Read a Chapter Month 7

 Coming of age fiction

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A perfect life in shambles.
A memory buried in uncertainty.
All because she opened that book.
Harrowing and unpredictable, "Paper World" by Maureen Cummins is the story of a girl lost down a rabbit hole, trying to retrace her steps and find her way back to the surface. Will she climb and catch her breath again? Or will her paper world rip to shreds beneath her feet?

What happened to Brett Cain?
Brett had the perfect life. At least she thought she did. She was just celebrating her 25th birthday. She was about to marry her college sweetheart, Kurt. She was close with her parents, had a best friend she could rely on, and a fantastic career path all mapped out for her.

So why is she finding herself on life support just two months later? Why can't she remember? Where is Kurt? And why is a book and its contents haunting her while she lays in a hospital bed?

Get ready to dive into the compelling world of "Paper World" – a coming of age novel like no other.

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Every moment that passed during that night after he left was excruciating. The first hour was spent in silence. I lay slumped by the front door, deflated, like a puppet who had lost its strings. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I felt weighted down with the gravity of every sign that I’d missed. Every clear signal that Kurt was unhappy. Any warning that we were doomed. How had I not seen this coming? But I couldn’t bear to dissect our relationship just yet.

It wasn’t even the bad memories that I wanted to avoid, honestly. I would have welcomed feeling like this was for the best. What I couldn’t survive was being swarmed with all the good ones. To think back to those small moments with Kurt that made me feel warm – like the day that we spent at the beach in the heat of the sun on rented scooters, zooming down the loosened sand and racing the incoming tide. We had ended that perfectly golden day with a six-pack of craft beer and sweet public intimacy that may have been illegal. But, damn, it made for one hell of a story at parties. I was proud of that moment and I loved the way that people smiled at us when we giggled at that confession. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other and that kind of tenderness made people jealous. But that story was from the first year that we met and the adventurous, love-soaked piece of us had crashed like the waves.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally pried myself away from the inside of our front door. My two hands beneath me, I hoisted myself up from the floor. One foot in front of the other, feeling heavy, I collapsed onto our bed. My back to the covers, I stared at the ceiling.

“My kitchen table now, my bed,” I reminded myself aloud.

This space was no longer shared; it was now mine, and mine alone. That thought was my breaking point, and I desperately searched for my cellphone. I needed to call Phoebe.

 

Phoebe was my best friend. We met at university and hit it off instantly, paired together in Spanish class and forced to create a disaster of a project together. I spoke Spanish semi-fluently, it was a requirement I take a language at the Catholic school I attended. Even though she did not, lack of knowledge wasn’t the issue. We spent most of the time together smoking weed in her hammock instead of working. We got a C+ on that assignment. That day after class, we toasted our semi-passing grade with three pitchers of beer at 2 p.m. We were inseparable ever since.

Since neither one of us had siblings of our own, as time went on we began calling each other “twin.” We even looked alike with long, blonde hair that sat wavy when we let it air-dry and piercing blue-green eyes, a shade which could mimic either a calm, cloudless day or a vicious storm on the sea, depending on our moods. Phoebe had been my beacon in life these past eight years. And so once more, I called upon my guiding light to bring me back to shore.

She picked up after one ring. 

“Brettttt! Happy birthday, bitch! How hammered are you right now – scale of one to ten? Anything less than nine and we’ve got problems.” 

Hearing her voice, I immediately began to cry again. The dam I had been keeping closed for the last hour since he left had broken, and an ocean of tears rained into the phone. I tried to speak through the cries. All the words came out broken. 

“Brett?! What the hell happened?! Are you okay?! What’s going on? Take a breath, talk to me,” she said, alarm in her voice. 

“He’s… gone, Pheebs. He… he left. It… it’s over.” 

 Sob after sob.

The pain wasn’t stopping, and I couldn’t keep it in.

It felt like I was decaying, slowing turning grey, from the inside out.

Like everything would soon turn to ash, and I would blow away with the smallest gust of wind.  

“What do you mean? Who’s gone? Kurt?!” She asked with a slight panic.

          “Yeah, Pheebs,” I was pulling myself together just enough to try and explain, “he said he doesn’t want to get married. And he just… left. I don’t know what to do, I feel like I’m in a fucking nightmare.”

It all hurt too much.

          “Okay, okay, listen – you are going to get through this, Brett. I know it doesn’t seem like it right this second, and you probably don’t want to hear it but you will. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so. Shit, I don’t even fucking know.”

“Well, did he tell you why?”

She was a science major. Prescriptive. She needed an answer. Shit, so did I.

“No, Pheebs. I mean, not really. I know about as much as you do, as fucked as that is.”

                    “Jesus, Brett… I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.” Her voice wavered. “What can I do?”

          “My head hurts, my heart hurts, my fucking eyes hurt from crying. I just…wanted to hear your voice. I’m going to drink this bottle of expensive-ass bullshit wine that I bought us and go to bed. I’m fine, I just need this night to be over.”

I needed to get drunk.

I needed to forget. 

Kurt.

“Yeah, I totally understand. For sure, drink that bottle. Shit, drink another one. But I want you to try your best to sleep at least a little bit. Tomorrow morning, I’m driving to you. I’ll be there in the afternoon, okay? We can do whatever you want. Cry, scream, eat, get high. Literally whatever you want, we can do it. Just get some rest tonight. And if you can’t sleep – call me. I mean it, Brett. Call me.”  

She had always been this friend for me. Always ready to drop anything to be by my side. I’d never known someone so selfless. I knew this would be hard on her, to be comforting me through this. She was friends with Kurt, too. They’d always been pretty close. They used to do mushrooms together in college. On one truly ridiculous trip, they had decided to start a little drug dealing business. It was nothing big time, just weed. It didn’t last long, about one month in they realized they were spending more than they were making because they kept giving deep discounts to their friends. I was their delivery girl, and one-hundred percent part of the problem. I would smoke our product with every “client” I visited.

 Phoebe always said that we were still her favorite people to spend time with and was quick to accept any invitation to stay at our place. Some of my favorite memories were with both of them next to me. I always counted myself so lucky that they were close, too. It made everything so much easier. But I knew that no matter what, she would feel an allegiance to me at the end of the day. We were sisters. I didn’t want to be selfish, but I wanted that. I needed Phoebe to be on my side in all of this.

I promised I would call if the night came to be too much, and she promised to answer if I needed saving. We hung up the phone, and I searched the room for the wine. That annoyingly over-priced bottle I had purchased to celebrate my own birthday. Kurt wasn’t a big gift-giver, but I had always looked past it. I just assumed he’d been too busy to buy me a present this year, the card I’d received was the best indicator of that possibility. It was the Christmas card he had forgotten to give me the past year. He had crossed out ‘Merry Christmas’ and written ‘Happy Birthday’ over the scratches. I thought it was funny when I had opened it before dinner, so like Kurt to repurpose an abandoned gift. Now, looking at the haphazard writing on this desperate, last-minute excuse for affection, I saw it for what it really was—the perfect symbol of what our relationship had become. Lazy, lost and lifeless. 

I grabbed the wine and a bottle opener and sat back down onto the floor. I welcomed the cold sensation of the tiles on my skin. Suddenly, I was on my side, feeling the icy chill of the rock on my cheek. In that moment, I was looking under our bed. My bed. My gaze fell upon that weathered notebook I had seen in my fiancé’s arms so many times before.

My ex-fiancé.

A stranger.

I thought about how little I really knew about our relationship; how little I knew about him. The man who shared a bed with me for five years. It started to make me feel sick. For how long had he been wanting out of this relationship? Why did he want out of it? How many nights did he lay next to me thinking, “this is not the woman I want to spend my life with”? He never talked to me, he never let me know what he was thinking. He was always just writing.

Writing.

What if that little leather notebook held the answers? Without taking another moment to consider what I was doing it was already in my hands. Feeling the tattered edges, I was comforted. Kurt was in my hands.

I knew that what I was doing was the biggest form of betrayal fathomable. I was, without permission, peering over the enormous walls that Kurt had built from day one around his soul. I figured he had shattered my soul and that was without my permission, as well. So, I unfastened the twine that secured its pages, and I opened it. The sensation of the cover on my fingers felt like I had something sacred in my hands¬—something that would either bless me or curse me with what lie in its pages. Like it housed illicit knowledge, the forbidden fruit. I may be naked for eternity after taking a bite, but I couldn’t turn back now. I peeled back the front cover and couldn’t believe what I read. 

It was incredible. Every single word. Somehow both forceful and delicate. It was like seeing Kurt, really seeing him, for the first time. And that was a magical gift, one I had been craving since the night at that hookah bar. Kurt may not have been able to communicate, verbally, all that he felt. But give that man a pen and he spoke chronicles. His verses could move mountains. And in this wonderfully elusive moment, his words moved me.

The first poem that caught my eye was about his love of escaping the world with whatever book he was devouring most recently. Entitled Paper World, the moniker he eventually gave the notebook itself, the poem was strikingly poignant. It was both beautiful and distressing.  

paper world

i have read so many books        

i have devoured so many words                    

i have dove into so many worlds.

each time I turn the final page

          -i pause-

          -i feel-

i relish the last moments of total submersion. 

because these worlds explored

these lives lived

these tales told

are all a means of escaping my own.

          and each time I leave a paper-world

          i am sure that I will never detach 

my soul from its pages

          with each book I read

          i leave a part of myself

          within the binding.

I never knew how hard reality had become for him, or when he had lost the lightness he once possessed. Why was the “real world” so hard to enjoy now? When I met Kurt, I knew he loved to lose himself within a book. I did, too. But he also enjoyed the life that surrounded him. We used to spend summer days at the trails by our student apartment housing, with nothing but a joint and our hiking boots. Some days, we would even leave our phones in the car, just to be that much more removed from society. It would be so overwhelmingly hot that we’d eventually strip down to our bare skin and soak our bones in the cool, cleansing water of the nearest spring. That was how he first got poison ivy, and I found my first tick hitching a ride on my upper thigh.

          I missed those days, and I missed Kurt even more. 

          Kurt.

          I turned a few more pages, attempting to soak in every letter, every touch of ink to paper. I yearned to know more about went on in his heart, and in exactly what moment I had left it. I found another one, about halfway through the notebook. And upon reading it, I realized: this one, these words were about me. It was short, but it spoke volumes. 

fleeting 

they shared their secrets

and their souls

with the fire of the sun

and the calm of the moon

that rested ever so out of reach that night.

 but it graced their every movement

with something so pure

he wouldn’t give it a name

for fear that it might gain wings

 and leave forever.

          My heart was so miserably full—it was brief in words, but an epic in emotion. Until this evening, when he told me we were so irreversibly broken, I felt that the most beautiful aspect of our relationship was our ability to say so much without saying anything at all. I knew when I was in his arms that he held me tightly because he loved me, without any words needing to be said. And now I knew that he did so because he was afraid I would one day fly away. He left because he was just scared of having his own heart broken. That wasn’t something that was unfixable. I could show him that I wouldn’t leave. We could stay in the light of the moon, sharing secrets, forever. 

          Tears pooling in my eyes and silently streaming down my face, I turned another few pages. I had to read more about what he felt in the moments when his lips would not betray him. When his mind retreated as deeply as possible behind those towering, secure walls. I read another poem. This one gave me chills. 

truth/lie

people tell a lot

of little white lies.

but this one isn’t light. 

its dark.

so dark, in fact,

that it steals away 

all the beauty

of so many things

you’d told me before.

 steals and swallows our memories

and rewrites them with a murky pen.

all because of one truth

that easily could have been a lie.

and we’d all be better for it.

          What the hell could that possibly have been about? What lie was Kurt struggling with, and why was the truth so much harder to swallow? I tried to think back to any major life experiences that had thrown him for a loop. I knew he had a rocky relationship with his parents. They were both extremely religious and were overtly displeased with his lifestyle, typical WASPs who drank constantly but turned their noses up to our marijuana use. To add insult to injury, we were living together and unmarried. They wanted us to fit into their box and “living in sin” wasn’t acceptable. But they had been so overjoyed to find out we were engaged, and even happier to hear that we had planned on having children. His mother even pulled me aside during Thanksgiving to gently remind me that their table was big enough to pull up another seat. Was this heated poem indicative of some new altercation that I had somehow missed?

A bit more aggressively than I meant it, I turned the pages of his ‘paper world’. I ripped the edge of one of the pages. Oh no, Kurt. Cursing my panic, I attempted to tend to the tear. On this page, I found another poem he wrote, a bit more recently by its placement in the notebook. I stopped my frantic and entirely useless attempt to fix the page once I read its title. An Unsent Letter. It read: 

No matter what stretch of time

or distance passes between us, 

my heart knows one thing:

no one will ever know my soul

the way that you did.

not a day passes by

that this thought

doesn’t cross my mind. 

our time can never be erased, 

and the imprint you left on me

can never be lessened. 

it would be easier if it could be

and I often wish for that relief.

but, as the days draw to a close,

i am constantly left with that same realization:

you were wholly mine

and I was wholly yours.

And it was beautiful. 

It was a love letter. But it wasn’t to me.

Read a Chapter Month 6

 Coming of age fantasy

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The Peace Summit was in shambles, the prince kidnapped. When the rival king realizes he kidnapped the wrong prince, hostilities escalate. Loyalties to each other and country are tested for the twin princes of Crato, Joachim and Brandan. Joachim, captive of King Waldrom, faces deception and betrayal as he struggles to find his way home. Brandan, at home with a father focused on rescuing Joachim, wrestles with his own demons as he searches for his place in the world and the favor of his father. Torn from the safety and peace of their childhood, they are thrust into a world where bonds of family, brotherhood and roles as heirs to Crato are tested. Through war, spiritual journeys, death and marriage, will they choose the path of good or evil? Who can be trusted, as the world they know slips into a whirlpool of chaos?

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My Dearest Lilia,

I am sure after these many years you have come to see the error of your ways in choosing Theodric over me. I am willing to forgive your transgressions and welcome you to my castle and my god, Sidramah. To make you even more comfortable, you may bring one of your children with you. Waldrom

* * * * Seven Years Later:

Queen Lilia stood by the doorway of the aerie at the top of the castle. A gentle breeze blew the scent of liliads through the open doors. Tapestries depicting Asha covered the stone walls. It was sparsely furnished with a wooden desk, chairs, a table, and bookshelves. Portraits of the princes were interspersed between potted miniature rosas. She took off the ceremonial day robe and tossed it on an armchair, leaving a simple white dressing gown. She removed the petite crown and placed it on the desk. Finally, she pulled the white ribbon out of a braid, freeing the hair to fall loose around her shoulders.

Her lady in waiting delivered a letter. “My Queen.”

After the servant departed, Lilia closed the door and picked up the letter. It was from her old school friend, King Waldrom. Slowly she read it.

I will forever love you, but I find it hard to believe you left me to spend your days in the drudgery of my enemy’s kingdom with his false god. My lord would have given you more.

Soon you will know the pain I have felt these many years since you went away.

There will be no peace for you, or Theodric, as long as you remain with him.

Your only hope is to forsake him and come to me.

W

The letter dropped from her hand as a slow chill crept up her spine. She grabbed her shawl and went to the crackling fireplace, but still the chill would not go away. The evil message clawed at her heart until she could stand it no longer. She snatched the page from the floor and flung it into the hungry flames.

“I will protect my family from you and your evil, Waldrom,” Lilia vowed, as the paper burned, hissing and twisting like a snake set on fire. When the last of the charred paper floated up the chimney, she knew where to turn for help. Lilia ran down the hall to find Rupert, the words of Waldrom’s letter echoing in her head.

* * * *

Joachim stood and watched his twin brother, Brandan, practice the re-growth spell Master Adept Croifan was teaching them. Why must Brandan always be so difficult? Crack! The sapling exploded and fragments of the pot and plant shot everywhere, showering the room’s three occupants with ceramic shards and soil.

Prince and teacher ducked to avoid flying debris. Croifan straightened up, dusted off his clothes. “Not a success, I think. Get another plant, Brandan, and let’s try the spell again, but this time use all the steps.”

Shaking his head at the short, stubby Kningrad, Brandan said, “Master Croifan, this exercise isn’t necessary. We’ll never perform re-growth spells. That’s all done by low-level adepts. We’re much more important than they are.”

“You’re no more important than the lowest serf in your father’s kingdom.

Besides, you never know when you might be alone and have to perform one of these spells to survive.” Croifan pounded his staff on the floor. “Do it again.” He pointed his staff, directing Brandan’s attention to one of the lily pads in a fish bowl on the floor.

Brandan looked at Joachim and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “You asked for it,” and with his deep voice began the chant. “Powers of Ramajadin quicken the streams of creation within your deepest regions and enable this tree an increase in the life blood that feeds all living things and frogs.” With a turn of his hand, Brandan then whispered, “Ignis.” The practice trees erupted into flames and separated the twins from Croifan, now a small green frog.

Glancing around the room in disbelief, Joachim yelled, “Brandan what have you done?”

“Nothing. Now let’s get out of here while we have a chance.” Brandan stalked to the door. “I have had enough of him and his lessons.” He stormed out of the training room.

Joachim yelled, “Summergo,” and ran into the garden after his brother.

Spring was blossoming in Crato, a country in the western hemisphere of the planet Ramajadin. The royal gardens shimmered with the variety of purples, golds, reds and blues of the flowers scattered across them, giving the landscape a feel of rebirth…a rebirth in the faith of the people and their love of the royal family.

Stepping into the courtyard, Joachim watched Brandan collide with their parents, King Theodric and Queen Lilia, entering the gardens from the royal family’s private quarters.

As Joachim reached the royal couple, the king grabbed his arm. “Whoa, boys, slow down.”

Lilia brushed Brandan’s tunic, wiping away some invisible dirt, and the king released Joachim.

“I’m sorry, Father,” Joachim responded as he brushed his blond hair out of his eyes. “I didn’t watch where I was going.”

Smiling, the queen asked, “Where were you two going in such a hurry?”

Grabbing his mother’s hands, Brandan said, “We finished our lessons and were headed to the kitchen to get carrots from cook for the horses. We were planning on riding. Would you and Father like to come with us?”

The king shook his head. “No, I can’t. I have to see Rupert about the meeting with King Waldrom.”

“Mother, you should come.” Brandan looked at Lilia. “You haven’t been riding in so long.”

“I wish I could but not today. I must speak to Rupert before your father, and then I have some letter writing to do. Maybe tomorrow.” She hugged the twins and then strolled with her husband toward the council chambers. “I’ll see you boys at dinner,” Lilia called over her shoulder.

As Joachim headed toward the family’s kitchens and reached the wooden gate in the center of the tall stone wall surrounding the courtyard garden, Brandan caught up to him and patted him on the back.

“Thanks for not saying anything to Father. I would be seeing the abbots for sure if he found out about my little spell.”

Turning, Joachim brushed Brandan’s hand away. “Maybe I should have told Father. Haven’t you learned not to use your magic for evil, especially during lessons?”

With a push from Brandan, Joachim fell to the hard ground. “Well, aren’t you Sir High and Mighty, like you haven’t thought about doing the same a time or two?”

He scrambled to his feet. “Yes, but I would never actually do it. That’s the difference.”

“Well, maybe you should once in a while, and then you might be more human.

Besides, who does it hurt?”

“It hurts you and tears your relationship with Asha. If you have no self-control with Master Croifan, how can you ever expect to be an Anointed One and a king?” Diving for his brother, Brandan caught his red tunic on a nearby glingkol tree.

Joachim jumped aside, causing him to land with a solid thump in a patch of blooming rosas.

“Setting that little fire won’t prevent me from being king.” He stood and caught his breath. “Besides, who wants to be an Anointed One anyway?” Brandan landed his fist on his brother’s jaw and then fell to his knees on the small hillock between the garden and a stone wall behind Joachim, exhausted and gasping for breath.

“Our final examinations are in a week.” Joachim stepped forward. “When will we study?”

“You’ll have to figure that out yourselves.” He turned to enter the High Council chamber.

* * * *

When Queen Lilia reached Rupert’s quarters, she found a messenger leaving the room with Rupert not far behind. “Rupert, I need to talk to you.”

“Sorry Your Majesty, but we just received a message, and I must find the king to tell him of it.” He walked quickly down the hall, leaving Lilia with her skirts lifted to run after him.

Lilia stopped to catch her breath when they reached her husband and sons in the garden.

As he approached the king, Rupert bowed. “Sire, we just received a message from Eyvindur. There has been a raid at Freiberg.” “Raid by whom?” the king asked.

“The messenger was unclear who ordered the raid, but some villagers saw King Shigeo, lurking in the forest during the attack.”

“Why would the Mantion king be leading the raid?” Brandan stepped beside his father.

As he straightened his long gray beard, Rupert continued, “There was another force leading the raiding party. The villagers reported feeling evil that didn’t come from the attackers. Something or someone else was in control.”

“Rupert, take eight men from my personal guard and see what you can learn.”

“Sire, the Peace Summit is in a few days. We both need to be here. One of the generals can take care of this. The raid is over.”

“Father, I can go with them,” Brandan interrupted.

Lilia put her hands on his shoulders and gently turned him so she could look in his eyes. “Son, you haven’t been through your final testing yet. How can you think about going?”

“The tests are a formality.” Brandan sighed. “You know I can do this. When do I leave?”

“You aren’t going. Fifteen is too young to undertake such a task. General Geurin, the leader of the Guard, and his squad will go. Be assured, when you are ready, I will let you have your chance. Until that time you must be patient.”

“Father, how can you say I’m not prepared for this? I’m older than you were when you went on your first mission, and I have more training than you had. If you can’t see that, then you don’t know me at all.” Brandan turned and walked away.

“I’m ready for this. I’ll show them all.”

Joachim followed and overheard him mumbling under his breath.

“Don’t be so angry. We’ll be doing this kind of thing soon and probably wishing we could be at home instead.” He attempted to placate his twin.

“What do you know about it? I bet if you asked, Father would’ve let you go.”

“No, he wouldn’t. I’m smart enough not to ask.”

“Well, aren’t you the special one, maybe the Aga Adept?” Brandan sneered before he pushed Joachim away and stormed into the palace.

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 5

 Action-adventure romantasy

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Kirkus "GET IT" Award - January 2026

Kirkus "A classic quest narrative that lovers of fairy tales are likely to enjoy."

Booklife Review (Jan 2026) " A lively, touching bard’s tale of a faerie’s adventures in the mortal realm."

An action-adventure romantasy filled with intrigue, sharp banter, dangerous secrets, and real emotional stakes.

Escala’s Wish, the debut fantasy-romance novel by David James, launches the epic Tales from Valla series, where fey politics and forbidden love collide in a world shaped as much by choices as by power.

It started with a kiss.

Escala Winter, a mischievous pixie from the Court of Dreams, only wanted to understand love.

But one impulsive kiss awakens a long-buried grudge, forges a treacherous alliance, and unleashes a storm of vengeance that threatens to consume both mortal and Fey realms.

Banished from her enchanted home, Escala is thrust into a world of danger and deception, and burdened with an impossible quest that may be her only chance to make things right.

She’s hunted by a cruel rival, haunted by the loss of her best friend, and entangled in a sinister revenge plot older and darker than she could ever imagine.

Now, trapped in the mortal world, Escala must confront a past she never knew, and an evil she accidentally unleashed, one that could destroy her family, the fey realm, and the entire material plane.

Escala’s Wish is a sweeping coming-of-age tale about magic, mischief, and the dangerous price of curiosity.

Escala never meant to cause the end of everything, but can she stop it before it's too late?

This is a fresh, unique romantasy: no werewolves, no vampires, no “bad boy” love interest, and no enemies-to-lovers arc. Instead, the romance is sweet, gradual, emotionally sincere, and reminiscent of classic fantasy love stories, an innocent slow burn that grows from shared trials and genuine connection.

Told by an energetic and egotistical bard named Wigfrith Foreverbloom, Esacla's Wish is a tale of redemption, sacrifice, and love, where every price of curiosity might be too high.

Step into Valla and discover how one wish sets an entire world in motion.

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I reach for my pipe—a quiet invitation, in case anyone else fancies a smoke. As I pack the bowl with tobacco from the rolling fields of Kelly’s Pride, I nearly launch into the tale of how it got its name.

Something about a woman named Kelly who seduced a wealthy old miner,

took over his town, and inherited everything—after he “accidentally”

tumbled down one of his own goldmine shafts.

But that’s a story for another night.

As I puff, I continue the story.

When they arrived at Dunwell, the first thing Escala noticed was the

vivid colors. Everything was painted—doors in faded reds and deep

greens, shutters in lavender and storm blue. Even the cobblestones were

splashed here and there with dye and chalk, remnants of old festivals and

careless children.

They passed a bakery with golden rolls steaming on the sill, a smithy

with a horseshoe nailed crooked over the lintel. Street vendors called out

wares. Sticky walked beside Escala, arms folded behind his back, scanning

every flowerpot for bugs to snatch with his tongue—he was not

disappointed.

Escala wasn’t used to being surrounded by so many people. Almost

immediately, there were some “don’t touch the faerie” moments that

Roedyn had to defuse.

They followed a cobbled lane to a three-story inn with a crooked sign

swinging out front: The Stag and Hound.

They stepped inside by the very door you all came through tonight. It

looked the same back then, maybe with fewer folks inside—but on stage

was a certain dashing gnome performer, finishing a tale as they walked in.

He struck a pose and recited:

“—and with a roar, she tore the wing from the firedrake’s spine and

fanned herself with it—the way only a queen of the Summer Court might!”

The gnome was me, of course, and I bowed so deeply that I nearly

tumbled off the table.

“Wigfrith?” Harper called out, grinning.

I snapped my head up and took in Harper and her companions.

I lifted my mug as if preparing to deliver the toast of a lifetime. This

was the very first time I laid eyes on Escala. And my, oh my, was she

beautiful.

She wore tan canvas pants tucked into black boots that rose to her

knees. A royal navy-blue tunic, trimmed with silver, hugged her frame. A

black leather belt circled her waist, with a travel pouch on one side and a

short sword on the other. Her pack was slung casually over one shoulder.

I even noticed a small patch near her ribs where the tunic had clearly been

stitched, like it had once been torn in battle.

But what struck me was her presence. She carried herself like someone

who belonged in a court—she was no peasant. Of course, I recognized

Harper and Roedyn immediately. But the frog? I didn’t know him. I had

questions—so many questions.

Harper nudged Escala forward, of course, but I did not know her name

yet.

“She’s looking for you,” Harper said. “We told her you know

everything.”

I looked at the crowd for confirmation that perhaps Harper was not

wrong. It took a moment—longer than I would have liked—but eventually,

applause developed, and when I was satisfied, I gave a courteous nod.

Smiling at Harper, I said, “Well, now, I can see you definitely didn’t

inflate her expectations.”

Turning to Escala, I bowed with an elaborate flourish. “My dearest elf

maiden, it is my honor to meet you. I’m Wigfrith Foreverbloom—Bard

Medic of Misty Springs, spinner of a hundred tales, and survivor of at least

thirty-five. And you—

”And that’s when she said those nine words I would come to hear

hundreds—if not thousands—of times throughout our adventures together:

“I am Escala Winter from the Court of Dreams.”

Now, I’d heard of the Court of Dreams—most bards had. But she was

claiming to be fey, even though she looked like an elf. Interesting.

I stroked my chin theatrically. “Then come—we have much to

discuss.”

We took the corner table by the hearth. Escala sat across from me and

watched me closely, her eyes searching my face. And I—well, I was doing

the same to her, looking for any hint of madness.

I pulled out a leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen, and prepared to

take notes.

“Now,” I said, “we must establish that you are who you say you are.

Let’s begin.”

I squinted suspiciously at her. “First question. Name the three most

dangerous edible mushrooms in the Deep Briar, which, as you know, is a

hollow four valleys southwest of the palace of the Court of Dreams, and

tell me what they whisper when picked under a full moon?”

“What?” Escala said.

Roedyn leaned over to Harper. “Is he serious?”

“Oh yeah,” Harper muttered. “He’s in full Wiggie mode.”

Escala thought carefully. “This is a trick question.”

“How so?” I asked, knowing she was right.

“Well, the mushrooms that are dangerous to some are also a boon to

others. For example, firecaps can burn your blood, and if you eat too many,

you can explode from the inside. But they’re used by healers in small

quantities to treat certain infections. And what they whisper depends on

how fast you pick them. If you pick them fast, they scream. But if you pick

them very slowly, they don’t whisper anything.”

I raised an eyebrow—surprised. She was right.

“And then there are the purple-stemmed heartspore mushrooms,” she

continued. “They’re deadly to mortals and can kill almost instantly if

consumed, but they’re not poisonous to fey. We use them for stomach

aches. So, I’m not certain if that counts as a dangerous mushroom or not.

And they don’t whisper anything—well, I guess they do, but no one knows

what they say because they speak a language no one understands, and

then—”

I cut her off. “Very good!” I quickly scribbled her answers into my

notebook.

“But I didn’t finish the answer,” she said, almost annoyed.

“You did fine, just fine,” I said. “Question two: What is the third law

of moonlight according to sprite tradition?”

Escala didn’t hesitate. “Moonlight reveals only what wishes to be

found.”

I grinned wider. “Excellent. Question three: How many names does the

wind have in the Court of Dreams?”

“Eighteen,” she said. “Nineteen, when a crossing is open.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “What does that even mean?”

“It means she knows what she’s talking about,” I said, my eyes never

leaving Escala’s. Maybe it was because she was so unbearably beautiful,

those striking blue eyes impossible to look away from—or maybe I was

trying to spot a ‘tell,’ some twitching lip or suspiciously sweaty forehead

that would reveal a lie.

All I can report is this: she had none of those things. Just those

impossibly beautiful blue eyes.

I leaned forward across the table. “Last question—the real test.” My

voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “In your truest form—before

the banishment—how tall were you?”

I pause the tale and take a slow sip of ale, rubbing my chin as if

pondering some grand mystery. Then I lean in and say, “Now listen

closely, friends—that last question I asked Escala was a trick question.

The fey don’t measure things the way we do. No pounds, feet, or meters

for them. They measure by nature—petals, raindrops, moonbeams, that

sort of thing.

If she’d said something like ‘one foot’ or ‘sixteen inches,’ I’d know

she was faking it. This is the moment of truth. If her answer sounds like a

lie, the story ends right here, and you can all head over to the Golden

Goose—hells, I’m going with you!

“But,” I tap the table for emphasis, “listen to what she tells me.”

Escala immediately answered, “I was two red apples and a green grape tall.”

I must admit—I howled with laughter and slapped my knee, and the

audience did too.

Harper choked on her drink.

“Two red apples!” I was nearly crying. “And a green grape!” I thumped

the table. “By the gods, she’s genuine!”

I nearly toppled off the stool, catching myself with a wobble and a

curse. Then, recovering with all the grace I could muster, I swept my arm

in a grand arc across the table.

“Escala of the Court of Dreams,” I proclaimed, “welcome to the

material plane, to Dunwell, and to The Stag and Hound!”

I extended my hand with a theatrical flourish. “How may I, Wigfrith

Foreverbloom, be of service?”

She did not shake my hand. To be honest, I thought she was being rude.

However, Roedyn quickly said, “She doesn’t like to be touched; it’s

nothing personal.” I withdrew my hand at once.

I leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands folded beneath my chin.

“So,” I said, “what can I help you with?

Escala told me her story, which you have already heard, and I focused

on the boulder part.

“Tell me exactly what the Court of Dreams said—word for word.” I

said, ready to take detailed notes.

Escala nodded slowly. She took a breath, closed her eyes for a moment,

and recited her sentence from the trial I told you about earlier. I stopped

her at the part about the boulders and made her repeat it.

Now, I am a smart gnome, I think you’ll agree, but I did not know what

a boulder was in the context of her punishment.

“Apples and pears,” I said. “They went full poetic punishment.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out what it means ever since,” Escala said. “At first, I thought the court meant real boulders—physical things I had to move or destroy. Then I thought maybe it was about people’s obstacles—dreadful things in their lives they needed help with. I’ve been keeping a logbook—I have people sign it every time I help someone.”

“She’s not kidding,” Harper said. “She even has a signed page from some guy saying she helped him negotiate a peace treaty with a swarm of bees.”

“Do you think what I’m doing is right? Is helping people with their

troubles and obstacles the boulders the Court of Dreams meant?” she

asked.

“No,” I said. “But,” I added, holding up one finger, voice laced with

stubborn brightness, “I have theories.”

I flipped through my notebook and stopped with a flourish on a page—

crinkled, ink-stained, singed at the corner.

I tapped a passage with my knuckle. “This one always stuck with me.

A forest warden I met in the Cindermarshes said it came to him in a fever

dream. He woke screaming and didn’t speak for days. When he finally did,

all he said was, ‘The Cycle’s jammed. Too many boulders—the wheel’s

stuck.’”

That line sent me spiraling. Some scholars—those unhinged enough to

study dream-sentencing—believe the True Cycle governs more than life

and death. They think it governs intention and balance—not just how life

moves… but why.

I traced a small circular sketch beside the passage. “The fey courts,

especially the Dreaming Court—”

“Court of Dreams,” Escala corrected.

“Yes, the Court of Dreams,” I said, “are obsessed with the idea of

balance. Dreams, stories, seasons—they all turn like wheels. But when a

wheel is blocked… everything can get warped.”

“So…” Roedyn frowned. “Boulders could be disruptions?”

“Exactly,” I said, nodding firmly now. “Blockages or interferences.

Some obstacle that prevents the Cycle from moving cleanly. It could be

anything—unresolved pain, misplaced power, unnatural magic, festering

guilt. Something that doesn’t belong but won’t move.”

“If enough of those stack up… the wheel stops.”

“Like corruption?” Harper asked. “Or monsters?”

“Sometimes.” I shrugged. “But the ‘boulder’ could be a lie, a secret, or

even a regret. Something stuck in someone’s heart that refuses to move

forward.”

“That could be anything,” Escala exclaimed.

“Exactly,” I said. “That’s the point—it’s not a checklist. It’s a test of

the soul.”

Escala looked down, the reality hitting her for the first time.

“They gave you an open-ended sentence. That means the court doesn’t

want you to solve a riddle. They want you to change. To see the world. To

touch it—and let it touch you.”

“But I don’t understand. I was sent here for interfering. It doesn’t make

sense—why would they want me to interfere with the True Cycle now?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“So, the logbook… won’t help?” she asked quietly.

I knew I had to be careful—not to crush her spirit. I smiled gently. “It

might. I think it says more about you than you realize.”

Escala looked down again.

“That’s the worst part of fey justice,” I added, settling back on my

stool. “They don’t hand you chains—they hand you a mirror.”

About the Author

Read a Chapter Month 4

 Medical fantasy/thriller

EBOOK

Is she willing to pay the price?

Remi's chest painfully constricted as she struggled to breathe. Rushed to the hospital, she received a mysterious treatment due to a medical error, which miraculously stopped the asthma attack and restored her breathing. While she felt healthier than ever before, along with this shocking recovery came strange abilities, and this miraculous treatment may have a price that she’s not willing to pay.

“This book contains no AI‑generated writing. All text was created by the author.”

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The flashing lights of the ambulance illuminated the night as it came to a stop at the entrance of the bustling hospital. The doors flew open, and they wheeled in Remi on a stretcher.

A kind-looking nurse with blonde hair approached them with a warm smile. “Hello, dear, my name is Anna,” she introduced herself before leading them to Bed B.

With gentle hands and a sense of urgency, they carefully transferred Remi onto the bed as Anna immediately began assessing her condition. She listened intently to her lungs, checking for any signs of distress.

As Anna worked, the paramedic gave his report, and she quickly started an IV line in Remi's hand. Meanwhile, a nurse's aide unhooked Remi’s oxygen tube from the tank, connected the tube to the central connection, and attached the cardiac monitor electrodes to her chest.

The heavy curtain that separated the beds was suddenly pulled aside with a loud swoosh. In its place stood a tall man with thick, salt-and-pepper hair. He swept his gaze across the small cubicle before fixing his attention on Remi. Introducing himself as Dr. Schwarz, he took note of the discarded nebulizer pipe lying on her bed before directing his piercing blue eyes to her face and hands. “Let me listen to your lungs,” he said in a no-nonsense tone, holding out his stethoscope.

Remi nodded weakly and struggled to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in her chest. The doctor placed the cold metal against her skin and listened intently to her lung sounds, his brow furrowing in concern. After a moment, he asked, “How long have you been dealing with asthma?”

“Since...as far back as I can remember,” Remi gasped out between ragged breaths, beads of sweat forming on her forehead. “I take preventive medications and usually use my nebulizer during sudden attacks, but I didn’t have any solution and the inhaler didn’t help.”

The doctor's expression turned sympathetic as he nodded understandingly. “We'll get you taken care of,” he assured her before turning to the nurse.

“It’s my fault!” Emily informed the doctor with tears in her eyes. “Remi is staying with me while her parents are in South America with Doctors Without Borders, and I didn’t know she’s allergic to cats.”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Schwarz spoke in a soothing voice. “We’ll make her better, but I’m afraid, you need to get rid of your cat.”

“It’s not mine, just cat-sitting for a friend, but I’m going to call my other friends right now. I’m sure one of them will take the cat,” Emily said and pulled out her cell phone. “I’ll be in the waiting room,” she flashed a nervous smile at the young girl and hurried out of the room.

The doctor turned to the nurse. “Anna, let’s give her 125 Solumedrol, hook her up for continuous nebulizer, and get a portable chest X-ray as well.”

The nurse nodded and left the room. The doctor smiled, pulled the curtain that separated Remi’s room from bed C, and greeted the patient. “Hi Konrad, are you ready?”

“Yes,” sounded a young boy’s voice.

The doctor stopped for a second, thinking, and then turned back to Remi. “Do you speak German by any chance?” he asked.

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, Remi hesitated before responding. Despite having learned the language from her nanny since she was a toddler until high school, she decided against admitting it upon seeing the doctor's peculiar expression.

“No, but I speak French,” she replied.

“Never mind, I just thought... because of your last name, Hansen,” he mumbled, stepping out of the room and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

That was strange. Why did he ask me if I speak German? Perhaps he doesn’t want me to know what they’re talking about in the next cubicle. Remi wondered, listening to the conversation coming from behind the curtain.

“Are you sure you want it done this way?” Dr. Schwarz asked, speaking in German, and continued. “Don’t worry, the girl in that bed doesn’t understand the language.”

Remi heard a boy's and an older-sounding man’s voices answering, “Yes, we definitely want the treatment.” And the older voice continued. “My son is sixteen, and with cystic fibrosis and a rare blood type, finding a cure or donor is close to impossible. He might have a year left. But with your treatment, he could live a full, healthy life.”

She heard the doctor’s sigh, as he said, “I want to make sure you understand what will happen after the treatment.”

Konrad assured the doctor, “We thought it over very carefully what you said, and I fully understand the benefits. And...” he hesitated. “And I accept the obligation that comes with your treatment as well.”

“We took the necessary precautions as you instructed, and his handler will arrive tomorrow to discuss more details with us. Everything is ready,” The older man said.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a minute,” the doctor replied.

Remi wondered what that treatment was. Poor Konrad. He’s my age, and it sounds like he doesn’t have long to live. That’s terrible. Remi thought, feeling so much empathy for the boy. But why didn’t the doctor say medication or something specific? He repeated the German word behandlung, which means treatment. And because we’re in the hospital, it must be medical treatment.

***

The nurse felt sorry for Remi. Poor kid, only sixteen. She knows what it means to gasp for air. And the boy in bed C... why must young kids suffer like that? she thought bitterly, entering the med room. She pulled the drawer open, grabbed a syringe, and then took out a small box from the medication cabinet that was labeled Solumedrol 125 mg. She poked the needle through the rubber cap, drew the liquid from the small bottle, and then injected it into the other bottle with white powder in it. She mixed it well and drew the clear liquid back into the syringe.

***

Meanwhile, Dr. Schwarz entered bed C with a prepared syringe in his hand. "You never told me why a simple IV injection couldn't be administered at home," the boy’s father said, his voice laced with worry.

Dr. Schwarz sighed, his face a mask of solemnity. "As I told you," He began, "his heart will stop for a few seconds after I give him the treatment. Therefore, I will turn off the alarm to prevent any unnecessary commotion from the code team rushing into the room. Ideally, his heart should restart on its own, but there is always the possibility that it will not, and we will have to restart it. This is why I need the code team close by, and this is why I need to do this in the hospital."

A tense silence hung in the air as father and son processed this information. The steady beeping of the monitor seemed to grow louder, filling the small hospital room with an eerie sense of fear and anticipation as the doctor reached up, turned the heart monitor off, and picked up the syringe.

“Doctor Schwartz to bed A STAT!” The urgent voice through the intercom stopped his movement. He put the syringe back on the bedside table, wrenched the curtain between the cubicles, and nearly knocked the nurse off her feet by pushing the table out of the way. “Sorry,” he yelled, and to get to Bed A faster, he ran across Reni’s cubicle, yanking the curtain that separated her bed from Bed A.

Anna's hand trembled as she clutched the syringe, her heart racing. With a sharp inhale, she dropped the syringe onto the table, not caring about closing the curtain between the two beds. She didn't waste any time as she sprinted after the doctor.

“Hi,” the skinny, sick-looking young boy with an Oxygen tube coiled over his face smiled at Remi. “What a commotion, huh? I’m Konrad by the way.” He greeted Remi in English.

“Hi, Konrad, I’m Remi. Yes, typical ER buzz,” she smiled back.

“You’re not from around here,” he said. I haven’t seen you before.”

“No, I live in the Bronx. I’m just staying with my aunt for a few weeks.”

“Nice to meet you, Remi,” Konrad said. Maybe we’ll see each other again. It’s such a small town, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other.”

“Yeah, it’s small, but I love it here. The mountains are so beautiful.”

“See you around,” Konrad said when he spotted the nurse walking toward Remi’s bed.

“Are you ready?” Anna asked Remi as she reached for the bedside table and picked up the syringe. She closed the curtain between the beds.

Remi was familiar with the effects of steroids. When Anna injected the medication into her IV line, she was expecting a headrush and a feeling of warmth all over her body. But this time she felt something different. As soon as the medication entered her bloodstream, she felt a pleasant tingling in her body as it spread. She was curious and followed the spread of the drug from her hand to her arm then to her chest, head, belly, and then her legs. She felt warm, but not as much as other times.

Before she could ask why it felt different than other times, they heard another urgent intercom call and Anna ran out of the cubicle. Remi felt drawn and tired. The tingling passed quickly, and she started to feel better. Taking a careful deep breath, she happily noticed that the tightness of her chest had completely eased up, although it was unusual for the medication to take effect so fast, she was happy to feel the almost instant relief.

“Is everything all right with that patient?” Remi heard Konrad’s voice from the next bed, speaking German.

“He’ll be okay, don’t worry,” the doctor replied. “Let’s get your treatment going. Are you ready?”

“I’m as ready as I’d ever be,” Konrad said, his voice sounding cheerful but with an undertone of worry.

Remi heard the light rustling of bedsheets and the doctor’s voice. “All in. Now, we wait. It takes a few minutes before your heart stops. Don’t worry, it’s not going to feel too bad.”

Emily entered the cubicle and plopped down on the chair. “How do you feel?” she asked Remi.

“Surprisingly well,” Remi mused, taking off the nebulizer mask, smiling. “I don’t even need this anymore; my breathing is so good that I could run a marathon.”

“Thank God!” Emily sighed. “I was so worried and so sorry. It was my fault.”

“Please don’t worry, Aunty Em! You didn’t know. Cat dander is not on my allergy list because we didn’t know either.”

“Well, there is some good news. Cathy, from my volunteer group, is picking up Midnight today. She will care for the cat until Marley is in the hospital, and we’ll stay in the guest house until I arrange a thorough cleaning of the main house. The cleaning company is great, they will get rid of every piece of dust and cat dander in the house.”

Thank you!” Remi smiled at her aunt when suddenly, she felt a painful thud in her chest as if her heart flipped and bumped against her ribs. Everything turned dark in front of her eyes, and her mind sank into nothingness.

The loud alarm of the monitor made Emily jump, and she frantically scanned the screen which showed a flat line instead of the rhythmic heartbeat. She pulled the curtain open and screamed. “Help! Somebody help us, her heart stopped!”

More from the author

Read a Chapter Month 3

 Contemporary fiction

ON AMAZON

An incoming tide strews debris of self-recrimination, regret, and remorse for their unintentional culpability in jeopardizing the life of an immediate family member. Whether altering destiny, attributing to demise, or precipitating a debilitating accident—no one is exempt from heartache:

Aileen Stanton - for getting sidetracked on her watch

Gertrude Stanton - for her preoccupation

Ox (James) Babcock - for loaning a ten-dollar bill

Grand dame, Lillian Wright - for engaging in an illicit affair during the Roaring Twenties

Birdman, Drake Lynch - for wielding his power of persuasion

Career mom, Perla Moreno - for her momentary lapse in judgment

The guesthouse provides a home away from home. For some, a refuge for healing. For others, a retreat for cultivating hopes and dreams. For the invited reader of adult fiction, a portal for stepping into the 1970s in close proximity to those who survive the ravages of a guilt-wracked conscience and struggle to find meaning in the suffering they've caused.

Welcome to Aileen's Guesthouse. Dinner is served at six o'clock sharp.

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Having pre-heated the oven, Ox slid his mom’s meal prep inside its jaws. After wearing himself out from pacing back and forth in the family room, he picked up the receiver from a beige Princess phone on an end table by the sofa. Dialing the number to the beachfront flophouse, his heart thumped over the ten-to-one odds of Jenkins chewing his ass for hunting him down. One of the other two blockheads in-residence answered in an alcoholic haze. Unseen, digging a pinky inside his ear. “N-a-a-h! He ain’t here.”

Great! Not a helluva lot to go on.

 If his brother didn’t follow through by tomorrow afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve, Ox’s window of opportunity for picking up Aileen’s bracelet would nail itself shut. For that sole purpose, he’d already jumped on the bandwagon to accompany his dad to Someplace in Time for a Thursday evening of merrymaking with three wise men.

***

On Tuesday evening, Jenkins ripped open the envelope to extract his paycheck. Reaching for his wallet inside one of the frayed back pockets of his dungarees, he slid the check inside the bill compartment while slipping the ten-spot he’d coerced from Ox out of its mooring. That, he folded and shoved into the coin pocket, the one half-tucked into the left, front pocket of his jeans. Jenkins stuck it out until Neville Saunders left the filling station. On his own until closing, he made a phone call.

At nine on the nose, Jenkins locked up. Driving over the hose, the bell chimed as he peeled rubber onto Old Post Road, hell-for-leather on his way to Charlestown Beach Road, the offshoot his great-grandfather and Lillian Wright had taken to access the Breachway for their romantic interlude. Forlorn at this hour in the freezing cold of the upcoming winter solstice, the boonies provided a haven for whatever rocked your boat.  

Jenkins dimmed his headlights when he spotted the familiar ’70 Mach 1 off the main drag. The Candy Man! Mustn’t keep him waiting. He maneuvered his crate into a clearing behind the sleek racehorse. Dousing the lamps and killing the engine, he stepped out. Sashaying up to the Mustang muscle car, its V8 engine idling, the driver rolled down the window partway. Jenkins pulled the rabbit out of his pocket. Money and product exchanged hands without a word spoken between them.

At five bucks a bump for cocaine, Ox’s tenner enabled him to snap up two. Poverty-stricken, he couldn’t afford to go the whole hog and pop for a gram of blow, the equivalent of twenty-five bumps. From force of habit, he’d nickel-and-dime it until his well went dry. Before Jenkins hiked his bony ass back to his car, the Candy Man muscled his coupe onto the chewed asphalt and disappeared from view.

***

Colder than a witch’s tit, in the twenty to twenty-five degree range and dipping, Jenkins started the engine and goosed the lever on the heater to full blast. He switched on the overhead light. Irritable from depraved deprivation, he couldn’t wait to sample the stuff. Prepared for times like these, he opened the glove compartment to pull out his resources: an unviable URI student identification card; small, flat mirror; a used straw he’d whittled down to three inches or thereabouts.

Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

Tempted to organize both bindles of white powder into lines for snorting, dire financial straits predicated dosing out one of them into two short lines onto the mirror he’d placed on the passenger side of the bench seat. Inserting the straw into his left nostril while holding the other shut, Jenkins snorted a line of coke. He repeated the procedure for his right nostril. Barely rolling down the window on the driver’s side, he tossed out the wrapper for a wind gust to carry off somewhere.

Three minutes later, the euphoric rush hit him with an accompanying jolt of energy and mental acuity. With his high tolerance for turbocharging, he knew his altered state wouldn’t last for more than fifteen minutes. He’d ride it out for a while, then head home to smoke some weed to tone down withdrawal symptoms and reduce his craving to squander the second helping so soon. His work here being done, Jenkins shoved his implements back inside the compartment and put the spare one-inch by one-inch wad of wax paper inside the fold of an outer pocket on his jacket. 

In short order, he experienced a hard landing. Inside the toasty rattletrap of his ’64 Chevy Bel Air sedan, fatigue outpaced his intention to drive off just yet. Leaning his head back against the tatty upholstered seat, his eyes closed of their own volition for sack time in the dead of Tuesday night.

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