Second Chance

A Story about Changing the Past

Dante

“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”.