forward. He focused on the surrounding vegetation. The verdant greens receding into browns and grays. The pain in his shoulder kept him lucid. A thin crust of blood already dried on his ragged shirt

He almost froze in the forest. But then something happened. He was able to move, to act, to save Samantha. Would he have done nothing without it? Just accepted his fate?

Arnie emerged blinking from the woods, the emerald greens and dappled canopy replaced by a bright pale nimbus sky and brown packed earth.

He pulled Samantha out, hoping in some way that removing her from Freya's Woods would remove her from Freya's spell. But she followed unperturbed. Silent and unblinking.

Arnie had barely any time to process the events. Barely any time to understand what happened.

They entered the woods, and instead of leaving dead, they left at least partially alive. He'd never heard of this happening before. And while Samantha still seemed hypnotized, she was unhurt.

As Arnie looked her up and down, he noticed a striking similarity to the man in the woods. She looked fuller, more alive, more here and now. Her slight muscles were relaxed. Her movements were graceful. More animal than man. And her eyes, indeed, resembled the maze that she carved so many years ago, before their father passed away, and before they were kicked out of the castle.

Arnie heard the clopping of a horse.

“My idiot son…” Arnie thought he heard. And, round the bend, appeared Duke Fairchild.

Duke Fairchild had never been a handsome man. His long black hair, combed, oiled, and perfumed, was thin and receding high upon his already too profound forehead. Beady dark eyes poked out of his swollen face. Though he was just riding a horse, sweat dappled his brow, his cheeks, and his chin, and his other chin, and his last chin too. He sat upon a great horse, perhaps one of the finest steeds in the kingdom. But the horse did not think it's position so fine. Though they were just walking, the horse seemed belabored by the weight of its master.

Arnie felt his heart try to pump the last bits of adrenaline left in the system into his blood. Exhaustion seized him. His fate was sealed. He may escape a god, but not from the Duke. The younger Fairchild certainly told his father of their brazen refusals, the sister’s of love and the brother’s of torment. The Duke was surely here to reprimand them, if not worse.

What came next astonished Arnie. Duke Fairchild ran his tongue over his lips, dampening his thin mustache. "Oh, Arnie. My boy. I was looking for you. I was worried sick."

Arnie stood bewildered. The Duke never spoke to him in such kind tones. In fact, the Duke had likely not talked to his own mother in such. What's happening? Had Freya’s magic cast some spell?

He glanced from the duke back to Samantha and noticed the duke's eyes weren't looking at him. Instead, they were fixed on Samantha. "Let me see you, boy."

The duke did not get off his horse, but did instruct his beast to walk over. Arnie looked towards his shoulder, and pain seared through him like a knife. The injury Byron inflicted was still there.

His body began to hurt all over. His hand, his shoulder, his legs covered with scrapes and bruises. He became woozy all of a sudden. The duke gave a shrill whistle. And Edgar, the castle's elderly custodian, came around the bend.

The man was nearly 60 years old and looked like not a man could live till 61. He had graying hair and bore Fairchild's livery. He was the last of the servants in the castle. A man who had seen four generations of Fairchilds, each one falling into further and further degradation.

“Sire.”

“Edgar, make room for the children on your horse. We're taking them back to the castle.” The Duke gave a savage look to Edgar.

Edgar's eyes widened. He threw himself off the horse, helping both Arnie and Samantha onto the saddle.

Arnie thought about running back into Freya's Woods, but trembled at the thought. He couldn't fathom what other curses the child god would bring to bear against them upon further trespassing. And so he let himself be picked up and placed upon the horse.

The Duke asked them questions as they rode along. What happened, who was there, how had they escaped? Arnie wondered whether it was better to lie or not. The duke had no way of knowing, did he?

Arnie feigned a poor memory. He said he didn't know. It all happened so fast. They were in the woods, and suddenly, Samantha transformed. Her eyes were so obviously inhuman, Arnie knew he could not hide them.

As they neared the castle entrance, the Duke asked Arnie a strange question, "Aren't you the last living relative of Samantha?”

"Yes." Arnie replied thinking of what Samantha said to Freya, he’s all the family I have…

The party approached the castle unmolested by villagers. The keeps was always empty and showed the wear and tear of years of disrepair. Edgar escorted them to a waiting room where Arnie and Samantha rested while the Duke retrieved a book.

Arnie looked over the room. It was the office, the office his father would often sit at to help the duke with whatever petty writings he needed. But his father's books were no longer here. Instead, there was a great table with an even greater chair, voluminous enough to rest even so great a frame as the duke.

The duke returned with his book.

"Arnie, I think that you and your sister have been blessed," the duke went on, waving his hands as if speaking to children, "by Freya."

He opened the book and showed its beautifully illustrated pages to Arnie. There was a rough sketch of Freya, her greens and lavender, her childlike form. Arnie had known the description since he was a child, but only now fully believed it. Next to Freya was a man, with arms akimbo, golden chest bare, and eyes, eyes that had little mazes inside.

“And Samantha was anointed.” The duke snapped the book shut. "Now, I know you don't know what that means, but here, let me explain it to you."

The duke poked the table in front of him. "Freya has chosen Samantha to live with her forever in eternal bliss and youth inside Freya's woods."

Arnie’s eyes were distracted by the duke constantly poking the table. He heard, the snapping and breaking of bones and the tightening of vines. He doubted eternity.

“And Freya has made you the Wishmaker.” He pointed at Arnie. Arnie remembered Freya using the word. "That means you get to make a wish on behalf of the village, something to help its people." The duke cupped both of his hands, gesturing towards himself.

Arnie stared at the duke. He didn't know what to say. The duke was obviously lying, but Arnie was stuck. He was in the duke's castle, under the duke's power. They were but children. It was impossible to fight and impossible to run.

After five seconds of silence, the Duke looked displeased. "Edgar, Edgar. Go fetch some sweetmeats. The child is clearly daft with hunger.

Arnie sat there, still staring at the Duke. In the distance, he felt the roar of fire, the heat and the whine. He was too tired. He was too young.

Edgar brought in two combs of honey. Sticky and sweet. The Duke nearly grabbed one off the plate, before he thought better of it and offered the plate to Arnie and Samantha. Samantha simply stared unblinking, and Arnie took one of the combs.

The Duke peeled the plate away a bit too swiftly and grabbed the second comb and sunk his teeth into it. The Duke smacked and honey dribbled down his chin. "So what do you think, Arnie? We should come up with a wish for the whole village, of course. But as the Duke, I know these villagers best. So how about this." He pointed at Arnie with the remnants of the honeycomb, more than three-fourths devoured. "I'll come up with some proposals. I'll give you a minute to eat and when I come back we can decide which one we'd like to move forward with."

He threw the rest of the honeycomb into his open mouth. And his tongue snaked across his lips, searching for remnants of honey. The Duke heaved himself up from his mighty chair and nearly skipped out of the room.

Arnie nibbled on the honeycomb, sugar instantly rushing into his veins. Think. He had to think. What was happening? What did the Duke know that he did not? What should he even do?

He looked up and saw the younger Fairchild. “Jon?” Arnie asked.

Fairchild looked aghast, “What did you do to her!” Beside him stood his two followers, openly gaping at Samantha.

Arnie grabbed Samantha’s hand and called out, “Run!”

There was a small window overlooking a garden outside. He jumped through it, dragging Samantha with him, the boys hot on his tail. He tried one door of the garden, and it was locked. He tried the other door, open. He ran through, down hallways, turning corner after corner.

The boys were catching up. Arnie wasn't fast, and Samantha didn’t help. He tried opening hallway doors, locked, locked, locked, until he found an opening. Not a door, just a dark passageway that led down. Arnie never saw this before, a secret passage left open. The boys were almost on him, so he scampered down.

The boys tried to as well. But Fairchild called out, “No, father said we can’t go down there.”

It was pitch dark. But Arnie knew what waited for him if he didn't run. And so he ran and ran. And eventually, the murmurs of the boys and Fairchild dissipated.

Arnie had no idea where he was. It was mostly dark, with a couple of holes in the wall near the ceiling letting in faint amounts of light. They were underground. He didn't even know this castle had an underground.

As he turned the next corner, he found a room that was illuminated by a slightly dull lamp. It seemed recently used. Arnie looked about, and indeed, there was a door that led to steps upstairs. He pulled at it, but it was locked. And so he examined the room, perhaps he'd find a key.

On the far wall was a massive and worn tapestry. On the top right, it depicted a small girl on the verge of becoming a woman. She seemed to be singing something as all around her birds and animals danced. Her eyes were mazes. Arnie looked to the left, expecting to see Freya, but instead saw a tall and fearsome-looking god. Eyes of onyx and flanks of gray and white. He seemed to have been carved from a mountain. Above this god was written the name “Orion”.

Below the two was a second scene, this time the god Orion was not so tall or powerful. Instead, he was small. His grays and onyx were replaced by mortal hues. His face was shocked and bewildered. And to his right was a figure Arnie well knew, that of Freya, her eyes victorious and a winning smile on her mouth.

“Orion? Freya? What does this mean?” He looked down. There was a book recently opened. Perhaps the Duke was down here. Arnie flipped through the pages.

The book had dates, long long ago dates. Next to each date was a name, for example, Timothy. And next to each name was a set of years. Arnie would have guessed they would have been the years of their life, but they seemed far too long. Timothy was nearly 150 years old before he passed. And then finally, next to each name was a small passage. The one next to Timothy said, “The price of barley has been on the rise. Local merchants demand more and more. Wish should be: fertile barley fields for 10 generations.” There was a little checkmark next to his name.

Underneath Timothy, there was the name Francis. Francis had a very short life, it seemed. And the passage next to his name was strange: “He asked to sleep with the goddess! We could not control him.” There were crossed-out scribblings next to it, and a large X.

Arnie returned to the beginning of the book. As he flipped the pages back and back, the details became sparser and sparser until he found the first page. It read:

Rules:

1. Gods cannot lie.

2. Once a covenant between man and god is set, neither can break without forfeiture of life.

3. Gods cannot harm the anointed nor the wish-maker.

4. The wish-maker's wishes can be refused, if too extreme or distasteful. If refused, the god can no longer claim the anointed.

The last rule stood out to him in particular. Perhaps he could save Samantha.

He turned the page, and the book resumed its normal list of names, but this time with many question marks and dates left unfilled.

Arnie noticed the first item on the second page was a bit more detailed. The name read Freya. The date was some time ago, and there was no ending date. The passage read: “There's some speculation here, but to our best knowledge, Freya's wish was to obtain Orion's godhood. Couldn't he refuse? Perhaps he was tricked. The covenant rule must have been invoked.” Covenant was underlined multiple times. There were scribblings in the margin on the side: “See items 3, 7, 24, 55, 56, 57, and 89. All examples of failures to trick Freya out of her power.”

What was he reading? Were these wish-makers and anointed? Was Freya, at one point, a wish-maker herself or perhaps an anointed? How did she steal Orion's power? Was Orion a previous god?

Arnie flipped to the last pages to see where it ended. The penultimate page was full of entries, but the last name on the page was Byron. Arnie's hand trembled. He turned to the last page, and there was only one word freshly inked: Samantha.

“Jon, you better not be down here.”

Arnie heard the Duke's voice. He was plodding down the staircase at the end of the hall, one foot at a time. He heard the door unlock and open. A torch crept around the edge, and so too did the beady eyes of the Duke.

"Oh, Arnie." The Duke looked surprised and nervous. Arnie knew at a glance that he was not supposed to have found this room.

In all the years living in the castle, he never found the hidden corridor. The Duke probably left it open when he went to fetch the other book.

"I'm so sorry, Arnie. Did Jon chase you down here? I keep telling the boy to stop being so rough. It's all just play and fun, right, Arnie?" He gave a weak smile.

Arnie tugged on Samantha's arm. He followed the Duke up the stairs. The Duke continued to prattle on, and Arnie barely heard. The roar of the fire was near.

The Duke sat him down. The honeycombs were replaced with a platter of meats and cheese. Arnie's stomach groaned, and his mouth began to salivate. "So, Arnie," the Duke's voice cooed, like he was trying to calm an infant, "I’ve decided on what wish we should ask Freya for."

Arnie picked up a tiny fork from the tray of meats and cheese before him and leaned forward to stick some of the meats. His head was ringing. His heart was pounding. What could he do? Maybe he should just rest. He could wait for tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow, and then make a decision.

His eyes rested on the tines of the short instrument. He rubbed his thumb gently against them, feeling their sharp tips. He held it low, so the Duke could not see. Then slowly, almost involuntarily, he took the small tines and pushed them into the skin of his thumb. He kept pushing down. The roar slowly subsided, the whine did too. His attention focused squarely to his thumb, now bloody, punctured by the Duke's tiny fork.

The Duke cleared his throat, "Arnie, perhaps... Perhaps we should discuss the wish now."

Arnie looked up, alert. His heart was still beating a frantic pace. But his thoughts were with him. He scanned the Duke's face. Beads of sweat ran down from his temples to his second and third chin. "Duke, is there any way to save Sam?"

Arnie knew the answer, but he needed to know. He needed to know what the Duke would say. He needed to know if this man had malice in his heart.

The Duke looked at once, surprised and relieved. At least Arnie was talking now. "Oh, Arnie, no. There's no need to, even if there were. Samantha, uh, Sam will be taken care of forever in comfort for the rest of her days."

The Duke pulled out a small box and opened it for Arnie. It was an elegant box, made from a fine wood. "This is what they call silk. It's light and soft, and most of all," Arnie saw the Duke's mouth was watering, "Most of all, it's valuable. One of the most valuable fabrics in the world.

"Arnie, you will ask Freya to make our land fertile with these silks, and our kingdom will be the richest in the world. Here touch it.” He offered it to Arnie.

Arnie felt defiant, imagining what his sister would say to the man. He felt Samantha's heart rise within him. "Can we eat it?"

"You don't eat it, you wear it, Arnie. It's fashionable, it's light."

"Would we wear it?"

"Well, no. It doesn't get hot enough here. We would sell it to the south."

"You mean you would sell to the south?"

"Well, yes, Arnie." The duke's temper was rising. "I'm the one most acquainted with merchants that pass through our towns."

"So we wouldn’t get rich. You would." As his temper rose, he saw Samantha beside him, fire in her eyes, as she once was. She stood above the duke, her hands clenched.

The duke's beady eyes, once noble, flashed in anger. He stood. The duke was a large man, large in both width, but height as well. He towered over Arnie. "Child, this is the wish." He lunged forward and tried to grab Samantha's arm.

Arnie pulled her back. She stood behind him. "No, stay away from us… I'll wish-” Arnie's eyes flashed, looking to and fro. He was thinking. He was trapped. No. Nothing is impossible. His eyes fixed on the duke. Like an archer sighting a hare. "I will wish ruin upon you. Ruin upon you, your family, your castle, your name. I will ruin you."

The duke took a step back, his large frame almost off balance.

Arnie could run. This was his opportunity. No, he thought. I can get more. He took a step forward.

The duke rebalanced himself. "And so the boy that killed his mother by birth, and his father by fire, now seeks to kill his sovereign by God."

The duke grabbed Samantha’s arm and wrenched it from Arnie. Arnie almost stumbled and fell to the ground. The duke backhanded the boy.

Arnie sprawled across the window, his heart thudding. The roar of the fire crept back up. Should he run now? No, the Duke had Samantha.

The duke walked towards Arnie, and grabbed his throat and lifted him. "Boy, you will wish whatever I tell you to wish."

Fire roared, his ears rang, his throat filled with smoke.

Whack. A wooden sword pelted the hand that held Samantha and the duke jumped back, dropping Arnie to the ground, who lay there coughing.

It was Jon. He had been listening. "Get your hands off her." Jon looked scared. He looked terrified, in fact. He held a wooden training sword, not lethal, but plenty violent. And he pushed Samantha behind him.

He looked at her, forlorn, trying to find strength where there once was, and he turned back towards his father, keeping him at bay with the sword.

"Arnie, can you save her?"

Arnie heaved in air and coughed, "Yes."

“Get out of here. I'll make sure he doesn't find you."

He looked up and saw Jon the way he always could have been, determined, and defiant. If only he were always so, then Samantha would've said yes, and this whole thing would never have happened.

"Arnie." Arnie held Samantha's hand, ready to run. "I was the one that told my father about the machine, the ledger your dad was making. And he sent those two goons to destroy your father's work… Arnie… I could have stopped them…"

Arnie and Samantha ran.

They lay in a ditch just on the outskirts of town. They were dirty and cold, but safe.

Arnie thought the Duke would muster the village, ransack the place looking for them. But he guessed Jon finally stood up and threatened to denounce his own father.

Arnie slept fitfully that night. They dealt with the Duke, but how would they deal with Freya?

Chapter 6

Samantha and Arnie stood in the center of the town. It was quiet on days when the farmers didn’t bring their food to market.

Samantha looked beautiful. She stood too perfectly still. Her large eyes now bore inscrutable patterns. Next to Samantha stood Arnie. He looked prepared.

They knew Freya was coming.

They first knew from the messengers sent in from the fields, greeted first with laughter, then with disbelief, and finally with terror.

Then Arnie noticed a rupture in the clouds a distance away. That was Freya, her saunter from the woods spotlighted by the sun. He was more sure of that than anything else.

A crowd of villagers came into view in the distance with a figure at their head, Freya. She approached languorously. Where she walked, sprouted flowers and vibrant grasses. To her left walked a giant bear that made the pelts Arnie had seen look like cubs. To her right walked a giant bird Arnie had never seen before. The bird’s legs were slender, fluid, and nearly as tall as Arnie was.

Freya indulged herself in the attention of the villagers. Maiden's garlands suddenly blossomed, and great sacks of grain carried on the backs of farmers started to sprout. The frigid winters of Freya were quickly forgotten. The village was awed by power and grace.

When Freya came into view, her eyes immediately locked upon Samantha's. Arnie saw obsession in those eyes and read “my pet” on her lips.

The villages began to yammer. Freya did not announce why she came, instead she simply approached. About five paces from Samantha's trembling frame, Freya stopped. The village’s chatter erupted. “Didn't Samantha look different?” “Yes, she did.” “Is Arnie bleeding?” And then, with a sudden violent glance to her left, the bear let loose a roar that would cower kings.

The crowd was silent.

Until that instant, Freya’s gaze hadn’t left Samantha. Almost imperceptibly, her eyes shifted to Arnie. He saw condescension and disgust.

Freya began to speak. She moved her mouth, just like a human, and words came that any man could understand, but it sounded as if nature itself was speaking on her behalf, crickets chirping consonance, wind singing sibilance.

“Wishmaker,” Unction oozed off her words, “What may I bestow upon you? I shall both grant you a wish and anoint your sister to live out her time in my blissful company under my protection.”

In her voice, Arnie could only hear the cracking of bones and splatter of blood from her last anointed. His heart pounded, and he felt the subtle twist of knots in his chest. She knew he had seen her capricious murder, so why? Why did she try to persuade him here? He glanced at Samantha, still hypnotically looking at Freya.

“So, child, for what do you wish? Your fields will be forever bountiful? Wolves to hunt for you and guard you and your progeny? Hands that could raise the rarest, the most potent medicinal herbs with ease. These are but some of the many favors that I may bestow upon you. Choose carefully, as I will bestow only one.” She spoke such that the villagers surrounding Arnie and Samantha could hear.

Arnie’s heart pounded. Freya killed a man, her pet, an anointed she spent years with. Yet she had not killed Arnie, who brought disgust to her eyes. No, she could not kill him. Those were the rules. She was not bestowing a wish upon him, she was trading a wish. In exchange for a single wish, she could anoint a human. She could claim a pet.

But only if she granted the wish. Arnie had to be careful.

“A contest,” his voice rang out, though the silence did not seem as palpable as when Freya was speaking. It was almost louder than his own voice. He was shaking. He was scared. But he had a plan.

“I wish for a contest. If I lose, you take Sam, and if I win… if I win, I claim your power as my own.”

There was one beat of silence. Arnie imagined his sister’s bones cracking. But then Freya gave a mirthful laugh and Arnie sighed.

“You, steal my power?” She eyed him up and down,” And become the new god of the land.”

She let forth a gale of mirthful laughter, and the villagers released from their stupor began to laugh with her. “Why would I agree to such a farce? And you, you think that you can beat me? Child, there is no contest where you could come close. I can run faster than the winds. I can lift mountains. I can sing with such beauty that tears would wet the cheeks of each man, woman and child…”

Arnie’s heartbeat thrummed, his chest knotted more. What was he doing? He remembered the tapestry, the girl singing to the creatures of the forest. “Fine,” Arnie blurted out, interrupting Freya and causing nearby flowers to droop and thorn. “Let us sing. Each for ten minutes without interruption, magical or otherwise. And have the villagers vote on which of us sang the sweetest.”

The villagers were hushed. The grass around Freya changed colors from green to red and now a queasy yellow. “Well, boy, if you want to sing, why didn’t you ask? I can give a voice that would calm the fiercest combatants and woo the most frigid maidens.”

“One more thing,” Arnie felt the earth between his toes, he had to do this, “If I lose…”

Freya interrupted back, “When you lose the contest. You will lose no matter the contest.” She saw a determination in Arnie, and defiance. This was his wish, and while there was only the slightest sliver of risk, Freya was too wise, she sighed, “I see you cannot be dissuaded. I have decided I do not want to anoint the sister of one that would make such a foolish request.”

The yellow grass wilted and Arnie could see Freya pulling against the strings of desire. She’d leave Arnie and Samantha alone. He’d saved them. All would go back to the way it was. But why did his heart still pound, why did he feel this way.

Arnie looked at the surrounding villagers. They looked confused. They whispered contemptuously to each other. “He wasted his wish”. They would never understand what Arnie was trying to do. His eyes turned to Samantha. She turned to him with a smile. They could go back to normal. Back to his life. Now, as long as he didn’t do anything more, Freya would leave them alone.

He spied Jon in the crowd. He stood tall and proud. He was smiling at Arnie. Arnie had gotten all he wanted. So why wasn't he happy? Why did he continue to want more?

Freya brushed Samantha’s cheek.

“If I lose, you can kill me.” Arnie whispered so that only Freya could hear. She looked at him confused and scoffed. She turned from Samantha and Arnie and began to walk away.

He sucked snot into his mouth and spat as hard as he could. The spit barely hit Freya’s calf. But she noticed. The villagers stared in stunned silence. The bear gave a low growl that shook the earth.

Freya turned back. The grass on which she walked became thorns. She turned around, her eyes were death. She was not tall, but as she stood in front of Arnie, she looked as great as a mountain. She bent down, so her face was but an inch from Arnie’s. She smelled so sweet, like a sickly poison.

“If I lose the contest, you may kill me” Arnie whispered.

Freya’s eyes screamed in disgust. She gave a vicious smile and announced, “I'm feeling generous.” Flowers and poppies bloomed all under the villagers. Strawberries and watermelons popped up beneath their feet.

She looked back at Arnie, “I'm allowed to do whatever I want before the contest, right.” She smiled cleverly.

“Aye, but during the contest, no interruptions. We give each other the honor of silence. That is our covenant.”

Freya scoffed, “Let's get this over with.”

Chapter 7

Freya gestured at the hundred or so villagers surrounding them, “Are those already gathered sufficient for your contest,” Freya said mockingly. Arnie nodded.

“Let me make one simple preparation before we begin.” She thrust her hand up and from the center of town, the trunk of a great tree erupted. It grew taller and taller and taller until it towered two stories above the villagers. Sturdy wooden steps created an easy assent to the top. Arnie saw Freya lined the handrails with thorn-barbed vines. A nice touch.

“And so we begin.” She passed her hand in front of her mouth. A series of roots sprouted and sealed her lips. Arnie could feel the budding of small plants upon his mouth. And sure enough, soon his mouth was sealed shut. Arnie could not speak nor influence Freya’s performance.

Freya summited the steps and she clapped her hands. The roots that covered her mouth disappeared. Her ten minutes began. Then, with an inhalation like a cool breeze, she began to sing.

The beat and the melody were natural. They were regular but irregular. Like the parabolic canopy of trees, rather than the straight and orthogonal of the human world.

Her song began. Around her, flowers blossomed and grew. The notes brought forth rapturous joy. Babies laughed and smiled. The elderly wracked with rheumatoid began to dance. The song’s tenor changed. The flowers began to brighten. The sun shone hot and bright. Young men tugged at their trousers, making room for sudden enlargements. Women clutched their breasts. The song changed again. Heads of corn sprouted around the villagers. Fruit began to ripen and rot. Elders were lured into catnaps. An almost drunken sensation overcame the villagers. Then the song changed. A single eerie high-pitched note began the final movement. Plants withered. Smiling babies and newlyweds burst into tears. And finally, when Freya finished, there was a chilly silence.

The song took but ten minutes, but the village felt like an entire year elapsed.

Roots again resealed Freya’s mouth, and she dismounted.

Freya was right. There was no man or mortal that could sing a sweeter song. So she would assume, this was no competition, but a sweet slaughter.

Arnie’s heart thumped. This was more than he expected. The emotions of the villagers were too high. He had to wait. Minutes passed. Slowly, the villagers regained their composure. They solemnly talked. When they looked in his direction, he saw pity in their eyes. Women of the village came to Samantha and wished her well. None came to Arnie, save one.

Jon had fire in his eyes. His hand gripped a real sword, the mark of a grown man. He strode towards Arnie, drawing the sword. But nearly 10 feet away from him, vines rose and prevented him from striking. "Arnie, you bastard. You said you would save her. You could have saved her!" He struggled against the vines. "You murderer! You've killed all your family!"

He may be right. But for the second time in his life, Arnie felt alive.

As the minutes passed, Freya was exalting in the love of the villagers and basking in her premature victory.

As the emotions of the villagers began to wane, irritation swept over the crowd. Arnie’s heart still thrummed. Villagers were talking amongst each other, grumbling. He could no longer wait, now was the time. Arnie inhaled. He felt like he never did before. The world finally felt real to him. He reached down and touched the earth. There was nothing between him and his destiny but himself.

He ventured into the crowd of villagers. It was time. He clapped his hands and the vines receded. The crowd was focused on him, and he inhaled and began, “I cannot sing…”

He suddenly realized just how small he was. Around him towered the other villagers, one hundred of them. He heard them shouting from the edge of the crowd. “I can't hear him.” “What is he saying?” “Is he singing?” “I don't hear the song.”

Arnie yelled as loud as he could, “I cannot sing!” From further back in the crowd, he heard one of the villagers shout, “Louder boy, we can't hear you!”

His eyes glanced towards Freya. She was ignoring him completely, making a small flower blossom and wilt again and again, each time with different colored petals falling to the ground.

Arnie felt nausea wash over him. He was dead. Samantha was lost. His heart pounded. He heard the roar of the fire in the distance. No, he had to do this. It was still possible.

He knew what he must do. He shoved and pushed his way to the podium. He must climb. He grabbed the handrail and instantly tore his hand back. He had forgotten the thorns. He clutched his hand to his chest and stumbled up the stairs.

Huffing and puffing and staring at each step in front of him. He didn't know how much time he had left. Seven minutes? Five minutes? Finally, he was at the top.

He looked down upon all the villagers and suddenly felt the world spin before him. He was so high up. Freya hadn’t looked this high up. The villagers looked like little toys beneath him. A single misstep and he would fall. His ears began to ring, and he smelled soot. He was going to die, and Samantha would be taken forever.

His eyes began to black out, and he pulled himself away from the ledge. His heart thumped. THINK. He looked down at his hand torn and cut by the briars. And suddenly he remembered his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand. He remembered the tines of the fork. He remembered the clarifying pain. He smiled inwardly, thanking the Fairchilds.

He stood. He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm and slammed it into the briars, nettles, and thorns that made up the railings. Blood flowed down and began to drip, drip, drip onto the crowd below. The fear and anxiety suddenly began to wash away. Instead, they were replaced with clarity and pain.

He began to crudely sing with no beat and no melody. “I cannot sing, and this is not a singing contest.” Arnie shot a glance to Freya, who fortunately wasn't listening. “This is a voting contest.”

“The question is who should you vote for?” Arnie buried his arm deeper into the thorns and clenched his fist around a particularly large nettle. He felt the spines pierce his palm. The smell of soot receded to wood and leather. “You can vote for Freya and things will be the same. Nothing will change. The summers might be long, or maybe short. The winters could ravage us. She can torment you, pox you, bless you, or anoint you. Anything she wants

“Or, you can vote for me.”

There was silence. Arnie’s voice felt large and powerful. He saw Freya, she looked up. She was frantically racing towards his stage, but rules were rules, there was to be no interruption. “But we can change that. If you vote for me, I’ll bring 100 years of summer followed by a regular season with short winters. I won’t torment you. I’ll be fair. I’ll even try to help you

“I know this sounds impossible. But if we don’t act, nothing will change…”

Arnie began to fill that familiar feeling of tottering on the brink. Blackness covered his eyes. No, this was different. He felt cold.

He heard murmuring from the crowd, and then a slow chant. The chant was not his name, and nor was it Freya’s, but instead, the chant was, “Orion! Orion!” He stumbled forward, his tattered arm sliding off the thorns. He began to fall.

Roots began to entwine his mouth. He did what he could. It was up to the villagers now. He felt an exultant lightness and then felt an eruption of pain from his back and ribs as his body met the reality of hard ground. This was real. He chose his path and his courage. He had lived. And tried to make the impossible, possible.

He cracked his eyes open and saw Samantha's beautiful and inscrutable eyes looking down at him for the last time in his mortal life.

“Be formidable,” my YC partner said, “Do what you say you will.”

I remember the old YC offices before Garry Tan put them on social media. They're down in Mountain View, over the river and through the woods from Google. Old warehouses and industrial buildings with walls lined with neon orange foam, like an insane asylum built for startup founders.

There were relics, pictures and posters, on the wall. “Make something people want.” A picture of the Stripe founders doing a Collison installation. A line chart of the Trough of Sorrow.

There was something very special about it.

When I think of product-market fit, I think of the YC offices back then. YC did one thing, they picked startups. That's it. It didn't matter if they had flickering fluorescent lights or one-week-old tacos filling 30-pound aluminum trays. They focused on the one thing they were really good at, the one thing that mattered.

At the time, I didn't think about what my YC partner said, I acted instinctually. I thought formidable simply meant grit. If you promise to work out every day, you wake up at 5:30 AM, do a hundred squats, sit-ups, and pushups, then eventually, you become a superhero.

My first idea out of YC was pure grit. Every day, I walked the strangely depopulated streets of San Francisco, wandering into local businesses, interrupting their actual work with a useless sales pitch.

Fortunately, COVID knocked me off my ass. All my customers closed down. And I deferred just weeks before Demo Day.

When I pivoted, I did it on a whim. As Spinoza might say, "There is action, and there is passion." StartPlaying was passion. A COVID-19 baby. Co-founded with a high school friend and a serendipitous user I interviewed.

And we caught fire. We hit hyper growth, bottled lightning that many startup founders would climb a mountaintop waving a 10-foot iron pole to capture.

It was at that point I turned StartPlaying into a living hell (see The Selfish Ideology). I made a catastrophic hire, and learned a valuable lesson. It's only after you steer your ship off a waterfall that you truly know you're at the helm.

Nearly two years after that hire, we were on an off-site in Indianapolis. One so stressful, it induced good behavior, exercising twice a day to prevent a case of chronic pain similar to a repeated kick in the balls.

On the last day, I walked the streets with my co-founders. The city was hollowed out. An American icon laid low by the opioid epidemic. Boarded windows. Empty husks of filigreed buildings.

Devon dragged me and Jared from bar to bar. And I was slowly learning how effective alcohol is as an emotional analgesic. We ducked into this half empty dive and Devon ordered us three High Life’s, nasty things, only tolerable in good company.

We clinked glasses. I tuned out the surrounding voices. I had to make a hard decision.

The catastrophic hire had dragged our company to a standstill and left me with the ominous feeling that it was all my fault. Maybe if I stepped away, bowed out, or handed over the reins, the problems would go away. The pain would stop.

“I feel like we've gotta fire them.”

That night I learned something incredibly important about being formidable. You have to trust those around you. You have to open up. I told Devon and Jared how I felt. And lo and behold, they felt the same thing. They stood behind me, backed me up. They validated me. They helped me make a hard decision.

You see, feelings are signposts. They let us know something's wrong. I had a feeling to pivot during YC, even though our partner recommended doing Demo Day. And I had a feeling we needed to let this employee go.

Feelings aren't reasons. They're not rationales. They're not plans. And acting instinctually on them can cause more damage than what you were initially trying to prevent.

That's why trust is so important. You don't need to say, "I'm 100% going to do X. It’s a guaranteed slam dunk.” All you need to say is, "I’m thinking about X. What do you think?"

You uncap the bottle such that a single mentos doesn't cause an explosion. And you delegate your quixotic thinking to the super consciousness of conversation.

It was at that moment that we were formidable. We made a hard decision. We incorporated good judgment, building out a plan and fallbacks instead of firing on the spot. And we followed through. I did what I said I would.

It took us a month to pull the trigger. And a year to take our leaky trawler and turn StartPlaying into a finely tuned speedboat.

Nothing in the world will give you more confidence and instill a greater sense of agency than creating paradise out of your self-made hell.

We built StartPlaying into something special. The best place I ever worked. By 2025, we were growing and solidly profitable. The team was ecstatic. We were shipping fast, measuring honestly and accelerating our learning loops.

Then I had another feeling. “I'm thinking about leaving.”

I was at a steakhouse with Tom, a friend and mentor from a16z. He smiled and gave me a shoulder hug that only two straight men can pull off with grace, and then proceeded to order every meat on the menu.

Tom helped me talk through this feeling. Just like my co-founders before him, he validated and supported me.

I told him about the catastrophic hire and the lesson that came after. That the more I worked at startups, felt the hard frets of reality against my calloused fingertips, the more I believed success and failure were mine to own.

Tom looked a bit starry-eyed, then leaned over and told me a story.

When Tom was a kid, he worked as a caddy. There was a man that worked as a landscaper at the same golf course called Ciro. He was an immigrant. And that job was one of three he held. He worked 18 hours a day, seven days a week. “If I even worked one day that hard, it would kill me.”

Ciro took those earnings, and remitted them back to his family.

So if grit had anything to do with success, why wasn't this man a billionaire? My argument seemed refuted. Luck seemed to define success, as inescapable as the event horizon of a black hole.

After dinner, I knew what I had to do. I prepped like hell.

Once you make a hard decision, there's catharsis. This feeling of tension in your shoulders slacking. You're ready to rest under your own vine and fig tree. But that's not what I did.

Every previous job, I went in with a better reputation than I left with. I'm not proud of that. This time I wanted to leave StartPlaying in the best state possible. I wanted a win-win for the employees, game masters, players and investors.

And I could do it. All it required was trust and grit.

I built out new CEO MOCs. I ferociously communicated with investors. I created processes that ran themselves.

And I left StartPlaying better than I found it.

I almost tear up writing that. Because it's incredibly hard to do. Because it matters so much. I was so proud and appreciative of many employees telling me that this was the best place they've ever worked. The greatest team and the greatest company.

Six months later, I sat in Marlowe, a little brunch spot in downtown San Francisco. Devon and Jared sat comfortably at my side. We'd been planning the departure for months. I invited Nick, an investor and advisor, to join us.

“Jared and I are leaving StartPlaying.”

“Why?”

Ah, the thrust and riposte. The over-specified question. The dreaded utterance of the 25th.

“StartPlaying doesn’t need me anymore.”

"Don't you own the company? Can’t you make it need you?" Nick looked at me puzzled. "Isn't that just a cop-out?"

I was dumbstruck. I did own the company. Couldn't I make it as challenging as I wanted?

In fact, if I wanted to be formidable, wasn't I violating a promise by not taking StartPlaying to its fruition?

He was right. The answer was a cop-out. Because it wasn't exactly the truth.

I had this strange feeling as I was planning my departure. It felt like I had succeeded. StartPlaying helped thousands of people make a living and created the best gig economy job on the planet. It connected lifelong friends, caused books to be written, officiated a marriage between two members that met on the platform, and, of course, created the first StartPlaying tattoo.

So, there was reason enough to be ecstatic, ebullient.

But wasn't I failing? Wasn't I not formidable? There was this great divide between my conscious and unconscious.

Looking back, maybe this is exactly what I wanted from StartPlaying. Maybe I didn't want to build the next trillion-dollar company, not this time. Maybe I wanted something that would be a win-win for everyone involved.

Maybe unconsciously, I wanted this all along.

I thought back to Ciro, the man that should have been a billionaire. "Maybe what he wanted was to be a good father, a good husband." Maybe consciously or unconsciously, he was getting exactly what he wanted. The same as we all do.

When it comes right down to it, most of us just act on instinct, instead of thinking for ourselves. We ask: “How do I become successful?” Instead of: “Why do I want to be successful, and what does it mean?” We ask our friends and mentors how to achieve something we might not even want.

Instead of consciously confronting hard decisions, we have the world make the decision for us. We slack off at work, waiting for the boss to take action. Or have an affair, forcing the partner into a decision.

Our unconscious directs our lives, and we call it fate.

But being formidable requires being fully awake. Bringing your unconscious conscious. Recognizing what you truly want rather than what you said you did.

Two weeks after Marlowe, I lunched with Nick one more time. This time I explained the truth. Why I was making this decision. We had one of our best discussions, talking about life, the future and what we really thought.

So why am I leaving? I'm leaving because I did what I wanted. I built StartPlaying into a great company. I created a whole new profession. And I helped, really helped thousands of people along the way. I wasn't forced out. I didn't hate my job, in fact, it was the best job I ever had.

I close the door behind me without opening a new one, and plan to fall in limbo until I know what I truly want next. And while I don't know what I will do, I do know what I will be when I find it. Formidable.

Thanks to: Spriha, Brent, Seth, Devon, Jared, Gena and Tom for reading the drafts.

So this year, in the spirit of the times, I used AI to help me build my emails.

Before the how-to, I want to address the artificially augmented elephant in the room. Isn't using AI here insincere? Doesn't it defeat the purpose of a personalized email?

If I didn't personally read and edit each email, then yes. But, I do read each one. I do ensure they’re correct and tailored. Plus, I’m not doing much I wasn't doing anyway.

If I weren't using AI, I’d research each person de novo each year. I'd visit LinkedIn, read previous emails, and Google to see what they've been up to. The same way AI does.

But now instead of doing all that finger work, AI does it for me. I read a summarization, tailor it, tweak it, and send it off.

I tried to find an all-in-one tool to help with this task. I asked friends, Bookface, and ChatGPT Deep Research. The best tool was clay.earth (not to be confused with clay.com which will come up later).

Clay.earth aggregates your contacts from: LinkedIn, WhatsApp, Messages, Gmail, etc. And tries, though often fails, to combine them into unique entities. The connection and integration process is easy. However, the de-duping process took me hours of human effort.

Once I coalesced my contacts, I tried to use their API. But the clay.earth API, which does exist, whitelists only a few IP addresses. The more accessible API is the Nexus MCP.

At first glance, this sounds intimidating. Instead of hitting a vanilla API, I need to hit an MCP server. But MCP servers are trivially easy to integrate with. An MCP is just a wrapper of a preexisting API. It decorates that API with AI readable information, as well as implements a set of methods that a model can use. For example, listing all the tools that the API has to offer.

The problem with Nexus is I could only pull the basics. Getting the text of the most recent email exchanges or summaries of LinkedIn were off the table.

All in, clay.earth was a waste of time.

I looked for tools SDRs use in cold email outbound. But there wasn't a comprehensive solution. Nothing could scan previous conversations with Gmail or look at previous calendar events.

Fortunately, a recent YC company did 90% of the job. This company was called clay.com (I know! People really like the name clay).

Using clay.com, you can enrich a CSV of your contacts with different AI-enabled functions. I pulled in LinkedIn histories, and executed perplexity-based searches. But this was only half of the personalization that I wanted. The other half was looking back at email histories.

I built this myself.

You can export all of your Gmail and Google Calendar data as part of the Google Takeout project. I had about 30 gigabytes from all of my emails since I was a teenager. (Over 100,000!) Using Claude Code, I pulled out the five most recent emails and calendar events for each of my contacts.

It wasn't bad. Claude handled all the syntax for working with .mbox and .ics files. But I still had to be careful. Giving single commands to build the whole project utterly failed. Instead, giving small, crisp commands, like "Build a file structure for each contact in my newsletter.csv file”, worked like a charm.

At first, Claude loaded all the Gmail entries into memory, 17 gigs into my 16 gigs of RAM. My computer immediately crashed. I went in, debugged, and lazily loaded the email files in chunks.

Next, was writing the emails.

I tried two approaches. 1) I fine-tuned an LLM using GPT's built-in mechanisms. The process was trivial. You use Claude code to format data, and upload it to GPT. You pay some bucks, and out you get a fine-tuned LLM.

2) I did prompt engineering. I wrote two emails (work and personal), pretending to be the AI. Yes, I did have to use my metacarpals, but I learned something quite interesting.

When I used the enriched data, my emails were better than before. AI surfaced events I had forgotten. Doing data science consulting with a friend, playing a Sherlock Holmes game, or running an infinity-themed D&D adventure. It was like augmented memory.

A combination of fine-tuning and a very appropriate system prompt left me proud of AI emails.

In summary, here are the learnings that I took from this project.

First, when used appropriately, AI can augment and enhance. You don't just need to make AI slop. You can make better products.

Second, most AI infra has become commoditized. MCPs, fine-tuning, and code generation, is, dare I say, trivial.

And third, if you want to pursue this project, I would recommend waiting. I built this project over the course of two days, and I'm shocked another company hasn’t solved this problem yet. I wouldn't be surprised if someone reads this and points me to a tool I couldn't find!

But AI is moving so fast. In the next six months, 90% of the techniques that I've mentioned will be obsolete. Projects that would have taken me months now take me days. To anyone with a foundational CX background, nothing is off the table. Everything is possible and easier than ever before.

What a time to be alive.

Thankfully, Google gave me a big leg up. Not for improving my code quality, my understanding of better architectures, my grit, or my self-esteem. But rather, during orientation, I was randomly placed next to some lifelong friends. I just didn't know it at the time.

Together, we started a weekly hacknight. And during one of those many nights, we decided to pursue a group project, something big, something everyone could work on together. We would all build a game. Our brains collectively began to storm, thunder, and boom and just like any great undertaking, there was zero alignment. Everyone wanted to build their own game. So we divided and were conquered – starting six games and finishing zero.

But look, we had some fun along the way.

Last weekend, I built the game I proposed almost 10 years ago. And I used it as an opportunity to learn the state-of-the-vibe (coding).

I threw on a pair of my AirPods Max, pulled up a nice 10-hour stream of lo-fi beats on YouTube, bought a $12 iced Matcha latte with oat milk, and began to dictate to my computer, "You are a senior JavaScript engineer."

This is my story.

Designs: AI Prompts AI

The first thing that I did was hit up ChatGPT for deep research. I wanted an explanation of the current state-of-the-art in vibe coding.

I wanted to build an iOS game. A text-based RPG, where you are an orb. You haven't any magical powers, no arms, no legs, but you do have the ability to talk. A couple of kids from a medieval village stumble across your cave. And it's up to you to convince them to help. You can aid the village, create a cult, gain power, become a god, etc.

ChatGPT spat out a recommended set of tools: Cursor, Firebase Studio, Replit, Windsurf, Claude Code, the list goes on. It also suggested we start by generating design files. ChatGPT, Claude or Manus can build them as images or code, but I wanted to use a dedicated solution: Google Stitch, a free text to design tool.

Now, instead of directly communicating with Stitch and having to waste my precious voice on more dictation, I asked ChatGPT to generate a prompt for Stitch. It was fairly easy. I went back and forth one or two times and created a spec that most PMs would be proud of. On the first try, Stitch plopped out design files that looked pretty dang good.

But they weren't perfect, so I tried to iterate on them. And that’s where I found my first hiccup amongst many in my journey to find the vibe.

Stitch could not iterate. It would not maintain the consistency across designs, something I have found to be very true with ChatGPT image editing as well. (You'll ask it to add a bow tie to your cat, and it will give you a mongoose in a blazer.)

But if there is one thing I learned in engineering: don’t over-optimize before you know you can ship. So I stopped trying to tweak the design files, and instead yeeted them into some agentic vibe coding platforms.

Front-End: From Replit and Firebase to Cursor

First, Replit to try out a cloud based engineering environment. I couldn't actually build a full Swift app on the cloud, but I could build it in Expo and somewhere down the line export to native.

But sadly, my one shot completion completely failed. Replit just shat the bed. Not only was it time to change the sheets, but the paywall came crazy early. After my first five agentic prompts, it asked for my cc, and I was nowhere near a functioning app. I decided to move on to another tool.

Next, I tried Firebase Studio. And once again came nowhere close. Firebase Studio is for building Next and React apps. The underlying models are likely overfit on these frameworks. And it would not deviate, even when making the base environment. (It had a preset number of configs, and Expo wasn't one of them.)

So at this point, I gave up and decided to use Cursor. The tool that everyone’s talking about. A $100 million ARR fork of VSCode. Cool.

And Cursor worked.

When I started using Stitch, Google was down (surprise surprise) and I couldn’t copy the code. So I ended up just copying the image into Cursor, which did an awesome job. After one or two shots, I had a functioning app. Yes, the data was hardcoded, but the UI was nearly exactly there.

And how could I tell? Well, I used Cursor for writing Swift, and Xcode for the simulation and error handling. (I didn't want a terminal-based simulation and Xcode's error tab was very helpful.)

Crucially, I didn’t ask Cursor to build the app end-to-end, something I figured out from other tools and something any good engineer would understand. Break the problem up into smaller pieces. I kept it very simple, limiting the number of tasks in each agentic call.

After I built the front end for the main section of the app, I had to hook up the data.

Originally, I chose this app because I wanted to write the story. I thought it could be pretty cool. But times change. And my poor arthritic fingers did not want to type all of those lines of dialogue.

Was my mission at an end? Did my vibes turn sour? No.

I started a free trial of Calm app, using a disposable credit card, and listened to Matthew McConaughey tell me how to breath.

With my vibes restored, I settled on my course of action. I would generate this story using AI.

Narrative Engine: Restoring the Vibe

Algorithmically, I was trying to generate a giant graph, where each choice would lead you down different paths, and set different flags on the backend. I could use these flags to display different images, or create different endings.

If you were to use basic models like ChatGPT to build out your story graph, you would find the structure flat. These models, for some reason, are quite terrible at internally calling themselves. And to build our story, we need to recurse.

No tool seemed to work. So, I resigned myself to actually typing, I mean coding.

First, I generated a directed acyclic graph (remember DAGs?). And based off the graph, I needed to create nodes of the story. This is where human intelligence helped. (Though, I'm sure with the appropriate prompting, we could have eliminated the inefficient human in the loop.) I created a five-act structure, with each act branching out and then coming together to reduce overall graph complexity, making throttle points in the graph to avoid combinatorial explosion (the worst type of explosion).

This is where Manus came in handy. I had Manus generate a program to generate the graphs to recursively generate the story using good old networkx – still around from my college days. My main frustration was building out those story nodes was slooow. Each node required a separate call to an LLM. You end up doing 500 to 1,000 sequential calls, so I was mostly waiting on AI to finish.

The waiting caused a minor frustration, because the context switching was huge. It kind of reminded me of data science back in the day. When CPUs were slower, your feedback loops would be so long you had to switch context or end up watching data dry.

Now I had to deploy the app. Instead of polishing any one stage, I first built the app end-to-end. That way, I didn't rabbit-hole myself into an approach that wouldn't work.

This was one of the worst parts in the process. Actually deploying the app to my phone and to TestFlight was a pain in the tuchus. You fill out all of these forms. Apple's website looks like it was built in the 1940s. And that’s what you get with monopolies. Apple could literally require iOS developers to get a spanking, and they would still have a surplus.

But after this process, aided by more than a few ChatGPT calls to understand Apple's crappy UI, I deployed the app to my phone.

Polish Stage: UI Refinement with Magic Patterns

Now, I could polish. First the UI. The app looked like twitter bootstrap just came out. It was not pretty.

And trying to use either Stitch or ChatGPT seemed useless. They would deviate too much, and I couldn't keep them on task. So instead, I went to a competitor called Magic Patterns, a YC startup.

I instantly had fabulous results. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but it stayed pretty well in the confines of that prompt. No restructuring of the app after every single adjustment, so I could iteratively get there. It was so good, I ended up paying for it.

After copying Magic Patterns’ React code into Cursor I had a functional UI. I manually improved alignment (text spacing and padding), and looked at the code more than I wanted to. But overall, the process was clean.

Here’s where I hit my second hiccup. Now that the app was mostly working, I constantly feared breaking it without understanding the code. I've never used Swift before and never hope to again. And as the complexity of the app expanded, the development process became harder. I wanted to add epilogue sections that were fundamentally different from the story sections. And what would have originally taken me 1 or 2 prompts took 12 to 14. Cursor would constantly modify other files and make breaking changes.

Now, I'm sure there were better ways to set up my Cursor, but I was so close to finishing the app I just wanted to use the same process as before. So I made changes. The Xcode app would show me error messages. I'd take screenshots and give them to Cursor, just like a good human should. And ultimately, I built a fully functional app.

There was only one problem, certain screens of the app would hang. There were bugs.

I tried telling Cursor multiple times. "You are a senior iOS engineer. You will be fired. Your family will be on the streets if you do not fix this." But none of my expert vibe hacking tips worked. And tragically, I actually had to read the code.

So it turns out that on story events with single lines of dialogue, we were missing an onChange event to trigger the choices appearing. It was truly bizarre. And even after I figured it out by reading the code, Cursor was unable to solve it. I actually had to use my keyboard.

Takeaways: The State of the Vibes

So what is the state of the vibes?

First, we are so damn close to really liberating non-technical people.

Yes, I had to use some CS here. And I imagine non-technical folks could struggle. But we are so close to eliminating the need to know about DAG structures, error handling, or computer science, in order to vibe.

Second, there is no single tool that does it all. The landscape is still fragmented. And I didn’t know what might work de novo. For this app my stack of Cursor, Xcode, Magic Patterns and Manus worked, but for others they might just fail.

The latency of these models is also incredibly high. That’s funny, because it's fairly challenging to “vibe” code. I would end up waiting 30 minutes to complete a story graph. And that long of a wait easily kills your vibes.

I mentioned this above, but I’ll say it again. As the app gets bigger, you fear adding complexity, especially if you don't know what's going on under the hood. At first, there was this magical feeling of building an iOS app without knowing Swift. But magic turned terror as I wanted to add or change small features.

While it took me about two days to build and deploy this thing, I'm guessing a senior iOS app engineer would take about two hours. (Though they'd probably spend a lot more time than that waiting on the story graphs to be developed.)

Finally, the most annoying, hardest part of this process is integrating with the iOS App Store. I guess this is what all those Android users feel on a regular basis. I still haven't even submitted the app for review! Yes, it's live on TestFlight. And for anyone that's reading that wants to give it a shot, reach out and I'll give you the link. But I still haven't gone live on the app store.

I'm curious to see what that review process will be like. Will they look at the code and immediately reject because of quality issues? Who knows. But that's one part of the process that will always be there.

Apple is a gatekeeper. And until they have deep integrations with AI, they will bottleneck developing and deploying these apps.

But let me leave you on a positive note. It has been years since I have done real software development (outside ipython notebooks). And the tools that exist today are immensely empowering. To anyone that's been out of the game for a bit or worried their CS education is getting rusty, I would wholeheartedly recommend vibe coding. The confidence and inspiration you get will be well worth the $12 iced Matcha latte with whatever milk you choose.

The State of the Vibes is strong.

I’m almost embarrassed writing this because there are a billion other articles on culture, each expressing some truism, or unique point of view that only fits one business. My hope is I tackle culture from a different angle and provide some tactical practical tools to build great culture through feedback.

Culture is much more a reflection on the actions of your team, rather than hollow slogans echoed by management.

When I first joined Google, I was inundated with these slogans. Recruiters sold me on the now defunct idea of “20% time”. They said it was permissible, if not actively encouraged, to spend 20% of your time pursuing projects outside your core function. It's bottoms up, engineering-focused culture, reminiscent of their early days when Paul Buchheit built Gmail.

The only problem was, in practice, it no longer existed. 20% time was the fastest way to wind up sipping slushies on the roof of the Mountain View offices, condemned to resting, vesting, and never getting promoted.

It didn’t matter if Google talked big about 20% time, if in reality, managers and directors didn’t support it. Because culture is only affected by action – principally firing, promoting, and hiring.

Firing’s effect on culture is obvious through its absence. Employees that don't pull their weight, that skirt around or hack commonly held values, bring the company's culture down to their level. Like the Peter Principle, your culture is only as good as its worst adherent. If a hacker finds a way to manipulate cultural mores without getting fired, surely more will follow in their footsteps.

Promotion, while not instantly apparent, can be much more subversive when the wrong person gets promoted or the right person doesn't. The most hard-working Googliest person I knew took five years to get promoted, while the more politically astute were jumping the line, avoiding hard problems, and building flashy Potemkin projects for that big promotion before hopping to the next team.

Hiring has instant ramifications, because if you don’t address cultural problems quickly, they proliferate like interns. And while Google hid its squishy cultural underbelly internally, externally, its hiring practices were quite strong. Tough, stringent, unbiased interviews with a penchant for saying no.

So how did Google end up like this – hiring some of the brightest minds out of college and sloughing them off due to cultural malpractice? Fundamentally, they had a misapprehension about the nature of culture. If culture primarily is used in firing, promoting, and hiring, then build it that way. When appropriately used, people understand that culture matters, it's not just page three, section four of some contract recruiter's playbook.

We took this to heart at StartPlaying (SPG). Our cultural values are written in a management framework. We show the gradations of each cultural value so that managers can understand how to give feedback and employees can understand how to improve and get promoted.

We also ensure every piece of feedback is tied to an appropriate cultural value. Feedback directly affects performance reviews and JDs, which directly affects whether you're fired, promoted or hired. This practice links culture to those three most important events to an employee.

In onboarding, we focus on addressing cultural problems quickly. Each week, we write down feedback for the new hire, either positive or negative, and tie it directly to a cultural value. That way, they see that we take culture seriously.

We not only make our feedback early, we make it often, because without it, problems proliferate. This is human nature. The first time you jump into a Waymo, you almost go into cardiac arrest. (There’s nobody driving!) But if you acclimate yourself to it, if you get feedback each week, it becomes the norm.

Below is how we specifically gave feedback. I plotted all the feedback I gave for a given year, marking both positive and negative.

Notice that more than 50% of the feedback was positive, reinforcing “Great” cultural behavior.

Next are the cultural values I tied to feedback.

I consistently gave feedback on ownership, the most important cultural value at SPG, not only in name, but in practice. Because I tied culture to feedback, teammates spoke about ownership in meetings, it became part of the SPG parlance, and manifested in action.

Finally, I've included a word cloud of all the feedback I gave that year. One aspect to notice is how positive these words are. Only if you squint, can you see the word mistake written in tiny letters on the bottom of the cloud.

We use a template to make feedback specific, actionable, and demonstrating impact (how an action changed a project's trajectory).

In the future, I'm sure that we will wrap this in a GPT, so when managers give feedback, the system gives them feedback on their feedback immediately (feedback feedback) and ensures that it conforms to SPG’s values.

Finally, I've included a sample of our cultural values below. This is actually what we use. It's specifically built so it's easy to grade the feedback on a bad, good, or great scale. (Even in looking at it now, I imagine it would be incredibly useful to plug this into a GPT to help managers classify and grade their feedback!)

I had to build this system painfully and iteratively, stumbling across each mistake before finding solutions. Because when I looked to see how culture is practically implemented, I couldn't find a resource. There were high-level examples and plenty of tips on building out monosyllabic cultural values, but very little on actual implementation.

It’s scary and embarrassing to show concretely what you do, an easy way to garner criticism. (It's hard to criticize the ideal of 20% time, but very easy to criticize the implementation.) But I'm glad I did write this. Hopefully in overcoming that initial embarrassment, and writing something down that’s concrete, I can share what's worked for me, and you can avoid those all too painful learnings.

It’s both true and untrue at the same time, and it all depends on what your definition of management is.

When some people talk about management, what they mean is therapy. For them, management is trying to uncover problems or frustrations by probing into another's psyche.

And, yes, if that’s your definition of management, then the best startups don't need management. Or any startup for that matter.

And this is no shade on mental health. Mental health is incredibly important. It's just not your boss's job to be your therapist. I've seen exactly what this does firsthand at StartPlaying (SPG).

At one point, SPG was disorganized and poorly run. This was directly after we raised from a16z and started to scale. We hired somebody to fix it. And they believed the solution was workplace vulnerability. Their definition of trust was not a belief in thorough delegation in order to hit business objectives, but understanding teammates’ vulnerabilities.

So we spent a lot of time talking about vulnerabilities.

During our first “trust-building” exercise, we sat face-to-face, knee-to-knee, close enough to see individual nose hairs, and we vented frustrations.

Hearts were wrung, tears were shed, and I developed a month of chronic pain due to the stress of it all.

But look, we were failing. We were organizationally mismanaged. So anything is better than no change, I thought.

At our next offsite, we had a "coach" come in and interrogate us about vulnerabilities. They browbeat us for hours and forced us to relate tragic personal tales. And this time, it wasn't just the founders. The entire company circled up, and we talked about our deepest, darkest moments.

It was awful. The company was not made safer. Airing our trauma this way was traumatic itself.

For many people, this was the nadir of the company. We got nothing done, and we felt like everyone was out to get everyone else. It was a hostile jungle.

Worst of all, the proponent of these strategies thought they were a great manager. They were constantly discovering problems. Direct reports were opening up and crying in calls. And while this person may have been an excellent therapist (though I doubt it), their efforts didn't help. They almost tore the company apart.

It took months to undo that period when we thought management was therapy. It is not. And if your employees need therapy, invest in better healthcare, not “management”. If you’re not a licensed therapist, don’t act like one.

There's one other view of management that’s half true for startups: management as a career coach.

This view is absolutely correct at larger companies. Your goal is to develop your talent internally, make them the best versions of themselves, prep them for promotion, get them promoted, and level up your team. I think this is awesome. And some parts are needed for startups.

The only problem is promotion at startups hinges on two things: the individual's ability to get the job done, and more importantly, the company’s ability to meet objectives.

If the company doesn't grow, no one can get promoted. This is so important, I'm going to say it again. If the company doesn't grow, no one can get promoted.

This fact is the secret to how startups should be managed.

The way I think about management at startups is through the lens of a sports coach.

Now, when I say coach, I mean something pretty damn specific. I am not talking about your

Little League coach. Your Little League coach's job was not primarily to win. Their job was to provide a structured environment for you to learn and become a better person.

Instead, I'm talking about the coach of a professional sports team, whose job it is to win. Unlike a Little League team, they can kick players off if they aren't conforming to the program. They can demote them, they can hire new players – all that is necessary in order to win.

The beautiful thing about a sports coach is they have a definite objective. And if your CEO has done their job, your company will too. That means your primary job as a manager is to win at the company objective, to grow your company the fastest.

And let me be clear, you cannot career coach at a startup without winning, without growing. Even if someone becomes an excellent IC and has the potential to become an even better manager, you should not promote them until they have a team to manage. And they won't have that team unless the company grows.

You can see why this is so important. This aligns the company, manager and employee in the same direction. In order to have career growth, more salary, more responsibility, more impact in the long run, the number one thing that you can do at a startup is grow the startup.

So that's your job as a manager.

This involves resource allocation primarily. As a manager, you have a team. You best understand who fits what job in order to best achieve team objectives.

But there’s one more thing you must do as a manager. And this is equally hard, if not harder. You must set high standards.

When I was in high school, I used to run cross-country, a great sport for setting high standards. We had two different coaches on the team. One coach would always smile and pat me on the back, no matter how I performed, "You did great. You ran a good time out there. You really did your best."

The other coach would look at me and see my potential. And when I didn't meet it, they'd let me know, "You could’ve done better out there. You should’ve trained harder. Why didn't you push yourself 100%." They would push me to do better than I could alone.

Alone, I’d follow the 80-20 rule: get 80% of the value from 20% of the effort. And for the most part this worked. But at a startup, the 80-20 rule is never good enough. Users, especially consumers, expect high quality products. You can't just ship an 80% product and win the market. Instead, you need to ship 110%. You need to ship the best work that your team has ever done in order to win. And this is why a coach pushing you to give your all can be so helpful.

What’s even better, is that your team will thank you for pushing them. When your team does shoddy work, it's forgettable. It's like running a 5K at a mild clip. The miles just pass you by. Nothing is memorable about it. But if you push, if you make something that’s truly great, something that matches or exceeds your full potential, you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.

It will be tough. It will suck. But this is the reason why people join startups.

At a big company, you're always cushioned. You're always throttled. And only when you're going against reality, against the hard gravel of ground, can you go at 100%. And oftentimes, what drives folks at startups is knowing how far they can push themselves.

Just like a 5k, it’s hard to know whether you’ve got that final sprint in you, unless you go all the way. Runners hot on your heels. Elbows out. Lungs on fire. Body telling you no. Then and only then do you know what you've got. What a feeling.

It's your job as a manager to demand the best out of your employees. To help them fulfill their goals and their objectives, because they can't succeed unless the company succeeds. And because you're providing them an experience that everyone craves, but is hard to achieve on your own.

To do this, you need to become the master of saying little nos. Your team will constantly show you projects. And when the quality bar is too low, you have to say, "You can do better.”

This sucks. Humans aren't built for this. Humans are built to be reciprocal, to say yes as much as they say no. Saying no 95% of the time goes against every instinct you have, but it will make your company succeed and will bring true meaning to your teammates.

This also means when people don’t uphold high-quality standards, you need to let them go. In this case, you shouldn’t be saying no 95% of the time, but you’ll be saying no more than you want.

I remember a post on YC's internal forum about statistics of Series A startups. On average, 50% of employees do not make it past one year. They don't work out.

So yes, you’ll have to do this. Because if one person on your team is slacking, not pulling their weight, getting away with "cheating," the rest of the team that’s hauling ass will feel terrible. We’ve all heard, "A's hires A's and B's hire C's," but there's a fundamental truth to it – humans are lazy. If I see my friend putting in half the effort I do, but getting paid the same amount, well, that's a pretty big tell that I can be lazier. I can get away with it.

Despite knowing, it’s the right thing to do, firing is hard. I know this first hand.

The fixer that we hired, that pushed the idea that management is therapy, almost tore the company apart. And I let the problem fester for over a year, despite knowing what I had to do. Despite the mounting evidence.

I almost left the company to avoid making this decision because it was so hard.

But I faced it. And with the unwavering support of my cofounders, I let them go. From that point on, we stopped being therapists, stopped trolling for trauma, stopped avoiding the hard decisions, and started to manage.

For us, the channel was paid ads. Both Google and Facebook ads worked. When we were small, the CAC was low, the market wasn't saturated, and IOS updates hadn't yet supported privacy over lower CPCs.

So, ads were a brilliant way to scale.

The problem is, over time, they were not. Things change, and nothing lasts forever. We had to find a new scalable growth channel. And it took us four years to get there.

After ads, we were at a loss. We didn’t know what we should pursue. There are infinite little growth channels, and we were past the point where little channels would matter. We needed something scalable. So we went back to the basics, and asked ourselves, "How do consumer products grow?"

There are three ways. First is through paid ads. You put money in one side, and get paying customers out the other. For us, this worked up until a point. But as we grew bigger, it stopped functioning. We needed to find another channel.

Second is word of mouth (WOM), the most important channel. If you've achieved high product velocity and created a valuable product, WOM will always be great.

We noticed that more than half of our conversions came from WOM, but our WOM was a little different from most.

We have two users in our marketplace: Game Masters and players. Game Masters (GMs) host games, and players paid GMs to host games. Or so we thought.

Originally, we thought players would come to StartPlaying (SPG) in order to book GMs to run games for their groups. A player would bring a group of four or five friends, and book a GM. Presto salvo, business model made.

It turns out that was not the case.

When we built our product to serve groups rather than individual players, we did not have product-market fit. Sure, we could get our friends to join, and GMs were signing up, but very few players made bookings.

That is, until we made slotted games, which took our product to the next level.

In a slotted game, a player comes to the site because they don't have a group. Yes, in a sense, they’re looking for a GM and an excellent story. But in a far deeper sense, they're looking for a group to play with. They come alone. They come because they don't have friends playing at the same place, at the same time, or game they want to play.

If these players definitionally don't have folks to play with, then they don’t make good referrals. And this is what we found. Players historically didn’t tell their friends about SPG.

So why does our platform see such high WOM? Game Masters spread the word.

GMs sign up to the platform because we enable them to do the impossible. We provide legitimacy and a stable set of players so that they can fulfill their dream career, a career where they get to be creative, work from home and set their own schedule - the best gig economy job on the planet.

The third way consumer startups grow, is with search engine optimization (SEO). You hear a lot of bad things about SEO. It's slow, and you're relying on an external platform like Google. Some of these are true. But most are product dependent. We found we could quickly and easily affect our SEO.

SEO was our second-biggest channel, aside from WOM. Our users were already searching for us or products like us. Roughly speaking, their searches bucketed into two categories.

Some queries were to play Dungeons & Dragons, our biggest game on the site. These were highly competitive queries. And fortunately because of our domain authority, we were already ranking for them. Other queries were for very specific games, what Google would call long-tailed queries. And parts of our site were already ranking for them too.

Across the board, we were doing an okay job at SEO without ever having tried. These are the best opportunities.

When someone joins SPG, one of their required readings is The Mom Test. This tiny book, barely more than a hundred pages in simple prose, talks about how to discover real problems. It reads, "If you torture the data long enough, it will tell you anything." At SPG we say: “If you torture the users long enough, they’ll also tell you anything.”

It's very easy to invent problems. And I saw this before at Google. (I even wrote an entire essay about this called Hacking Culture.) We wanted to avoid this problem at SPG. When we try to understand our users, we try not to ask leading questions. We try not to probe on specific feature ideas or problems that we invent in our mind.

Instead, we try to understand what directly frustrates users - what is top of their mind. And often user behavior is the best tell. If your users are already doing it, then there's good evidence that they want to do it more.

Our users were already using Google in order to find us. (In fact, some of our users would use Google to find specific games on SPG!) From this alone, we knew that SEO would be a win.

Let’s distill two principles so far: 1) If you’ve already achieved product-market fit (roughly $1M ARR) you need to find large channels for sustainable, scalable growth. Dicking around with small activations won’t work anymore. 2) Don't build castles in your head. Talk to your users and observe their behavior, most of all. Why create a wave when you can ride one?

Our initial experiment in SEO was, in hindsight, very rash. We had terrible landing pages, so we built new ones. Then, in a very bold move, we pointed each of our old pages (the ones Google already liked) to our new pages.

And guess what? Google ignored us. Not only did it ignore us, it promptly downgraded all old pages and ignored the new ones. It was terrible. In one fell swoop, we had decreased our SEO by 20%, and it was the first test that we did. What's more, it was irreparable. We couldn't just immediately make a code change and go back. It might take months or years for Google to give us the SEO value that we had just lost.

So, did we give up?

Of course not. We kept tinkering. We learned a lesson, we measured, and we held ourselves accountable.

Instead of forcing Google to new pages, we made our new pages rank better independently. Instead of directing Google, we softly nudged it. And we did so in a very MVP way.

While we knew that SEO could be a powerful tool, we didn't know whether it would be scalable or achieve results fast enough. So everything we built was scrappy. We made shitty code, launched quickly, and measured ferociously.

And here's the next two principles: 1) Always do a full product rep. Your first foray into many fields will fail. And if you only throw spaghetti against the wall, you'll never know what will really stick. Was it too low quality or the wrong direction entirely, you’ll never know. We focused the entire company on building and improving SEO. And we continued until we built a great product. 2) When experimenting, build MVP. An MVP does not mean a low quality experience. It means focus on the happy path, the thing that 90% of users see.

Prior to doing SEO, we were on a bad run. We had launched a series of experiments and tests that didn't move the needle. So when we launched SEO and got a big win, the team was exhilarated. We saw business metrics move. And it felt like we hit on gold.

The fundamental reason was simple. We weren't creating something new. We were riding a wave. We noticed a behavior in our data. And we didn't try to change the behavior. We enabled it.

What we did next, was equally important. We could keep doing MVP launches, but they would occupy core team members (pilots), whose activity should be spent elsewhere.

So at this point, we decided to scale.

And to speed up, we needed to slow down. We put the brakes on doing any future SEO work and went back to the engineering drawing board. We knew what worked before, and we needed to build the framework and the scaffolding to quickly ship and iterate on new SEO projects.

We launched small. And once we understood the core concept could work, we had to scale. We spent the next couple of weeks engineering to make sure that we could scale SEO, not from zero to one, but from one to n.

Next we made sure that the non-technical side, the operational side, was scalable.

This is simpler than it sounds. To ensure that the technical side scales, you need reproducible code, steps that any computer could follow. And you need servers to scale up the code depending on demand.

On the operations side, it's the same thing. You build playbooks that any human can understand. And depending on how fast you want to scale SEO, you can hire more or fewer contractors, thus scaling up your servers.

This turns a tactic which requires a pilot into a strategy that you can scale out, monitor and measure.

You start with experimenting. This is SPG’s strength. It's being creative. It's finding little-known channels. It's doing Reddit ads, influencer marketing, handing out dice bags at conventions, running D&D charities, partnering with publishers, and doing email blasts.

All these are creative, fun and excellent ways to take the business from zero to one, but not from one to n.

There's a key reason for this. These creative experiments require a pilot.

There's a dichotomy that's rather useful when thinking about startups and hiring. You can hire two types. You can either hire pilots or you can hire rocket fuel. Your startup is a rocket ship that needs both.

Pilots are people that can lead projects. They're smart, creative, multidisciplinary. Folks with range and good leadership. They could be founders themselves.

But pilots are hard to find and align. Even more so, you can never be sure of them until you've put them in the cockpit.

Rocket fuel is something else. Rocket fuel takes what a pilot is doing and amplifies it. Without rocket fuel, a pilot is just an idiot in a large hunk of metal. But together, a pilot and a team filled with rocket fuel can go far.

If you have projects with straightforward, easily measurable objectives, you need rocket fuel. Projects that are dynamically changing, that need rapid experimentation, need pilots.

But if you have to pay pilots to continuously experiment on new channels without ever being able to scale them, you'll never effectively transform your cash into new users.

Instead, you want growth channels in straight lines that you can put cash or contractors behind to scale your business. (Obviously, this becomes easier the more product value you provide, which is why Product Velocity is ultimately the most important thing you can do.)

So how do you achieve a scalable growth channel? You experiment with many growth channels. You hold yourself accountable. You measure as concretely as you can. And then ones that pass the Bradford Hill criteria (in the positive direction), you invest into. You try to automate them, such that you could print out the instructions in a binder, hand it over to someone, and they could go out and get you new users.

And finally, you constantly measure your efficacy.

We failed here. We thought we found a growth channel in ads, and we didn't need to measure its efficacy anymore. But we, like all startups, suffered from the law of shitty click-throughs.

Eventually, people get bored. Or you capture all of your potential users in that channel, or they move on to different platforms.

Nothing stays the same forever.

We spent four years wandering the growth desert, hopping from small activation oasis to oasis, but never truly finding the promised land of scalable growth.

But during that time, we've learned much. We not only learned how to find and verify scalable growth, but we learned what we were looking for. My hope is that in some way this piece provides a map, albeit fragmentary, of how we found our way out of the desert and how you can avoid it altogether.

So experiment. Find highly effective growth channels. Build playbooks to scale them out. Delegate and continuously measure their efficacy. And achieve scalable growth.

Sexy growth hacks, one-time deals, and press mentions are all ways for the market to vote. But over time, products are a weighing machine. Folks will only continue to pay if you provide value. And product velocity is essential to providing product value.

If our startup were a rocket ship, the value that we provide is the distance we've traveled. Each product update moves the rocket (hopefully) in the forward direction, increasing your distance, increasing the value that you provide to users, and making your product more competitive.

Product velocity is how fast your rocket is going. The faster you make product velocity, the more value you provide users, the more users on the margin you'll be able to attract, and the more word of mouth from users that already love your product.

For StartPlaying there are natural outgrowths of the product that require engineering, design and product efforts to solve.

For example, the product can be hacked to play games in Spanish, French or German, (and I've seen them on the site). But it's inconvenient and hard to find. There are problems upon problems with playing for international players.

Product velocity, when geared towards these problems, can slingshot our rocket forward, dramatically increasing the product value, broadening the markets and creating products much more useful to many more people.

We spent years tinkering and overhauling the way we do product. And after four years of business and making over $50 million for our GMs, we finally got it right. Let me show you what we learned through the lens of a product we called Starter Set.

Starter Set began with an intuition, a gut feeling that we weren't serving the needs of new players.

This feeling came from two separate places. Devon, my cofounder, felt like new users would be best served with a different form factor - a quiz. A quiz allows us to ask players questions and based on those questions show them more personalized results.

I also felt when new users come to the site, they don't care too much about the specifics, and they might not even know what specifics to ask. They're really just looking to play a simple game of Dungeons & Dragons with a great Game Master (GM).

Based off our intuitions, we decided to do user research. Notice that we didn't just immediately build Starter Set. Instead, we used our intuition as a springboard and used research to validate and finetune it.

Our research was backed by The Mom Test. We tried not to assume. We didn’t cajole or wheedle users into answering questions the way we wanted. We got a real sense of what they would do and think.

We started off with a white-glove user interview. We placed an ad on Facebook targeting people that had heard about Dungeons & Dragons, and wanted to play in the next week (aka our target user group). We then hopped on a phone call and got to know them. We asked: Why they wanted to play? Who they were? And what their primary reservations were? Finally, we asked them for a credit card so that we could put them into a game.

We feigned charging them at the end of the process. And this was crucial. We had them put their money where their mouth is. And what’s amazing, people actually pulled their cards out. They wanted to play.

Now, it’s a little bit different when you're talking to a human being, you're more likely to acquiesce. But 90% of players were willing to pay to play.

Through this research, we learned the biggest reservations for players getting into a game. They wanted a game that could fit their schedule. They were nervous about playing with other experienced gamers. And they were unwilling to pay too much money.

Given all this information, we decided to do a secondary study. If this was a smaller product launch, we wouldn't. But because of the large upfront cost of building and facilitating a new product, we wanted to be sure.

We built out a front-end version of the quiz that addressed players' reservations. We showed them games with a variety of schedules, we reminded them throughout they would be playing with other new players, and we were upfront with the price of the game.

We recruited a whole batch of new players. And instead of walking them through, the players took our quiz themselves. And again, at the last step, they had to put in their credit card.

Around 60% of players took the full quiz and paid. The team was ecstatic.

This seemed like a great product innovation. Our site, which was geared towards gamers, could now serve a potentially larger audience. And we decided to build out this feature.

We did honest research. We hadn't put words into the mouths of our players. Instead, we diligently watched and assessed what they would do in a real-life situation. Then we built a product.

In building this product, we balanced two key tradeoffs. First, we wanted to build a minimum viable product (MVP). That means we wanted to build it as fast as possible. Because despite all our research, we were still unsure if Starter Set would attract players.

Building an MVP doesn’t mean building a crappy product. People won’t interact with a crappy product. They won’t buy. They'd think it’s fake.

So we had to balance between high standards and high velocity. And emblematic of the MO for important product launches, we focused on the happy path through the product.

We considered that 90% of our users would take the quiz, and 10% would somehow find their way into some edge case.

So we optimized for the 90%, the happy path.

We pushed the team for higher and higher standards on the happy path. The initial product was good enough, but not great. The team could do better. So we pushed for that extra 5%, and built something incredibly high-quality but only for the happy path.

And that's what an MVP is. It's not 14 or 15 features, poorly done. It's 1 or 2, built great.

I want to be specific about two product areas and the differing quality we put in.

We had an initial landing page that was the first thing all users saw. And we could have spent half a day on it, but instead we did seven revisions with custom graphics, custom typography, and custom code.

But compare that to our game monitoring system.

Players wouldn't see this. So we built a quick and sloppy admin dashboard on the backend. There was no automatic monitoring. It was manual, and it was tedious, but we didn't want to overbuild.

Our happy path was incredibly high quality, and we demanded the team give their best. Just like a great coach demands their team to push beyond their limits. But for products not visible to the consumer, we were okay with them being slapdash.

We had one last to-do before launch: measure, measure, measure.

Our key performance indicator (KPI) was purchases (or number of new players that joined StartPlaying because of Starter Set). So we only needed to measure purchases, right? Well, if we were lucky, yes, but otherwise we’d need more.

Consider two cases. First, we are blown away by our KPI. That's great! Problem solved, and we can just figure out how to scale up Starter Set. The second case, our KPI doesn’t move. We have no idea what went wrong. We are shit out of luck.

Believe me, we had messed this up before on other products. We had simply measured the KPI, and when we didn’t see positive changes, we had no idea why.

We thought Starter Set would fail for one of two reasons: either the quiz was not the correct form factor or we couldn't reach our market.

So we instrumented the whole quiz to understand what users were clicking and where they were dropping off. And then, and only then, after we had thoroughly tested and measured, did we launch.

When we launched, we launched with a bang. We looped in our partners and our GMs. We announced to players. We did PR. And we spent more on ads than any other point in the company's history.

Purchases started to pour in. The team was excited. But the product still wasn't doing well enough.

The point of Starter Set was to address a whole new type of player. If this user group was as big as we thought, we should have seen a huge spike in purchases. We didn’t.

Our KPI didn't move, but fortunately, we had measured each step of the process.

We emailed users that dropped off and asked them why. We also looked at the steps with the largest drop-off. With both quantitative and qualitative assessments made, we rapidly launched a new version of the quiz within a week.

We did a four-way A/B test. Each team member had their own intuitions. Some believed the shortest quiz would work, others that certain steps were unnecessary, and some thought even more steps would help the conversion rate. Because we were spending on ads, and we had instrumented so well, we should get results quickly.

And we did. We increased the conversion rate by a whopping 119% in two weeks.

If we had just, “launched the MVP” and not iterated, we would have missed a goldmine. This is why it's very important to do a full product rep.

Even if you do great research, your initial product won’t be exactly what users want. You'll need to iterate. You'll need to experiment. And you will likely improve the product to something far better than what was launched.

After the full product rep, we got Starter Set to a local maximum. Future research and A/B tests didn't find areas of large improvement, and we couldn’t optimize enough for just ads to drive adoption. The only way for Starter Set to work was to integrate with the full product.

But we were thoughtful here. We didn't rip out the bones of our site to integrate. Instead, we pursued our happy path approach, making sure the way 90% of users would enter Starter Set was clean and polished, even if the backend was a bit gnarly.

And Starter Set, a product we sunk months of time into, ultimately didn't improve our purchases.

Here's the part that I'm most proud of. Many teams would have stopped there. "Well, Starter Set's not harming anything, so may as well keep it." But we knew the value of focus. Focusing on a few core products that really work versus spreading ourselves too thin. So instead, we took the time to deprecate the product.

We spent months on this launch. Blood, sweat, tears and some great work were all put into making an awesome product.

But the product didn't work.

No matter how much research you do, if you are building on the edge, if you are building products for startups, some percent will not pan out.

The most courageous thing that you can do is admit that they didn't, cut your losses, and keep your team agile.

The work we did on Starter Set was some of the best work at StartPlaying and illustrative of high product velocity.

When building Starter Set, we focused on building Starter Set. All the creative minds at StartPlaying can often wander into other great ideas in different domains, but instead we focused each and every one on how we could move the needle here.

That allowed us to go further and faster with the same product velocity.

And there was only one person that could set that focus, the CEO.

Such a critical part of the CEO's role is to allocate resources, to make sure the right people are working on the right things. And it's so easy to get distracted, to spread yourself too thin, or to jump from project to project.

But so much of what worked with Starter Set only worked because of focus.

While the CEO needs to set focus, everyone else needs to participate. Research ideas, direction and execution can and should be spread out amongst the team. By owning one part of the project, by contributing to it, by putting at least one stone into the building of a pyramid, that project becomes yours. You're part of it. You're aligned to it. And your unique insights and wisdom can shine through.

The CEO needs to be curious, ask people questions and accumulate information. This does not mean you need to do what everyone else says. In fact, that would be a terrible idea. Instead, you need to gather as much disparate and diverse information from your team to make what you think is a right decision.

And here's the beauty, just by you making a decision, your company will be more successful than driving forward on whim, fancy or worst of all, democracy!

So focus the team, distribute the effort, collect and synthesize the results, and you decide on which problems we will solve.

Once you have problems, the solution experts on the team, designers and engineers, can begin to work. Product, engineering and design will all have perspectives on how best to build the product. Once again, it is your job to collect and synthesize them. Once again, better to make a wrong decision than no decision at all.

As CEO, you also need to hold your team to high standards. You need to be their coach.

I've had mediocre coaches before. They don't care. They'll pat your back. They'll smile. They'll say, "Good job," after you finish a race. The great coach that will push you beyond your limits, that will make you go from that easy 80/20 quality bar all the way up to plus ultra.

But being a great coach is hard because you constantly have to tell people no.

When you focus people on one idea, you end up saying no to all others. And when you push for higher quality standards, you say, "No, this isn't good enough. You can do better."

Exercising this ability to say no again and again and again becomes one of the most important skills you have as CEO. And, it wears on you.

I don't think it's necessarily human to say no all the time. There's some part of our makeup that believes in reciprocity. It believes that 50% of the time, you should be saying yes. But what you end up doing as CEO is saying no 95% of the time.

Finally, and arguably most importantly, you need to hold yourself accountable.

After a product launch, you could ignore the data and pat yourself on the back. Yes, you did it. You won. You built something new. Let's move on, let's keep doing the next thing.

That's the easy path.

The hard path is after you launch, you measure, and you see whether your hypothesis was right or wrong. Every product launch has a reason. Every reason has a hypothesis that will change some measurable outcome, and each hypothesis is either valid or invalid.

This is how you hold yourself accountable. This is how you be a great CEO. And this is how you impact product velocity. It's not a pithy statement. It's discipline times wisdom integrated over time.

“Hell, how long have you been like this?”

He slowly tilted the glass until the ice cubes slid from one side to the other, golden specks were all that was left of the whiskey. The cubes tinkled as they hit the glass again.

John had decided for this special occasion he would shower. So his normally oily hair and sweat stained shirt was replaced with frizz and detergent stains. His hair was a deep brown speckled with gray. His freshly shaved beard felt itchy. He didn't exactly know how formal he should be, so he wore one of his plaid workman shirts, and threw a blazer on top - an old one, too thick around the chest and too wide around the belly. It was the only one he had and the one that he had gotten married in. On the bottom, he wore a pair of jeans and workmen boots.

In high school, the girls thought John's face was rather pretty to look at. Taut skin, symmetric features and piercing brown eyes. These days his skin sagged, his nose had been broken and now bent off to the side, and his eyes were no longer piercing. Most of the time they were vacant, hollow eyes, looking but not seeing.

It had probably been thirty minutes and the so-called insurance agent was late. Fortunately, the agent’s tab was not.

John lowered his glass to the table and then looked up. The place was called Dreiser’s. It was a bar or perhaps more aptly a salon. Plush little velvet seats mashed together under a low ceiling in a dimly lit room. Four or five people were quietly drinking and talking. One solitary hostess dressed a little bit fancier than she really needed to.

John had decided the agent wasn’t coming, so to make the whole trip worth the effort, he’d better order one more drink before he hit the road. Probably wouldn't hurt.

He raised up his hand. And just as he did, the agent approached. He was a man with a little bit more than five o'clock shadow. He wore a slim, cheap suit and was smoking a cigarette that smelled like shit. Wasn't it illegal to smoke inside these days? “Mr. Baptiste?” He said smoothly.

“Just call me John.”

“I'm sorry I've been late. I hope you've made yourself comfortable.”

John pushed himself up from the slouch and put a little effort in raising his ass off the chair, but he felt more tired than four drinks ought to make a man.

“Plenty comfortable.” John raised the whiskey glass with one hand and reached out his other. The slim suit gave him a firm handshake, followed by an unsettlingly long look.

It was like he was looking for something. His eyes didn't leave John's face. There were bags under his eyes, deep bags, and John could recognize eyes like that anywhere. He saw them every morning when he woke up and looked in the mirror. Well, maybe this whole trip would be worthwhile.

John slowly withdrew his hand from the man's grip. And the other man sat down across from him. He took an ashtray out of his suit pocket and put it on the table in front of him. Guy’s got balls.

“So, uh… Mr…”

“Call me Dante.”

“So Dante. Tell me about this insurance, or some sort of remuneration for, you know, the accident?”

Dante gave a long draw on his cigarette. “Yes. Something exactly like that.”

John raised his eyebrows.

The man held up his hand and, from the same suit pocket, drew out a notebook and a pen. “John, I work for a company that specializes in tragedies, like yours.”

“You mean auto-related?” John felt tired. As soon as he saw the notebook and pen come out, he had started to remember it again. He'd been trying, trying so hard not to think about it. Just to put one foot in front of the other. But he ought to know. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. The man was going to ask him what happened, and again John would have to tell the same lie he told every time. “Mr. Dante, I feel like I wasted your time. The settlement we reached was… Well, it was plenty. I think I'm gonna just get going.”

“John, I just have a few questions, and nothing about the accident directly. Just a bit of background and then I'll be on my way.”

John felt the incipient anxiety dissipate. They weren’t going to talk about the accident. "All right, Dante. Shoot."

Dante lifted the lit cigarette to his mouth, then inhaled pensively. "All right. Let's start with the simple. What's your full name?" Dante clicked his pen.

"Sheesh. Going real simple," John cleared his throat, "All right. John Baptiste."

"Date of birth?"

"April 6th, 1962."

"So that makes you..."

"Forty nine plus one."

Dante raised his eyebrow. "So, 50?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that." John sipped on the glass a little bit more.

"Any living next of kin?"

John licked his lips. "Yeah?"

"Who are they?"

"Sure. That'll be Mary Margaret Baptiste, my good old memaw, or mother as you like to call her.”

"And contact information?"

"You can write down there N slash A."

"All right. So you don't have the contact."

"I was hoping you did. Well, shucks."

Dante shook his head, "Place of birth?”

"Lynchburg. Lynchburg, Virginia."

"You go back often?"

"Huh, I'm not looking to date my cousin now, am I?" John laughed, "Eh, no. Don't go back there, it's a shit town. Fuckin' Bible belt loonies."

"Alright. Occupation?"

"Uh, what do they say? Um, independent contractor. That's the one."

"Okay, independent contractor, and for whom do you contract?"

"You need that?"

"Well, I am asking for it."

"Yes, you are. Just say something like miscellaneous parties."

"Okay, miscellaneous parties. I'm guessing you have no official contract for this work or even income or any banking statements?" Dante raised an eyebrow, "You know, I can just write unemployed? It might even help your case."

"Yeah. Why the hell not? Keeping the product of my own labor."

Dante watched John swirl the whiskey in his glass. He had a good idea what John's labor was.

"In this next section, we need character references. These are going to be important in order to improve the veracity of claims. These would be any people or persons that know you well enough to give you a credible and positive background.

"You're gonna be reaching out to these folks?"

"Well, let me be frank with you, John. If all goes well, I won't need to talk to them at all. However, sometimes in harder cases, yes, we will need to chat with them. So they should be verifiably true."

"Roger that, well, put down, Mr. Ed, Ed Griffin."

"His occupation?"

"Uh, Coach."

"Oh, Coach? What does he coach?"

"Driving, yeah driving coach."

"And any description you can give?"

"Just all around asshole." John gave a toothy grin

"All right, anything else?"

"Nah, guy's a good guy. He had it a bit hard, but, he's really turned it around. How many you need?"

"We still need more."

"Okay, well, Billy, of course. Oh, right, right, right. William Thompson."

"William Thompson. Who is?"

"He's the honest to god local sheriff. Quite the respectable sort of gentleman. And I can vouch he will give quite the character of me."

"A good character?"

"Good in some sense of the word, but I reckon if he knows what it's for, it'll be good enough. But Billy's a good kid. What else can I say? He, he grew up in a hard time and, I'd like to say I helped him through it a little bit, but, god, he's paid back a thousand times over."

"Mm, alright. Billy Thompson, okay. Keep going."

"Well there's Laurel. Laurel Staunch. Laurel's a writer and she's... How would I describe her? Just damn wonderful, you know. One of them creative types, but not a flower girl that just messes around and stuff. But serious, a hard worker."

"Okay. Creative type, not flower girl. We need one more."

John sat down and pondered. “Well, there's good old Mary Margaret Baptiste right? You can count on your mom to give you a good character reference."

Dante shook his head "Sorry, but we don't have her contact information," He inhaled sharply, "And you don’t seem to have it either."

"That's a creek and a paddle, neither of which I have." John sat back and tried to sip on his drink again, but found it woefully missing in liquid substance. "Excuse me, wait- waiter. Dante, you remember this, uh, waitress's name?"

"I believe her name was Maya."

John nearly dropped his glass. Maya. Yeah, she would've been a character reference. Probably the only one that would have mattered. What would she have said about him now? Deadbeat. Drunk ass. Idiot.

"Yeah, I can't think of one off the top of my head. I'll just have to get back to you on that."

"Well, I will need one more thing from you, and that was some details about the accident."

"Just hold on. You said you weren't going to ask any of those details."

"Well, given the lack of one reference, I'm afraid I'm going to press for more."

"I fucking hate deal breaking pricks like you." John frowned. "So, Dante, how much are you actually going to give me for this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Money, Dante, how much money?"

"Money?"

"Yeah. The insurance amount that you're gonna collect."

"John, you've already sold your case. There's no more money that you can extract."

"Well, what the fuck are you doing here?"

John tried to stand up. His legs were still wobbly. He felt like the rest of the room was spinning.

“John, the company that I work for doesn't offer money, it offers a second chance. I'm not an insurance agent, though I used to be one in a past life. You see, John, I'm a fixer.”

“What?”

“John, my job is to change the past. I know that sounds like a bunch of sci-fi nonsense, but I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it for you.”

John tried lunging at Dante, but his body responded by weakly wiggling his arms.

The man that sat across from John gave a wry smile. “But first, John, I need to know some details about the accident. And I want you to trust me. Or better yet, don't trust me. I just want you to trust yourself. Is that alright?”

John’s head was spinning, he didn’t know if he should be angry or furious. He tried to speak, but only mumbles came out. John tried to get up. His arms felt like jello. His vision was blurry. John’s eyelids drooped.

“John, just tell me what you know. I'll do the rest. It'll be quick and mostly painless. Just take me back to that moment when it happened,” The man held up his fingers and enacted a small snipping motion. “And I’ll change the past. You believe in time travel, don't you?” The man laughed and John’s eyes fell shut.

Maya

John felt a hand on his shoulder. “Excuse me. Sir, excuse me.”

John started awake and looked around him. He was still at Dreiser’s. The hostess was leaning over him, close enough that John could see her bronze name tag, “Maya”.

His eyes widened, and he looked up at her face, almost expecting the impossible. But no, she was the same woman from before, some stranger he didn’t know. “What? What time is it?”

“Closing time.”

“What? What happened? Where's Dante?”

She raised her eyebrows at him.

“God damn it, the man I was here to meet.”

“There's no one here but you… You know you’re going to have to pay for these drinks.”

“But hell, you're the one that told me the tab was on Dante.”

She shook her head, dropped a receipt onto John’s table, and walked back to the bar. John grumbled. He took out his wallet and overpaid for the drinks. But as he stood up, he recognized another gentleman that was there before.

John pulled his coat around himself and approached the older man. “Hey?”

The gentleman was just finishing up himself. He was an older man with a small goatee planted on top of his two chins. “Yes?”

“Right, I just wanted to ask you, did you see a man that came in here in a slim suit, smoking a cigarette? He may have come over to my table at some point.”

The man frowned and shrugged.

“Right.” John walked out of Dreiser’s, pulled out his cell phone, and checked his calls. Sure enough, there was no call from Mr. Dante. The insurance agent had vanished, almost as if he had gone back in time and done a little snip-snip. John almost wanted to call home, to see if the man did reverse his tragedy, but he stopped himself. “Jesus, why the hell did I even come out here.”

John turned around and got into his car. It was another two hours back.

The time passed quickly. It was 2 a.m. when he left. The city lights glowed as he drove away from them. John drove in silence. These days, he had an aversion to talking and even listening to music while driving. In some ways, it just reminded him about the accident. But silence didn't remind him of anything. His mind stayed mercifully blank.

Why the hell did he come out here? Was he in some sort of trance? Did he just pick up and go to the city? Did he have some primal urge to repeat that day?

He kept driving till 3, till 4. He was almost back home, right around the spot. And then he heard it.

It was the second time he’d heard it. Though in truth, it was maybe the first time. A small thump. And then cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk slowly growing in speed.

He had been yelling. He had been drunk and he had been yelling that night. But tonight, he heard it. He recognized the sound, and his mind flooded with memories of Granger’s boisterous laugh.

Granger

One month after the accident, John hired a Mr. Granger. Mr. Granger had been a stunt driver.

He grew up as a mechanic. Working in his dad's garage. Fixing all sorts of car problems. He knew the strange, arcane words like carburetor and spark plug. And by the time he was 15 years old, he was basically running the place.

The only problem was he was far better at making trouble than he was at running the shop.

At 15, he stole the local fire truck and went for a joyride. A ride that would be his last for the next 6 years. For perhaps in the opposite of serendipity, the day he stole the fire truck his own house had caught on fire.

Mr. Granger had done donuts in his school's parking lot with a fire truck. Honestly, it sounded like something out of TV. And while he was doing donuts, his house burnt down. So did the garage where his father worked. And so did the rest of his life.

Granger did more time in juvie than John even thought was possible. When he was 21 Granger left that town, wandering around the country trying to figure out why. Why it happened that way? And what if, and what might have been.

He hitchhiked from one garage to another, fixing people's cars and trying to forget. Until one day he wound up in California when he was around 35 years old. He was doing some delivery work for a friend and having a little bit of fun with the car while he was at it. And an honest to god movie producer approached him. Turns out their stuntman had just broken his foot, and they needed somebody to “Drive a large vehicle in tight circles.” Granger tilted his head back and laughed when he told John. “Yup, I was back to doing donuts in a firetruck.”

Granger got to work on more movies than John had seen in his entire life. He met celebrities and stars. He married some young actress-to-be. But that wasn't meant to be, the acting nor the marriage.

But Granger, now 65, had stories to tell. At first, John asked how to teach him to drive like a wild man. And Granger eagerly accepted. But two and a half months into the contract, John asked what to do when the brakes gave out.

Granger was cruising down the highway, wind blowing through his gray hair, wearing sunglasses and a big old grin across his pudgy face.

“Brakes give out? You living in a different era? That doesn't happen anymore, son…. Plus, that's a hell of a lot different from having some fun on the road.” John didn't know why he was asking. Or rather he did know, he just wanted to forget.

Granger had casually told him. Then John asked again. He asked Granger to show him when the brakes gave out again, asked him to teach him, and asked him to repeat, again, and again, and again.

He never had told Granger why. Maybe it was because Granger would have understood. And as their friendship edged closer to the tragedy, John edged further from the friendship. After three and a half months, John paid Granger for a year's worth of work, and then canceled the contract. He hadn't seen Granger since.

John’s mind snapped back to the present and his hands moved instinctively. He swiveled the wheels back and forth. The brakes no longer worked, so he had to lose momentum in other ways.

They were on a narrow road and roads were good for keeping momentum, not losing it. But there was gravel and weeds on either side. He swiveled between them both. The car remained barely in control. He felt the frame almost tip once or twice as 80 turned to 70, then to 60, to 40. But not fast enough.

The road bent. Ahead was a hairpin curve. John had known it was coming up. At 30 he could make it. The car wouldn't flip. But at 40. He already knew he was going off-road.

Sirens flashed behind him. He didn't hairpin. Instead, he kept going. Into the woods, stumps, vines, thickets and trees. He dodged one tree to the left, dodged another tree to the right. Cluck, clunk, cluck, clunk. 40 dropped to 20. Dropped to 10. Then dropped immediately to zero. He couldn't dodge all the trees. Airbags popped out. And the world almost went black.

Billy

“What the fuck, John?”

John sat in his car. He felt exhilarated. He almost felt happy. His hands were trembling. He was alright. Sure, he'd been speeding. Sure, he was more than a little drunk. Maybe that's the whole reason why this happened, but brakes don't just give out like that. Especially not twice.

He had survived. This time everyone had survived.

He looked outside and saw the sheriff, Billy. Billy was a young man. He had a gaunt look, like the boy never really had time to eat a solid meal. His jeans hung loose across his small hips. Despite his youth, his hairline had receded on both sides leaving a widow's peek aiming at whoever he was talking to. But if you looked a little closer, you could see his soft blue eyes that reminded John of the boy he had once been.

John had known Billy since he was a kid. He used to take care of him, in a sense. His dad and older brother were gone. His mom had worked at the local Walmart to make ends meet.

Billy had graduated early. He was the top of his class and the youngest. He had sped through life. And John was always telling him to slow down and smell the roses.

He knew Billy would listen. But he didn't slow down. He became the youngest sheriff in the history of the county.

“It’s not my fault…” John said. He had heard those words before.

The ground was frozen over. The slush that they had trudged through was now a thick sheet of ice, covered with a small smattering of snow. The powder was flowing down, gently from the sky, obscuring the hazard - the ice field below. John was peering through a pair of binoculars and just spied, at a distance, a buck. A big one. Not the biggest, but big enough.

It was quiet. And John tried to restrain a shiver running down his spine. The kid'll spot him, John thought to himself reaching into his winter jacket pocket. He brought out a small flask, and unplugged it while elbowing Billy who was at his side.

Billy was barely 13. But he looked a right man with his little jaw jutting out. He sat there stiller than John, slowly inhaling and exhaling, watching the buck as it came closer and closer. With a little nudge from John, he brought up the rifle and stared down the barrel into the scope.

John gave a quick gulp, and jammed the flask back in his jacket. And then something miraculous happened. The biggest rack John had ever seen - at least four hands wide - came into view. This big old bugger walked right on up to him. Not only that, he didn't stand behind the little guy, he stood right in front. John felt a warm rush of whiskey wash through him. The kid was lucky. Well, not lucky in everything.

John waited. The buck got closer. He was 30 yards away. John probably could've hit him by spitting. And then, the young buck and the big buck walked away. 40 yards. "Alright. Alright, Billy. Take your time. Find your shot." John thought. 50 yards. "Okay. Take your time." 60 yards, 70 yards. And then into the bush. The kid groaned. He had the shot. They were nearly 30 yards away. But look, sometimes you freeze. This was a big one, all right. And you don't wanna miss. So sometimes, you think it's better not to take the shot, because maybe, just maybe you'll get a second chance. John looked over to Billy. And Billy was crying. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. His eyes were puffy, his cheeks red.

"Billy, Billy, it's alright. It's alright, kid." John grabbed his shoulder and shook. He just started to grab the gun from Billy, but Billy held it stiff.

He looked at John. "John, it was his brother."

"What?"

"That buck- my buck, it was his brother... The little one was just a little brother and then the big brother just knew that something was wrong, just couldn't see it, but he just felt it though, and he stood in front. Protecting him."

John looked at him. That's why he froze. Billy didn't understand. But John did. And John knew. John cupped Billy’s chin and looked him in the eyes, and Billy kept crying. Billy's hold on the gun loosened, and John took it from Billy and set it down.

"It's alright, kid. It's alright." John had been taking care of Billy at least as much as he could for the past year. They'd go hunting, fishing, or sometimes John would let him drive the car when they were on back roads. It was fun. Billy was a good kid and smart. Precocious. When you looked at him, not real hard, maybe from a distance, 40 or so yards, you'd think he was just like any other kid: happy-go-lucky, smiling. But John knew, he hurt.

"His brother, his big brother." Billy's big brother had been trouble-making ever since he was six years old. He was pushing kids around the playground, picking fights, tacks on chairs face up, bubble gum in long hair, stealing snickers, whole nine yards. The kid was a born bully. And ever since he was 16, Billy's brother had left the house. Dylan joined some local boys and set up shop down near the train station. They'd work labor, whenever their hustling and scheming didn't make ends meet. All in all, it was a bad bunch of kids.

When Dylan was 18 years old, he showed up at John's house. He was as tossed as a body out of a boat. He rang the doorbell at 2:00 a.m., and when he didn't open, he grabbed a stone from around the mailbox and threw it through a window. John rushed outside to see what had happened, but Dylan was just rolling on the ground laughing. That wasn't even the scariest part. John picked him up to throw him off the property, and the kid kicked his thigh with his shin so hard that John fell on his knees. Dylan punched him in the face, broke John's nose and got him into a headlock. If John weren't 100 pounds heavier than the kid, John wouldn't have just ended up in the hospital. But that wasn't the case. At least not then.

Now, Billy's brother was a little bellicose ball of fury, but his father was far worse. When Dylan was around 16, he and his pa got into a fight. It got so bad that Dylan fell down a flight of stairs and wound up in the emergency room, which was strange because their house was only one story. So by the time that Billy was 12 years old, it was just him, his ma and his pa in his house.

John had only met Billy's dad once or twice. Thank God for that. John had almost imagined him being part of the whole group that was let out from the insane asylums after "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" shook the nation. He was a strange man. You've heard of folks that like putting things back together? Well, Billy's dad liked tearing them apart.

John and everyone in town knew he'd come back from the junkyard screaming mad and fighting drunk. He would yell and holler and once or twice, John had met Mrs. Thompson with what he thought was just a little bit too much eye makeup.

Most of the time he'd let Billy alone, but one night was different. John didn't know the full story, but he'd heard part of it.

For some providential reason that only God would understand, Billy was a rather gifted student. In his little end-of-the-year celebration, which only his mother went to, Billy had been named valedictorian of his middle school class - got a little plaque and everything. So happy were Billy and Ma that they had forgotten in their giddiness what might happen when Pa came back home.

You see, Pa liked tearing things down. And he was not a fan of building up. So when he saw his only remaining son being built up in such a way, he knew it was his obligation to tear him down.

"Billy," John pulled him away. "Billy, I, I want to talk to you."

Billy sniffled. "You're mad about the, the buck."

"I don't care about him." John looked Billy in the eyes, "Billy, I want you to tell me something. About that night." Billy turned his head away. They had never talked about that night, but nor had John ever been this forward. "Billy, how about this. How about I tell you what I think happened, and you help correct me if I get anything wrong."

Billy looked back at him. He seemed thoughtful, hopeful even. He nodded his head.

"All right. So you and your mom, you come back home with the valedictorian plaque."

Billy shook his head, "No, it was nothing. I, it was just some stupid award."

"Okay. You've been named some stupid award," Billy smiled a little bit, "And you came home, and suddenly your Pa..."

Billy shook his head again, "No, my Mom wanted to put it away, the plaque I mean, but I was just looking too happy and..."

"Okay," John told Billy, "That's all right. But when your dad got back, he got wind of the ceremony," Billy didn't shake his head, "He was angry. He wasn't able to focus on anything, and he came after you." Tears started coming.

"Is that when your brother showed up?" Billy nodded his head. Exactly what John had heard. For some reason, that night, Billy's brother came back, almost as if he sensed some hidden danger, almost as if he knew. Maybe he just wanted to congratulate the kid as valedictorian, maybe rough him up." So your brother came home and saw your dad trying to come at you, yeah?" Billy nodded.

"And he got in the way, yeah?" Billy nodded again. Tears were streaming down his eyes. "He pushed your dad back. And your dad got even angrier, and he went to go get his gun."

Billy was crying horribly now. John decided it was best to stop. Everyone knew how the story ended. Dylan tussled with his dad. The gun went off. And Dylan got second-degree murder.

"Billy, I need you to understand something, alright? Look at me." He reached to Billy's chin. He looked like a man, just like a little man so many moments ago. Now he looked like a child. He was a child. "But I need you to know this, Billy, it's not your fault."

Billy shook his head.

"No, Billy, it's not your fault. You didn't want any of that. You wanted to come home, show your ma and your pa that you did something real good. You wanted them to be proud of you." John paused for a moment. "Billy say it."

There was a minute. A minute of silence. Billy stifled his tears. He was inhaling and exhaling as the snow fell from above. "It's not my fault."

Billy paced on the gravel, stomping back and forth, “My god. You could have gotten yourself killed. You could have hit somebody else. John, you could have killed somebody. How fast were you going this time, John? What, 80, 90? And I can smell it. I don't even need a breathalyzer. I can just smell it coming off you, John.”

“It was the brakes.” John said, almost to himself.

“Good god. That doesn't happen twice, John. John, it was a miracle. A miracle you survived that. It was a miracle that your brakes did give out. Because if they hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to save you, John. There'd be no other explanation than you were just drunk, and you weren't paying attention. John, it was a miracle.”

“Don't you say it was a miracle. It was not a miracle, Billy. It was not.” John had risen to anger just for a second. But then he stopped. Billy was right. He was doing the same thing that it caused. He hadn't learned a goddamn thing, well maybe one thing, he thought as he remembered slowing the car down using the technique Granger had taught him. “Just take me in.”

“John, I know that's not going to do you any good.” Billy sighed, “I'll give you one more chance, John. I shouldn't be giving you a third chance. I already gave you a second one. But you're a good man. You took care of me. Now you just need to take care of yourself. Alright. I'll report it as falling asleep at the wheel. And take you home. And please don't make me do this again, John. I just can't bear it.”

Billy drove him home. They were quiet. And John's mind wasn't entirely blank this time. It was a strange night. First, he had met a time-traveling man. And then it happened again. The brake broke. He had lived. No one else had died this time, at least. Was this all connected, he wondered.

Billy dropped John off at his house and drove off. “John, please don't make me do this again.”

John stared after Billy for a minute. John felt bad, real bad. Whatever he drank was starting to get to him, and for a goddamn pre-hangover it was bad. He massaged his temples.

He went inside, kicked off his shoes and dropped his ass onto the couch. He hadn't felt this shit in a long time. As he massaged his temples, his eyes settled on the table in front of him. On that table sat a small box he hadn’t seen since right after the accident.

Dora

"John, why did you come here?" Terry was looking at him. He wore thin golden-rimmed spectacles and had a way of looking at people with his chin up. It almost seemed he was looking over your head at some effervescence or aura that he and only he could see. Terry was middle-aged, with curly hair and a scraggly beard, mostly gray. And his eyes had the quality of always being surprised.

John raised his eyebrows. "It's my turn?"

"Yes, John."

John ran his teeth against his lower lip, and gave a slight bite. "Well, Terry, I'm here 'cause I wanna get better." His voice was dripping with irony.

"Uh-huh," said Terry. He was still looking slightly above John. "Who was it that checked you in?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Seemed like a nice young man. His name was Billy, I believe? Was he your son?"

John guffawed. He looked around the room, nobody here was on a winning streak. He sat around in a circle, where six other people fidgeted and avoided looking at each other. Nobody wanted to be here, but they were. "Terry, why... Why are we... Why do we do this like this? Why do we got these six other fellows that just sit around and watch while we talk?"

"John, remember on the first day of the retreat, we talked about the trauma tree, right?"

"Yeah, I know about the roots and the branches and some of us got a little boy in our past that was smacked around by Ma or Pa. I got it."

"John, here's why we do this..." Terry said. He nodded his head up and down ever so slightly, and then he sat looking at John. John just looked back. All was quiet.

John raised his hands and made a gesture, "What are we..."

"Shh. Quiet," Terry said, and they sat in silence. John folded his arms, rocked back on his chair and watched Terry. Terry was just looking at him, stone still. John tapped his foot up and down. He looked down to where his watch had been, but he'd forgotten that it had to be removed. He started looking at some other folks. No phones, no watches, no smokes. Those were the rules at The Giving Tree Ranch. Minutes passed in silence. John's throat felt dry, so dry. He licked his lips. He wasn't really thirsty, not in his stomach, not in his gut, but he was... He felt it in his mouth. Felt his saliva getting thick. He gulped it down and started to just focus. What was he supposed to focus on? Breathing, right? Some meditation crap. Breathe in, breathe out. For some reason, his eyes started feeling hot. He was about to cry. Oh, God, he was about to cry. He was looking around at all these people, they're all just watching. Maybe they're not looking, but they're all seeing. They're all watching him. He was just about to break down in tears in front of them. God.

This woman, two chairs down, started to sob, started to cry. They were real tears. You could always tell real tears, because real tears don't wanna come out. With real tears, you don't wanna be seen.

She hid her face with one arm, and pushed out her other as if trying to push somebody away. John gave a hard sniff in through his nose and went to stand up to go grab her a tissue. And Terry reached out his hand, "John, you remember the rule, everyone gets their own tissues at The Giving Tree." John sat back down.

Terry focused on this other woman for the next half an hour while John pondered what Terry meant. Why were you supposed to do this in front of other people? It just made the whole thing worse, into something awkward, something that made your skin crawl. It just made you not be able to sit still.

Once the session was done, John stood up and he walked outside. He felt the cool mountain air of Tennessee. He raised his head up and threw it back. The moon was barely out, but the stars could be seen everywhere, glittering. A chilly breeze passed over him, and he felt it pierce right through his shirt and hit his skin, nearly freezing the small drops of sweat that had gathered there throughout the session. It felt good. Out here, it felt alright.

His hand pressed against the banister of the cabin, the space that he and the other members of The Giving Tree Ranch stayed in. It wasn't really a ranch, rather more like a camping retreat or something like that. John never really got camping. If you're gonna go out into the woods, why stay in a house? But he did like the cabin. He reached down and felt the banister and ran his hand over the bumps of the wood. There was something nice about the feel, something a bit irregular, but smoothed over by hundreds of hands, hands that probably didn't want to be here as much as he did.

"What day are you?"

"What day?" John looked over. There was a tiny woman standing next to him, barely five feet tall. She had short, cropped hair, tiny studs of earrings, and a heart-shaped face. He couldn't tell with the light, but he swore the hair was jet black. The thing that stood out to John was that her wrists were just so small, tiny little things. You could wrap them both with just one hand. He almost wondered how she could pick anything up. She probably even needed a booster seat to drive. John almost chuckled to himself, but felt the red heat well up to his eyes again, and stopped.

"What day are you?"

"I- I don't..."

She gave a sigh and looked at him. "How many days have you been here in this estate, sir?" She spoke in mock formality.

John chuckled then sighed out exasperated, "Look, uh, day three. Sorry. I just, a lot on my mind I guess."

"A lot on his mind, he says."

"Huh, What about you?"

"Day 12." She brought her hand up towards her mouth and started to chew on her fingernails. John saw a simple wedding ring on one of those hands.

"No smokes, huh?"

"Who says smokes?" She looked at him like he was crazy.

"I don't know. Whatever… So what brought you here?"

She paused and looked up at the moon, "Oh, you know, looking to get better."

John started to laugh out loud, a real belly laugh. "Still after 13 days, huh? Guess Terry hasn't worked you up with his stare yet?"

"What stare?" She said with a smirk, "He's never even looked at me, just looks over my head. I always wonder whether I'm wearing a funny hat I forgot to take off."

"Yeah, and by God the way that guy just sits there, just straight still. I swear he's like, part Medusa."

"You mean Atlas."

"What?"

"Medusa's the thing that turns people to stone. Uh, Atlas was the guy that got turned to stone, at least in Metamorphoses..." She was gesticulating a little bit. She then stopped and stuck out her hand. "I'm Dora."

John smiled, "I'm John." She grabbed her hand and shook. "So, Dora, what's the rest of this retreat gonna be like?"

"Oh, conversation, a little bit of art... Terry talks about his story."

"His story?"

"Yeah. His story. He ran over a kid."

"What?"

"Yeah. Drinking and driving or something. Dora was looking off in the distance. "I don't get how he does it."

"Does what?"

"Just keeps on living like nothing ever happened. I mean, obviously he says he regrets it and maybe he does. I don't know. I just don't think I could live like that."

John rested his forearms on the railing right next to her. "Don't you think people deserve a second chance?" He looked down. In the light of the moon, you could say she almost looked pretty. He couldn't see the bags under her eyes that he knew would be there. Or the skin with a slight sag, her hair disheveled, and the lips raw from worry.

She looked up at him. "No, John. Sometimes... People don't deserve a second chance."

John's eyes looked down. Yeah. Maybe she was right. No. She was so right. She was definitely right.

"Yeah..."

"He didn't deserve a second chance." A small hand grabbed onto his arm and pulled, if not yanked him, along.

"Whoa, there. Where, where are we going?"

"It's the last session of the night, right?"

"Yeah. Well, I gotta get back to the cabin and..."

Sue looked back at him. "After you're here for 10 days, you get a private room."

John thought of the four-man bunk that he was currently occupying. His upper bunk mate had persistent IBS and sadly, John knew that from firsthand experience.

As she pulled him along, the night air was cold, and for a second he forgot and was just carried along. As she opened the door to her cabin room, John could see it was neat. Fastidiously ordered, everything in its proper place. And unlike his, ramshackle with personal items of four men (used chewing gum, Tic Tacs, Sports Illustrated Magazines, and anti-graying shampoo, Tums, used razors, new razors, belts, socks, underwear, jeans, drying undershirts, three sticks of deodorant, a pack of condoms, two nail clippers, one Grisham novel, one King, and Henry David Thoreau's Walden Pond yet unopened), there wasn't a single personal item John saw. The only thing that distinguished it was a box. Small box of index cards on the table. The door closed behind John and the room fell into darkness.

The box was out. When did he take the box out? He hadn't seen the box in over a year. John had almost forgotten about it.

His head was throbbing, and John definitely knew one way to get rid of the hurt. He looked in the cabinets. Empty. What the hell? Then he looked under the sink. Empty. He went to the bathroom looking for Advil or anything. Empty. His head started to throb. He stumbled into his garage. And there, sitting on the workbench, was one bottle. He picked it up and went back to the couch and poured himself a glass.

He considered sipping it, but thought of a better solution. He tilted the glass back and gulped it down.

There was instant searing pain. He felt like his head was on fire. Was there some sort of allergic reaction?

He kneeled down. In front of him was the box.

Light was streaming through the curtains as John blinked his eyes open.

He was in Dora's bed, and the window was slightly ajar. A cool mountain breeze had blown the curtains open. He reached his hand up to his eyes to shelter them from the light. His temples were throbbing, and his mouth was dry. "Dora," his voice choked out, he called out one more time, "Dora." He looked at the clock. In five minutes was when the first session started. In all likelihood, his bunkmates would report him MIA.

He stretched his arms out above him, and heaved his legs over the side of the bed. Well, it wasn't much worse than most hangovers. He pushed himself up and threw on his jeans, and thick cotton shirt.

He worked his way out into the main room. Dora wasn't there. She must have already left. Why hadn't she woken him, he wondered? He gargled some icy water and halfway through leaving, he spied the box. On top of the box was a sealed envelope with a small note. It read "Box -> John, Envelope -> Atlas". He shook his head. He snatched up the envelope and box, and hustled over to the first session.

He entered in such a rush that he almost slammed the door open. All six members of the circle, Terry included, started and stared.

"Sorry, I was just..."

"You spent the night in your car?" Terry's head tilted uncharacteristically to the side, and his eyes slowly wandered above John's head.

“Yeah. I just needed some time alone."

"Time alone?"

"Or something like that."

Terry eyed him for a good minute, probably wondering whether to chew him out or not, "I think today we can start with you, John."

John sighed and took a seat. As he was about to put the envelope and the box under the seat, he remembered the note. "Terry, Dora asked me to give this to you."

"Oh, you met Dora?"

"Uh, Yeah."

Terry gently grabbed the envelope and delicately opened it. Inside were a few leaves of paper filled with handwritten notes. Terry quickly scanned the top, his eyes widened ever so slightly. He flipped to the last one, opened it and read. His eyes widened to the point where John was afraid they might pop out on the first sneeze. Terry sat the envelope back down and stood up abruptly.

"I'm going to have to cancel the first session today." He paused, "If you all would like, you can take some time to get to know each other. But you have to excuse me for just a bit."

Terry stumbled out of the room.

The other participants didn't know what was going on, and certainly didn't take the time to get to know each other. Instead, most of them wandered back to their cabins. John did not. He stood up and walked over to the envelope that still lay in Terry's chair.

He picked it up and walked out back behind the cabin. The envelope felt heavy, far heavier than a few pieces of paper should be. His eyes burned, his temples throbbed, his mouth was dry. He ripped the paper out and began to read.

"What's Transthyretin Amyloidosis?"

Not sure why, but I can still vividly remember the scene. And it always starts just like that.

We were sitting in this green-colored room in Boston's premier fertility clinic. I had just gotten my DNA test results back and was reading out the strange recessive genes I had. "Limb-girdle dystrophy, hmm. Think I saw that in the Kama Sutra."

Kara smiled and punched my arm.

"Ow. Why'd you do that?"

"You can't fight back, your limbs have girdle dystrophy."

I smiled. Kara looked beautiful. She had a ponytail that mustered together all of her thin short hair with little bangs, cut in a way that made parallel lines here across her face hiding her pale eyebrows, which I always teased her about. Her smile was wide, a Cheshire cat smile.

We wanted to have a kid, one, maybe two, maybe three. Who knows? And everyone knows the first step is doing a full DNA sequence. An overweight nurse opened the door and handed Kara her little envelope. Except it was a bit different from mine. There was a neon pink sticky note right on the front. Kara looked at me with a quizzical look.

"Hey, why do you get special treatment?"

"Well, obviously I've got Wonder Woman genes." Kara held the envelope away from me and read the front. She furrowed her brow. She looked up and she asked,

"What's Transthyretin Amyloidosis?"

The nurse was already walking out the door when she looked back. She rolled her eyes up as if to access a memory, and spouted out mechanically, "It's an untreatable neurological disease, onset in the 30s and symptoms of progressive neuropathy..." She then looked back at Kara, then at me. There was a second of recognition as to what she had done. Just one second. A little, "Uh-oh." Then she re-dawned her passive-aggressive scowl, and walked out of the room.

That's how we first heard that Kara was going to be in pain for the rest of her life.

When we got home, we poured every bit of our excess time into medical research and journals. I traveled to a conference once. I got a fake badge. I was Dr. Pandora Wheezer at your service.

The nurse was right. No one knew where it came from or knew how to cure it. Everyone knew the symptoms though - what they call neuropathy in the modern day or if we were in 18th century England, they might have called it neuralgia. But what Kara called it was the tingles. And it wasn't just tingles, it was pain, searing pain up and down her arms and legs.

It was all right, at least I thought it was alright at first, as the onset was slow, and we could manage. She slept most of the night and was able to work part-time. I put on more hours. And well, we were alright. But it didn't get better.

For the next few months, she couldn't sleep through the night and nor could I. I joked that she gave me a black eye, pointing at the little bags under my eyes that would never go away. And I didn't see that Cheshire cat smile much more. Her smile was a weak, frail little thing, no teeth.

And when it got to the point where she could no longer work, and we were only getting to sleep a couple of hours at night, we caved, or I guess I should say she finally caved into getting pain medication.

We started small, but slowly we saw that it was helping.

One night I was reading. She had folded her body over my legs. It was bigger than mine, but it felt so small. And then she looked up at me. "Do you love me"

"Of course I do." I stroked her head and continued to read.

She pulled my book away and guarded my full attention. "Do you still love me?" She started to cry, "Is it alright if I just sit still and don't feel the pain. And just be like this for the rest of my life?”

I grabbed her head and I kissed her forehead. "Of course. Darling, of course." But I didn't know. I didn't really know. Did I want the rest of my life to be like this? Tied to pain.

And it was that night that it happened. It had to have been that night. I'm not sure whether consciously or unconsciously, whether God just wanted to punish me for not knowing, but that night, as I was popping my multivitamins, I grabbed the wrong bottle. One of her little perkies. The 5 mg Oxycodne + 325 mg acetaminophen. And oh I slept. What a night. I woke up like a queen.

Time passed and my little Kara and I would spend all day, oh, so comfortably numb. First, there was a little pop here, a little pop there. But I couldn't go to Mr. Big Bad Doctor and keep saying, "We lost this pill, we lost that one." Instead, I started to mix in a little white sugar, what the docs called a placebo, into Kara's many nightly libations. And I, myself, would keep one or two of her holy ambrosia for my own sanity. Two became three or four, became much, much more.

Kara complained of pain. Docs, not knowing what to do, increased her prescription. And soon, both she and I were both in heaven.

Oh, you think I didn't know better? God, I hate that phrase. I hate it more than anything. I didn't know better. She didn't know better. How could she have known stealing a pill here or there changed the dose requirements on the doctor's orders? How would she know Kara would be rushed into the emergency room three months later, and because of a wrong dose, she would die.

Well, she did know after. She knew a lot of things after. It took one minute and 33 seconds after application for Kara to die. And she knew it was not a good death. An overdose of analgesics has been survived by 33 people in the past one year, each of which reported such a painful experience it could only be described as hell. But you're right, Dora didn't know that. She didn't know better. She was too busy popping pills to know better. It could have taken five minutes, to look it up. But I didn't.

Sure, I didn't fire the gun, but I sure did load and cock it. That should make this next part easy. At least I've got the experience with the first half.

John finished reading, just as he did he heard the crack of a gun down by the parking lot. His hand convulsively gripped on the box Dora had given him.

Later that day, John left the Giving Tree Ranch. John had taken the box back home with him. He sat, wracked with pain on his couch, his head throbbing, his stomach churning, and he had opened the box. It was filled with index card affirmations.

John had gone through it, reading each one out. “I am worth it.” “There is joy in the world.” “I deserve happiness.” As he came to the back half of the box, he noticed the color of the cards change. They looked older. These must have been the first ones that Dora had written. He pulled one out. It simply said, “It's not your fault.” John's head throbbed. He put it back in. He pulled another one out. “It is not your fault.” John's eyes welled up. What the hell do you mean? Fuck you. He pulled another one out. “It's not your fault.” He pulled them all out and splayed them on the table. “It's not your fault.”

“Like hell it isn't. Like hell it isn't.” John screamed. The fucker had killed her. If it hadn't been for his dumbassery, if he hadn't been such a fucking addict, such a fucking drunk, she wouldn't have died. It was his fucking fault. His head throbbed. He flipped the table over, and the cards spilled onto the ground.

What could he do to stop the pain, to stop the ache? He went out back, opened up the garbage, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He’d been sober for just over five days.

Pain seared through his head as he was blasted back to the present. God, his head hurt. It hurt so goddamn much.

He tried pouring out another glass, and as soon as the liquor touched his lips, his head started to sear. “Oh!” There was nothing else. What could he do to stop it, to stop the pain? He looked in front of him. He looked at the box. He opened the lid. His hand pulled out one or two of the newer aphorisms. “Smile.” “You've made the world a better place.” He put them back. And he pulled out the older ones. He looked at each one. “It's not your fault.” “It's not your fault.” “It's not your fault.” Each one, hand-written. He looked all the way at the beginning. The letters seemed so weak, seemed so painful to write out. As he flipped through to the more recent ones, he noticed they became stronger.

He read each and every one. Every single aphorism and every “It's not your fault.” And then he fell asleep.

Laurel

Bang, bang, bang. John's head was pounding. He rolled over. He felt like shit, but not as bad as he thought he might. Bang, bang, bang. “One second! Christ.”

He massaged his temples for a second.

“I know you're in there” John heard a familiar voice call. Bang, bang, bang.

“Yeah, yeah one second.” He went to the sink and splashed some water on his face.

“Where the hell's your car?”

“Yeah, yeah”, he got to the door and opened it.

Laurel was standing outside smiling with little wrinkles around her mouth. She wore a baseball cap, and a dirty blonde ponytail pulled through the back. She wore some old faded jeans, a denim jacket, worn sneakers, and a close-fitting faded pink top under which John visibly noted there was no bra.

“Eyes up here, bud.” She cracked.

“Yeah. Yeah,” He massaged temples near the horns left by his thinning brown hair, “What do you need Laurel?”

“How do you know I need something?”

“Wouldn't be banging on my door on a Sunday, especially not when you’ve got Sarah.”

“Now, how do you know that Sarah's over at my place?” Her head cocked to one side, one of her hands went to her hips

“Well, she wasn't there last weekend,” he smiled.

“I guess you would know that, wouldn't you.” She smiled back.

“So, what do you need?”

Laurel had moved into a tiny little house up the hill about a year ago after she and her husband split up. And in less than a week she had gotten to know the neighbors, and she'd gotten to know him.

John didn't know why, but she took a liking to him. They played cards. She’d force him to read the drafts of her writing. She was an aspiring author, despite the fact that she had already published 15 or so books to moderate acclaim.

They were a mix of children's books and sultry romance novels. Despite the incongruity, they really fit her.

“Yeah, here's the problem.” She pointed to the sink. Her sink was most definitely clogged. He saw what amounted to probably a week's worth of dirty dishes floating in murky water.

She saw his stare, “I was doing them before Sarah got here and well… I actually went over to your place last night, but you weren’t there. So, Figured I'd check in this morning….”

John dropped his toolbox on the side of the sink. “Hey John” Sarah had made her way to the kitchen and grabbed some peanut butter from the pantry.

“Sarah, how is school?”

“Good, and how's bumming around?”

“Sarah,” Laurel snapped.

“It's fine, it's fine. Bumming around is good. You dating anybody yet?”

John's head was under the sink making sure all the obvious problems were solved,

“John, nobody their age is starting to do that type of stuff.”

“Well there is this one boy called Mikey.”

Laurel gasped, “Why don't you tell me about anything?”

“You never asked.”

John was smiling. He never admitted it, but he loved helping out Laurel and listening to what Sarah was doing at school. It made him feel, well, it made him feel like he was home. As he was messing around under the sink he noticed a little bit of grease next to one of the pipes.

“Laurel you grease these pipes down lately?”

“What no, I haven't messed around with this since last time we were here.”

Why the hell did it look like somebody messed around down here? In about 30 minutes, John fixed the problem. It was pretty simple. He drained the water and helped with the dishes. He even grabbed a peanut butter sandwich himself.

His headache was still there, though, he longed to get back home and have a drink. He was always thinking about drinking wasn't he?

One of Sarah's local friends came by and picked her up to go play at the park. And he and Laurel were alone.

“Well,” John said, putting away his tools, “Glad to hear you and Sarah are doing good.”

“Well, so long as I've got my knight in shining armor to come over and fix anything when things get wrong. Call me a little bit old-school, but I like it when a man gets a little bit dirty for me.”

Laurel took off her jacket and John’s eyes drifted down before he forced them up. She came in close and whispered, “It's all right, you can look.” John's eyes dropped and they kissed. They went to the bedroom. They undressed each other. John asked her to read a couple of lines from her upcoming book. They both play acted the voices “Well, miss Margaret, may I take your hand?”

“Monsieur Durand, that wouldn't be proper.” She reached down and felt John. She frowned, “What's wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” His mother wore a floral white dress. Her curly gray hair was shortly chopped. And she quite literally wore pearls. John was two days sober and his head ached.

It was her god-damn daughter-in-law's funeral and John knew that she wasn’t going, she hadn’t even asked him where it was. John opened his mouth and words didn’t come out. So he stared silently. It was silent, he swore he could almost hear the cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk.

“John, if you want to say something, you’re going to have to start flapping that tongue.” She said offhandedly, waving her fan in front of her.

He couldn’t. The world was spinning away from him. She would never change, so what was the point? Cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk.

“Is it about her, John? You’ve never talked to me about her, John. Not once.” John shook his head, he knew this prissy little white bitch wouldn't accept his wife. He remembered growing up, she’d literally refer to their African-American neighbors as “them”.

“Ma. I…”

“Well, John, do you have anything to say? Otherwise, I have many things to do today.”

“No, Ma. I don't have anything to say.”

“Hmph. Well, at least you don’t smell like you've been drinking. Liquor killed your father. And when I heard about the accident, honest to God, I thought it was that. But thank our lord. It wasn't. Thank our lord.”

He could barely hear her. It was so loud, cha-chunk cha-chunk cha-chunk, screeeeeee. “God damn it.” He screamed. He jolted up and towered over his mother. The music was so loud, “Thank the lord for what? Thank the lord she died?” He was seething. His mother's face drained of blood, she was afraid. “You know what? It was the booze. I can’t even remember… I can’t even… It’s my fault Ma. It’s my fault…”

He stopped. What had started as a roar ended in a whimper. He was silent. It was blissfully silent. His mother moved closer, looking to put her small arms around him. But he pushed her away.

He pushed Laurel away.

She frowned, “You're thinking about her, aren't you?”

Laurel laid on her stomach. Her arms were beside her. Her back was beautiful with little freckles marking her shoulders. He could see her breasts pressed against the fabric of the bed.

He smiled, “Yeah, yeah.” He rolled on top, began to massage her shoulders.

He thought Laurel was beautiful, damn right gorgeous. She was funny and smart. And he loved her writing. Though he'd never tell her, he bought every single one of her books, children books and sultry romance novels and read them cover to cover.

But he just couldn't do it. He knew she and her husband had split up, but they hadn't sealed the deal. They were still married. While he knew it didn't matter, he just couldn't bring himself to open his heart.

Ma

“Did you do something with my glasses?” Laurel had her shirt on, but not much else.

“No.” John pulled his pants back on. He zipped his fly.

“I haven't seen them since morning, and I'm out of contacts. John, can you help me look?” He looked through the pillows and across the bed. And then he saw them. The glass was shattered. He saw the broken frame bent. It seemed like one of the chair legs had smashed it. But when? They hadn't even used the chair this morning.

“Laurel, I found them.” He gave them to her.

“God damn it. I was supposed to be the one that would drop Sarah off today at Daryl’s.”

“You know you don't need to do that, Laurel, there's no official…”

Laurel brushed him off, “John, could you do me a big favor?” She turned and gave him a wide smile. He knew he'd say yes with her grinning like that. The tiny, crow’s feet of her eyes wrinkled. Her small arms grabbed his. God give me the courage, he thought to himself.

“What is it?”

“Can you drive us there?” His heart skipped a beat. His stomach dropped. But he hadn't been drinking today. He should be fine for it. But damn, he was feeling awful. And then driving Laurel and Sarah? He hadn't driven with anyone but Granger since. And now with this woman to Daryl’s. To Laurel’s real husband.

John wanted to say something. But instead said, “Yeah. All right. I'll just get my things.”

When Sarah got back, Laurel told her the plan and then they were off.

Daryl’s wasn't super far. But John was extremely careful. Both of his hands clenched the steering wheel. He was hyper alert. He didn't want anything to happen. He didn't want... He didn't want it to be his fault again. No, that wasn't his fault. Had he been drinking? Yes. Had he gotten angry? Yes. But that didn't mean that she had to die. That was just the world.

“Daryl's been going on and on again about how he deserves some royalties from the books. I just don't get it.” John hadn't been paying attention when she chimed in, “Right, John? He doesn't need any of that.”

John was so focused on the road he automatically responded, “Well, Laurel, people normally work out stuff like that during a divorce.”

The conversation came into perfect clarity. “What?” Laurel looked over to him, and Sarah immediately donned her earphones and turned the music up loud enough so that both adults in the front seat could hear.

The music was so loud they were almost shouting. She was beautiful. She had a wide smile and her curly hair bounced as she laughed. They were driving back after a party in the city and John felt fine. He was right at the top. He felt the drinks mixing in his belly. Five? No six.

He took one of his hands off the wheel to cradle her head and leaned over to give her a kiss. The car wobbled a bit on the road. He brought his hand back to steady the car. “You know what I was thinking?”

Maya laughed, “Let me guess,“ she leaned over to nibble his ear.

“Well, yeah, that. But I was thinking that tonight… Maybe we try it without the condom.” He blurted it out. He was nervous. He'd wanted to ask her about this for the past few months. He just didn't know how.

“Baby I’m not on my period, that's kind of dangerous. I mean…”

“Who cares? We'll take it as it comes.” He said flustered. He smiled and looked at her, hopefully.

“Wait, are you asking to have kids?” She frowned.

“Baby, you're not happy?” He saw something else in her eyes.

“You know how much I want that too, but…”

John had felt warm. He had felt warm and happy. And now he was starting to feel hot.

“It's just your drinking, baby.” She looked down. The car started to go faster.

“My drinking? You had just as much as me tonight.”

“Yeah. I drink, baby, once, twice a month. But baby, you drink every night. I don't think that would be a good place for a…”

John’s vision was red. The warmth, now bubbled up, as pure heat. “God damn it, Maya. What the hell? I go out on a limb here. Today I wanted to go to the next level. And you fucking bring this up? Just tell me you don't want it. Just tell me you don't want to be with me.”

“I do want to be with you, you just need to listen to this.”

“Fuck listening. If you had thought this was important, you would have brought this up before. God-damn excuses.” He slammed his hand on the steering wheel. “God damn it. I should have listened to my mother about you.”

She had tears in her eyes, “You never even talked to your mother!”

“Shut the fuck up.” His foot pressed on the gas pedal. There was a small thump that came from under the car. “I should never have brought this up. God-damn it, my drinking. I'm fine with my drinking. I get my job done. I take care of you.”

Cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk. He still didn't hear it. But Maya did. “John, what's that?”

“And look, I'm even the one driving. That's because I can handle my liquor.” Cha-chunk, cha-chunk, cha-chunk. The brakes failed. John still had no idea.

“John, I feel like something's not right.”

“And what else the hell is the matter? I…” They approached the turn. He pushed on the brake and nothing happened. “I... Jesus Christ.” He tried to take the turn and the car rolled.

“Jesus Christ, Laurel. I love you. I'd want to be with you, but I can't, not while you're still legally married to a man you don't want to see anymore.” He blurted it out. He was nervous. He'd wanted to ask her about this for the past few months. He just didn't know how.

Laurel’s eyes softened, and she grabbed his hand, “John, I like you, but I need to be with someone who can also take care of Sarah.”

“What do you mean, take care of Sarah? I can support you both.” He said flustered. He smiled and looked at her, hopefully.

“John, you don't have a job.” She frowned.

“I got money. And I can get a job anytime.” He saw something else in her eyes.

“And.”

“And what?”

“John, you're drinking yourself to death.” She looked down. The car started to go faster.

John felt it again. He gripped the wheel. His hands slowly drained of blood. He felt it. He felt the red. The car went faster and faster, until up ahead he saw a progression of cars. A funeral progression taking up both lanes.

He was two days sober, and it took all his effort to keep his hands from shaking.

His mother sat next to him in the car behind the hearse. He was shocked. He was sure she wouldn't come, but she did. She sat there looking out the window. She hadn’t said a word to him, and the silence left a ringing in John’s ears.

“Ma…” He turned to her, not sure what he was going to say, but before him was not that prim proper southern baptist he knew so well. It wasn’t his ma. It was a little girl. Eyes wet, doing anything she could do to stop the tears, but losing. A sob wracked her body and she moaned.

“Ma, I’m gonna get help. Billy told me about this place called Giving Tree, he said…”

“What have I done…” She grabbed his face and brought it close to hers. He noticed all the lines. The crows feet and little blue veins that shone through her pale skin, “My boy, my boy.”

He brought his arms up and wrapped her small body in his. She shook and sobbed. “It’s not your fault ma. Say it, say it ma.”

Her frail arms tightened their grip, “It’s not your fault.”

John took a deep breath. The car ambled along at a slow pace, the last car in the funeral progression. “Go on, Laurel, I’m sorry for interrupting.”

John

He looked down at the epitaph: “Loving Wife of Kara”. Simple. Perhaps true. Perhaps not.

“Dante?”

Dante turned around. He was smoking a cigarette. His slim suit ruffled and his hair unkempt. But when he saw John, looking frankly shocked, Dante gave back a big smile. “John, how the hell are you?”

John gaped for a moment. In one hand, he held a bundle of flowers, in the other hand, he held Dora’s box. He approached Dante slowly. As he approached, he set both the box and the flowers down, reached out, and tried to touch Dante. Dante held out his hand and shook. “God damn, you are real.”

“As real as a seven-day-long hangover.” Dante retorted.

John laughed. “Yeah, I know that's real.”

John’s brow knotted, and he opened his mouth to ask another question. But Dante interrupted. “Well, John, I hear you've been going to AA for almost two months now.”

“Yep, soon I'll get my second coin.” He smiled.

“And how's Laurel? How's Sarah?”

John shook his head in disbelief. “You were there, weren't you?”

Dante smiled. “What do you mean?”

“The glasses, all the alcohol in my house vanishing... Well, hell, the whole funeral procession.”

Dante smiled a little wider. “Takes a lot of work to change the past.”

John looked confused. “Well, hell, I don't even get what you mean by that. I see you were trying to help me. But you didn't change the past. Maya's still dead. The accident still happened.”

Dante looked at the ground, still smiling. “Well, I guess you're right, John. But tell me, why did you end up coming here? I thought... well, I thought you'd go to Maya's.” He pointed at the two gravestones that stood before him. To the left was a gravestone for Dora, the woman that John had met during his stay at The Giving Tree Ranch. To the right was a tombstone for Dora’s wife, Kara.

John frowned. “Well, you know, I figured she helped me, Dante, and this was the least I could do.” John took the flowers and placed them near Kara's tombstone, took out the small box filled with cards. He sat down.

“You know Dante, I’ve got quite a few questions.”

Dante sat next to him in front of the tombstones, “How about this, I’ll answer any one, no lies, no obfuscations. You’ll get the whole shebang.”

John thought for a long minute. So many questions swam around his head. How'd Dante get this all done? Did he have a team? Did he work alone? Was there some secret underground organization that went around giving people a second chance? But he thought better of it, and asked what he truly wanted to know. “How come me, Dante? Why not... hell, why not her? Why not Dora?”

Dante sighed and gave a slight frown. “John, you already know the answer to that.” He picked out a card from the rear end of the box and showed it to John. It read in painfully scrawled handwriting: “It's not your fault”.

John sat in silence, looking into the distance and then down at the two tombstones in front of him. He placed his hand on Dora’s tombstone.

“You mind helping me out with this, Dante. You read one, I read one. I'm sure she’d like that.” John pointed at the box of affirmations.

Dante smiled and nodded. “Absolutely.” Dante picked one out from the front and read it out loud: “You deserve a second chance”.

Inductive bias is a fancy term used in machine learning and AI for constraints put on a model. For example, let's say we were trying to have a machine learning model read and understand English. An intuitive person might assume that constraining the model to reading and writing in appropriate grammar would improve the model's performance. Right? English should follow English grammar rules.

But any inhabitant of the internet can tell you, it seldom does. Even common colloquialisms like “long time no see” make no sense grammatically. So if you constrained your model to think and reason only in those terms, a great deal of English would be nonsense.

So we found out the fewer constraints you put on your model's thought, the better. But that comes with other tradeoffs. A model with fewer inductive biases requires more data and takes longer to learn.

My favorite way of thinking about inductive biases is thinking about babies. When a human baby is born, they are helpless. They can't talk, they can't walk, and they certainly can't provide for themselves. However, when a baby deer is born, it's only minutes before they start walking. Why in God's name would evolution hamper us so much as to giving birth to such helpless, albeit cute, little creatures? I suspect it's for the same reasons we put fewer constraints on our models. We may take longer to learn, but we come out far smarter.

So let’s take this to the extreme. If we thoroughly unconstrain the way that our machine learning models think, how can we even begin to fathom how smart they could become? If a model learns to optimize itself, will its cognition be God-like compared to human beings?

To a physicist, I think the answer might be apparent. Oftentimes, philosophers and computer scientists forget that there's no way to remove all inductive biases. There's no way to think with zero constraints.

There's a great little book that demonstrates this perfectly, The Three Body Problem. In this book, they talk quite a lot about a mysterious universal constraint, the speed of light. And they imagine what changes by increasing or decreasing it. Most things in a human’s world won’t change. The speed at which we throw a ball, fly a supersonic jet, or fall in love, all happen glacially compared to the speed of light. There is one thing that would dramatically change though: computers.

Computers seem miraculous to a lay person. They seem to do so many things so smartly. But in reality, computers are quite dumb. The key to computers is that they do countless dumb things very very quickly. And this speed is ultimately what powers them to think and learn.

Computers don't learn like humans do, instead machine learning is like finding a needle in a haystack. The needle is the perfect function that takes a group of ones and zeros (like a photo) and spits out the perfect output (hotdog or not). The hay is all the other billions of functions that don’t work. The computer’s job is to quickly search through that massive pile of hay to find any needles. The human’s job is to give the computer the right pile of hay which constrains what the model can think and is (in large part) the inductive bias.

In old school machine learning models, the pile of hay was tiny. Computers weren't as fast, so they needed a long time to find the needle. But as computers have gotten faster, they can find needles in farmhouses full of hay.

So how fast can these computers get? Well, electricity moves through transistors near the speed of light, therefore the biggest constraint on how fast and how smart computers can become happens to be a universal one.

So when I hear people asking about how smart AI is going to be in the future, I often wonder to myself, whether they've thought about the fundamental inductive bias of the world. Humans, computers, atoms, and stars all exist in reality. A reality that’s fundamentally governed by universal constraints, like the force of gravity, or the speed of light. So given these constraints, we can ask: what is the theoretical limit of intelligence?

Machines cannot become unboundedly smart, because no machine can surpass the speed of light. We can only pack transistors in so densely, and electricity can only pass through them so fast. So, with a touch of physics and math, one can find the true limit to the speed of thought. What is the biggest haystack we can search through? What is the optimal inductive bias?

They’re an unconscious force whose existence hinges on their ability to replicate. We, our bodies and our minds, are simply the tool by which genes get that job done. We are genetically programmed to propagate and protect our progeny, like it's so beautifully depicted in Deux meres.

Information also hinges on its ability to replicate. An excellent example is modern memes. They propagate quickly and similar to meiosis they fuse with other ideas in the popular landscape to create new breeds and organisms. However, there is something very different between a meme and a gene.

While most parents would sacrifice themselves for their own children, I doubt even the most profligate memer would sacrifice themselves for their meme.

Ideologies are genes in information form. They use the vessel of humans in order to propagate. And similar to genes, human beings will unknowingly sacrifice themselves so that their ideologies may prosper.

Ideologies came about because the information conveyed in them is like a coarse map. And we can use maps to help us navigate through the world. But the most important thing to understand about maps, is that a map is not the territory. If you were to navigate the Amazon rainforest by only looking at a map, your shoes would surely snag on some dislodged root, and you would tumble quickly back to the reality.

Maps become dangerous if we ignore the difference between reality and the map.

Before I started a business, I didn't think this was a problem. Generally speaking, when folks use a broken map, they fix it quickly enough. If you're trying to tell someone how to go from the East Coast to the West Coast, and you forget to mention the Mississippi River, it won't be long until people start complaining about your map. I only realized broken maps was a problem when I dealt with a powerful ideology like narcissism.

I had lived my entire life without ever working closely with a narcissist. So the first time I did, I had absolutely no antibodies. Most people I interact with are balanced, if not, a bit humble, when we talk about our achievements and challenges. Who wants to be a braggadocio? And so when I met a potential employee that constantly talked about how much they kicked ass and took names, I was awestruck. I immediately made them an offer and wanted them to join my team. How awesome would it be to work with such a rockstar? Well, I was about to find out.

We worked together for months, and I was constantly confused with how little we got done. Everything seemed to be moving slower and the company seemed to be at lower morale. Yet, this rockstar assured me that everything was great. When I look back, I sometimes wonder why I couldn’t see this earlier. The answer is pretty clear to me now, their belief (that they were perfect) had spread to everyone in the company. (The ideology was using us to spread and survive.) So when we were trying to fix the problem, we firmly believed that our rockstar was not to blame.

We tried everything else. We moved from agile development to shaping projects to PRDs. We tried changing the ownership structure. We tried OKRs and KPIs. We tried everything, everything but removing me. At that point, I seriously considered leaving the company and making the rockstar the CEO.

I was lucky. I had a wonderful group of supportive advisors to walk me back from the edge and help me examine my own beliefs from a new angle. With the benefit of fresh eyes looking at the problem, it became clear to me that I had ignored the difference between my map and reality - our rockstar was not perfect and was in fact the reason we were struggling.

We let go of our rockstar a few weeks later and the company immediately began to heal. Slowly we started to see reality for what it was and correct our distorted map.

Now, most of the time, when a map meets with a world that is fundamentally different, the holder quickly calibrates themselves. Because no matter how strong your beliefs, when a set of beliefs goes head-to-head with reality, reality always wins. But we were dealing with a very powerful ideology - narcissism - that used people to spread and protect itself to the detriment of the company and the rockstar.

People have asked me if I harbor any anger towards the rockstar. And that couldn’t be any farther from the truth. Narcissism used them just as much as it used the company or me. They couldn’t change or grow because if they did, they’d need to admit they were not perfect and go against their ideology. So, in this case, when narcissism hit reality, the ideology didn’t suffer, but instead, the people it had infected.

Now, not all ideology is bad. And every time a startup founder goes against the grain, it is their cognitive dissonance between their beliefs and reality, that keep them going.

But ideologies are selfish. So keep your wits about you, while the hapless adherent of an ideology is just a vessel for propagation, the savvy can use them for what they are intended to be - maps for navigating the world.

The problem with ideas is that 99% of the time the ideator hasn’t thought through all the consequences. Because to an ideator there's no difference between idea and execution. But to a builder, there's a vast difference.

For example, when implementing fall detection on the Apple Watch, there are hundreds if not thousands of trade-offs only discovered at implementation level that are ignored at the idea stage. When a highschooler is playing sports competitively, and they take a tumble, do we send out an emergency fall alert and stop the play of the game? If a fisher’s watch falls off, into a lake or pond, do we send an emergency alert? There are countless examples where sending an emergency alert might cause the unneeded expenditure of ambulances.

So, when someone tells me a product idea, oftentimes, the first question I ask is, what’s the cost? If we could wave a magic wand and immediately tell whether an individual is having a legitimate emergency caused by a fall, or instead, an intentional tumble due to an overly hyper bout of corgi play, then of course, we would do it. But problems aren't solved by wands. They're solved by focus and execution.

The answer I often get to the cost question is paring the feature down as MVP as possible. We will limit the fall detection to individuals between 90 and 100 years old. As if by stripping out 90% of the utility of the product, we somehow better justify the ROI.

Ironically, the most astute will take the exact opposite approach. Because really, the question “what’s the cost” isn't asking about ROI, but rather, ROF - return on focus.

Focus is an extremely limited resource. Each person can only have one Top Idea In Your Mind as Paul Graham would say. That's the idea thoughts will drift toward when they're allowed to drift freely. Having multiple ideas or focuses is a trap, for humans and computers alike are terrible at multi-processing.

After PayPal initially cracked their viral loop, and they started giving $20 to every new person that joined, their phones were constantly ringing with problems that demanded their focus. They received countless support requests a day. Now, they could have picked up the phone and answered each support request, repeating this hundreds and hundreds of times over. But instead they focused.

PayPal learned early a lesson many startups fail at, to let some fires burn while they put out the major one. They were bleeding money from fraud and if they didn't fix it, they would quickly go bankrupt. So PayPal focused and let the customer support calls go unanswered.

My primary goal as a CEO is maintaining the company’s focus. And it sucks. This amounts to me having to say “no” all the time. I’m constantly bombarded by great product ideas. And while this is incredibly useful, stopping the bus and disrupting the team’s focus is rarely worth it. Unless you think your idea should be the company's primary focus.

Folks that understand ROF don't pare their ideas down, instead, they bulk them up. They serve their nascent ideas meat and potatoes until they can re-justify the company's primary focus to their idea. And so they answer the hidden question underneath what’s the cost: what's the cost to our focus.

For other entrepreneurs, I suspect you will find inducting your team onto ROF will either be incredibly easy or impossible due to your hiring practices.

When I first was hiring at a startup, I immediately overcorrected from my previous roles at Big Tech. Google seemed to have a silly hiring process. Google asked a bunch of algorithms questions and made arcane allusions about individuals Google-y-ness, or how well folks would fit into the Google culture. I was determined to correct this by first and foremost hiring for skills. If your job is to write React components, what the hell does it matter if you have a knack for solving complex algorithmic questions.

I had almost a 100% fail rate with my first batch of hires. No one was a great fit for the team aside from college and high school friends, I had squeezed through the interview process instead of enforcing it. (Oh, by the way, always interview.) I, like many beginner entrepreneurs, had gotten it all wrong. Hiring for skills is the least of your concerns, and in fact, is fairly easily tested. Instead, I needed to focus on hiring for values and hiring for aptitude.

Talking with people and diving into their way of thinking is one of the best ways to hire great employees, and this practice is essentially hiring for aptitude. Great people are not sophists. They don't contradict. They're not hypocritical. If great people make complete syllogisms and you want to hire great people, then you hire folks that can make complete syllogisms. But the problem with hiring these people is that it may seem that they are few and far between.

A mentor of mine claimed this was due to a scarcity mentality. The mentality goes as such: there are very few, if not diminishingly few people that will work with you at your company, so beggars can't be choosers. This philosophy roots itself in history. At one point, humans lived in an inherently scarce world. There were folks that would live their entire lives without seeing more than a hundred people.

Now, in part due to globalization, in part to the internet, but in full to technology, that scarcity no longer exists. If you spent 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, 52 weeks out of a year interviewing candidates, you still wouldn't have even exhausted a pool of software engineers living in San Francisco.

Great founders have the exact opposite of the scarcity mentality. They may take six months and interview one hundred candidates just to hire their first employee. They firmly know that the world is abundant. And that the only resource not in abundance is focus.

I suspect that is the same reason why founders get distracted by shiny new product ideas and spend their time putting out small fires instead of focusing on the big one. There's some misapprehension that there is a finite supply of ideas. And that by not focusing on any one given idea, they'll miss out on it forever. But that's inherently not the case. There are infinite ideas that you can work on, but only one idea that you can truly focus on.

That's why ideas are dime a dozen and execution is everything. And the most important question you can ask yourself when evaluating ideas is not about ROI, but rather ROF.

“White be right and black be wrong, swallow your soup and let hunger be gone.” The spoon was a perfect glistening white and its contents glowed bright as the sun, but still, the pale child pushed it away.

His mother however was not deterred. The ritual of spoon-feeding was one solid motion in three parts — the rearing spoon, the child's refusal, and the spoon's retreat. And this motion had great inertia.

The child again pushed away the spoon, his soft edges and features contrasting with the sharp, straight lines and angles of his mother.

Again she pushed the spoon towards his mouth, for all children must eat.

The child was older, his lines and edges not so soft as they once were, but not so hard as those around him.

Peter and his mother stood at the corner of their home, a square gleaming white dais that hovered over an onyx black oil that forever glistened below them. Speckled across the ocean of oil were other daisies, gleaming white shapes with hard sharp angles connected by bright white bridges.

Their eyes rested on a single neighboring platform, a great octagon. And upon that platform stood a man and his daughter, bright white lines and angles making their forms. They watched the girl’s aged mother being lowered into the onyx black oil, as was tradition. And as was tradition, Peter was to marry her tomorrow morning. A chill ran down Peter’s spine just thinking about it.

Peter had played with her as a child, stacking bricks and rolling balls. His castles and towers tottered and sprawled, and she’d chastise him for his disorder – for she was quite well suited as a bricklayer. Perfect ortholinear towers, rigid and angular. If the block itself was an instruction, she had followed it precisely.

“Mother, why wasn’t father lowered? Or why don’t I remember it?” Peter looked away from the Lowering to his mother.

His mother did not take her eyes away from the scene, “The oil takes us all one way or another.” Then she looked directly at him, “Just as we all must marry.”

“Why?” Peter had grown old enough to know the consequences of refusal. “Because it's been done before? Doesn't that mean nothing new will be done?”

His mother held his arm and looked at the glistening white family on the opposite platform, “No, new things were done before, there is a tradition of doing new things.”

Her son frowned, “But how will we know when something new is to be done? What is the tradition of change?”

His mother gave a knowing smile. She tugged at his arm, trying to straighten out his lines and remove his smudges. Tomorrow he was to be wed. His family's land would combine with his wife's, their children's land would split, and the cycle would go on.

That night he sat, as he would often sit, on the edge of their platform and looked off into the distance at the thousands of gleaming white patches intersected with straight and narrow bridges. But this night he turned his eyes to the gray mists. While the land that they lived in was vast, the gray mists to the north were vaster. All passage to the north was barred by an infinite sea of gray, further barred by great white gates that protected their lands from the encroaching mist.

There were whispers about the gray. None who entered ever returned, and the last to have entered left nearly fifty years ago. It was far too easy to get lost in the great, vast mist. But there were other whispers as well. There were whispers that in the gray there was the center. There was the truth.

At midnight, when all slept, he woke and began to rummage through his father’s old things. There was little left of his father’s possessions: old bowls, strange misshapen carvings, and a walking stick. From afar the walking stick was a glowing white line like all others Peter had seen, but on closer inspection the glow was not so white and the shape not so straight.

He kissed the sleeping form of his mother goodbye, and for a moment the hard edges did not grate his fluid form. He then walked towards one of the great gates that barred out the gray.

The Mists

He stood before the great white gate. There were no hinges, there was no key, no opening. It simply barred. If it had been decided that the gray mist was not to be visited, why have an opening for the gate?

He knew two things: first, he was not able to find what he needed in his home. In this land of black and white, the decision was made before he was born, and the decision he could not bear.

But he knew one other thing. This gate lay farthest from his land and closest to the land of gray. As a child, he visited this gate, to be taught the dangers of the gray, and the pristine sanctity of the white. But he had noticed what others did not, that the gray mists swirled ever so near the white gate. And that in a corner, the mists had crept up, and the white gate's form, shining and pale, was slowly becoming gray.

And so, as he returned to the great white gate, he saw that edge had been further encroached upon. The indomitable white form, now oozed with gray, he pushed his hand against it, expecting to feel solid resistance, an implacable, immovable obstinance. But instead, it bent and bowed.

The gray moved to his form. He pushed and dug. And slowly, the gray bent around him, and was moved. And a hole was breached in the great white gate.

If his form had been any more rigid, his shoulders would have prevented him from slipping through. He shifted and slithered, his dim, pale form dropping on the far side of the great white gate.

In front of him stretched a formless mass. Gray mists barred his way for what seemed like an eternity. But, he knew. In the gray was the center. And in the gray was the answer that he sought.

He stood before the sea of mists and shivered. He looked up and there too he saw only gray. Peter did turn back to look upon the far side of the great white gate, and to his surprise, the gate shone gray.

He reached his hand out in wonder to touch the gray gate. It felt soft and warm.

He turned back to the mists. His hand clutched his father’s walking stick and gritted his teeth and embraced the tension in his back. He took his first step into the gray.

His march through the gray mists seemed interminable. There was neither day nor night here. And no direction seemed any different from the others. Soon, he was fully lost in the mists.

He was lost. He was lost. He was lost.

The way back to his home was barred to him. And all that he saw was his own pale form. All that he heard was the clank of his walking stick against the ground and the sound of the wind.

He wondered what was happening, back home. Did his mother worry about him? Or did she worry about the ritual of his marriage, and her destiny now broken. Did she think he in despair had thrown himself into the oils? Perhaps his own father had done this very thing and lived out here in the gray.

The pristine white bridges no longer directed his path. The traditions of his land no longer pushed and pulled at him. In some ways, he missed their tug. The cruel inertial regularity of his home gave him heartache. He thought more fondly of his mother's hard lines. He even thought for a moment that, yes, he could tolerate the placid smile of his bride-to-be and her pale, vapid eyes.

He stepped in any given direction and followed his whim. At one point he smelled the stew his mother always made and followed. He caught the glint of white veins in the ground and followed them. And once there was a great black smear in the distance. But each time they vanished as he grew near until he heard in the distance a great murmur, as if many distant voices were asking questions and making affirmations, slowly, carelessly, speaking on top of each other.

“Change… preposterous… fallacy… truth…” They sounded like a great hall filled with professors all trying to teach each other without a single one listening.

The voices drew him in. The mists slowly dissipated, and he saw a strange and foreign land that sprawled before him. There was no bright, shining light, nor black ooze. Instead, there was an undulating plane of gray in darker or lighter hues, speckled with smaller splotches of charcoal or blurred with lighter patches of nimbus.

The inhabitants had not the sharp lines or crystalline form, but instead were more akin to him. Their forms blurred and bent, billowed and puffed, deflated and inflated — ever-changing they were.

And there was not one of them that ceased to chatter. “The evidence is lacking, clearly lacking.” “As you can see if we extrapolate we can reach…” “ And so we did a local experiment giving each man a small carved mushroom.” All around him, he saw them reach up and stroke their chins, point into the air and declare hallowed truths, or slam their fists together as if breaking apart fabled postulates, their eyes constantly sparkling with new ideas.

Grayland

Peter confidently strode up to a group of three, unbothered by their different form and different shades. He had to hear what they were talking about.

The soft click-click-click of his walking stick punctuated the air of murmurs and shadows. Only one seemed to notice, the other two were busy with their ideas.

When he approached, he heard them speak.

“No, no, the center is not there. The center is not where it is darkest or lightest. But, in the area that is the mean, the center of gray!”

“No, no, no. Look at the mists that surround us. Surely they demarcate the extremity of the center. And certainly in the center of the mist must be the center of the centers. Not based on color or some folly as such.”

The two men prattled on. A third listened, either nodding or shaking their head vehemently as their mouth was working on a bowl of gray mush. Peter simply watched. What was this center? And why did they care for it? And which man was right? Both seemed to make perfectly valid points. Perhaps there was some combination of their points that might be the solution.

It was only after minutes of the conversation that they noticed Peter, but only for a moment. One pointed towards the walking stick. “What a strange color.”

Peter looked down towards the stick, and indeed the color did look strange. A bright white against the background of gray. Even against Peter's own feet now looked gray compared to the stick.

The men took a moment to look upon the stick, and then pointed their gazes back to each other to resume their discussion. Just before they began to speak, Peter voiced his question. “What is the center?”

“What is the center?” The men looked at Peter. Their eyes seemed hungry for questions.

One stepped forward to answer, “The center is, of course, the source of truth. It's where all things come from.”

Another responded, “No, no, no. The center is truth itself. Everything is based around this center. We can only measure how good or bad things are relative to the center…”

The third man nodded and stroked his chin. Both men were trying to explain their versions of the center to Peter. But Peter only heard one word, which was truth. “How do you know what's true?”

“How do you know the truth?” Both men laughed. “How do you know what's true? Look around you. Truth is here and there. All you must do is simply measure.”

The other man interjected, “No! The truth is relative, of course. Your measurements could be different from my measurements. Or, you see, your light could be my dark.”

Peter shook his hand. “What I meant is, is there a right answer?”

Both men nodded in agreement, “Well, of course. In Grayland, we are looking for precisely that, an exact and precise answer to all questions.” The man’s hand shot up in true pontification.

Peter gripped his walking stick tightly, he knew coming here was the right idea, and this confirmed it. All that was left to do was ask. “I have a question, then.” He took a deep breath and continued, “There's a girl back where I am from, and my mother says I should marry this girl, and I'm not sure what I should do…” All three men nodded. This was a problem that they could to solve.

“Well, do you love this girl?”

Peter's head turned. “Love? What do you mean?”

“Do you feel for her? Do you want to be with her?”

The other man shook his head. “No, no, no, it's not if you want to be with her now, but do you want to be with her forever? For your whole life? Will you want to be with her in the future?”

Peter's grip began to loosen on the stick. “I don't know. I don't want to be with her now, but maybe in the future I could…”

“Well, the answer to this certainly lies within. You must self-examine. You must look at yourself.”

The other man shook his head. “No, no, no, the answer lies without. It lies with her. You must get to know her. Spend your time posing questions to this woman.”

Peter lost his focus on what the men were saying and cast his eyes back to the gray mists. This got him no closer to what he was looking for in the first place. Either of these men could be right, and either could be wrong.

Then the third man spoke up, “You can always, of course, ask the Great Empiricist.”

All three men nodded.

“The Great Empiricist?”, questioned Peter.

“Yes, the Great Empiricist”, the third man cast his eyes down as if invoking a diety. “He alone can help you find the truth when the truth is dim. Some even say that he is the center.” Though all men including the speaker shook their heads at that.

“No, no, no. That is not true. The true center is not in the man.” One man grumbled.

“So, what does this Great Empiricist do?” Asked Peter.

“He measures your soul. He has measured the souls of many millions of men, and knows the parameters of the universe. Given all this information, he, of course, will know what the right answer is. He resides there in the tower.” All three men pointed at a distant point. And indeed, Peter could see it with his naked eye.

Unlike the rest of Grayland, the tower looked straight and well-made, with precise little battlements thrown out against the gray. It was two or three levels high with a great open door at its base. As Peter looked upon it from different angles, it looked both a bit lighter and darker, than the rest of the land of gray.

Peter thanked the men, who immediately began another argument on the nature of natures, and began to walk to the tower.

As he approached he saw more and more groups of grey men, all deep in conversations revolving around the center and truth, ought and ought not, and shoulds and shouldn'ts. He found, as he pushed closer towards the middle of Grayland, that voices spoke more in unison. Instead of crowds of three, there would be crowds of hundreds, each speaking with unanimous voices, arguing the same points, going back and forth.

It would have been easy to get lost in the crowds. Peter squeezed past hundreds of gray shoulders and hips and bellies and hunches. One gray was arguing against darker hues when on one side of a crowd, and when he was pushed into the other side he began to shout, “The paler, the better in Greyland!” Peter kept his eyes up and focused on the tower until he looked upon the great door that led to the Great Empiricist.

The Great Empiricist

The tower's form had looked regular from a distance, but as Peter had approached it, he could see the irregularities.

The color was not pure, and the form was not ortholinear. There were curves when there should be straight lines, and straight lines when there should be curves. And the reason it looked both darker and lighter from a distance was because it indeed was. Part was darker, part was lighter, and they blended well into each other.

Peter watched a man leave the tower and yell to his friends. “Yes, yes, the empiricist measured me, and I found the right answer. I found the truth.” The friends’ heads bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes, what is your truth? What is it?”

Peter clenched his walking stick. Yes, this was the place. He was to find his answer here. He went into the tower and walked up the many flights of stairs. On and on they spiraled, sometimes left, sometimes right, with only a dim gray light guiding his way. The stairs increased in height and sometimes decreased. Peter had to be careful lest he would stumble in the house of the Great Empiricist.

At the top sat an old man, his form a bit more definite than the rest, but still gray. However, he opened his eyes, Peter could see they were lighter than those of the typical inhabitant, though not so bright as his walking stick.

Peter felt almost at ease in this man's presence. His grip on his walking stick lessened and his back and shoulders hung loose. Whatever happened here, Peter was ready. He was ready for the truth.

The man looked at Peter for more than one moment. His eyes squinted as he looked at Peter's walking stick, still shining. “Another has come to seek their truth.” His voice was nasal and crackled a bit as he spoke, but the words came quickly from his mouth.

He approached Peter. He held out his hands, putting them upon Peter's shoulders, upon his head. His fingers felt cold, but they were strong and practiced. They danced over Peter’s body and made strange symbols in the air. The old man would mutter to himself, “16.7 here, 32.4 here…”. He held his fingers up to Peter’s eyes, and watched them dart back and forth. He pulled out his tongue and flicked it. He looked intently between Peter’s toes. And then with a snap of his fingers, the old man was done. He sat down and said to Peter, “Yes, I have measured your soul. We may now begin. What is the truth you are seeking?”

Peter shifted the walking stick from hand to hand. This was it. He had found the truth. He had found the center. “I want to know whether I should marry?”

“Hmm, Do you want to marry?”

“Oh no, I don't think so…” The man raised his hand and stopped Peter. Peter waited.

The old man lowered his hand. “Yes, I have measured your soul. And yes, I see. Your best path, your future, your truth is that you should not marry.”

Peter was shocked. That was it. He was done. He felt lightheaded and his hands lost their grip. The walking stick tumbled down, clattering on the floor.

“Where did you get that?” The Great Empiricist narrowed his eyes.

Peter sat on the ground to steady himself. “This?” Peter reached over and picked the walking stick up. He noticed how it shone. So bright and so pure, against the backdrop, and even against Peter’s own hands. For the first time since he arrived, Peter looked down at his own body and gasped. Peter was nearly gray himself.

“Yes, now tell me, where did you get that?”

Peter looked down upon it and sighed. “I’m not from here. My land is white. ‘White be right and black be wrong, we guide your path, so doubt be gone’. There, everyone knows the same truth. Everyone but me…”

The old man, whose eyes had been narrowed, now had eyes that were filled with tears. “By the white, you are real!” And he cried. And he cried.

Peter went to the old man and carried him back to his chair and left him there and waited for his tears to dry. “I too, am from your land.”

“What?”

“Yes”, the old man said. “I too, am from your land. I came here seeking answers. And I found, to my dismay, only those that were seeking the truth.”

“To your dismay? How can this land, full of truth-seekers, be a tiring sight for a truth-seeker like yourself?”

The old man shook his head. “No. They don't seek ‘truth’. You see, I don't measure a soul, I simply ask to find out what they want and tell them that that is their truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean to say is that those that believe the center is in the darkest part of Grayland live in the darkest part of Grayland. I mean that those that believe the truth is carried by those with the most number, have the most number. I simply said your truth was what you wanted. I did no measurement.

“I found my way here looking for the truth. And when I did not find it, I tried to find my way back. But it was impossible. Navigating through Grayland and through the mists was too hard. I would always find myself back here. But maybe…” The old man shook his head.

“What?”

“I brought no part of my home with me. You brought your walking stick. Perhaps in some way, that relic, that which does not belong here, can be used to help guide you back.”

“Guide me back?”

“Yes, guide you back. There is no truth here. I've spent my life in this land. And with my cunning and guile, I've been proclaimed the wisest man in all Grayland. But despite that, I've still not found the truth. If you wish to remain, you may. You may even become my apprentice. Become the next Great Empiricist. But if you do, know this… Your life will be a constant search for truth. And in your heart, you will know that you can never find it.”

Peter felt again the longing for his home. The longing for the careful bridges and raised platforms. The longing for knowing what should and should not be done. He bade the old man goodbye. And Peter walked towards the mist.

Emergent

Peter took a deep breath and plunged into the mist. He heard the clamoring behind him, the many voices arguing over the truth, trapped in their own cycles, almost like a ritual of his own land.

At first, the sound of the clack, clack, clack of his walking stick hitting the ground was faint, but then, as the chatter behind him diminished, the sound of the clack grew louder and louder, until it was the only thing he heard. And unlike before, the stick was the one thing that Peter could see, could disambiguate. His hands no longer shone, his feet were no longer glowing, instead, it was but his walking stick, a pure white line shining out in a sea of gray.

Peter pushed forward. What he sought was not here. The truth could not be found in Grayland, even if the center were there. Peter knew in his heart that he'd rather be roughly right than precisely wrong.

As he wandered into the gray, his mind started to wander as well. He thought of home. He thought of what he would tell his mother. He wondered whether he would wed, or whether he would break with tradition. His mother's hard, straight lines and blinding white form, in some ways, comforted him, but he longed for something more. He just knew not what.

As he walked, he thought he saw a white in the distance, yes, to the left, and he turned his direction and started walking towards it, but slowly, as he moved, the white flickered away. Then he thought he heard the soft sound of the voice. Yes, it was to the right, and he moved to the right. Constantly the fantastic lights, dark specters or strange murmurings would catch his attention and lead him astray.

He wandered and wandered, wherever his whim would take him, and suddenly, the mist abated, and he was back in Grayland.

What? How did he wind up back here? Hadn't he been walking away from it this whole time?

Again, he plunged into the mist, and he wandered, the gray enveloping everything that was. His mind wandered and lost itself as well. He would turn and bend and twist, until finally he wound up in Grayland.

Again and again he tried, and to no avail. He was trapped in Grayland.

As he returned, he looked into the distance and saw the tower of the Great Empiricist. He thought of returning, becoming that man's apprentice, living the rest of his life here. It would not be so bad. Eventually, the murmuring would die away. But had it always been so bleak here? Had it always been so gray?

As he thought back to the old man, his mind wandered to something the old man had said. He looked down. His walking stick gleamed a brilliant white. Yes, perhaps that was the answer. But how?

He plunged into the mists again, and he focused on his walking stick. It clacked, clacked, clacked. Would it tell him which way to go? Would it guide him? He stopped and listened. Did it speak out? Was there a shadow? Was there anything about it that would point the way? And in minutes of standing and staring, there was nothing. The old man was a fool. The walking stick was but a stick. It had no soul. It had no will. It had no truth. It was useless.

In anger, he took the stick up and cast it away. Clatter, clatter, clatter. And all around him was gray. He knew if he let his mind wander away, he would wind back up in Grayland. It was all that was left to do. He could do no more.

He started to let his mind wander, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a glow. A white glow. Was this but the mirage that he had seen before? No. It was his stick. Off in the distance, softly glowing. He started to walk towards his stick.

A thought crossed his mind. Was this the right way? How did he know that his stick was thrown in the right direction? That it would lead him out of here? He was almost to the stick again, and he stopped. And at that moment, the moment the stick came into view, he finally understood.

It was not as if the stick would show him the way. He had known the way out. He had known if he was able to walk straight, to walk away from Grayland, he would make it out the other side of the mist. The problem was once you were in the mist, everything was gray. Your mind would lose track of its surroundings. And slowly, you would start to walk in the direction of your whim. Your twisted, bent body would lose its way in Grayland. And for some reason, the whim and the want, and the mist, would always lead you back towards Grayland.

As he found his walking stick again, he bent down to it, picked it up, and cast it in the same direction he had thrown it before. And then kept walking. Yes, this was the way to lead out of the gray. He would ignore the fantastic lights he saw or the dark specters. He would ignore strange murmurings. He would ignore his thoughts. And he would follow his walking stick. He would follow the way that had been laid down before him.

The journey continued. His soft steps made no sound. He would approach, approach, approach, reach out for the white light, and then cast it further in front. He would hear the clatter. And he would repeat, again and again and again. This simple process, repeated for what Peter thought was forever. And then suddenly, as he walked towards the white light, the mist abated. And he was free from the gray. Peter found himself not in the gray, and not at his home.

Inversion

He stumbled towards the bright white walking stick. As he bent down to pick it up, his head felt woozy, and his legs felt weak. The mists were gone, yes, and so was the gray. But before him was not his home. Before him were not the towering white gates and gleaming white platforms, but instead a pitch black, ebony surface. And the gate, just as black as the oils that surrounded his gleaming home. Peter fell and as he did, he thought he saw in front of him another shape, another figure.

When Peter woke, he did not know how long it had been. His eyes fluttered open and tried to adjust themselves to the light. He couldn't tell where he was.

Everything around him was once again black. The sheets, the room, the bed itself, pitch and dire black. He cast the blanket off.

His arms trembling, his gray form twisted and bent. He rolled off the bed. The floor felt hot to his touch. He was trapped in some unearthly prison, a hell. He crawled, making it to the door, and pushed it open to reveal a nightmare landscape. A large black platform as large as the one his home was situated upon. But this time, surrounded by white.

He crawled. All he had to do was make it to the edge of the platform to drop himself in. He felt weak, didn't know how long it had been and how much more he could endure. And as he finally got to the lip of the platform, he was able to see the white with more clarity.

It was strange. Yes, it was a bright white, but it looked strangely like the oil that had surrounded his home in the past. A slick, slimy surface that almost looked jagged like a sea of knives. He needed but one more heave. He could make it.

Yes, he could. He pushed his arms against the black platform. With a strange lucidity he realized it didn't feel hot. It just felt solid. And threw himself into the water. Into the oils below. But not before he felt arms on his shoulders, wrenching him back towards the black platform. His eyes fluttered again and he passed out.

The next time he awoke, he was in bed. But this time, the sheets were more tightly bound. And this time, he saw a figure in front of him. Not completely pure black, but close. A gentle ebony. She looked young, like him. And her form was solid, untwisted, and unbent. Her form was none of the straight, stoic lines that had defined his childhood or his bride-to-be, but instead gentle sloping curves.

She held before him a bowl of soup, it seemed. But neither bowl nor spoon, nor liquid was the pure white he was used to. Instead, they were all deep black. She pushed the spoon towards him, as he weakly pushed it away. The spoon retreated, but then slowly advanced back towards him. The process repeated again. The ritual, once started as a child in his home, was finished as a man abroad. And slowly he began to eat.

He didn't speak. Not for a while, at least. He would eat, and exhausted, he would pass back out. He would awake to find her sitting at his bed again. The ritual would again commence. Eat. Eat. Eat. But this time with less fervency. This time with fewer retreats. Until he would eat on his own. Eventually, he was able to sit up on the bed. And eventually, she took him outside.

He sat on the edge of her platform. In some ways, it was similar, and in some ways, it was different. The platform was pitch black, yes. And its edges were round. The neighboring platforms were ellipses and circles or strange shapes bounded by curves. But there were similarities. The platforms hovered above an evil surface. But this surface was white, bright white.

The platforms were also connected. There were arching bridges that connected each. Upon each platform, a family would reside. And he had a feeling that these families would marry, combine, birth and split just as they did in his home. And that process would go on forever and ever.

At first, he was uneasy. The pitch black sometimes reminded him of the oil that had surrounded his original home. And he would recoil. But slowly he learned. Both she and the land with their soft, curved lines grew on him as the days went by.

“Peter.” He looked up from his soup. She seemed more serious than normal. “How did you get out of town? There were very few that could open the gates. My family is one of three. And after I found you, I went to the other three families and none had their child missing.”

Peter gave an answer that was neither black nor white, “I slipped through a hole in the gate. As the gray mist had encircled it, a hole appeared.”

“But why? Why did you leave?”

“I left to find the truth.” Partially true once again.

“And did you find it?”

Peter didn't respond. He left his home to find an answer to his question that was still unanswered. He found no center, and he found no truth.

But here, slowly, he began to share more. And she began to listen. He shared his travels. He shared of Grayland and the strange, inhabitants that resided there.

She nodded her head. “Yes. You looked just like one of those creatures. At first, I thought you were some monster. Some evil form that comes to haunt us out of the gray.”

And then he told her of the Great Empiricist. He eventually confessed that he had run. He'd fled because he was to be wed to someone with whom he had no love. Her eyes did not narrow in suspicion but instead cast themselves down in acknowledgment. “Yes. Some of our ways might err. Sometimes, we only see one right answer.”

As he ended this story they laughed. He smiled. He told her stories of his childhood, and his bride-to-be, changing details ever so slightly.

She never once asked him about his family and where they resided.

Until today. As he awoke, he found her sitting on the edge of his bed, though this time with no soup. Instead, she had brought before him an object draped in a black cloth.

“Peter, I trust you. I do. I feel like you've been telling me the truth, mostly. But there's one thing that you can't explain. Or you haven't yet.”

Peter looked confused. His heart trembled. He was sure. He had told her almost everything. Everything except for the land he came from.

Nostos

How could she guess? How could she know that? The black cloth was in the air for a moment. From behind the cloth shone his bright white walking stick. And Peter wondered whether it always shone in such a menacing way.

“Where are you from, Peter? I believe I deserve the truth.”

Peter reached out to the stick, and upon grabbing it, he noticed his hand was no longer gray, and it was no longer white, but instead it was a smooth, deep black. As he touched the stick, he almost recoiled as if it were hot, but he forced the thought out of his mind and took it up once more.

“The land south of you is a land of glowing white platforms, sitting atop a black oil, as evil and as repugnant as your glistening white oil is here.” He told her the full story. He told her of where he came from, of its traditions and customs, so alike yet so different. He told her of his mother, of what she really looked like, and he told her of his bride-to-be. He told her how worried his mother must be, how afraid, as nothing like this has happened before, and she was such a creature of habit. And perhaps his bride-to-be, perhaps she was saddened as well.

He cried.

He liked it here. He loved being with her, but he missed his mother. He missed her stew. He missed the simple way she viewed the world. Most of all, he missed her love. She listened, thoughtfully, and at the end of the story, he silently watched her for a while, and then she reached out her hand. At first, he took his hand to grab hers, but she shook it away. She wanted the walking stick.

Peter reached out to give it to her. Her hand was trembling. He saw her clench her teeth, as if waiting to be shocked. He gently placed the walking stick in her hand, and she did not drop it. She held it steadily.

“This is where you come from”. Her eyes were no longer averting from the light, but instead looking deeply into it.

“Yes, this is where I come from.” She put the walking stick down, and embraced him. He embraced her back.

Later that year, they married. It was strange, as only her side of the family was there at the wedding, but they accepted him nonetheless. Very few of the people in this land knew his story, and Peter preferred to keep it that way, fearing what might happen if people knew of the land to their south.

The years passed, and she became with child. Peter’s smooth dark hand felt the small kicks as he touched his wife’s belly.

They were happy, but with increasing frequency, Peter found himself going towards the old trunk that stored his walking stick, and gazing upon it. He took it out of the chest, and talked to his wife.

“I promise to be back before the baby is born.”

She gave him a deep frown. “That's hardly a promise that you know you can keep.”

“Have I broken any promise yet?”

“No, but nor have you made one so foolhardy.” She gazed at him, towards the walking stick and towards his eyes. She could see a small glimmer there, a small sparkling of white.

“Keep your promise.” She said with steely resolve. She did not trust the place he hailed from, despite trusting him.

“I will. I simply have to let my mother know that I'm alright.” She opened the gate, and he stepped into the mist, casting his walking stick in front of him.

Peter's mother stood at the side of her platform. She looked across to the one of her son's old bride-to-be. That platform had already merged. She had taken another man, and upon the platform she saw a young child, scampering to and fro.

It was not always the case, but this time she cried. Peter had disappeared the day before his wedding. At first, they thought he was hiding somewhere. But then, as the days turned to weeks, to months, and to years, the gradual conclusion became clear. Peter must have thrown himself into the oils that surrounded the platforms, as some youths had done in the past, and some would still do.

But she still grieved. She grieved, not only for the loss of her son, but for the small hope that he was alright. For the small hope that he would come back.

“Mother.” She heard and started. She almost turned around, but she felt a strong hand on her back. “Don't. Not yet.”

“Peter?” She asked.

“Yes.”

She didn't recognize the voice, not fully. Partially, it did sound like him. Older. Huskier. Grown. “Peter?” She began to cry in earnest.

In front of her, she saw an object. Something that was thrown by the man behind. It clattered to the ground, and then lay silent. It was Peter's old walking stick. She'd recognize it anywhere. The not-solidly-straight lines. The slight bow. The small nodule in the middle.

Peter frowned, unsure of what to say, “Hey… I can’t and I won’t stay long. But I had to let you know that I'm okay. I found a woman. And I love her. And you’re… Well you’re going to be a grandma.”

His mother couldn't keep the tears from her eyes. She wept and wept.

“I have to go though, I promised I’d be back and it’s not safe for me to be here. I just…” Peter exhaled deeply, “I just I couldn’t let you think that I was dead. Or you’d done something wrong… It was just time for me to make a change.”

Peter's hand lifted from her back, and turned away to go. His mother stopped crying and looked over her shoulder at him. Her mouth gaped. Her hands trembled, then stopped. She pointed at him.

“Monster.”

Peter had known this might happen, he was nearly pitch black. “No. Mother, it's me.”

“Monster!” She called out, trying to get her neighbor’s attention. He tried to settle her down. He reached out. He wanted to embrace her. She recoiled.

“Please, it's me. I'm still the same.”

She backed from Peter until she stood at the edge of the platform.

“Mother, please.” Peter took another step forward and tried to grab her. He lunged.

He embraced her for one moment before she threw him away. He toppled and teetered on the edge. “White be right, black be wrong, my Peter is already dead and gone.” And she pushed. Peter fell, toppling into the black oil.

He plummeted down, his heart racing. The weight of his decision to return pulled him down. And then, the oil embraced him.

It did not burn, nor sting. Instead, he felt warm. He felt like he was returning home. His head ducked under the oil and his vision went black. He thought he might suffocate, but he felt strangely fine with holding his breath.

Suddenly the peace was interrupted. He felt the walls around him spasm and push. He was being forced out. In sudden agony, his warmth was interrupted and light filled his vision. Where was he? He cried out.

Then just as suddenly a dark warm blanket was wrapped around him and a smooth hand held him aloft. A black curved face greeted his, and he smiled and laughed.

But as he grew, something about the smooth curved lines and the all too black forms grated on him. “Was this all there was?” He thought as his mother tried to spoon-feed him.

“Black be right and white be wrong, swallow your soup and let hunger be gone.”

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

- David Foster Wallace

When I was in high school, some things seemed more apparent to me than to those around me. I witnessed my classmates, teachers, the parents, all “brown nosing” each other as if everyone around me was giving and receiving obsequious compliments and participation awards. And I didn't get it.

Why didn't everyone else see it as I did? I wasn't going to brown nose people. And I wasn't going to be a hypocrite.

But while some things seemed overly apparent to me, other things did not. While I was pretty popular with the students and teachers, there was a cadre of folks that didn't like me. They thought I was an egoist, but I couldn't fathom why.

In my mind, I had a little quadrant describing all people. The x-axis measured how good I thought I was: the negatives of the x-axis meant I'm not so hot, whereas the positive meant I’m hot shit. The y-axis was what I thought of everyone else: negative being pretty shitty, and positive being the shit. In my view, the world was firmly in the bottom left corner. I, as well as most people around me, could fare to do quite a bit better.

Given this perception, I didn't understand how people could think that I was egotistical. I mean, how could somebody that didn’t think too much of themselves, think too much of themselves! But what I failed to recognize is that most people don't care about how you view yourself, instead they care about how you view them. I had to see the world through their eyes.

There is a curious experiment in game theory called the Keynesian Beauty Contest that exemplifies this. It’s a game where a contestant goes up on stage, and everybody in the audience writes down a number from 1 to 10 assessing how beautiful they are. Now, there’s a catch. It’s not the contestant that wins a prize, but rather the member in the audience that wrote down a number closest to *half* of the average assessment of the room.

Let's say a contestant gets up, and is perfect in every way. A ten out of ten. What should you guess if you want to win the prize? Well, you might think to yourself, “Ah, everyone's gonna think this person's a ten out of ten. I should guess one half of that.” You write down 5 on your card, you flip it over, you're ready to go. But wait! Isn't that what everyone else in the room is trying to do as well? You look around. Everyone's smiling as if they know something special. And you realize, everyone has written down 5 on their card. But then something miraculous occurs to you. You realize, that everyone else has just thought through the same thing. They're not writing 5, or 2.5, or 1.25, or anything smaller than that. They're using inductive logic, one million times, and writing down 0!

I remember reading a paper about the Keynesian Beauty Contest, where they posed it to professors, game theorists, Caltech students, and MBAs. And then they measured how many levels deep each of these groups were thinking (for example, if you wrote down 5 you would have thought one level deep and 2.5 would be two levels deep).

The results were quite frankly surprising. The Caltech students and the game theorists thought four or five levels deep. Just like how the best chess grandmasters are thinking five or six moves ahead. But take a guess which group most closely resembled an average person? The MBAs. And I suspect out of all these groups, they’d most easily relate to them too.

In my view, this little experiment epitomized what I had done throughout my early life and childhood: overthink. Sure, going five, six, seven levels deep is great for a game like chess. But when you're trying to relate to other people, thinking four or five levels deep can get you into deep water.

When I first heard David Foster Wallace’s parable about water, I empathized with the old fish - the poor guy is a misunderstood genius, and he alone understands the medium in which we all swim. But reading it again, I can't help but think that the old fish is unable to put himself in other people's shoes (or fins in this case). And I suspect this was my mental block with complementing folks when I was younger. I kept thinking others would think that I was thinking about getting something from them 😵‍💫. I was being so meta about the whole interaction that I was acting just plain weird.

So if you're anything like me or a whole host of people throughout history, that has felt both greater understanding and misunderstood, stop overthinking it.

If you read books on marriage and coupling, the primary reason experts give for being in a relationship is that it makes you healthy. That’s right. Famous books from Gottman or Hendricks generally point to the empirical data of healthy married couples being the reason why you should be in a relationship. 

That's kind of funny, right? Being in a relationship is pretty much equivalent to eating broccoli, doing exercise, and not smoking. If that were true, why not take all the efforts put into relationships and instead put them into cardio? 

But even that logic has a benefit to the rationale that most people are under: folks are in relationships because we always have been. This is a classic argument I hear all the time. Human beings do X because it's their nature, for example folks eat fatty foods because we are biologically programmed to. This argument is a cop-out, and there's an easy counter that’s been baked into our language in the form of an idiom: can we rise against our nature. 

Yes, it might be our nature to crave fatty, salty, sugary foods, but we can fight to do what's better. So let’s stop talking about “what’s natural” like we’ve been fallaciously doing since Aristotle wrote Nicomachean Ethics, and instead use logic and first principles like Socrates before him.

So, why do human beings engage in relationships? People join together to complete common goals. That's it. Everywhere from business to politics to love, the purpose of relationships is to complete common goals. It sounds almost too obvious to be true, right? But often, it's the things that sound obvious in hindsight that are most right. 

The tragedy is, if you ask most couples and coworkers what their common goals are, folks will have no idea. 

I've found that with most couples, the common goal is tacit. Here are some common examples: to have kids, to help each other's career, to complete each other's Freudian growth arcs. And that's why when the kids leave the roost and the couples no longer share the goal of having kids, they often drift apart. 

Look, there's no reason why having kids is a bad common goal as long as it's overt. As long as couples know the risk that they take in having a finite goal. Because often finite goals mean finite relationships. 

So at this point, you might then say, “Hey Nate, I agree. Relationships need to have a fundamental common goal. And I have one with my partner. I just can't stand the way that they chew with their mouth open. So I can't deal with this relationship!” Well, my friend. I suspect your deal-breaker might be a deal-maker (as in the solution is to make deals/rules with your partner)!

After you have a common goal, I have found the most important next steps are to set up rules, guardrails, and bargains. 

A relationship rule is like a law or a covenant. It's a sacred oath that you swear upon the relationship itself you will uphold. And sadly, once again, almost all of these rules are tacit. In business, the rules are: 1) I'll do my best while I'm at work. 2) I won't sabotage deals. Etc. And in marriage, very often, they'll look like: 1) I won't cheat on you. 2) I'll care for you when you're sick. Etc.

Sometimes these are vocalized in sacred bonds like a wedding ceremony or inked in a work relationship through legal paperwork. But despite the medium, they're very often misunderstood and people don't read the fine print.

Great companies and couples have figured out how important these rules are. And they often call them culture. 

Culture is a unanimous agreement. Everyone's gotta buy in. If you get married, you make a shared culture together. You write your rules together. Each player has a say. And if you're a company, you'll do this with your founders and then every employee that comes into the company knows and agrees to the cultural bargain. 

In my relationships, I have one meta-rule on culture. I call this rule Remind and Apologize. The Remind part of the rule is that it's easier to recognize when other people violate your culture. So noting that, we have a “I am your cultural keeper” sentiment at our company. I expect my partners to remind me when I am not upholding our shared cultural values. Next, and equally important, when someone is reminded that they are not holding up their cultural values, they apologize and recant. That way, we can fight against our automatic infractions. We get reminded in the instant, we correct it in the instant. Keeping the temporal distance small is important because of the simple truth, neurons that fire together, wire together. The more times you are reminded to correct yourself at the moment, the easier it will be to follow the cultural codes in the future. 

The next tactic I use in my relationships is called guardrails. Guardrails help long-standing relationships guard against pet peeves. If your partner in crime hates it when you chew with the mouth open, you can make a guardrail with them to gently remind yourself to stop. To me, this is similar to a cultural code. But it's in the situation where your partner has a pet peeve on something you're doing unintentionally. Think about it in economic terms. Your partner is getting negative economic value, and you're neither gaining nor losing. So, you guys enter into an agreement where your partner becomes your keeper. They'll let you know when you're annoying them with your pet peeve and you, upon being reminded, stop. 

Once again, concurrency is kind because neurons that fire together, wire together. The more you're reminded, the less you'll do the pet peeve and the happier you both will become. 

Finally, I've found that all great relationships need to learn how to bargain. I suspect this is especially important for true partnerships where each party is a 50-50 owner in the relationship. A bargain is simple. You want your partner to attend a wedding and your partner doesn't want to go. How do you resolve this quandary? Well, it's simple. Make going to the wedding a win-win. Because all smart people understand that relationships are either win-win or lose-lose. 

So the conversation might go like this. 

“Hey, Plato, I want you to come to a wedding with me.” 

“Nah, Socrates, I'm not a big fan of those guys. I'd rather stay home.” 

“Well, Plato, how about I make you your favorite pineapple pizza this weekend while watching Die Hard?” 

Plato scratches his chin. He's a big Die Hard fan. “You do that, and you throw in a back massage, then you’ve got a deal.” Socrates picks up a glass filled with hemlock, gives a toast to Plato, and they both have made a successful bargain. 

Isn't a bargain a little crass? What about in employee-employer relationships or in love relationships? Aren't there just some things that you should do? Well, yes. But realize this. Relationships really are win-win or lose-lose. It's only a matter of time before unilateral decisions catch up to the other lateral. 

And there, just as simple as that, we've described how relationships work between two consenting adults! Create a shared goal. Understand your culture. Make guardrails. Learn how to bargain. And most importantly, don't keep it all tacit. Communicate it and write that shit down.