I sit in my chair, scrolling through my phone, as my eyes drift to the massive window in front of us. Our plane gleams faintly at the gate under the heavy October sky, its white body contrasting sharply with the swirling gray clouds overhead. There’s a weight to the air today, something strange I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Look at that guy,” Brian says, nudging me with his elbow.

I glance up and follow his nod. A baggage handler moves across the tarmac, his steps slow and deliberate. His uniform hangs loose on his frame, and his head is turned just slightly, like he’s not fully there. Nearby, another handler freezes mid-motion, gripping a suitcase like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. Then his head tilts, jerking sharply to the side, like he’s listening to something no one else can hear.

“That’s… weird,” I mutter, lowering my phone. I glance around the gate area. Everyone else seems oblivious—reading magazines, chatting casually. Eagerly awaiting our trip to Hawaii. But my stomach tightens.

Brian narrows his eyes at the scene outside. “You think he’s okay?”

Before I can respond, the frozen handler snaps back into motion. The movement is stiff, almost mechanical, as he tosses the bag onto the conveyor. A chill creeps up my spine. My gaze shifts to the vehicles weaving between the planes. Their movements seem sluggish, like they’re stuck in molasses. Even the blinking lights on the luggage carts look dimmer than usual. I rub my eyes thinking that might help.

“Clouds are thick,” Brian murmurs, tilting his head toward the horizon. “Think it’s gonna rain?”

I don’t answer him. My eyes are drawn to something else—a speck in the sky, far off in the distance. My pulse quickens as I watch it. The way it moves doesn’t seem right. The angle is too steep, the motion too fast.

“Brian,” I say, leaning forward. “Look there.”

“What?” he asks, following my gaze.

“That plane,” I whisper. “It’s coming in weird.”

He squints, spotting it. “Ok, I see it. It’s just coming to land.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s too steep. Way too steep.”

Time passes, and I notice the plane is growing larger, its silver body flashing faintly as it approaches. It dips lower, nose tilted downward. My breath catches. It’s not leveling out.

“It’s coming in too fast,” I say, my voice tight. “That’s not normal, Brian.”

He stares at the plane, but doesn’t respond. More time passes, and I start to make out the peeling paint, the streaks of grime. The windows on the plane look cracked or missing. That can’t be right. My heart races as I grip Brian’s arm. “Say something!” I exclaim, a bit louder than intended.

“Hey, what’s going on?” a man sitting nearby leans forward, looking at us.

“That plane,” I say, my voice shaking. “It’s coming down too fast.”

He looks out the window, frowning. “It’s probably—” His voice falters. The plane is larger now, the engines emitting a guttural growl that sends a shiver through me.

More people start to notice. A young woman yanks out her earbuds, her eyes widening as she stares. I see a couple across the aisle whispering to each other, faces pale. Murmurs turn into exclamations, until nearly everyone is watching. I can feel the fear in the air.

The plane is enormous now, impossibly close. I can see the cockpit. Empty! Where the hell are the pilots? I realize with horror that the nose of the plane is pointing directly at us, towards our window.

“It’s coming right at us!” I shout, gripping Brian’s arm tighter.

People start to scream, while several bolt for the exit. A woman shields her crying toddler. The old man with the cane mutters something under his breath, his knuckles white as he grips his seat. The roar of the engines takes over my ears as the plane fills the entire window. There’s nowhere to go, no time to escape. I brace for impact—

And then the window goes black.

It doesn’t shatter. It’s just… black, like someone turned off the sky. The roaring stops abruptly, replaced by suffocating silence.

My ears ring in the quiet. For a moment, no one moves, no one breathes. I’m frozen, gripping Brian’s arm, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Then a cheerful voice crackles over the intercom.

“Happy Halloween, everyone!”

I turn, blinking in disbelief. A man in a Hawaiian shirt stands at the gate counter, holding the microphone. He’s grinning, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Wow! Wasn’t that something? Just a little Halloween fun to get your spirits up. You know, spooky season?” He laughs, slapping the counter. “This new screen tech is amazing, huh? Super realistic!”

The room erupts.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?!” the businessman yells, his face red with anger.

“That was sick!” screams the woman clutching her toddler. “My kid’s gonna have nightmares. Where’s the manager?”

I let go of Brian’s arm and press my hands to my face, trying to calm my breathing. I glance at the window. The screen flickers back on, and everything outside looks normal. Real. Our plane waits quietly at the gate, and the baggage handlers are back to work like nothing happened.

I drop my hands and look at Brian. His expression is carefully blank, but there’s something about the way he rubs the back of his neck, the faint quirk of his lips.

“Oh my God,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Brian. Was that you—?”

He grins sheepishly, stroking his goatee. “I mean… it wasn’t just me. It’s a joint Sony and Delta project. Real-time simulation tech synced with these beautiful, ginormous screens. Pretty cool, right?”

I stare at him, my jaw dropping. “You knew?!” I smack his arm—not hard, but enough to make him wince and laugh. “The whole time! I thought we were going to die, Brian!”

“I know, I know!” he says, holding my hands. “But come on, it was incredible, right? Admit it.”

I can’t help it. A laugh bursts out of me, shaky but real. “You are such a jerk,” I say, extricating my hands and hitting him lightly again. “But… okay, yeah. It was incredible. Terrifying, but incredible.”

Brian grins, looking around at the chaos still unfolding at Gate D7. “Best Halloween ever?”

I sigh, leaning back in my seat, still laughing softly. “Idiot. You’ll be lucky I don’t throw you off the plane.”

We both laugh to ourselves waiting for the boarding process to begin.

Francine descended the stairs, her spirits lifted by the aroma of breakfast wafting from the kitchen. Mark, her husband, stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease while their seven-year-old daughter, Gloria, giggled at the table, bouncing to the sound of a song blaring from the Amazon Echo:

This is the song that doesn't end. Yes, it goes on and on, my friend.

Francine chuckled as she stepped into the kitchen. “What are you two listening to?”

Mark grinned. “She’s obsessed. Catchy, isn’t it?”

Gloria hummed along, completely off-key, as if she were singing an entirely different song. She swung her legs under the table, her face glowing with amusement. “It’s so funny, Mommy!”

Francine smiled, grabbing plates from the cabinet. She set the plates down just as the song looped—cute, she thought. She shot a glance at Mark, who shrugged, clearly entertained by their daughter’s antics. At least breakfast was her favorite—Mark’s fluffy pancakes, bacon and scrambled eggs.

After eating, Francine drove Gloria to school. Gloria was in the passenger seat, tablet in hand. She twirled her left arm like a conductor as the tablet’s tiny speaker started to play:

…on and on, my friend. __ Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was. __ And, they'll continue singing it forever, just because... This is the song that doesn't end. Yes, it goes on and on…

However, Gloria was moving her hand and humming to an entirely different song. “Is that London Bridges?” she thought idly. Francine smirked to herself. “Wow, she’s terrible,” was all she could think.

“Gloria, can we listen to something else?” Francine asked, trying to mask her growing irritation.

“But I love it!” Gloria exclaimed, spinning her hands like she was conducting an orchestra. Francine sighed but didn’t press the issue.

After dropping Gloria off, she slipped back into the car, relief washing over her as she switched to her playlist. A familiar mellow tune began to play—until static crackled over the speakers.

“No,” she whispered, glancing at her phone. The display showed her playlist, but the speakers betrayed her. That annoying looping song echoing through the car.

She jabbed the radio button, silencing the torment. Francine exhaled, but unease gnawed at her. She could not recall ever purchasing that song. Perhaps Mark would know, she said, making a mental note to ask him when she got home.

At work, she settled at her desk, trying to shake the strange morning, when Jill called her over.

“Hey, come see this! Megan’s play last night. She was so adorable!”

Francine joined Jill and another coworker, Demona—new to the office, faintly familiar from a brief introduction.

Jill pressed play. A video of Jill’s daughter twirling onstage filled the screen. Francine’s breath hitched as the familiar refrain began in the background.

“Wow, I really hate that song,” she muttered. Jill laughed. “What? Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. What do you have against a poor tiny celestial body?”

“I… yeah. You’re right.” She offered, her hands trembling slightly. Demona gave her a soft smile. “You sure you’re okay? You look pale.”

Francine forced a laugh. “I’m just tired, I guess.”

At lunch, Jill suggested a new taco place on 3rd Avenue. Francine invited Demona along, hoping to help her feel welcome. The restaurant buzzed with chatter, and for a while, Francine relaxed, enjoying the easy conversation with Jill, while Demona mostly nodded along. As the break was ending, Jill excused herself to the restroom. Then the speakers crackled to life.

Francine froze, fork halfway to her mouth. Demona arched an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

Francine gestured upward. “This song… it’s everywhere. It’s been following me all day.”

Demona listened, nodding. “It’s annoying, but probably just a coincidence.”

Jill returned, smiling. “Oh, I love this song!”

Francine’s eyes narrowed. “How could you possibly love this? It’s the most irritating kids’ song ever.”

Jill laughed. “Kids’ song? Francine, I’m offended. This is my favorite song.”

Francine blinked, then said smiling. “Your favorite song is Black Hole Sun, Jill. Are you feeling okay?”

Jill’s smile faltered. “Francine, this is Black Hole Sun.”

Francine stared. “No, it’s not. Jill, stop messing with me.”

Jill wordlessly pulled out her phone and quickly opened her Shazam app. She held her phone up slightly to the ceiling speaker. After a few seconds, the app flashed: __ Black Hole Sun – Soundgarden

Francine’s chest tightened. “No. That’s impossible. I hear it…“ then singing along. “This is the song that doesn't end—“.

Jill frowned, cutting her off. “Is everything alright, Francine?”

Francine rubbed her temples. “I just… I need a minute.”

Jill stood again. “Okay, I’m heading to the restroom to wash my hands.” She walked away, leaving them both at the table.

Francine stared at Demona, pulse racing. “You heard it, right? The song? Or am I off my rocker!”

Demona nodded. “Yeah. It’s kind of hard to miss.”

Relief flooded Francine. Moments later, Jill returned, cheerful as ever.

Francine blurted, “Demona heard it too! It’s not just me!”

Jill tilted her head. “Francine, who are you talking about?”

Francine gestured to Demona, who sat calmly beside her.

Jill’s face paled. “Francine… there’s no one there. You are acting really weird today.”

Francine’s heart pounded, while she stared at Demona. “I’m looking right at her, Jill.”

Jill grabbed her bag. “I think you need to go home.”

Demona looked up at Francine and locked eyes with her as they heard Jill walk away.

Francine whispered, “What’s going on?”

Demona’s lips faded, her features melting into a smooth, empty void. Then she was gone.

Francine jumped out of her chair. Then she listened as the nightmarish song playing from the restaurant speakers started to slow, as if the singing was in slow motion. Until it stopped completely, and a guttural voice replaced it:

I am the song that never ends.

Oh what suspense, the bomb’s about to blow The timer ticks, my heart puts on a show But here’s a Tide ad—gripping, apropos I’d rather be clothes washing—how’d you know?

Last minute confession before they’re through Wait! Farmer’s Dog dog-food service debuts? Sorry Fido, your old favorite must go! I love subscriptions it seems—how’d you know?

The hero leaps, the plane begins to dive Wendy’s new Frosty! Wait, did he survive? Ten more ads back to back, all in a row I needed that distraction—how’d you know?

A relentless figure, with a three part name separated by dashes, stalks his prey, while offering a strange, otherworldly dish. Through eerie rhymes and unsettling encounters, the story unravels into a chilling game of manipulation and dread. Watch as our plucky protagonist resists, leading to ever darker settings, more insistent offers, and the climbing price of refusal. Will they escape the nightmare, or ultimately succumb to the sinister promise of a meal—one that may consume more than just their appetite? Green Eggs and Ham is perfect for lovers of terror and suspense, as its haunting tale of Sam-I-Am reminds us:

Some invitations are better left unanswered.

I strolled one night beneath the moon A zephyr played a little tune When from a portal it came near A figure strange, yet oddly clear

Not someone else, they said to me: I’m you, from 2043 Their face was lined, their hair was gray But still they smirked in my own way

Shouldn’t you warn me? I inquired Of cliffs and traps, of paths required? They laughed and shook their head with ease You wouldn’t learn from hints like these

We walked awhile, just side by side No rush, no need to run or hide You’ll wish, they said, when all is done You’d saved small joys instead of none

Then just as quick, they disappeared The dusk turned night, the stars premiered No flash, no sound, no great display Me and me, then one gone away

Greg Caputi sits in a steel chair bolted to the ground, while a single bulb swinging from the ceiling causes the shadows to dance restlessly over the concrete floor. His body is tense, his hands gripping the armrests as though they are his last anchor to reality. Before him, a figure kneels, shrouded in a burlap sack, their identity concealed. The figure is utterly still, save for the rise and fall of their breath.

Beside them stands the man in charge—tall, imposing, his dark robe blending into the shadows. His sharp features and piercing gaze are unrelenting as he paces slowly and deliberately.

“You know why you’re here,” the man says, his calm voice echoing against the bare walls in the stark, cold room.

Greg swallows, his throat dry. “I don’t understand. Why me?”

The man stops, his gaze locking onto Greg. “You came here seeking purpose. Transformation. This is what it demands.”

Greg’s heart pounds in his chest. He looks at the kneeling figure. “What did they do?” he asks, his voice trembling.

“Their actions are not your concern. What matters is your obedience.”

Greg shakes his head, his mind racing. “You’re asking me to—” He falters. “I don’t…”

The man steps closer, towering over Greg. “This is not about understanding. It is about faith. Action. You seek meaning, yet hesitate when it stares you in the face.”

“I’m not ready,” Greg whispers.

“You are,” the man replies sharply. “Or you would not be here.”

Greg stares at the kneeling figure, his chest tightening with fear. As if sensing his hesitation, the man moves to a table in the corner. Beneath a cloth, something waits.

With a swift motion, the man pulls the cloth away, revealing a glass tank. Inside, a python coils lazily, its scales gleaming under the dim light.

Greg recoils. “What is this?” he stammers, his voice breaking. “What are you gonna…?”

The man tilts his head, as if mildly amused. “Oh,” he says casually, “wrong one.” He covers the snake again, then moves to another draped object. With a second dramatic flourish, he pulls away the cloth, revealing something entirely unexpected.

Greg stares in disbelief. “Mary Poppins,” he exclaims. “That’s… that’s my goldfish!”

Inside the glass tank, his goldfish swims aimlessly, its tiny fins flicking through the water. The sight is so absurd, so out of place in this cold, oppressive room, that Greg momentarily wonders if he’s hallucinating.

The man gestures to the tank. “If you refuse to act, you will be forced to carry your fish home. Alone.”

Greg’s stomach sinks. The tank is enormous, far too large for one person to carry. The thought of lugging it home by himself is humiliating and ridiculous, yet the man’s message is clear: refusal comes at a cost.

Greg’s eyes flick between the goldfish and the kneeling figure. His thoughts churn in chaos. He came here seeking something—a higher calling, a chance to become more than he was—but now, he feels trapped. Yet deep down, he knows the truth: to refuse is to fail, not just here but within himself.

Slowly, Greg rises from the chair. His legs feel like lead, his body trembling. Each step toward the kneeling figure feels heavier than the last. The man in charge watches silently, his gaze unflinching.

Greg kneels before the figure. His heart hammers in his chest, his hands shaking as he reaches out. In a voice barely audible, he says, “I forgive you.”

The air seems to shift as a tangible weight in the room lifts slightly. The kneeling figure exhales a ragged breath. Greg feels a strange sense of release, as though he has let go of something long buried.

The man in charge steps forward and removes the burlap sack. Beneath it is a man, his face serene, his eyes brimming with gratitude.

“You are no longer Greg Caputi,” the man says solemnly to Greg. “From this moment, you are Father Joseph.”

The words strike like a thunderclap. Greg—now Father Joseph—feels both burdened and unburdened, stripped of one identity and handed another.

The man places a hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “This is what it means to serve: to act when it is hardest. To give when it costs the most. Welcome to the church.”

Father Joseph looks up, still reeling. “Who… who are you?”

“I am the Archbishop of this diocese,” the man replies simply. “And you, Father Joseph, are now a servant of its mission.”

Father Joseph turns and walks toward the door, but just as he moves, the Archbishop stops him.

“One more thing,” the Archbishop says slowly, his voice deliberate.

Joseph stops and turns. “Yes?”

The Archbishop’s gaze is steady. “Can you send in the next one, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Um, sure!” Father Joseph replies, praying he can leave now without further interruption.

Sing O’ Muse of Link the swordsman so bold Protector of Hyrule, Zelda’s hand to hold For ninety-nine years peace reigned across the land Until boredom crept, impossible to withstand

Near Hyrule’s lake close to the castle’s spire Zelda still sleeps, bound tightly by magic fire Link roams the fields, seeking solace for his stead When an idea sparks—he’ll see the guy in red

Beside the shore sits Mario, stout and spry Plumber of pipes and mushrooms—this is no lie Both fishing with lines, but waters stay so still No bite, no splashes… there’s just time left to kill

He tells of a place that leads far, far away To lands unexplored where adventurers play Link chuckles aloud, knowing what he must do Off to the world of Super Mario 2

Within a dream lies a portal too obscure A pipe to new worlds, so strange and unsure While Zelda still sleeps, her slumber unbroken A restless resolve in Link has awoken

Through twilight’s haze, with his horse Horsey near He finds a strange vase, its design oddly clear And warps to a room of pipes, surrounding ground Three choices await where his fate will be found

One’s etched with a sword, one’s marked by a shield And one bears a croissant—a baker’s fine yield He skips sword and shield, sure that Zelda will wake Croissants bring him joy from the bliss that they make

Through pastry’s marked pipe, he leaps with delight Emerging at dawn in a city so bright He spies a tall tower, its cone-shaped design The bakery’s glow calls out, a splendid sign

The people all watch as he strides through the crowd A hero of legend, both humble and proud Yet guards block his way, their voices cold and clear But Link ever bold, slips away from their leer

He devours croissants, their layers so divine The buttery splendor feels frozen in time Yet the guards soon return with swords and their hounds But Link swift as light, leaps past pipes in quick bounds

Back through the vase, he returns to Hyrule land Where shadows and mist now tighten their dark hand Evil stirring with a force so unbound And Link hears the call of destiny’s deep sound

For what is a hero without quest or fight? What worth has peace, if it dims the brightest light? With sword in his grip, shield shining and steady Link charges ahead, his heart and will ready

One strike of his blade—the magic unwinds Zelda stands freed, and now the hero’s face shines Thus ends this great tale of the hero swordsman’s fight Who followed his heart to the last croissant bite

“Is this some kind of joke?” he mutters to himself, his voice echoing in the dim, hollow room. The place barely resembles a museum, feeling more like a neglected storage closet. Charcoal-painted walls swallow up the sparse lighting and seem to cast everything in an eerie glow.

At the center of the tiny room, under a single, narrow spotlight, sits a flimsy folding table that carries a single object—a metallic cylinder, about the length of his forearm. Its shape, along with its matte silver and black finish, give the impression of a crude flashlight, clearly lacking any obvious historical value.

Decision made, he starts to pivot to request a much deserved refund, when a light suddenly pulses from behind him. It’s accompanied by a low, vibrating hum that reverberates through the floor. He freezes and glances back. The cylinder is no longer just an inert hunk of metal. Now, under the new light, it seems to glow from within—a faint, pulsating blue aura. Intrigued, he takes a step closer, unable to shake the sense that the object is… watching him back.

He freezes, trying to remember how he got here. Coming up empty and desperate to make some sense of this experience, he reaches out slowly, fingers hovering above the object’s surface. As he does this, the hum intensifies until it’s steady, almost like a heartbeat. He senses a charge in the air, thick with something he can’t quite name. Then he hears it—a voice, soft yet unmistakable.

He recoils, breath catching in his throat. His sister? But how, why here? Confusion starts to give way to fear as the voice grows louder, more urgent, resonating through his mind. His hand trembles as he inches closer to the cylinder.

Then it happens. He feels a surge of warmth the moment his fingers brush its surface—a rush of energy shooting up his arm, filling him with a sense of calm. Of clarity,

The room begins to blur and then…

Luke wakes up.

He blinks awake, breathless, the sense of her presence lingering like an echo in his mind. Looking to his left, he stretches out both arms and sees a single person dressed in white armor—an imperial stormtrooper he recalls—holding a blaster rifle… at his head. And firing.

Several things happen at once. Red plasma bolts careen toward him, missing him by mere inches in all directions. His right hand jolts when his weapon, the fancy flashlight from the table—his lightsaber—jumps into his hand. And his left hand, extending towards the enemy, raises a middle finger.

After a pause in the fiery barrage, Luke gets up from the ground in a backwards roll, ignites his weapon, and slices the approaching stormtrooper in half.

He then sees his sister, Leia, and…

He is back… in the “museum”. He right hand is grasping the flashlight and there is a distinct blue beam extending from it. On the ground to his left is an imperial stormtrooper. On his right… the other half.

Luke retracts the beam and places the weapon back on the table. He exits the small room and passes by a figure shrouded in black. As he walks by him, giving a thumbs up at the guy who sold him the ticket, the mysterious figure, clears his throat:

Don’t forget to leave a good review on Yelp.

I lower my tray table, eyes locked on the snack cart as it creeps closer. Mom raises her eyebrows, and I know I have a decision—cookies or pretzels. I’m leaning toward cookies when, out of nowhere, the cart rolls right past us without stopping. I huff, leaning toward Mom. “Did they seriously just take away our snacks?”

She chuckles and pats my hand, but I feel Disgust stirring in my head, like in the movie Inside Out, playing on the seat in front of me. “Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, channeling Disgust’s eye roll, as I notice a man standing up front in the aisle, each hand gripping the back of a adjacent seat. He raises his voice, and I catch the words, “…pilot is unable to fly…” My stomach flips.

“Wait, what?” I glance at Mom, and she’s tightening her seatbelt, her mouth pressed tight. Fear jolts awake in my head, hitting every panic button he can reach. Joy goes silent. I am about to drill Mom for answers, when a few rows ahead, a woman stands. She’s older than Mom, with short gray hair and a sharp look that makes her seem like she knows exactly what she’s doing. She introduces herself as a pilot, saying she’s handled emergencies before and is our “best bet” to get home.

I lean forward in my seat, whispering, “What’s going on, Mom, what did I miss?” Mom’s about to answer until someone behind us mutters, “Isn’t she that one from Florida? The one who nearly crashed cause she broke protocol?” Another voice chimes in, “…yeah, Miss acting all high and mighty towards the other pilots…”

I sink back, feeling Fear ramp up again. “Did you hear that, Mom?” I whisper, as I think this lady is either great or a danger to us all. Disgust pops up again, crossing her arms. “Why can’t people just follow the rules?” I mutter.

Then the copilot steps forward, clearing his throat. He’s really young, almost like a kid himself. “Mom,” I whisper, “isn’t he, like, barely older than me?” She gives me a look. “Honey, he just looks young.”

But I can tell she’s as unsure as I am. The copilot says he knows the controls and promises he can fly us safely, but there’s a wobble in his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself, too. I watch him, eyes wide, feeling Fear pacing nervously around inside my head.

The flight attendant starts making her way down the aisle, stopping at each row, and it occurs to me that the passengers are being asked to vote. For what, though? It becomes clear the moment she reaches us. Mom replies that she is voting for the woman, Miss Carlyle, I think. “At least she’s done this before, right?” she murmurs, half to me, but mostly to herself.

I bite my lip. “But… she’s the one people say almost crashed.” Mom nods, her fingers tapping anxiously on her armrest. “Sometimes you just have to go with your gut, honey.”

Relieved I don’t actually have to choose due to my age, the copilot breaks me out of my reverie by announcing that the woman has been chosen. She steps forward, looking calm and focused. “Mom, she doesn’t look worried like at all,” I whisper. “That’s good, right?” Mom nods, squeezing my hand.

From behind us, someone grumbles, and another voice rings out, strong and steady: “Listen up! This is who we picked, people. Live with it! She’s counting on us, and we’re counting on her.” A chorus of applause springs up around me, with a few boos sprinkled in. I turn to Mom, trying to process it all. “So… that’s it? She’s in charge now?”

Mom smiles slightly, “Yes, she is our new pilot.” I sit back, letting the hum of the engines calm me. “Well, I guess Fear can chill out now,” I mutter, mostly to myself, imagining him pacing around in my head but finally sitting down.

As I settle into my seat, I look around at everyone else. “Alright,” I whisper, quietly but just loud enough for Joy and Fear and maybe even Disgust to hear. “She’s got this. She’s got us.” When the snack cart finally returns, I don’t feel like the same kid who was just debating between cookies or pretzels. This isn’t just about me or Mom anymore. It’s about all of us, trusting the person we chose. After all—we’re relying on her to bring us home.

The unblemished soles stepped one by one onto the green-gray carpet. In a fluid motion they pivoted, then glided past the more modest leather gathered around the long translucent table. As they were about to reach their destination, they halted, prompting a quad of silver wheels to obediently roll aside. Taking advantage of the vacuum, the shoes quickly adjusted their position until they were framed by the clear table legs. With a commanding stillness, their jet-black gloss silenced the room.

Then the meeting began.