"Are you sure your dad won't mind?" I asked again. We were in Sam Warner's personal study. The best-selling, book-award winning author, who was famous enough to get invited to the White House (twice). That Sam Warner.

"Stop being such a wuss," Vince said. "My dad is away for the next two weeks on another tour. We're fine."

Cassie nodded along. Both she and Vince had a point. I was being a wuss. But I had a weird feeling that we were about to do something we shouldn't. Kind of like when some people know they're going to get bad news when a friend or relative calls or texts.

"I just don't see why we need to use his computer," I said. "We can access the game network fine."

"But parental controls are on it," Vince said. "We can't reach the next phase as long as they're in place. I asked Dad to lift them before he left yesterday, but as usual, he forgot. I swear the man would lose his head if it weren't attached to his body."

"But doesn't it seem weird to hack .." I started.

"We're not hacking," Vince shot back. "God, you're such a pussy. Sorry Cassie."

"You're not wrong," Cassie said, and looked at me with a hint of annoyance.

We'd been friends since second grade, long before Vince's dad got famous. We managed to stay friends despite the fame that landed on Sam Warner's shoulders. Several years of book deals, two movie adaptations, and an ongoing series hadn't changed the Warners at all. They still lived on our street, and Cassie and I were always welcome.

"Anyway, I know where he keeps his passcodes to the app store. I go in as him, click a few boxes, and I'm out. He's none the wiser and we get to play phase 4 of Omicron Mission. Everyone wins," Vince said.

"Whatever," I said and turned around. It still felt weird to me, but I was the odd one out - again.

Vince started typing on the keyboard. Cassie leaned over his shoulder while I looked around the office.

"What the hell?" Vince said. "Do you see that?"

I turned to see Cassie lean closer into the screen.

"What is it?" I asked. Vince didn't answer. I could tell the email application was open. Vince had opened a message. PAYMENT DUE NOW was written in caps in the subject line.

"What does it say?" I asked.

"Dear Warner," Vince started. "The time for games is over. You've built a fortune on my ideas and it's time I took my fair share. You have two days to pay me. If you don't. I go public. Meet me in Chicago, near the Bean downtown on Sept. 23. I'll be there 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. At 4:05 the following email goes to your agent and editor."

An email message appeared below. We all scanned it. Whoever wrote claimed to be the original author of all of Sam Warner's books and demanded payment. The writer claimed to have proof, including audio and video files of meeting with Vince's dad to talk ideas and arrange payment, which had never been made.

"Where did you say your dad was going?" Cassie asked.

"Chicago," Vince said. "Today's the 23rd. He's in Chicago."

Andy looked over the crowd and smiled. His band, Blackout Dawn, had just finished their last set at a sold-out McCarthy Stadium and he soaked in the moment. The band had reached its apex, and had managed to stay on top for two decades strong.

Despite the now countless times he witnessed moments like this, Andy never took it for granted. He and the band worked hard to get here - to headline a daylong music show with other killer acts.

"A long way from rural Virginia," he thought. He had just finished an acoustic version of "Thanks, I hate it" and the audience yelled for more. The rest of the band had already left the stage, leaving Andy - lead singer, songwriter, and co-founder - as the sole performer. He raised the microphone to his lips.

"Thank you, Moreland! Always great to see you guys. I love you all. Really, I mean it. And I'm not even drunk! So you know I mean it!"

That always got a laugh. He had fought his battles against booze and drugs just as the band was getting popular, but he had been clean for more than 10 years. The passion that drove him - outside of the band, of course - was Findword.

It was a fact that he kept hidden during most interviews. His bandmates knew it, of course. And he mentioned it on a few podcast and vlog entries, but to the everyday fan, who knew the band's popular songs, they were likely unaware that Andy Turner was a huge Findword fan - a veritable master.

That's why the sign caught his eye. While walking off the stage, Andy saw a teenage boy on an older man's shoulders with a sign that read "Andy - I play Findword!"

He pointed to the pair and called Jerry, his longtime stage manager. "Have someone bring them back," he said.

Jerry nodded.

Andy greeted the other bandmates - Paul, Trey, Wilson, and Tony - in the green room backstage. They huddled and did a post-show cheer.

"Bus leaves in 30," Jerry said. "No meet and greets, except the kid Andy flagged."

"Who is it?" Paul asked. He was Andy's closest friend and co-founder of Blackout Dawn.

"He held up a sign saying he played Findword," Andy said, wiping the sweat and makeup off of his face. "I figure we have time for a quick game."

"Board's all set," Jerry said. "The kid and his dad are waiting."

Paul rolled his eyes and walked to his dressing room. Andy took a large sip of water and walked into his dressing room. The boy's name was Charlie. His dad was David. After intros, Andy got down to business.

"So you like Findword, huh?" he asked.

"Charlie's the best in his school, and he's a huge Blackout Dawn fan," David said with a father's pride. "I told him if he won the regional competition, I'd get him tickets to the show. It was a no-doubter after that."

"Wow. Didn't know they had competitions," Andy said. "Well, I've only got a few minutes, but we can play a quick game. Best of five?"

The three sat. David begged out and chose to watch.

They began to play. Findword could move quickly. Andy had little trouble defeating his bandmates, the crew, and anyone else who challenged him.

This kid was different. Whatever delusions he harbored about playing against a rock star disappeared when Charlie saw the board. He was all business. He quickly won the first two rounds. One more and he's sweep Andy. Jerry watched from afar and saw Andy's expression change from mild bemusement to incomprehension to anger. He dreaded whenever Andy got that look and walked  out to find Paul.

Charlie was about to make the final move that would complete the sweep when Paul walked in. He saw the rage building in Andy's face and sought to defuse the bomb.

"Hey kid! Want a free guitar? I'll get the band to sign it," he said. "Maybe a few t-shirts, too, for dad and the family?"

David, the father, stood and shook Paul's hand, just as Charlie made his final move to win the game.

Paul's interruption helped Andy snap out of his buildup. He had lost rounds of Findword before, but never so quickly and never to a kid.

Troy stared at the gun on the table. The revolver's chamber could hold six rounds. He watched the man pick it up and open the cylinder to load the bullets.

"We're going to play this game," the man said. "Ever take a loaded gun, point it against your head, and pull the trigger? It's fun. Especially when you know what the bullets will do."

Troy tried not to show fear. He knew his actions brought him here and caused this meeting. The fear felt like a large ball of cotton stuck in throat.

"Now is the part when you kneel," the man said once the revolver was fully loaded with six bullets. He snapped the cylinder back in place.

Troy felt hands on his shoulders that pushed him down to his knees. His arms were pulled out to form a T. His chin placed on the table where the gun had lain.

"I'm not going to bother with spinning the cylinder," the man said. "Every chamber is loaded. These are hollow points, by the way. Know what they do? Turn your brain into mush. If you're found after this - and you won't be, but in case that happens - they won't hold an open casket for you."

Troy tried to struggle, but he was tightly held and barely moved.

"Squirm all you like. I enjoy watching the fight occur. Knowing death is imminent. What part of your lizard brain kicks in to avoid it? Have you peed yet? Check his pants."

Troy felt the person next to him bend over to see the front of his trousers.

"Nope," the man said. "Dry."

"Better than some. I like a clean floor. You have my respect," the man said. "For that, I'm going to take out two bullets. Instead of six out of six, you're now four out of six. Like that?"

Troy managed to indicate a nod by pushing his chin down on the table. He guessed three people held him. One for each arm; and a third keeping his head in place. The one holding his head stood on Troy's calves. With death looming, Troy didn't feel the pressure on his legs. He tried to control his breathing so he wouldn't pass out. He was impressed, too, that he hadn't let his bladder or bowels go. Yet.

"A question: What did you do with the stash you found in the woods?" the man asked. Troy felt the pressure on his head loosen just enough for him to lift his chin off the table to speak. But just barely.

"It's in my garage," he said. "My house backs up to the woods and my kids found it. I put it in the garage for now and told them I'd take care of it."

"So it should still be there?"

"Yes."

The man looked behind Troy and must have received a cue of some sort.

"You're right. Stash is still there," the man said. "That's another round for you. Three out of six. Your luck is improving. "

Troy watched the bullet slide from the cylinder. It landed with a loud thud on the table.

The man closed the cylinder and spun it.

"Ready to play 50/50, or shall we continue?" he asked.

By this time, the part of Troy's brain that wasn't consumed with self preservation understood what was happening. As long he told the truth, he may survive.

"Another question," the man said after a few moments passed. "Did your kids tell anyone about the stash?"

Troy wanted to say no. But he didn't know for sure.

"I don't know," he said. "I doubt it."

"You're not even going to try and lie to me, are you?" the man said with a slight smile. "Can't tell you the number of times I've had someone scream a lie at me, thinking it would spare them. Only made me want to kill them quicker."

Troy looked at him. He had resigned himself to the fact that he was about to die. He felt oddly at peace with that. His mind clear. No worries about work, the mortgage, the houses, Sue or the boys. They got away in time. The last picture Sue had sent showed the back of the boys' heads. Their hair was bleached blonde now, no doubt an attempt to disguise. Sue wasn't in the photo and hadn't sent a shot of her. No doubt she was disguised, too. He hoped they got away.

"Where's the family?" the man asked. "We've watched the house closely. No runs to the grocery store or to school or the ballfields. Seen nothing but you in the last few days. Did you tell them to run?"

"Yes," Troy said.

"Where?"

"I have no idea. I told her don't let me know. Just take the boys and run," Troy said.

"So you knew you had something to worry about?"

"I got spooked picking up my sons one day. I saw the same vehicle that had been parked on our street," Troy said. "It was in front of a house that has an old man who lives alone. He never comes out."

"Very observant."

"I work from home and walk the dog a lot," Troy said.

"Good," the man. He opened the cylinder and emptied two more chambers. "I think the honesty and powers of observation are worth two more bullets."

He snapped the cylinder into place and pointed it at Troy.

"Down to one now. My how the tables have turned for you."

"I wouldn't say that. You're still pointing a gun at me."

"True," the man said. "For the last bullet, I'm willing to make a deal. Come work for me. I need someone who's legit. Who notices things. Who tells the truth. And who keeps a cool head when a gun is pointed at them. You check those boxes."

He pushed the gun against Troy's temple and cocked the weapon. "What do you say? You'll get what you deserve. I'll make sure of it."

"I don't know why. I couldn't just help myself."

Mark shrugged at the police officer as he said those words. He couldn't believe them himself, but tried to sell it to the cop as the reason for stabbing the man, kid really, on the train ride home.

"Take me through it again," the officer said. They stood on the sidewalk next to the steps that led to the El platform that Mark took into work every day.

Mark recounted the story one more time. He had boarded a block from his office in the Loop. The train was empty, which was odd for a Wednesday at 5:30 p.m. But it was Sept. 12, 2001, and most of the country was still in shock at what had happened the day before. Few offices were open that day. Mark himself hadn't wanted to come in. Katrina's uncle worked in one of the towers in New York City and they hadn't heard whether he had gotten out before it fell. They both went to bed the night before with an empty, raw feeling in their stomachs, as if they hadn't eaten for days.

Mark awoke early and decided to go to the office. The train into town was empty. The Loop looked as deserted as it did on Sunday mornings. Mark went through the motions at work — looking over copy, writing headlines, formatting photos for the website that employed him. He could tell from hourly traffic reports that nobody cared what he was posting. If it didn't report on news from New York or Washington, D.C., it didn't matter.

He checked in with Katrina twice. No word from her dad about her uncle. The gnawing pit in Mark's stomach grew, even though he ate two sandwiches for lunch. He promptly left at 5:15 and caught the 5:30 brown line to Ravenswood.

"The train was empty," Mark began. "I sat next to the window and saw three of the kids get on at a later stop. They started hassling an old lady who had gotten on at the stop after mine. I recognized her from other days and knew she had a hard time walking, which is why she sat next to the door. Those kids didn't like that."

Mark saw the kids taunt the lady. "They figured they had the train to themselves and they outnumbered her and me," he said. The lady stood to move, and as she passed one of the boys blocking the aisle, he pushed her.

"That's when you got up," the officer said.

"Right," Mark replied. "They didn't need to pick on her. They could sit anywhere."

"What did you say?"

"Help her up!" Mark shouted at the boys. "Help her up and let her sit where she wants. Leave her alone."

"Ooh, a tough guy, eh?" one of the kids said. "Mind your own business or I'll make you mind it."

Mark saw the glint of something flashy in the kid's hand and shook his head.

"You know how to use that thing? Cause I sure as hell do."

"Did you?" the officer asked.

"I taught self defense classes in college and studied martial arts. I could handle myself," Mark said.

It had been several years, and he was rusty, but the skills and muscle memory - like riding a bike - never went away.

The boy lunged at Mark, who moved to the side, grabbed the arm that held the knife and twisted it until the kid dropped it.

He had disarmed the kid when one of the other two decided to attack Mark.

"That's when you turned and stabbed him," the officer said.

Mark nodded. "I didn't mean to, he just stepped to me and I moved my arm."

Mark mimicked the motion for the officer, who took notes and nodded.

"Why did you get involved in the first place?"

"They pissed me off," Mark told him. "I'm in a bad place right now."

"Aren't we all?" the officer said.

The cop put away his notebook. "I checked with the EMT. They say the kid's gonna be alright. Really more a scratch than a knife wound. To me it was self defense, but I'll have to make a report. I'll call you if we need anything further."

Mark shook the officer's hand and walked home, still wondering about Katrina's uncle.

"This is a terrible idea," Josie said to Patrick and Shawna.

The three were bored on their third Saturday in college. None had connected with their roommates and had found each other walking the halls in their dorms with a shared apathetic gaze. While freshmen around them were dressing for parties, talking about the big game Saturday, or last week's concert, Josie, Patrick, and Shawna individually - and, collectively - rolled their eyes at all of it.

Shawna and Josie shared a few classes together. Patrick was in the common room often, usually kicked out by his roommate when he brought home a girl he had met while out. Shawna and Josie took pity on him one night, and the three had gotten together regularly since then.

They shared the same interests in movies, books, and music. Patrick was more interested in the occult and horror and started talking about ways to summon spirits to torture his roommate.

"We could totally do it," he said. "There are three of us. All we need is the next full moon, some paint, a few words of incantation, and - boom - we've opened the door."

"Then what?" Shawna asked.

"Well, as the doorkeepers, we control the access, so they have to listen to us," Patrick said.

Josie shook her head and rolled her eyes in disbelief. "We're not doing that," she said. "It's dumb."

"What's dumb is your lack of imagination," Patrick said. "There's a whole world behind the world. And this will open the door for us."

"How do you know this?" Shawna asked.

"Because I read. Duh," Patrick said. "It's in books. Haven't you seen the shelf in my room?"

"The one that's constantly covered?" Jose asked.

"Jake makes me cover it," Patrick said of his roommate. "He told me if I didn't he'd toss them while I was at class. Jerk."

"He can't do that. It's your property," Josie said.

"Yeah. You need to get a new roommate," Shawna agreed.

"Thanks for telling me the obvious," Patrick said. "I can't swap roommates now. There's a backlog. Which means I'm stuck with the turd until winter break at the earliest."

"So the next best thing is ...." Shawna led.

"Demonic possession!" Patrick ended her sentence. "We do it Saturday. Full moon. Everybody will be out, except us, of course. We can do it in my room and surprise the crap out of turd Jake when he shows up."

Josie and Shawna shrugged in agreement. What else were they going to do?

Patrick finished painting the pentagram on the floor. He had lifted the carpet that Jake had put down during move-in. The carpet resembled a football field and was a fixture in Jake's room when he was growing up. Patrick knew this because Jake had told him that fact whenever Patrick asked that it be rolled up. He preferred the bare floor to a tacky green rug with football hash marks. But - like everything else in the room - Patrick had lost that argument.

Tonight would be his revenge. He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction at the perfectly painit ted pentagram in the center of the room.

"Now we wait until the moonlight enters the window," he said. "I chose the side of the dorm purposefully because it captures more of the moon in early night than the other side. I've got a whole list of spells and summonses I want to try."

Josie and Shawna tried to share Patrick's enthusiasm, but both were regretting the steps they took to befriend him.

Patrick looked at his watch. "By my calculations, the first beam of moonlight will hit the room in approximately two minutes. Josie, kill the lights. Shawna, light the candle and place it in the center. I'll start the incantation."

Both Josie and Shawna obeyed. Might as well humor him, they thought.

Patrick opened the thickest book on his shelf and turned about a third of the way through. He held it near the window so the moonlight would shine on the pages. He began speaking in a language neither girl recognized.

The full moon's beam and the candle in the pentagram's center provided the only light source in the room. The candle cast odd shadows on the wall. Josie thought she could see movement in the shadows as Patrick continued to speak. But she discounted it as impressionable thought. She was always the gullible one, her mom would say.

Patrick finished what he was saying with a loud yell and moved to blow the candle out.

"Patrick, what the hell?" Shawna said. "Josie get the light!"

Josie turned on the room light. Patrick stood in the pentagram's center. But he also stood near the window.

"Why are there two of you?" Shawna asked Patrick. "That's messed up. You screwed up."

Near-window Patrick said, "No. I didn't. I said the right spell. This must be wrong, though. It wasn't for duplication."

Pentagram-center Patrick said, "No you got me. You called and I came. What do you need?"

"Who are you?" Josie asked.

"The one you called. The dark one," Pentagram-center Patrick said.

"Why do you look like me?" Near-window Patrick said.

"You know how in the Bible God said man is in his image? Well, it was my image he was talking about," Pentagram-center Patrick said. "I'm the devil?" Near-window Patrick asked. "This is way cooler than I thought."

"Don't flatter yourself," the devil Patrick said. "I take the form of the one who summons me. I learned that if I showed as my regular self, those who summon me freak out. I've been burned, shot, poked at with sticks, and stabbed. This is way better. So. What do you want?"

Patrick explained his plan for the devil to possess Jake, his roommate. "Just scare him a bit. I want him to ease off and stop being such a jerk."

"No can do," the devil as Patrick said. "When I assume the form of the one who called me, I assume all of their characteristics. I have no powers. I just look like you. Only cooler, I think."

"That sucks," Shawna said.

"Tell me about it," the devil as Patrick said. "This guy .... Jake, is it? He's on my radar. I've been watching him since his middle school days. I'd say he's a prime candidate for my kingdom."

"At least he's going to hell," Patrick said. "That's something."

"Rule 1 in my presence," the devil as Patrick said. "Don't call it hell. Hades, maybe. Sheol, OK. Hell, no way. That's my home. Now. Can I go back there?"

"You really can't do anything?" Patrick asked. "Not even, like, cause him pain?"

"I'm useless. Consider it part of the curse."

"So disappointing," Patrick said.

"Get used to it," the devil said. "There's more where that came from."

"You ready?" Mac asked Towson as they waited in the ready room. They had cleared the clerk of course check in and were seated in order for the medley relay race.

Liz was first, Carissa second, Mac third, and Towson fourth. That was the order the coach wanted. The first three had swum the relay before. They were champions. Liz held the school record for backstroke, the first in the medley relay. Carissa was a three-time champion of the breaststroke, the second leg of the race. Mac was - hands down -the best butterfly sprinter the sport had ever seen. He seemed bound to attain Olympic glory.

That left Towson, the anchor, to swim the freestyle leg. It would be his first time. Charlie, the regular anchor, had lost his grip coming out of the pool after his 200 free event, which he won, and knocked his chin on the tile deck. Blood sprayed everywhere. He had likely broken his jaw, though X-rays hadn't confirmed that. Obviously, he'd be out the mixed medley relay, the final event of the meet, which was the final meet of the season for Coiner College.

The meet against Pinestown would decide the division champion. The events were close. Pinestown and Coiner traded leading points throughout the meet. The medley relay would decide the meet winner and the championship.

Liz, Carissa, and Mac were all graduating. With Charlie at anchor, they had never lost a medley relay. But witnessing Charlie's injury and the agonizing wait while Coach Dalsey considered options for replacement unnerved the trio. Carissa placed second in the individual breaststroke. Liz bungled her flip turn in the backstroke and missed the top 3 placement altogether.

Coach Dalsey's decision put them in a worse mood.

"Who the hell is Towson Garrett?" Mac bellowed at his coach. Dalsey was used to it and stood her ground.

"He's a walk-on freshman, but he's shown great promise in practice. He beat Charlie in the 100 free, which is the distance he'll swim for the medley. He can do it," she said.

"He's a nobody!" Mac shouted back. "He's what? 100 pounds soaking wet?"

Carissa and Liz agreed. Dalsey had lost her mind, they thought.

Towson did not look like a swimmer. He was scrawny and appeared to have zero muscles on his tiny frame. His ribs shown. His elbows stuck out at odd angles.

None of the three seemed bothered that the conversation occurred in front of Towson, who heard everything. Dalsey had pulled the four aside and stepped into the hallway off of the pool deck.

"You're going to sink us," Mac said. "You're ruining our chances for a championship year."

"Have faith in the kid, Mac," Dalsey said. "I do. I remember when you were a freshman. Couldn't swim fly to save your life. Now look at you. Bound for Helsinki if everything goes right. I've made the call. Build a lead, and give it to him. He'll bring us home."

She left for the four to talk and get checked in.

"You ready?" Mac asked again. "You blow our lead, better figure out how to walk home."

"I got it," Towson said.

"Don't think I've ever seen you swim," Mac said.

"I'm always in the farthest lane from you guys. Just started swimming my junior year in high school."

"Christ, and now you're here. Great," Mac said. "Coach has really lost it."

The clerk of course motioned for the relay team to get in position. They would occupy Lane 5. The Pinestown team would take Lane 4.

"Who's the shrimp, Mac?" one of the Pinestown swimmers asked. "That's taking Charlie's place? You guys want to give us this meet or what?"

"Shut it," Mac said. "You still have to take me down."

Mac turned to Towson and nodded. "When we're on the deck, we're a team."

Towson nodded back.

Liz jumped in and positioned for the backstroke start. She arched backwards off the blocks and was kicking underwater well ahead of her Pinestown rival. She completed her leg three lengths ahead as Carissa dove in for breaststroke. Something was still wrong, or Pinestown had a stronger swimmer, because the lead had dwindled to a half length when it was Mac's turn for butterfly. Mac increased the spread to a full length by the time he touched the wall.

Standing next to Towson for Pinestown was Kris Norris, the fastest 100 freestyle swimmer in the division. His large shoulders, long arms, broad chest, and toned legs waited to pounce. Next to Norris, Towson looked like a middle schooler playing a swimming game for fun.

Mac touched the wall with both of his hands a few seconds ahead of the Pinestown swimmer. Towson lunged into the pool and submerged beneath the waterline. Norris followed in his lane and took a commanding lead before Towson emerged.

Norris was ahead by a half length when he completed his first 50 to turn. Mac, Carissa, and Liz watched down the lane in anguish as Norris' head came out for the final 50 home. They could see Towson had turned, but he remained underwater for a longer time, almost to the distance cutoff allowed.

When Towson emerged, his arms and legs moved with a speed they hadn't noticed before. It wasn't that his strokes or kicks were faster, but they looked smoother. More efficient. He gained on Norris and was even with him as they approached the flags near the wall. With two fluid, long strokes Towson's hand touched the wall a wrist-length ahead of Norris.

The pool center erupted in cheers. Judges, who already wore ear protection, covered their ears to block the sound of the roaring crowd.

Liz, Carissa, and Mac pulled Towson out of the water - an easy task given his light weight - and hoisted him onto Mac's shoulders.

Coiner had won. Towson had won. Coach Dalsey smiled. She mouthed "Faith" to Mac, who nodded and clapped in her direction.

They had been friends for years. They had first met in a college dorm when they lived down the hall from one another. They flirted and hung out throughout the year, but nothing ever serious came from it. Until the night before classes ended. Both admitted that the sex felt weird. It was hard to consider the other a good friend after that night.  They weren't a couple. But good friends fell short of their status.

Other nights followed before each left for the summer term. She went to Washington, D.C., her hometown, to intern at a policy firm. He headed for the beach and a summer of working at a dive bar at night while surfing all day. They made promises to stay in touch, but neither did.

She got back with her boyfriend, who was out of college and trying to make it as a musician. He made many an acquaintance at the beach with his surfer boy tan, blonde hair, and bright smile.

As the summer ended, she called to say that circumstances with her family would keep her away from school that fall. Her dad had suffered a stroke, and her mom needed help around the house. She got a full-time job and found an apartment with some friends that was close to her parents' home.

He returned to school. It took him two nights to realize that he missed her. The sense of school and place lost importance without her. He called that Friday to say he could get a ride to D.C. if she could meet him. She instantly agreed. They set the meetup for a nearby bar.

The moment he saw her waiting he wanted her. They skipped drinks and dinner, paid the tab for her wine, and walked the few blocks to her apartment. They began to kiss on the stairs to the third floor.

The lovers embraced with an emotion and passion that surprised them both. To feel another so closely, especially one that was yearned for, unlocked a trove of emotions that swept them both away. They had barely made it up the stairs into her apartment before clothes began to shed from their bodies.

He needed her - to touch her skin, her mouth, every space of her body. Likewise, she felt she couldn't breathe without his mouth on hers. She wanted to hold him, feel him on her body, and never let him go.

They reached the couch and collapsed in a scrum of hands moving over the other's body.

"I want you," she whispered in his ear as she kissed and bit his lobe. "I've wanted you for so long."

"I know," he said, lying on top of her. "But before we do this, there are two people we should think about."

She stopped. Her hands fell limp at his sides. She sat up on the couch.

"Are you serious?" she asked. "Are you brining up my boyfriend? I can't believe it. And what, you have a girlfriend now? When were you going to tell me?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. Genuinely confused, he wasn't expecting her to get on this topic. "I mean, I have a girlfriend, but she's back at school. She thinks I'm home for the weekend."

"God," she said. She stood up and began to dress from the clothes that lay on the floor. "Can't believe we almost did this. You have a terrible sense of timing. I forgot that about you."

"Well. I'm sorry if you think that," he said. "I didn't realize that was something that annoyed you."

"Why you bring up the people we're seeing right before WE do it?!" she asked. She wanted to throw something at him for being so dense.

"I didn't bring them up, you did!" he said, putting the last of his clothes on. He stood next to the door. "I can see this was a mistake. I thought we had something special, but I guess not."

He opened the door and was ready to walk out when it hit him.

"I was asking about your roommates. Were they home for the night?"

She looked at him and her mouth fell open. 

"They're in Philly for the weekend. It's the Blackout Dawn concert. I was supposed to go, but then you said you were coming. I gave them my ticket. THAT's who you were asking about?"

She felt foolish. He did, too. They closed the distance from one another and embraced.

"Too late to makeup?" he asked after holding her.

"Not at all."

They began again.

John checked his personal email at work and saw the subject line of the latest email campaign he managed. "Camps are filling up fast!" the subject line read.  "Our swim camps are guaranteed to offer your little Michael Phelps or Katie Ledecky the chance to improve, and maybe one day THEY'LL be worth the hundreds of dollars we charge to drown your kids for a half day. "

The ad didn't really say that, of course. But in John's mind it should have. Checking personal email while on the company dime was - of course - frowned upon. But it was also a practice that nearly everyone, from the CEO/boss to the coffee guy in break room C, did on a pretty regular basis. But he was doing it for work, ensuring the latest delivery was completed in a timely manner. Plus, with a subject line of "Camps are filling up fast!" how could you NOT look?

John knew the value of compelling email subject lines. He spent the better part of his day writing some himself. As content editor for a thrice-purchased, twice acquired online marketing company, his whole job consisted of writing subject lines such as "Camps are filling up fast!" and tracking which one generated the most opens and clicks.

He was good at his job, even though it often crushed his soul. He had studied and attended grad school to be a writer. He had earned his MFA in creative writing and had won competitions. Some of his short story work had appeared in literary journals that earned him a tiny amount of money and even less exposure. Like any writer, he knew he held the idea for the Great American Novel in his head. It just needed polishing, and a plot, and compelling characters, and a storyline that people actually gave a crap over. And the person who spent his days writing subject lines like "Camps are filling up fast!" couldn't be bothered with such details.

A message came over the intraoffice chat module. "Don't forget you're presenting stats on the last quarter's performance at 2 p.m. today," the message read from John's boss. She had reminded him earlier that day. He wondered if including the lines that performed best - "Campus are filling up fast!" - would make the presentation more appealing. Probably not. The most annoying and least creative tended to perform best. People liked to be reminded of urgency and a compulsion to act.

"This place is making me nuts," Kris said in the cubicle across the aisle. Like John, she was one of the original hires four owners ago (or was it five?). And managed to survive because she was damn good at her job. She managed the multiple social media accounts for the emails John and his team would send. So when they sent out a message like "Camps are filling up fast!" it was Kris' job to post it to one of the many social accounts she managed and track interactions.

Today, Kris and John would present the analytics to a potential partner for the company. They prepared the slides, which John was tempted to name "Camps are filling up fast!" but decided to go with "Recent quarterly results" instead. They were ushered into the conference room promptly at 2 p.m.

The whole meeting was a ruse. Instead of discussing the performance of email campaigns like "Camps are filling up fast!" and the rest of their work, John, Kris, and the rest of the content team were told that, despite strong performance, they would no longer work for the company. A security detail was on hand to watch as their work areas were cleaned for personal items. The detail would later escort the former employees to the front door, in order to prevent any unpleasant scenes from occurring.

John and Kris returned to their cubicle areas and began to clean out their spaces. They embraced in the aisle when they were done. "We should get away. The two of us," John said, as the guard walked them out. "We could go to the shore for the rest of summer. I hear that camps are filling up fast."

Alex stood and waited outside the dance club. Becca had found him sitting on the curb, with his head in his hands, and went to him.

"What's wrong? Why'd you leave?" she asked.

"Did you see Marcy in there?" Alex asked after a few minutes passed.

"Yeah. She's at the table with those two guys we met at the party."

"Can you ask her to come out?" Alex asked.

"OUr drinks just came, though. Why?"

"Just ask her to come out here, please."

Becca looked at Alex and nodded. He watched her as she entered the club.

Alex liked Becca. They had known each other since high school. It was Becca who introduced Alex to Marcy, a friend she had made in college, on break a few years ago. She was as shocked - and happy - as anyone that Marcy and Alex became a couple. The visit here had been Becca's idea. They'd spend the weekend with Alex, checking out the city where he lived. Maybe that would rekindle the spark between Alex and Marcy.

But the opposite happened.

Alex watched the door and saw Marcy come out. She was clearly annoyed, as if she had been summoned by the school principal and thought it was a waste of time.

He stood and waited for her.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I came out of the bathroom and saw you kissing one of those guys," Alex said.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

She clearly didn't mean it. The response hit Alex like a punch to the face.

"That's it? You're sorry?"

"What do you want me to say?" she asked, lifting her arms to say "So what?"

"How about you came all this way to see me - something you wanted to do because you've missed me so much. And I'm not even gone 5 minutes and you're kissing a total stranger."

"It just happened. It's nothing."

"I know you. You're not the 'I'm gonna kiss everyone I see' type. Christ, it took three dates for us to kiss."

"You're a slow mover."

"WHATEVER," he shouted.

"Look, don't blow your top with me. I said I was sorry. What else do you want?"

"We're going back in there and I'm going to tell those guys we're leaving - you, me, and Becca. They want to stay? Fine. But they're not coming with us."

"I can't do that," Marcy said.

Alex looked at her. "You can't do that? Why the hell not?"

"I'm having a good time," she said. "Look. Don't worry. Just come back inside."

She turned and left.

Alex sat back on the curb. The anger he felt from the blatant betrayal was dwarfed by the shame. The utter, overwhelming shame that washed over him. He knew it had been a bad idea to stay with Marcy after he got the job. It meant moving to a different city hundreds of miles away. She pushed to stay together. "We can use technology. It'll be like we're still together."

And for a few weeks, it worked. But the demands of Alex's job made it more challenging to connect at the set times. The demands of her final year in grad school also pulled her away. This visit was intended to reset the relationship. She'd be done in a few more weeks and could come to live with Alex. He had leased the apartment - a larger one than he needed - with that idea in mind. And while they hadn't talked marriage, he felt it wouldn't be too long after she moved in that they would get engaged.

But now, the scales were off. He could tell she wasn't serious. And he fallen for a lie.

"Excuse me. Are you ok?" a woman's voice asked, snapping Alex out of his daze.

He looked up and saw a woman standing over him. She didn't wait for an answer but sat down next to him.

"I saw the whole thing," she said. "I even saw the kiss in question and caught the look on your face. I followed you out. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Alex said. And he laughed. He actually laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"The absurdity of this," he said. "I haven't seen my girlfriend in months. I turn my back for 10 minutes and she's kissing another guy. And she's not even sorry about that."

"That is pretty bad," she said.

They talked for a while. Alex unloaded on her about the trip, how the night had gone, what Marcy's visit meant. He was well into it when he paused and apologized.

"I don't even know your name, and I'm dumping on you."

"It's Tricia," the woman said. "Call me Tricia."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Alex."

"I know."

"Well this is probably not how you planned to spend the evening, and it's sure as hell not how I expected mine to turn out."

"But good things can sometimes emerge from the ashes," Tricia said.

A car pulled up to the curb where Alex and Tricia sat. Three women sat in the car.

"Trish, we're going. You can stay if you want, but you'll have to Uber home," the driver said.

"I'm ready," Tricia said and stood up. She turned to Alex, who also got up.

"You want to come with us?" she asked. "We're going back to Sandy's house. Probably have a few drinks before heading home."

"Yeah come," the driver, Sandy, said. "We have room. And it looks like you've had a bad night.

Alex looked at the car full of women. Then looked at the door to the club. If he left, Becca and Marcy would be on their own. Their stuff was at his apartment. They had no idea how to get there. And they were with two men who had tagged alone from a party earlier. Alex felt a strong sense of responsibility to stay.

But then he remembered the look when Marcy said, "I'm sorry." He knew she didn't mean it. Worse, he knew that she knew.

"Yeah. If you guys have room, I'd love to come along," Alex said. He slid into the back set and took the middle position. Tricia got in next to him and closed the door.

Alex's phone dinged an hour later as Sandy drove him home.

"WHERE ARE YOU?!! WE NEED TO GET TO YOUR PLACE AND I DON'T HAVE THE ADDRESS!" the message from Marcy read. Alex moved the message, and entire history of messages from Marcy, to the trash. He went into his contacts and blocked her number. Then he turned his phone off.

He felt free.