They only bring me out when it is cold.

I've been in the dark for months. It is a captivity surrounded by wires, plastic, and glass so shiny that it can cut you with its gleam.

You can tell when it is warm outside—the voices, the laughing. It's stuffy here in the dark. The air and dust are so thick that I feel like I will choke. But then there comes a time when the noise of rain is above, and I know it is coming. There will be noise below and an entry up the stairs. Then I will be lifted, moved, with light splashing across my face. And the air will be cold.

It is not a long journey but I grow quickly cold to my innermost being. But then we're in a new place and there is noise from music and voices. They are celebrating again and they have asked for me.

So now I stand on a precipice. I am frightened. It is a very far way down and this ledge is so small. There is a crackling and sometimes a roaring below me. There is a constant hot wind that curls up over the ledge and strikes me, coming in through the gaps in this flimsiest of houses, of prisons, that contain me. The light shines down on me, on the spot where I stand. For I am now the center of attention.

The door opens. I begin to spin. The music begins to play. How I hate that music. It goes on and on. It never stops. It never will.

I should celebrate these times. I should. But I cannot. I am a slave expected to perform at their mercy. There is no freedom here, despite the change of surrounding. I am always trapped.

And when their celebration is over, my enslavement will continue. Back to the old box of wire and plastic and glass. Te go back into the dark. To go back and wait, again and again and again.

His phone rang. A glance brought a groan.

"Yes, sir?" He smiled with his voice while his brow furrowed. "Where?" he asked. "I'll be right there."

His employer was sitting on the curb, his head in his hands. The remains of a white BMW convertible sat slumped in the street. The car was bleeding fluids out into the street. The deflated airbag lay limply in the driver’s lap as the woman reclined back in her seat, her head tilted way back, apparently trying to stem a bloody nose.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She hit me," his employer said.

He surveyed the scene again. There was no mistaking the deep handprint embedded in the hood.

"How?"

"I thought I saw Sara," his employer said. "I looked over and was walking backward, and she hit me."

"Sara?"

"No, you idiot, this thing," his employer said, motioning to the dying car. "Did you get her number yet?"

"This woman? In the car?"

"No, you shit for brains. Sara's number!"

The assistant held his breath for three counts. He had to stay calm. He could hear a siren in the distance, warbling toward them. "No, sir, Miss Halcyon does not want to talk with you currently."

"Well, I'm sure she would if you would just get her damn number so I could talk to her." He glared at his assistant. The assistant held his ground against his employer's gaze, though he pondered if he was about to become ash.

"Sir, she has a restraining order."

"Whatever," his employer said, sweeping away the thought with a gesture that caused roadway litter to scatter slightly.

"Sir, I really think we should focus here and do something about the problem at hand."

"Well, she caused it."

"But it looks like you stepped out into the highway?"

"I thought I saw Sara."

"I got that," the assistant said. “But that siren getting louder will bring some activity shortly, and you already have a small gathering of fans over on the far corner." He looked over and was certain he saw several people using their phones to capture the festivities. It would be on TMZ in minutes

"You're saying I should do something superheroic," his employer said.

"I think rendering some assistance, yes, some assistance, could improve the whole look of this scenario. It is the American way, sir.”

"But it was the girl's fault."

"Sir, she looks middle-aged to me. Probably even someone's mother. This will look bad if we don't get out in front of it."

"Alright," he said, getting up to check on the woman. "Then while I'm taking care of her, why don't you do your job and get Miss Halcyon's number."

"I will try, sir," his assistant said nodding, holding his phone to his ear. "Right after I get off the phone with your wife.”

She watched him sleep, as she often did.

He never knew she was there, and she could never let that happen. It was against everything that she stood for, everything that she lived for. But there was something about him that was different from all the others. And so she watched him, sleeping, as the hours passed and the darkened skies journeyed toward dawn.

She had been an Architect for as long as she could remember. Theirs is not a world that you and I can comprehend. She did not have a childhood, at least one she could remotely remember. From her perspective, she had always been an Architect, crafting dreams that guided, inspired, reassured, or directed. It was her existence. Sometimes, when it was needed, she brought nightmares. She hated those. She hated suspending a dreamer in space and forcing them to drop into a realm that only brought terror and screams. She wasn't an Architect for that reason. It made her sad when she did it. But she had to do it sometimes. It was part of the Purpose.

He was different. She never brought him bad dreams. She brought only those of love and reassurance. And somehow, as she cast her net over him and pulled him into her world, he smiled. It was that little boy's smile, despite his age, that had first startled her. Now, she watched him, hoping for that smile, and satiated when it came.

He had a guest tonight. She had watched, part of curiosity and part of duty. He was hers. She brought him the dreams that she watched play out across his face. But now there was another. It made her feel different.

So she brought the woman a nightmare. She dug down deep and brought out a terror so horrible that it made her wince. Because this woman with him had a real reason for nightmares, it was almost too easy. But it still made the architect sad. She was sad that an interloper had intruded into her place, her space of reaching him.

The woman screamed. The Architect faded into the shadows. The man bolted up and held the woman as she sobbed quietly.

"You're safe; it's over," he said. "You're safe. It won't happen again. It's over."

But in the shadows, the Architect watched. It was not over. Not while this stranger was with her beloved.

In the end, they were throwing everything in the back of the truck as fast as they could. They launched dishes in boxes. Crash. They threw boxes of books. Thump. There went bags of clothes. Oomph. There was no pattern to it. No sense of order. It was moving by chaos.

And still, the apartment was too full. They were running out of time to be out, and still, it seemed like all the stuff, their stuff, would never end.

"What are we going to do?" Alice cried.

"I don't know!" Janelle shouted back. "Keep loading." She threw a lamp in the corner. It made a cracking noise.

In hindsight, they might wonder why they collected all this flotsam and jetsam only to lose it in the panic to get out on short notice. None of their carefully curated treasures would survive. Most would not. Most would be dinged or crooked or just plain broken beyond use. But still, they flung things in the back of the U-Haul with abandon.

"I can't keep doing this," Janelle shouted over the din.

"You must," Janelle said, tossing the cat pole over the couch. "We move or die."

"That's a little over dramatic, don't you think?"

"Do you want to be here when they show up?"

"No!"

"Then keep going," Janelle said, throwing a yoga mat on top of a sideways bookcase with broken knickknacks glittery on the hard truck bed floor.

"No," Alice cried.

"Yes," Janelle answered. But it was too late for her to realize fully what she had just done. The sphere of water was arcing gracefully through the air before slamming into the wall up by the truck cab.

"That's my goldfish!" Alice said.

"Was," Janelle answered, picking up Fluffy before arcing him on the same trajectory.

Dick and Jane both stopped.

There was no way to leave the park.

Spot barked. The trail ended. They had come into the park, taking Spot for a much-needed walk. The sun had been shining. The sky was blue. Spot had greatly enjoyed playing with his ball. Both Dick and Jane had greatly enjoyed throwing it to the dog. He had brought it back every single time.

But now, all three of them stood at the edge. The trail and the park had abruptly ended, and they simply could not leave.

"What do we do. Dick?" Jane asked.

"I don't know, Jane," Dick said. "It just ends. I don't know what to do."

Dick looked at Spot. Spot kept barking at the void. Dick looked at Jane. She looked back. There was an uneasy feeling in all of them that this was IT.

Dick had felt this feeling before. He never talked with Jane about his deepest fears. She had no idea, though he sometimes wondered if she thought the same. They couldn't talk about it. Even in their most private moments, with Spot curled up on the corner of the enormous bed, they had never honestly shared the frights that shook them to their internal core.

Now it happened. The park had ended. The path had run out. The page ahead was blank.

Was it because the words had been set aside? Had they been shared but not read? Had it all ceased to exist because they had not been perceived?

"Oh God! Dick? What do we do?"

Dick tamped down the fear and steeled himself.

"We go on," he said. "The page isn't blank. We forge our way using the words we do have."

"This might pinch a little," she said.

He wasn't sure how he had agreed to all this. He had been talked into it a little too quickly. Was he trying to impress her? Was he trying to get her attention?

"That was a needle. I think you meant a prick or stick, Dr. Corlinn," he said.

She stopped and looked at him. She was breathtaking, but now she appeared very annoyed with him, and this was not the gaze of attention he had sought out from her.

"Dr. Hadish, I do know what I am doing," she said.

"Of course, Doctor. I didn't mean anything other than to make some small talk."

"That will not be an issue much longer."

Indeed, he did feel his mouth go numb. A shot in the arm was surprisingly making it hard to talk, almost as if he was at the dentist's and had just been given a shot in the gums.

"Aahh, thah mawy oher ehects?"

"What did you say, Dr Hadish? Are there any other side effects?"

He nodded.

"There are a few," she continued. I don't want it to sound like one of those ads the marketing people dream up—all fine print and speedy voice—but there are some."

He looked at her expectantly. His tongue was done.

"Oh, you want me to list them?"

He nodded.

"Your tongue might get sluggish."

He nodded. It felt like he had a shoe shoved in his mouth.

"Your skin might feel prickly."

His eyes went wide. He felt like he was on fire. Waves of heat rolled across his body like he was twirling in a rotisserie oven.

"Some report an odd sensation in their hair."

If his eyes could widen out further, they would have. Instead, they jumped out of their socket, slapped his face, and then jumped back in their sockets. Or so it seemed as he felt his hair, every hair from his head to his crotch, push out and grow from the inside like it was in some sped-up time-lapse movie. It couldn't possibly be happening, his taxed brain told him. It also told him he could just run. Not that it would help. But he just wanted to run.

"Here, sit down," she said. She guided him to the chair. "The sensations for the first moments can be pretty intense."

Pretty intense? His brain was screaming.

"But it usually wears off after those first moments. Usually in about ten minutes. Now, let me take a look at you."

He tried to act nonchalant as she approached, but his mind was a spinning amusement ride, and he just wanted to get off.

For most of his life, The Pirate engaged in risky behavior. All bets were off when you raced up behind a moving vessel, some with anti-piracy protection like nets, water cannons, or even armed guards. A slip or a fall could lead to instant death. A wrong choice could lead to being hung up and maimed and instant death. The work of an assault rifle aimed at you could lead to bullets and instant death. In all, it was a lot of short-lived bad experiences that added up to death. It was a dangerous work environment.

Despite loving every minute of the thrill, both The Wench and The Captain grew increasingly alarmed by The Pirate's thrill-seeking behavior. As he voyaged into his early teens, both parents, no strangers to the danger themselves, suddenly grew more cautious. The Wench herself oddly became the protective mother.

For one particularly dangerous boarding, The Wench finally put her foot down. There was no way in hell she would let The Pirate go with The Captain on this one. And while he begged, pleaded, and eventually threw a fit not worthy of the maturity of his thirteen years plying the high seas in the family's criminal endeavors, The Wench was not budging. When she had come to a decision, no one overruled The Wench. At almost five feet, she was tiny but terrifying when angry. So, The Captain gathered the crew and set off without his son. The whole adventure went according to plan.

That was not the same experience for The Pirate. While at home and looking for some way to alleviate his boredom, he had been hanging out with his friends in town. A driver lost control of his vehicle, and The Pirate was pinned to the wall at his favorite Pho place. The damage was severe, and he had lost his right forearm. What were the odds?

The Wench had made the decisions she had made for all the right motherly reasons. And neither The Pirate nor The Captain had ever blamed her. What were the odds that it would happen? But The Wench never forgave herself. In trying to keep The Pirate from danger, he had been hurt worse than anyone in The Crew had ever imagined.

Guy bustled into the kitchen and abruptly stopped, the swinging door smacking him in the back. The pile of plates clattered as he did everything to keep from spilling them from his hands. Angel was kneeling on the floor and startled as he entered. Amelia’s body sprawled out awkwardly, her face showing a wide-eyed grimace.

“Guy, this is not what you think.”

“You keep saying that. What happened? Did you kill her?”

“Guy...”

“You killed her. You killed the love of my life!”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You keep saying that. But here she is. Is she dead?”

“Guy, keep your voice down. You’ll alarm everybody.” Guy hurriedly set the stack of plates next to the sink. Outside the kitchen, loud voices struggled to talk over the bass thump of music.

“Alarm everyone? This is already pretty alarming. Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe you killed her.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“No? Maybe you didn’t ‘kill her,’ but you killed her all the same.”

“You know that’s not what I do.”

“Isn’t it? She’s still dead!”

“She had an aneurysm. That’s what killed her.”

“An ‘aneurysm’?” Guy made air quotes. “Another one? How convenient. She was alive. You enter the picture.” Guy motioned to the body on the floor. “Now she’s dead.”

Angel stepped toward Guy and glared at him. She suddenly hauled off and smacked him across the face.

“Ow, you hit me.” A shocked Guy rubbed his reddening cheek.

“Of course I hit you. You’re being rude.”

“Are you going to kill me next?”

“No.” Angel looked down at the body.

“Are you sure? You just hit me. Maybe I’m next, and you’ll drop me next to the love of my life?”

“Guy, she was not the love of your life.”

“Really? How would you know?”

“I’m your love now. I might not be the love of your life, but I’m your love now.”

Guy stared at Angel. His mouth opened. His mouth closed. His mouth opened again. His mouth closed again. He looked down at Amelia's body. He slowly kneeled next to her, gently closed her eyes, and brushed the hair out of her face. He poked and prodded as he tried to make the grimace a little more peaceful. Amelia’s face was contrary to his wishes as in life, and couldn’t quite get with the program.

“Guy, she used you. She never cared that you cared for her. She only loved that you loved her.”

Guy nodded silently, tears streamed down his red cheeks. He continued to straighten up the body.

“You shouldn’t speak wrong of the dead.”

“Oh baby, I speak wrong of the dead all the time. It comes with the business.”

She came from the wrong side of the Spanner. So he was immediately curious about her. She had a different look about herself. Edgy. Colorful. Fun. Somehow, she was gorgeous, too. Long limbs. And oversized head. Hair sprouting from both sides of her face. It was a package so ungainly that it worked to pull him in and give him something to fantasize about and imagine doing things with.

Of course, she had absolutely no idea that he even existed. How could she? When she crossed the Spanner every day, going through the checkpoints, showing her card, waiting in line, and undergoing the deep scans, she was simply doing what she had to do. She had to work to eat. She had to eat to live. That was all there was to it.

He was in a position of power over her. How could he not be? He never wanted anything. As a citizen of the Bowl, he was already on the right side of the Spanner. He didn't have to work more than the simple tasks he was assigned to maintain his supremacy. He didn't have to want for anything. He ate well. He slept well. He never crossed the Spanner to take in the Belt's squalid sights of the Belt so he had never experienced the long wait times and the personal indignity of crossing over. People came across the Spanner to him. He never went across to them. So when his obsession kicked into full, he didn't know how he got to her. She could always come to him and his position. But he was intrigued by what her life was like outside the Bowl. And part of his fantasy world was showing her how cool he was in another world. He thought for sure that he could make her his new one.

This device in my hand changes worlds. I simply point and wish it so, and it does the magical. It is a time portal. It can take me into the past and also into the future.

I marvel at its capabilities. Indeed, sometimes I wonder if it is too complex for its own good. It has far more features than I would ever use. Most of the time, I keep to a smaller subset of its functions. I change my environment around me, making it harder at times and softer at others.

I don't mind that it resembles a hefty magic wand. I genuinely don't swish it like a wand, though there are times when I do a kind of wave when I point, commanding it to work. At those times, it does its job over the ether, making the changes I have asked. Occasionally, it is blocked, but most times, it works without restriction.

And so it is with my television remote—the changer of channels, the raiser of volumes as if from the dead, and the smotherer of volume as if to quench what is overpowering. It takes me into the future and the past with hardly a stop in the present. How could I live without this magical device carved from a kind of plastic obsidian with its brightly colored buttons for more than I would or ever could use?

I am indebted to it. It saves me from having to get up and do the work myself.