"In the movie, The Purge, a person with some sense survives by locking themselves in the house and not leaving until morning. So why the heck does someone always...I mean always...get caught on the street far from the safety of their home on purge night. It makes no sense."

Geneva was raging. Raging and not raging were her two states. She was either raging mad about something or simply did not care. Kim hated the raging states and she was desperately thankful they didn't happen often. She tried to explain, "You know it's a movie, right? If someone didn't get stuck on the street after the curfew, then the credits would be rolling 5 minutes after the movie started."

Geneva wasn't satisfied. "It doesn't make sense," she said. She slapped her hands together on each word.

Kim sighed. She put her hands over her eyes and covered her lips. One deep breath later, she asked, "Neva, what's your point?"

"That is my point. I got no idea what I might lose tonight...hearing, tasting, smelling. Whatever it is, I want to be home when it's gone. Move faster please."

Kim wondered why she asked Geneva to join her, especially on this day of all days. It was annual Appreciation Day, but it was also a Friday. On Fridays Kim visited GiGi. Her great grandmother, GiGi, was the only family she had and she intended to keep every promise to her until the day came when she couldn't. She promised GiGi she would visit every Friday no matter what. .

At 72, GiGi was able to take care of herself better than anyone during Appreciation Day, but Kim was committed to bringing her Friday dinner from Cannibals, an American food restaurant, which carried GiGi's favorite burger. Sometimes she'd bring a burger; sometimes something else. It didn't matter. She just needed to see GiGi's face to know her life wasn't so lonely, even with Geneva as a friend.

It was a shame Appreciation Day was today. She wanted to spend more time with GiGi but Geneva was right. Appreciation Day was a day where, by law and medical intervention, we all lost a sense so we could learn to appreciate the small things in life. Last year, Kim lost touch and put a third-degree burn on her finger. But she couldn't see a doctor until the next morning. That was a miserable night. She didn'tneed Appreciation Day to appreciate all the senses God blessed me with.

We arrived at GiGi's house, with Kim still citing the possible list of things you risked without the sense of taste. "Bananas. I got a bunch. Can't enjoy them tonight if I lose taste. Leftover creme Brule. Might as well throw it out. Water. Forget it. If it has a metalic hint I just have to gobble it down."

"Water has no taste, Neva."

"Yes it does. Iron. It tasts's like iron"

She shook my head and pushed the key into the lock on GiGi's front door. Swinging it open to let Geneva walk through, She called to GiGi. But there was no answer.

Aaron introduces himself as the fifth-born in a family of seven. Our parents have eight children, but Aaron refuses to acknowledge his twin. He says the existence of a twin destroys the balance of our family. To Aaron, seven is the number of balance. We all know eight is balance on any scale but it is not for Aaron. From the time he could intelligently voice his opinion, Aaron has intentionally tried to wipe out his twin’s presence often referring to his birth sibling as an imaginary friend. Tears flowing from eyes that look exactly like his and parental threats could not sway him. Eventually, they began to carry out separated lives. Aaron twin’s name is Andrew. I am Andrew.

I love my brother because loving each other is what family members do. But it’s hard to love a dude who seems to hate you, which is really like hating himself since I reflect everything of him. Our round face, somewhat large nose and permanently curled lips set us aside from most of our family members. Our height are near matches which is often not the case for twins. Our stocky build feigns fit physiques in just the right clothes. We look the same naked and clothed. Besides a small, pear shaped mole below his right rib cage, the only difference is I love Aaron and he hates me.

Over the years I’ve learned to live with it. Survival requires me to treat my brother like a distant cousin. You have to be cordial but you don’t have to be close. I watched Aaron soar through the elementary and high school years like he was on top of the world. He was “star” everything. Star athlete. Star student. Star friend. Star lover. And I was Andrew, his twin. While Aaron succeeded publicly, I basked in the low key love of my parents and other siblings who accepted us both where we were.

I was loved. So it didn’t make sense when in the last year of high school I developed a habit of sleepwalking. Adrienne was the first to discover it. My big sis came home from a date one night and found me moving plates from the cabinet to the table. I just about had everything out when she slapped my face.

Dazed, I shouted “Ouch”.

“I been calling you. Are you ok?”

Adrienne looked like she thought I was possessed. Later my parents would be able to label it as sleepwalking but would do nothing more than assign each family member, except Aaron, with the task of watching me each night.

Now I’m 25. And the sleepwalking seems to have disappeared. Moving away for college, against my parents desires, helped. At college I was Andrew. Drew, actually. And no one knew I had a twin. It was a new life, which led me to a great job working with kids as a youth center director. Helping kids see the best of themselves made me happy. Being in my own place made me happy. I was happy until Aaron came by a week ago.

He rang the doorbell like he often visited when I hadn’t seen him in years.

“Andrew”, he shouted and gripped me in a massive hug.

“Aaron…what? A-aron?” Most of my response fell into his wool jacket as he crushed my head into his shoulder.

Pushing me away gently, he said, “Do you mind if I stay?”

The next day while he ate one of my chicken and biscuit breakfast sandwiches from the freezer and sipped coffee he had made for us, Aaron asked, “I thought you were over the sleepwalking thing?”

“I am.”

“Then why were you in my room last night?”

That was the beginning of our week. Today I’m sitting on a highway with an ambulance ready to take me to a hospital and fire engines putting out a blaze on a car.

I don’t drive. It’s Aaron’s car.

Aren’t kids supposed to have whatever they want?

This was the first line in Rory’s story. Rory was one of 28 students in my 3rd grade class. He was bright and small. In other words, Rory was a geek. A perfect target for kids who couldn’t answer questions as fast as he did or who were taller than he was.

In the past few months Rory had been working in his courage. He wanted to be able to stand up for himself. With milk chocolate eyes set against deep brown skin, Rory had sat in my classroom during an afternoon recess and made the announcement to me this he wanted to be brave. I looked at his physique, remnant of a child born too early and always trying to catch up physically. I had seen so many Rorys before. Eventually, they found a protector or endured until they left the school.

Rory wasnt’ leaving any time soon, and he hadn’t yet made friends. He was new to the school, and having come in the middle of the school did not help his cause. Rory’s mother told me two facts on Rory’s first day. Rory was adopted. And Rory’s adopted father was a commander who specialized in delivery of IT systems.

With a beaming smile, she said, “He is an important man.”

Then she stroked Rory‘s head as if confirming the statement. I didn’t like his mom, but I had grown attached to Rory. He was an amazing kid.

In little time, he made new friends and didn’t need a protector. He managed to prove to bullies that he was not the one to bully. He ran races, participated in a spelling bee and won, became junior volunteer of the month, and once counseled me in the dangers of eating a Twinkie every day.

I loved Rory and had to fight hard not to show it. I didn’t want any of the other students thinking I favored Rory. But I couldn’t stop the flood of pride I felt when this wiry, petite kid out did children who were twice his size.

Because of how much I adored him, the first line of his story stunned me. What could Rory want that he couldn’t have. Then I read the more.

“All I want is a year where nothing changes. I want everything to stay the same at least for a little while. “

I glanced up from my reading to look at Rory. His chin rested on his chest while he read. A favorite position and a sign of Intense concentration. I read more.

“I love Miss Angie. She’s my favorite teacher.”

I stole another look at him. I was happy he shared a fondness for me. I read more.

“But now she’s leaving and I don’t want that. Why can’t have what I want.”

My smile faded. What was Rory talking about. I wasn’t leaving. I thought I had to correct Rory quickly so I kept him at recess time to question him.

“Rory. I read your story,” I began. “And I appreciate how much you like me. I like you as well. But I’m not going anywhere. Don’t worry.”

Rory replied. “Yes you are.” Then my third grade student relayed a conversation he overheard his PTO mom having with another parent. According to Rory, I was being fired at the end of the week. For what??? Rory said, “ Something about schools budgets and last fire.”

I stared a Rory. “ do you mean last hired first fire?”

“I think so. I’m going to miss you. “

Filling the silence of my car like the explosion from a volcano, the scene struck me hard. I had driven twenty minutes to get here. My vision of my arrival and exit, quite different. I was suppose to drive into a bay, press the button to open my trunk, and peruse Instagram while I waited for volunteers to take five boxes of documents from my car. Shred day is supposed to be straightforward. Uneventful. Almost somewhat peaceful.

It was not.

The line of cars stretched two miles, bending and turnng as it hung to the side of the park. But the people, most of them, were not in their cars. A crowd massed around a blue sedan near the front of the line. Apparently the driver had been trying to break into the front of the line instead heading to the rear. This level of audacity is not acceptable in a small town, especially this one. A glance at the truck who’s job was take all our important secrets and cut them into confetti provided more information. One small truck, no bigger than the Us Two Guys movers who handle all the town moves, was supposed to shred the load of the 40 to 50 cars in this growing line. Impossible was by first thought. Idiotic as my second.

Who thought this truck could handle the job? No one did and tempers were rising. People have already spent too much time in this line and the selfish driver in the blue sedan wasn’t receiving any our normal small town hospitality.

Someone kicked the tire of the car. A big man in a hunting jacket slammed on the hood. This made a younger man with a pony tail shout, “Stop that”. Then I knew two factions had rose quickly: those for the driver and against the driver. A few non- committed people had opened their trunks and were walking boxes to the truck. This enraged a third group who grabbed boxes in an attempt to stop the walkers.

The windows of the blue sedan were shut and the crowd became more agitated when someone threw a cup of something from Chick-fil-a at the driver side window. Liquid rained down the glass.

Against all advice my momma gave me about functioning in a riot(because this looked like the precursor to a riot and because my momma has advice on just about anthing that could possibly happen to me) I got out of my car, and walked over to peek at the driver.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The driver was Aunt Kay.