Stix

By Dave Mead

Her father was the only family she'd ever known. And because she could out-fish, out-hunt, and sometimes out-fight other kids, they called her Tomboy or at best Daddy's Girl.

Meant as put-downs, she considered them compliments.

"That's my girl," her father told an attendant as his daughter stopped and waved before entering the boarding tunnel. "She's going to Alaska to teach school."

At least she was, until the plane crashed.

This is the story of the spirit and courage of a woman who fights her way back from hear death and recreates her life on her own terms. She maybe be "physically challenged" as a result of the crash, but there is nothing crippled about this lady's will.

Changing her name to "Stix" as an in-your-face approach to her handicap, she resumes living with a vengeance.

When her skip-tracing boss is murdered, Stix takes on the bad guys despite being a neophyte in the arena of rogue CIA agents, a hard-bitten FBI agent-in-charge, and a now-you -see-him, now-you-don't accomplice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Mead
• Release date: Jul 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466031869

Dave Mead

I am glad you stopped by. My name is Dave and I’m a story teller. As well as fiction novels, short stories and epic poems, I write a blog. I have been doing a kind of blog for several years to keep my friends over in the Valley up to speed on what’s happening in Eastern Oregon, about as far from any place you can get and still have electricity. I am what you would call a red neck. Most of the red neck jokes aren’t funny...........to me. Like the one about how if you have more than three rigs up on blocks in your front yard? Yeah. That’s not fair. I’m working on one of them, one of them is a friends, he’s in the joint for something he didn’t do, and the third one is for parts. I live with my wife and assorted dogs in a small town with no police force. A county mounite drives though once in awhile, on his way to someplace else. So protection of one's own property and possessions, is up to the individual. I’m up for that. Ex City of Portland cop. All the other happy horseshit that goes with being who I am. I have security lights that are motion activated and can usually, when they come on and the single ping alarm sounds, be up, dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, feet slid into Burkies and grabbing a hooded camo jacket off of a hook by the door; so that I’m not a big white target, be out in the alley in 45 seconds to a minute. Oh, and armed with a Mossberg factory issue sawed off 12 gauge with a pistol grip, full of 00 buck and equipped with a weapons light. Not long ago, the alarm pings and I slid my feet onto the floor and picking up my pajama bottoms, slide my feet into them and pull them up. Knee high. I try again this time standing up, nearly fell over, and at some point into the past 30 seconds mark realize that I am standing naked, in a flannel pillow case. It did nothing for my tough guy image. It’s a full two minutes until I get outside. There are two deer there, both does, looking disgusted that I took so long. I tossed a couple apples down the alley, past where the sensor will light them up, thought about it and threw four more. Yeah, it was a blatant bribe. But over here your reputation is on the line when you screw up like that. What I write about is people. Some of them I know and some of them introduce themselves to me as the story progresses. Writing to me is like watching a movie. Going in I kinda know what it’s about, but not who’s playing in it or what part they have. I use a lot of dialogue and the people in the books introduce themselves to me as well as to you as the story unfolds. Stix is a good example of that. I was writing about this private detective and somewhere along about a hundred pages into it, I realized that the book was not about him at all, it was about Stix. I write with no outline, and I don’t do much in the way of rewriting. I don’t always use full sentences. And my people talk like real people, at least like the real people I run with. I don’t use profanity except in the dialogue of these people and some of them are not too well schooled in the art of conversation and use profanity in place of verbs, pronouns, adjectives, oh yeah, and nouns too. Northeastern Oregon is comprised of three remote counties that cover over nine thousand square miles, with a population of less than forty-nine thousand. La Grande and Baker City account for twenty-one thousand which are both on I-84. That doesn’t leave many people scattered over the rest of the ground. Mostly, they hole up along the creeks, or in one of the small towns. It depends on just how antisocial they are, or what their main source of income is. Don’t get me wrong, we live here because we like it here. Or sometimes, because we don’t much fit in, in a big city. Because we don’t have a big enough population base to attract media, or to afford media representation, we don’t have the opportunity to showcase our artists and authors. There are some real good artists and writers that we want you to get to know. Catherine Creek Press will do a feature article on someone at least every month, so when you do come over here, you’ll have someone to stop and see. The blog gives you the shotgun seat in my pick-up as I travel the highways, back roads, and on foot up into some of the most rugged and remote country in the United States. And through weather that will stop you in your tracks. It gets cold here, zero and a twenty plus mile per hour wind, is not uncommon. But, hey, it’s a dry cold. And it gets hot, sometimes a little over a hundred with an east wind. But, like they say over here, it’s a dry heat. Just remember, I’m a story teller, and will, at times, embellish enough to insert a little humor into my blog. I will sometimes put an epic poem in the blog instead of a narrative account. Because even here there are times when really, Nothing Much Ever Happens. From Where Nothing Much Ever Happens Dave Mead

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Well, I guess she ain’t comin’. said Molly Twoshirts, mother of three of the village’s eleven school-age children. Molly had baked two huckleberry pies for the occasion of welcoming the new teacher. The others nodded, except Buzzard; he was busy stoking the big double oil barrel woodstove that heated the village store (and unofficial community center). There was a bit of foot dragging as the remaining villagers prepared to leave; this was to have been one of the biggest events of the year, and they were feeling more than a little let down. But there wasn’t any use staying any longer, there were dinners to fix, stoves to stoke, and families to feed.

They knew that no plane jockey would purposely fly in a wind like the one that was now blowing sheets of snow off the ridge above the village. And it was late enough in the day that the sky had turned a dark blue, bordering on black and streaked with ice crystals telling of the coming storm.

Molly and two other women picked up the paper plates and folded up the handmade WELCOME MISS BYERS banner, signed by every school-age child in Chadwick, that they had tacked across the doorway. Molly stood looking around the room, built over the last week from fresh, rough lumber that Brad Bird had cut using his Volkswagen-powered sawmill. The room was sixteen feet by twelve feet and took up just one corner of the store. She shook her head and was shrugging into her coat when Katie, Buzzard’s dog, sat up, cocked her head toward the door and barked once.

Plane! Buzzard yelled and headed through the store toward the back door that lead to the generator house. As he ran Buzzard thought about how the Northern Lights had been kicking up so much the last two weeks that radio transmission had been nearly impossible. Probably the pilot had tried to radio, but couldn’t get through. Maybe he should have started the generator earlier, just in case. He cursed himself for not thinking of it, but eased his mind some by thinking of what it cost to get gas delivered up here.

The others crowded through the front door onto the porch and ran toward the back of the store, their breath coming out in white plumes.

The village of Chadwick, named after the first miner to find color in the creek that formed the village’s south border, was built in the bottom of a narrow canyon. Out of the wind and close to fish. the villagers were fond of saying.

The landing strip ran along on top of the tailings left from the mining, and ended hard against the back of the store. The sun was an hour gone from the strip, leaving it in inky blackness, even though the snow-capped peaks in the distance still glowed in the fading light.

The assembled group heard the generator sputter, cough, catch -- and die. Then they heard another sound. A V-tailed Bonanza came low over them, wiggled its wings and flashed its single landing light.

Gonna be tight. a man named Cliff said to no one in particular.

They all nodded knowingly. A V-tailed Bonanza’s high landing speed and long roll-out was a trifle too hot for short strips.

The plane wing-walked around and came back over them, its landing lights flashing in a frantic cry for light.

Must be outta gas, Cliff said, Otherwise he’d be headed for Anchorage. Again they nodded.

Buzzard! Someone called out, He’s gonna come in. Lights or no lights!

Fuck! Again the generator caught -- and died.

The plane turned, the sun glinted off of it for an instant, and then it leveled out and came at them.

By now several other people were running up to see what they could do to help. Two men, one with a can of starting fluid, were already at the door of the generator house. As the plane throttled back for its approach, the generator came to life, running on a mixture of luck and starting fluid. For two seconds it screamed, valves floating then settled down to a steady purr.

Now! Buzzard yelled over the din of the generator engine.

Brad Bird had been standing by the back wall of the store, his hand on the toggle switch. When Buzzard yelled, he flipped it. Fourteen lights along the right side of the strip and two blue ones across the end came on. The governor opened, taking the load as the sixteen lights on the strip and two in the store sucked juice. Then without so much as a whimper, the generator quit.

They stood there, night-blind as the plane hit hard then listened as it came end over end toward them. They held their collective breath for several heartbeats waiting to see if the plane erupted into flames. It didn’t. For that at least, they were thankful.

Buzzard ran back through the store, returning with a brand new off-the-shelf flashlight, one of the big plastic lantern kind. They followed its beam, coming first to a piece of a wing, and the pilot. Well, part of him anyway. It took another seven minutes of digging through the wreckage to find her, their school marm.

Molly Twoshirt’s husband, Bill, said, It don’t take no brain scientist to see that she’s dead.

Well, there weren’t any ‘brain scientists’ there that night, and she wasn’t dead; close to it, but not quite.

A year earlier the State of Alaska had offered to pay the way for one villager to be flown to Anchorage for an intensive one-week first aid course. They voted on it, and chose Two Moon Johnson, mostly because he once splinted a sled dog’s leg and it had healed nicely. And also because he was considered to have ‘The Feel’ having been born in a month with two new moons. He’d come back with a first aid kit the size of a small suitcase and a certificate that he promptly hung in the post office, which was also in the store, right next to the certificate the State had given Al for keeping his ham radio operating twenty four hours a day all during a forest fire that had threatened the town five years before.

The young woman looked pretty busted up; she was bleeding from a deep gash over her right eye, and moaning softly. Everyone stepped back to make room for Two Moon; this was to be his first ‘case’ and they all waited to see him in action.

Buzzard took one look at Two Moon standing there gripping the first aid case like he was waiting for a train (eighteen of the thirty seven village residents had never seen a train), and asked for someone to drive to Scaggs and bring the doctor back. Molly and her husband led Two Moon away -- he didn’t seem to even know where he was.

It was Brad’s son Danny who took his father’s Jeep, a 1957 flat-head six with a homemade plank bed, to Scaggs and back in three hours and eighteen minutes -- a record that still stands today -- over a moose-infested, crooked, single dirt track. Other than losing the muffler when he took a corner a ‘little wide,’ and a headlight when he caught the leading edge of a bull moose, the Jeep came through the ordeal pretty well.

There’s a story in the village that to this day Ol Doc Perkin’s fingerprints are still imbedded in the metal dash. But that’s never been verified.

While they were waiting for the doctor, the villagers carefully moved the young woman out of the wreckage and into the school room, pushing the three tables together to form a bed. She was fully conscious by the time they got her to the store and watched them with an almost-clinical detachment. Never once did she flinch, or cry out, earning the total respect of everyone present.

At one point, the injured woman asked Buzzard how he got his name. He told her, going into great detail, about how, at the age of seven, he’d shot a buzzard out of the sky with a single-shot .22 rifle. He’d spent most of the rest of the day trying to get close enough to the stinking bird’s corpse to at least pull a wing feather out. The smell had been too great and he’d had to settle for the telling of it. The name stuck.

The young lady, Miss Byers, seemed to be in less pain, or at least better able to cope with it, when Buzzard was with her. In the days between the plane crash and when she was airlifted out, Buzzard was seldom away from her side. Buzzard said that she even smiled at him, several times, though the difference between a grin and a grimace was sometimes hard to discern.

The ice crystals that were pelting the village when Danny and the Doc got back worked themselves up into a blinding snowstorm that lasted four days. As the storm was dying out the Northern Lights simmered down some and Al got through to the outside world on his radio. Five hours later a Medi-Vac plane on skis came in and got the woman and the corpse of the pilot.

Miss Byers sent a Christmas card to Buzzard that year thanking him for saving her. As far as the general population of the village knew, that was the last they ever heard of her.

But then, that was a long time ago.

****

CHAPTER ONE

Dana came to in stages, first aware of the terrible thirst then the muted light from a curtained window. She tried to lift her hands to her face, only to discover that her left arm was strapped to the bed rail. Her right wrist wore a leather cuff that gave her only limited movement. She rolled her head sideways and watched the IV fluid drip down into the tube that led to a large needle inserted into her forearm. The area around the needle was a purple reddish color and swollen.

That morning, for the first time since the accident, she’d been awake enough to begin to make sense of her life, or what there was left of it, she thought grimly. And she wanted out. She wasn’t a whiner; she just didn’t want to go on living. And she couldn’t see where that was anybody’s business but hers.

Up until now, she hadn’t been able to remember clearly what had happened in the past weeks, or she hadn’t wanted to. Either way, a lot of it had been a blur. She woke several times a night in a panic, trying to fight her way out of the plane, only to find a concerned nurse bending over her bed, talking softly. One of them, an older lady named Meg, didn’t try to tell her that everything would be all right like the young ones did. She’d say, Wake up, Hon. You’re dreamin’ again. She’d give her a drink and check her blood pressure and assure herself that Dana wasn’t going to blow up or whatever it was they worried about. After that, she’d pull up a chair and tell stories about people who’d done things that should have by all rights killed them – but didn’t – and how they’d gone on living with what God chose to leave them.

The Why me? and Poor me lines didn’t fly with Meg; she was firm in her belief that it was all some kind of plan that God had for them, and that they should accept life as a test, and go on.

Meg was on that night, and came to check on Dana, Well, you seem to be in a good mood today. Clara says that you pulled your IV out twice, and you won’t eat or accept fluids.

Nights were Meg’s days and so when she was on duty night was day. And that was that.

I just want to be left alone. Please. Her voice was a dry rasp.

Really?

Uh huh. I just want to die. It’s my body, or what’s left of it, and I say turn it off.

This a phase of getting well, did you know that?

I’m not going to get well. Do you think I’m stupid? I know about my legs. I know that they don’t work. I know that they won’t ever work.

If Dana expected Meg to try and convince her otherwise, she was wrong, Yeah, I know. Walking, for you, is toast. So you’re going to have to rely on brains and ambition to get you where you want to go.

That’s easy for you to say. You learn that kind of shit answer in school?

No, in school we learn to say that everything will be all right. But it doesn’t always work that way. She paused for a long time, and when she spoke it was the voice of long ago, Some hot shot doctor in Russia told me everything would be all right, too. And guess what? It wasn’t.

Dana didn’t care about anyone else’s problems, just her own.

But Meg wasn’t done. Your Dad would be really mad if you gave up. He spends all of his time fixin’ things for you. And if you opt out, he’s going to have done a lot of work for nothing.

He hasn’t been in today.

No. Clara said that he called, but you were asleep and he didn’t want her to wake you.

She didn’t tell me that.

You were busy being Miss Bitch of the Month. And she probably forgot to tell you. She paused again, this time to put a wet cloth on Dana’s forehead. What with trying to keep you alive.

In spite of herself, Dana grinned. You don’t cut anyone any slack do you?

You want some juice?

Dana nodded. At least for now, she was done trying to kill herself by refusing fluids and maybe food. Is it too late to get something to eat? she asked in her best little girl voice.

Meg snorted. I’ll see what I can do.

Half an hour later Meg came back with a Burgerville sack. She set it on Dana’s tray and opened the cuff that held her right wrist. She didn’t say anything about not pulling the needle out again; they had an unspoken agreement about that.

The cheeseburger was soggy, the fries limp, and the ice was melted in the soda, but damn they were good.

Meg came back just in time to rescue the empty sack before Dana tried to eat it too.

Meg was wadding the bag up when Doctor Zimmerman, the orthopedic surgeon who’d put her back together, came in. His wispy blond hair always seemed to have trouble keeping up with the rest of him.

He was trying not to show his worry, but his eyes wouldn’t play along, Dana, what’s this I hear about you not wanting to live?

I—.

She intended to tell him she’d changed her mind, but he went on, I think maybe we need to change your meds. I usually don’t leave someone on such high doses of the kind of drugs you’ve been on, but as you know, we ran into some complications. He stopped, looking at her swollen arm then worked his way around the bed and gently took the restraint off and lifted her arm up so that he could examine it, My God Dana, what did you do?

I pulled the IV out, she paused for emphasis, Twice. And I’m sorry. I was just feeling sorry for myself.

Well I’m changing your meds right now. Frankly, I’m not surprised at your reaction.

He nodded to himself as he ran his fingers over the lumpy bruise on her arm, muttered something about infection, and then gently laid her arm down like it wasn’t attached to her. Walking to the foot of her bed, he took the chart off of its hook and began scribbling on it then said, Tomorrow I want you to begin physical therapy. You’re strong enough now. You won’t break anything … except the equipment.

He smiled, trying out the new improved bedside manner he’d learned at a four-day seminar that cost him a total of sixty-five hundred dollars, twelve for the seminar, and the rest on airfare, lodging, and food. She just looked at him; he wondered if he could get a refund, or if he’d told the joke right. He’d work on it a little, and then try it out on a couple of other patients.

He’d signed up for the seminar after talking to the lady chiropractor in Hillsboro. Her laugh could light up a whole building. He always hung up from talking with her to find himself smiling. He knew he was good at what he did, but he also knew that he had the bedside manner of a dead fish. He was sure that if he could be a little more like her…

He stopped his musing and told his patient, I’ll check in on you a couple times tomorrow.

She nodded, and he didn’t try another one of the jokes he’d painstakingly learned.

Meg was in and out of her room several times that night (or day, depending on how you look at it).

Just before she went off shift Meg went in to find Dana awake.

You okay, Hon? she asked.

Yeah, I’m fine.

What are you thinking about?

How can you tell I’m thinking?

That little green light flashing on top of your head gives it away every time.

Dana’s eyes crinkled up in kind of a smile. Mostly I’m trying to decide what kind of hell to raise today.

My, you are feeling better.

Dana nodded, So, what did the Russian doctor fuck up?

Meg’s smile faded. I shouldn’t have said anything. Let’s forget about me. Okay?

No. Not okay.

Meg looked at her charge for a long time, thinking. Then she said, Before you leave I’ll tell you. But for right now, let’s just say I know what you’re feeling.

Dana didn’t answer; she was asleep. Meg patted her shoulder and left the room on silent nurse feet. Then she fled, trying to forget her own horror. After eight years in America, Dana was the first person whom she’d told anything about her life in Russia. Even if it was only a hint, it brought back memories she’d hoped she’d never have again.

Dana’s day shift nurse woke her to ask if she needed anything, and then told her that the IV was coming out for good. She was helped with a bath and then gurneyed down to the physical therapy section of the hospital where she met a team of smiling torturers.

By the time she was taken back to her room she had decided to live if only to kill the physical therapists.

Her Dad was waiting for her.

On the road to up? he asked.

On the road to someplace. He looked tired. She went on, On the road to up is a long one, but if you’ll wait for me... she shrugged.

I’ll always be there for you, Kitten. Always.

Where were you yesterday?

Hey! You think all I’ve got to do is sit here watching you get better?

Yeah.

He laughed, and while his head was back she was shocked to notice how pale he was.

Dad, Are you okay?

He grinned, and nodded, I’m fine, Kitten. But this is not about me. How are you handling the therapy?

It’s different. I never thought I’d want to live just to kill someone.

You remember when we were fishing and I broke my leg when I fell off that bank?

Dad it was a cliff. And yes, I remember. You walked out with a crutch you made from a Vine Maple branch.

I had to go to physical therapy after they took the cast off. The first few times I went I really didn’t want to go back. But I did. And now I walk pretty good.

Not bad for a white guy.

What’s that mean?

Means you are never gonna grove and strut.

I do okay. I get where I’m goin’.

Dad, it was a joke,

Sorry, I’m just a little uptight today.

Anything I can do?

Get well. He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, That’s all I ask right now.

The next two weeks were pure hell for Dana as she was stretched, prodded, and pushed beyond her believed limits. She would achieve a goal only to be expected to beat it and then go even further. One day she flat-out refused to be taken down to what she referred to as Hell. No one tried to make her go. The floor nurses just shrugged and went about their duties. That bothered Dana because they were usually on her case to do more for herself.

An uneasy hour later, Jeb, one of her most hated therapists, walked into her room with two pair of crutches.

He laid them on the bed and said, Pick out the ones you want and then come on down.

She didn’t answer him. In fact she never answered him. Not from the very the first day. As near as she could tell from watching how he pushed other clients (they were called clients instead of patients), he took pride in pushing them until they broke down in tears. He would rot in a special place in Hell before he could break her.

One set was the conventional kind -- under the armpit padding, polished aluminum, fully adjustable V-strut -- and the other set was a pair of bright purple single stick affairs with rubber handholds and clamps that locked around the wearer’s forearms.

Interesting. she said aloud, as she picked up one of the purple crutches. She hefted it. It was unbelievably light. Then she dropped it and laid back on her bed. Until now she’d skirted the issue of crutches. She’d conned herself into thinking that if she needed them, it would be temporary. But it wasn’t going to be. She knew it, but hadn’t really accepted the fact that she would never walk again, until now. She sighed and rolled over on her side. Which was, in itself a feat. She couldn’t just roll over. She had to push down with her right hand, twisting her upper body enough to where she could grab the bed rail with her left hand and pull herself onto her side. Then still holding the bed rail for support, reach down and roll her right leg over on top of her left leg so that her hips were aligned which took the pressure off her stomach muscles. She did this procedure without thinking about it. It was just part of how she was. And she knew that the crutches were how she was going to be, too.

She watched the rain beat against the window and run is rivulets down the glass for an hour or so. Then she pushed herself over onto her back and, with her eyes closed, let her right hand find one of the purple crutches. Still keeping her eyes closed she let her hands and fingers check out the crutch. The metal was cool, and she could almost feel that it was purple. That made her smile at herself. The rubber hand grip had soft rings in it. She counted them. Nine rings of soft rubber. Only she was sure it was plastic instead of rubber. Rubber had a smell to it. She was holding the crutch up so that she could smell the hand grip when a voice asked her, You that hungry?

She jumped (well, as much as she could) and opened her eyes to find a smiling, heavy-set woman standing by her bed. Her name tag said, Nutritionist and under that, Connie.

Connie went on, Now that you are doing therapy every day, we need to get you on more of a diet that will benefit you.

After the nutritionist left, Dana picked up the purple crutches and clamped them on her forearms. She waved them around trying to get accustomed to them. The afternoon shift nurse came in and said, Wow! Those are certainly eye catching.

Like ‘em?

Yeah, they sure beat the old style. She watched Dana wave them around for a few seconds then asked, You want to get up and try them out?

I think I do.

I’ll call down to PT.

I’d rather do it myself.

Really?

I don’t particularly like them.

Okay. Let me get Susan to help us and I’ll bet we three can get you up and walking.

It took them a long time but finally Dana was standing there like a little kid without her training wheels. With Betty right behind her and Susan walking backwards in front of her, she leaned left and slid her right crutch slightly forward. Then leaning right she slid the left one forward then pushing down of her handgrips she eased her feet forward.

You did it! Susan almost screamed, You did it!

Dana made it seven sliding steps before she had to be helped back to her bed.

Nine days later she packed her bag and then asked her father to wait for her in the car until Meg came on so that she could say goodbye to her alone.

Dana was leaning on her crutches when Meg came onto the floor. Walk me to the car? Dana asked her.

I’d like that. Meg said, smiling. She watched Dana swing down the hall, You’ve come a long way faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.

I had a lot of help from a lot of good people, she let her shoulder brush against the nurse, Especially you.

Me? I didn’t do anything. You did it yourself.

No. You made me look at this as an issue, not a death sentence.

Well, whatever it was, you made it work for you.

So what happened in Russia?

Meg stubbed her toe, recovered and stopped at the elevator door, I knew you wouldn’t forget. She shrugged, Okay, I’ll tell. I went into a clinic for a lumpectomy. The doctor botched it and I ended up losing both breasts to infection. So now instead of breasts I have a vividly scared chest wall. She turned to look at Dana, The lump was benign.

I’m sorry.

There’s more. Because I was scared, my husband left me. He divorced me and married my best friend.

Nice.

So I came to America.

You have a guy here?

No. I never looked.

Why not? You’ve been telling me that most people are good. So go find a good man.

It’s not that easy.

Really? That’s not what you’ve been telling me. If I can go hunting on crutches you can go hunting in falsies.

The elevator stopped on the second floor and three people got on. One of them was a little girl who kept staring at Dana’s crutches.

What do you think of them? Dana asked her.

Purple. She answered.

The door opened and they all got off, the little girl still watching Dana.

Guess I’ll have to get used to that. she said to Meg.

Meg didn’t say anything until Dana’s father was helping her into his car then she said, her voice husky with emotion, Good hunting.

****

CHAPTER TWO

One week later Dana buried her father. Then she spent several days dealing with the aftermath of his sudden death. She sold his old Jeep, his nineteen sixty-four Oldsmobile, most of his tools, and the contents of his cottage. Then she rented the cottage to an elderly couple who had been friends with her father for years. After that she put all of his guns, fishing paraphernalia, and old hats into a storage unit, and then crutched herself into a new apartment and closed out the world.

She emerged to get groceries and a state-of-the-art recliner. Then she got bored and bought a computer and a wheeled cart that she found that she could push ahead of her with a crutch.

Then a representative of the State of Alaska came to see her. The woman was young, enthusiastic, and didn’t understand the word ‘No’. A week later Dana found herself in a computer ‘retraining’ class at Portland Community College located north of Beaverton in a area called Rock Creek.

Next a new car arrived, compliments of the State of Alaska. It was equipped with hand controls and Dana found that she could drive it fairly well after three intense lessons from an engineer with the company that built and installed the hand controls. In fact she was sure that she could drive it better than he could. She told him that and then wished that she hadn’t.

I’m sorry. She said, I’m still kinda into the ‘Me’ thing. How bout if I buy you dinner?

She didn’t know she was so uptight about maybe being rejected until he smiled and accepted.

He spent most of the evening explaining the theory of relativity to her, to the point that she wished that he had turned her down. When he tried to kiss her good night at her door, he tripped over one of her crutches and nearly knocked them both down. He left kiss-less and confused.

Dana made her way to her recliner and collapsed into it. Then she began to laugh. She laughed until she cried. Then she cried until she went to sleep.

Then she began the process of rebuilding her life day by day. Nights were for sleeping and regaining enough strength to take on another day.

****

CHAPTER THREE

Jim, Jimmy to his friends, sauntered up to the end of the three-person line in front of the coffee kiosk three blocks from his office. He was wearing his usual attire: jeans, bare feet thrust into leather sandals and a Hawaiian shirt. He took the looks from the three bundled coffee seekers as he always did, with a fuck-you smile. He didn’t speak to Coffee Bob, just nodded as the elderly man deftly made a triple-shot latte for him. He dropped the change from three ones into the plastic mouth of the bright green fish that sat on the counter next to a hand-lettered sign that said, ‘tipping is not a city in China’ and left. He enjoyed the opposite sensations of his feet scuffing through the puddles of ice cold rainwater and the burning of his hand that clutched the paper cup of happiness.

He cut through the back lot of the funeral parlor a block from his office, and paused to watch as a meat wagon finished unloading a corpse. The funeral director, a large stiff man who wore pin-striped suits and polished shoes was standing to one side watching as the gurney was rolled toward the stainless-steel side door.

Jim gave out a loud whistle; the funeral director flinched and turned toward him. A stiff on ice is money in the bank, Jim yelled to him and then gave him a thumbs-up. The man turned away. Jim shrugged and said to himself, Hell, he should be happy. He’s gonna have a good day, gettin’ one this early.

In no particular hurry to get back to what he referred to as ‘the daily grind’, he stopped to admire an oak-framed mirror that was a new item in the window of one of the seven antique stores on his street. He watched in the mirror’s reflection as a dark blue sedan, still dripping from the drive-through car wash up on Cornell, pulled into his lot. He decided to watch whoever it was, get out by looking at the mirror. He was intrigued by the process his brain was going through, knowing that his eyes were seeing a mirror image and reversing the process, seemingly without effort. He wondered if it took more calories to do the internal math, or if it was just life as usual for the warm gray mass that throbbed between his ears.

After a few seconds, during which time he could see whoever was in the car, check her makeup -- God! He hoped it was a woman checking her makeup -- the door opened and legs appeared clad in black slacks. Then two purple aluminum crutches came into view. That’s when he turned around. A young woman levered herself into a standing position using the car door. She snapped the arm bands of her crutches around her upper arms and then balancing on the crutches leaned back in for an attaché case and purse, both with shoulder straps. Slinging them over her right shoulder, she backed away from the car, pushing the door shut with a crutch then took a deep breath and headed for the door of his office. Jim resisted a desire to run across the street and open the door for her, instead watching to see how she did it. From a technical point of view, she was probably working about eighty percent capacity. He gave her a couple minutes then walked across the street.

She was talking to Nellie when he walked in. Nellie pointed at him and said something to her. She nodded and came toward him, meeting him in the open space between the front desk and the three glass cubicles that his crew worked in. She smiled and shifting her weight to the left crutch, stuck out her hand. Her grip was strong, and her smile was real.

Her eyes flickered over him, taking in his rather unorthodox style of dress, given the weather, as she said, I’m Dana Byers and I’m here for a 9 AM appointment regarding a position as a research assistant.

Come on into my office. We’ll get on with it. He led the way toward the walled-off section of the building that was his domain. Can you type? he asked over his shoulder.

I can input about a hundred words a minute, but my real value is in research. That’s what the job description emphasized.

He pulled a chair out for her and walked around the desk to his own. "Yeah, I need a