Kate's Gifts

By David McDonald

There is an old saying- we are only as sick as our secrets. Some of us are more sicker than others.

A suburban "soccer mom" fighting addiction. A soldier, scarred by the horror of war. Two very different lives, brought together by an act of betrayal, and then torn apart by a deadly secret. Soon all that stands between the American dream and a nuclear nightmare are a woman's gifts. They are gifts she must give away, in order to save us all.

From the deadly streets of Kabul, to the backyards of suburbia, the race is on to stop a terror attack against the homeland, with Kate at the center of it. Hunted by the CIA, FBI and a GRU hit squad, Kate is forced to fight her inner demons while trying to save her children from the danger she's placed them in. With a strong emotional battle, a raw look into the world of the alcoholic, and a chillingly realistic plot line, Kate's Gifts is a story of a woman's courage, strength and hope in a world where miracles can exist, if you’re willing to see them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David McDonald
• Release date: Oct 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311932570

Book preview

Prologue

As you walk by the charming house on a lush tree-lined street in this quiet suburban neighborhood, you hear the music every Thursday afternoon and wonder, What’s she doing in there?

The flagstone path leads you past a dazzling array of potted mums. Inside the front door, the incredibly tasteful decor and meticulous detail seem almost like a movie set, or a real estate open house, with fresh cut flowers and the aroma of cookies baking in the kitchen. The rooms are set in warm hues with deep cherry wood furniture. The music draws you down the hall, past pictures hanging on the wall of a handsome family. Shots of vacations with wet dogs, winter fun with snowmen, and beautiful portraits. As your eyes shift from frame to frame, you feel a slight tinge of jealousy and envy. In the large living room, vanilla-scented candles have been placed on the coffee table, floating in bowls of water rippling from the sound waves pouring from the speakers. The music is classical, a deeply moving, haunting and bittersweet melody. It is Prokofiev, Suite Number One from Cinderella.

On the couch that faces the fireplace, you see the beautiful blond woman in the photographs. She is older than in the pictures, but still wonderful to gaze upon. Her eyes are a stunning blue. She shifts on the couch, and you realize that she is more than lost in the music. You blush and feel the urge to leave, but you have to stay, watching her as the music spirals upward to the crescendo. Then a silent gasp, a sudden shudder. The music begins to fade, as does but the smile on her lips.

Who is she? Perhaps Cinderella, alone with her prince, for this moment lost in a world that is hers alone.

But you know how the story ends. Eventually the clock will turn to midnight and the pumpkin and mice return. Looking at her you wish it wouldn’t, but it always does.

Everything in life has its end, no matter how sweet. So, sadly, you decide to leave before the music dies. You don’t want to turn your back on the ballerina you see in your mind, in your own secret world, the glowing white figure on the receding stage. You don’t need to see the finale, for there is enough heartbreak in the world already.

What you don’t see as you close the door is that her eyes are open again, and that a tear has fallen down her flushed cheek. There used to be more. Soon there will be none.

The more we endure the pain of what we hoped to be and have failed to become, the less we seem to care. Those dreams may change from hopeful fantasy to pleasant memories, but their power to move us still remains.

A slight smile returns to the woman’s lips as she stares out the living room window, seeing in this world, but for now living in another.

Part I

"I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.

Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home."

-From The Tavern by Jelaluddin Rumi

Chapter 1

New York

It has to be providence. It’s the only possible explanation for the pretty but worn-looking brunette sitting alone at the bar, soaking up vodka like a sponge. She doesn’t want to be a drunk on a barstool, in the midst of an ugly relapse, not that there are any pretty ones, but that’s exactly who she is. As any survivor of alcoholism can tell you, sobriety is a gift. If you lose it, there’s no guarantee you’ll get it back, and most don’t.

It sucks when God’s plan differs from your own.

There are two sources of music in the small midtown Manhattan watering hole, the jukebox playing vintage hits, and the orchestra inside her head. Her music always makes her happy, but never makes her well. Just like the booze.

She hates the clutch of young women at the other end, stealing glances, judging her.

She hates how they can sip their delicate little Cosmos.

"Can I help YOU?"

All she gets back is a tittering little laugh, and the whispered dismissal of Drunk.

Fuck. You, she says, making the pretty boy bartender clear his throat. He doesn’t want to cut her off, but if she keeps it up, he won’t have a choice.

She hates God for what he’s done to her, but Kati considers herself in good company. I’m not the only one he’s screwed over.

She hates herself, for allowing her marriage to crumble, and worst of all, for what he had done to her children. That thought makes her drain the glass.

The Christmas lights that never come down adorning the mirrors remind her of that. She came in early, around three. It is nine now. The theater folks have come and gone, leaving only the pros to go the distance, like her. The guys hitting on her find out real quick she isn’t looking for company. She is there to drink, alone in a crowded bar. She doesn’t have to look for trouble because it always seems to find her.

She gestures for another and the bartender gives in again. She keeps the cash coming and he likes her look, a flattering black business suit with a little black lace something under the jacket, an attractive bag for a laptop and nice shoes. Being off the night before, he doesn’t know she is sitting in the same place and wearing the same clothes as yesterday.

Thank you, Kati smiles sweetly. Despite the buzz, the pain returns, brought on by the images flashing into her consciousness. Some make her wince, like those of her children. Then pass the faces of the people she’s betrayed, the ones who had kept her sober and those she herself had helped. Sorry, guys.

The young women down the bar get up to leave, one giving her a last look with a sympathetic pout.

Good Christ... The depth of the deceptions still amazes her. Her lies were the only truth she really knew, blending perfectly with reality. A real fucking fairy tale…and this is how it really ends.

Kati’s eyes open to see the dark grain of the wooden bar as a tear runs down her flushed cheek.

Bar boy can’t take it any longer. Enough, he says softly. Ritchie! he calls to the ex-Golden Gloves bouncer. The hulking man comes over as the bartender leans to her. That’s it, honey, we’re closing soon anyway.

Her head snaps up, eyes bloodshot from the booze and the bawling. How about one for the road, handsome?

Tomorrow, sweetie, and the first one will be on me. Ritchie, please help this nice lady into a cab.

Ritchie moves to help her up.

Don’t touch me, she says icily.

That make him pause, Okay then, after you.

But she doesn’t move. In addition to her considerable pain is also a ton of anger in desperate need of release, the byproduct of the simmering rage from all those gifts she’s lost.

Please, I’m not going to ask you again, Ritchie warns, although he wouldn’t mind having a chance to put his hands on her hot little body. Smiling, he leans closer to her.

She can feel his breath. She sees herself, and him, in the mirror behind the bar. Still, she does not move. He puts his meat hook hand on her upper arm. She jerks it away.

"I said, don’t!"

Come on, lady, don’t make this hard, the bartender whines, offering her a last chance, but the adrenaline has already shot into her system, the fuse is already lit. She could have made it simple, gone the easier softer way, but she could not. She wants this, no needs this.

The waiting ends. The bouncer grabs her.

The fight really isn’t fair, but life seldom is. It is over in seconds, five blinding moves, with a frightening severity and viciousness that stuns the room. The bouncer takes two steps back before collapsing, wide-eyed but out like a light. Nary a soul moves or utters a word, but Patsy Klein keeps singing Crazy, not knowing any better.

Slowly gathering her things, she places a twenty-dollar bill under her glass and holds up another for the bartender to see. This is for him, nodding at the bouncer. Tell him I’m sorry, but I warned him.

She stuffs the bill in the empty glass, and heads out the door as the bartender watches.

Don’t let me see you in here again!

She turns at the door and smiles. You’d better hope you don’t.

Kati wades slips into the current of the night. The rush is wearing off, replaced by the dread of her new regrets, a new failure to add to her collection.

She has to move on, sure they’ll call the cops. A run-in with New York’s finest would be bad for all involved because there’d be no telling where it would stop. She doesn’t want that. All she wants is another drink, and everything will be right as rain.

She mixes with homebound show crowd. I had a home once!

The thought quickens her pace, adding to the increasing desperation for the next cocktail. She finds the liquor store she visited that morning, but the door is locked.

CLOSED FOR THANKSGIVING.

A little early for that, she says dryly, giving the door a little kick. It throws her off balance, nearly spilling her onto the sidewalk, but an overflowing garbage can breaks her fall. A passerby pauses to glower at the visibly intoxicated woman. What are you looking at, shit head?

Luckily, there is another place up the street, next to her cheap tourist hotel. She always hated going to the same liquor store twice in one day anyway.

No turkey, pumpkin pie, or touch football this Thanksgiving, doubtful that she’d be able to keep any food down anyway. All she has is the muffled TV in the room next door, the bottle of vodka and dread. Turning off the lights, she gets onto the bed, but doesn’t get undressed. She places the laptop bag under her pillow and lays back, hugging the bottle like a teddy bear while holding the 9mm Sig-Saur 244 she’d taken off the woman who tried to kill her, and got her head blown off for trying. She chambers a round. Her troubled mind, filled with every possible aspect of despair, doesn’t let her be.

Cruel loss…her sons, never to see them grow to become men. Her friends, who she be too ashamed to face anyway. Her love, the single redeeming spark she had waited for all her life, given to her suddenly, only to be taken away quicker still.

Just then, the door to her room opens. Blinding light floods in from the hallway. Shakily, Kati sits up, pointing the gun at an appearing silhouette, framed by the door. Slowly the female figure approaches, but Kati doesn’t move. The woman sits on the edge of the bed, pushing the gun away. Now the red neon light from the sign outside reveals her face.

You can’t be… Kati starts, but a finger gently placed on her lips stops her.

"Shush, Kati, time to rest," the visitor soothes. "You did not live to die like this." She lightly brushes the bangs from Kati’s eyes. There are gifts you have yet to receive and to give.

My boys…

The visitor smiles, Yes, your boys and much more, but you must fight for them.

I’m so tired of fighting, tired of the pain. They’re better off without me…I’m better off dead.

"Then who am I to deprive you? Death is door that opens, not a door that closes."

The anguish is unbearable, more than any human being should ever have to bear. Shaking, in silent empty sobs, Kati brings the gun to her head.

"You are so brave, Kati, more than I ever was. That is why I love you so."

It had to stop, as it should have so many years ago.

Forgive me

The hammer comes back, and she pulls the trigger.

The visitor smiles with sweet sadness.

It has to be God’s will.

THURSDAY

One Month Before

Chapter 2

Char Qala District, Kabul, Afghanistan

Inshallah, the pudgy shopkeeper says in Arabic, gazing down the filthy street. The local kids call him Mr. Sami. They know him as a kind man, who will pay a few Afghani for any salvageable stuff they scavenge out of the festering dumps.

A few blocks down he spots a Westerner. Normally such a stranger is easy prey, but as the man draws closer, Sami realizes why he’s walking alone, unbothered. This one is a Russian. There’s no pack of grubby children around him looking for handouts; they know better. The only thing they might get is a swift kick in the ass. He has come to see Sami and his powerful friends. As he enters the shop, the women in black burkas hurry out.

Sasha, my old friend...come in, come in! Sami gushes from the door, looking to see if he’s being followed.

Hello, Sami, it has been too long, the Russian says.

There is no traditional greeting with kisses, though Sami is genuinely happy to see the brawny blond with British-accented English, just like the Nazis in his favorite American war films.

Come, have some tea, Sami says as he ushers Sasha into the back room, where the real business is done. A small TV flickers with Arabic music videos while a beam of orange sunlight cuts through the darkness between them. The illuminated particles drift lazily in the heavy air like gold dust. Sami fixes a tray with hot tea and sweets. It is much too long since you visit me, my friend.

The business climate has changed considerably, Sasha replies, mopping his forehead. The heat is stifling.

Sasha plays nice, even though he despises Sami, and that thought forces him to consider what he himself has become, and why he is here. Sasha’s heyday was behind him, but he still has to make a buck, and still has one last card to play

So, what brings you here, my old friend?

I have some information that will interest your friends in Tehran.

A muffled BOOM from a distant shell or car bomb seems to underline his words.

I admire you, Sasha, keeping abreast of things. Yes, my friends are always in the market for good information. They have a just cause, and deep pockets, so I am always ready to help them.

Sasha regards his tea. And the Americans?

They don’t pay as well, and besides, their time here will be short, Sami assures. They hear the sound of diesel engines and commotion in the distance Speak of the devil, Sami grins.

Sasha cuts to the chase. Well, I have something they will not be able to resist.

Tell me! Sasha says, putting his cup back on the tray and leaning across the table.

My people have commando teams hidden inside America, poised to unleash hell upon its people.

Sami’s eyes grow wide.

It is the final jumping point. From here, there is no return. This would be his last deal, one way, or another. Sasha braces for it, then steps over the line.

I know how to activate them.

Chapter 3

Abington, PA

Thousands of miles away, Kate Wilson turns as if she hears something. Her cat stands motionless atop the granite kitchen countertop, a paw poised to knock over a glass. She smiles. Get down from there, you!

She’s in no mood to play. Her boys will be home any second and she has a surprise waiting for them. Not only is the cute little blond your typical suburban super mom, she’s also a part-time karate instructor, and her boys are her best pupils…most of the time.

Outside on the sidewalk, Robbie Wilson and his older brother Tom assess the situation. Thursdays mean Mom is home, and lying in ambush for them, an idea she got from the old Pink Panther movies, with her filling in for Cato.

You take the upstairs this time, Robbie says.

Didn’t I take it last time?

No, I did. His lie doesn’t work.

I know, we go in together.

After they drop their book bags, they go right for the front door, Slowly, quietly, Tom works the hardware and glides through the door open.

The silence is deafening; they usually hear a radio or the TV, left on too loud to cover their Mom’s movements.

Not today.

With a look, they start for the stairs.

At that moment they realize their mistake, but it is too late.

HI GUYS!

Kate makes them jump out of their skins. From behind the door, she swiftly grabs them in a hug, attacking her ticklish boys.

MOM!!!

That has to be the oldest trick in the book!

They both manage to wriggle away.

You are sooo weird! Tom laughs.

Yes, and that’s why you love me. Kate smiles, giving them both a kiss. Go start your homework before we go, she says, bouncing out of the room.

The boys look at each other, Robbie mocking his brother over his frightened reaction.

Robbie! Don’t tease your brother! Kate warns. Tom smiles, because he hears the irritation in her voice. Her accent always comes out with her anger. It’s barely perceptible most of the time, like a song that you just couldn’t place, and adds a cool exotic air about her.

Under the watchful supervision of the cat, Kate finishes the laundry. While folding up boxers and balling socks, she admires the fading autumn light outside and how it appears to set the turning trees on fire. It is her favorite time of year: the welcome cool after a hot summer, the coming holidays and the new school year. There was a time when such things went unnoticed, thanks to the distorted view through a bottle.

With her svelte athletic physique, she is easily mistaken for a woman ten years younger than her forty-four years. Get a little closer, however, and the slight hints of a rough road traveled reveal themselves; faded scars from another life. It doesn’t bother her, looking at it instead as an attribute very few of her sister suburbanites shared.

"Something to be grateful for..." The thought reminds her call her sponsee Sheila, just to make sure she’s held on for another day.

Hi, Sheila…

Hi, sponsor lady.

Kate can immediately tell something is wrong. What’s the matter, sweetie?

Brian and I had another fight, Sheila says, referring to her fiancée. Although not mentioned in AA’s Big Book, sponsorship is often the key to an alcoholic’s recovery. As a sponsor, Kate shares her own experiences, becoming Sheila’s confessor, therapist, and friend. More importantly, Kate is helping herself.

Are you okay? Kate asks.

Yeah, he got all pissed because I didn’t want him to go out. I said, why don’t you just stay home for once? It went south from there.

So, you thought of drinking?

It’s hard, Kate.

I know, but you know what? You didn’t, and instead you did exactly what I told you to do, you picked up the phone and called your sponsor.

Is that what it’s going to come down to, Brian or a drink?

Kate’s heart sinks. It almost came to that in her own relationship with Michael her husband. I don’t know, sweetie, I hope not, but it might.

The truth is, she really didn’t know.

Chapter 4

Kabul

Another day in paradise, boys, Sergeant Daniel McDowd of the 10th Mountain Division, 110th Military Intelligence Battalion tells his buddies. They are tagging along with a squad of Afghan National Police on a sweep for Taliban. As advisors, their job is not to lead, but to point the way, and hopefully not get killed by the people they are training. Very soon, they’ll be completely on their own, ready or not.

He’s a smart kid, Robert Redford good looks, the combination of an Irish father and a Jewish mom. As a kid, he had dreamed of becoming an FBI agent, doing one better than his old man, who’d been a NYPD borough commander. He graduated from Quantico at the top of his class, so they sent him to do some graduate language work at NYU. That’s when his dream was derailed.

On September 11, 2001, McDowd was riding his bike, steadily making the climb up the wooden plank walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge on his way to a Russian literature class when the world changed before his eyes. That night, watching the sunset through the smoke from his roof deck, Dan McDowd, like so many American sons and daughters, knew what he had to do.

Getting a deferment from the FBI, he joined the United States Army. With his training and education, he moved fast. The Army recognized his gift for language right away and with his knowledge of Russian, they gave him the challenge of learning Pashto, Afghanistan’s most widely used language. All this landed him on a dusty street, trying to do something to fix the shattered country while they still had a chance.

Chiller! his partner shouts from across the street.

McDowd wanders over through the mostly foot traffic. The people pay cautious to indifference to them as long as they keep moving.

What’s up, Bone? McDowd asks Sergeant James Washington.

Don’t look now, but your red Volvo’s right around this corner.

Their Afghan counterpart catches up with them, along with Lieutenant David Dobson, a kid fresh out of West Point.

McDowd, did you find your target yet? This place is a shit hole, and these kids are worse than flies. Dobson has attracted a swarm of children.

Right around the corner, LT, McDowd says.

Good. Which house? Dobson sighs, already beat from the heat.

Third house, left side.

Dobson turns to the Afghan commander. Okay Hakeem, all yours.

Bone smiles and pats the Afghan on the back. Go get’em, brother! The imposing reservist beams with pride as his student rushes into action.

You should try this tactic at home, McDowd sadly comments. Bone hails from Philadelphia. When his reserve unit got called up, his job as a city detective gave him the option to stay behind. The Army and his country had been good to him, giving him the education, training and discipline to escape the mean streets. Philly needed him, but his country needs him more.

No doubt. Bone sighs, thinking about the nonstop Philadelphia violence, and his two sons right in the middle of it.

McDowd reads his buddy’s mind; he’s known to do that. How are the boys? he asks while watching Hakeem and his men storm the building. McDowd has family in Philly area too, so he knows what Bone’s kids are up against.

So far so good. My little guy Russ is a little sweetie, but James? He’s got too much of his mother in him, God rest her soul. He’s starting to need me more than these people do. I hope my mom can handle him until I get back.

The muffled rattle of AK-47 fire suddenly comes from inside the house. Instinctively McDowd and Bone crouch and hug the wall.

How old is your mom?

Bone has to think a second. Sixty-one. Why?

Now there is soft BOOM from a flash grenade, then shouting in Pashto over the radio.

Well, she’s young. I wouldn’t worry. After all, she didn’t do such an awful job with you.

They hear a burst of a male voice screaming over the radio.

You better not be dissing my momma, son.

I ain’t dissing your momma, I’m dissing you! McDowd laughs.

Dobson scurries next to them, just a few doors down from the operation. McDowd! What the fuck is going on in there?

Gee, L.T., it sounds like they’re having fun.

That didn’t sound like a fun scream.

They haven’t asked for help, LT.

Just find out.

Yes sir! McDowd switches to Pashto. "Hakeem! What’s going on?’ he shouts into the radio.

Hakeem shouts loudly over the screaming.

He says he’s fine, sir.

Less than a minute later, a nearly naked man bursts from the front door of the building, with Hakeem and his men right behind.

McDowd recognizes him as the target. The man drops to his knees and throws up his hands, sobbing hysterically. Bone doesn’t speak a lick of Pashto, but he knows when someone has taken to begging.

A moment later, Hakeem smacks him in the head with the stock of his gun.

The Americans approach for a closer look while the suspect crawls towards them in a cloud of dust.

Please! Please! Do not let them take me!

McDowd uses his a retinal scanner on the suspect. Looks like we have a winner, Hakeem.

The Afghan slaps the suspect again. Iranian pig!

Two of his men grab the suspect by the arms and drag the sobbing suspect away.

Bone and Dobson shake their heads while another GI videotapes the whole shebang. Every operation is recorded, along with all the onlookers.

Good job, Hakeem, Dobson says. But I think we might have to work on your bedside manner.

"God willing, L.T., God willing. We’ll see you back at the base."

Saddle up, boys! Bone shouts to his men. As the Americans gather up, McDowd lingers to watch the pick up truck disappear into the orange dust.

God’s will. Sometimes it makes him wonder.

Chapter 5

City Line Avenue, Philadelphia

Fear is a great motivator.

Get down… Kate whispers, ducking behind the Slurpee station in the back of a 7-Eleven. Kate, along with her boys, her neighbor Julie and her two daughters have just finished karate class and have stopped for a little refreshment. A minute later, somebody’s robbing the place. Kate noticed them the moment they walked in, but thankfully, they haven’t seen Kate and company.

Shhh! All of you, she hushes them. One look at her face and they can see she’s not fooling around. A burst of profanity from the front of the store makes the situation clear.

Don’t make a sound, she whispers, hoping it’ll be over in a minute. Quietly, she shifts on her feet. Using the reflection off the glass refrigerator doors, she assesses the situation.

That’s it? That’s all you got, old man? says one voice.

No more cash. Here, take cigarette.

Fuck that. I know you got more. Give it up, motherfucker! another voice demands.

"Two of them," she sees, kids not even old enough to drive, but one of them has a gun.

Safe locked! Cannot open. The old man starts to lose it as the gun points over the counter, backing him to the wall.

Come on, Boo. We got something, let’s go man.

The kid with the gun hesitates. For a moment, it seems to be over.

CLANG!

Robbie knocks over a bottle. It doesn’t break, but it rolls for what seems an eternity on the hard tile floor. Robbie’s face twists as if listening to fingernails being dragged over a blackboard. When it finally stops, he looks to his mom to say, I’m sorry.

There is dead silence. She knows they heard the bottle. She waits for the reaction while slipping off her clogs.

Somebody else here? The kid named Boo thumbs back the gun’s hammer.

"Shit!" Kate acts, she has to. Her children are in the same room as some skell with a gun. She is swift and silent, like a wave of dark magic. She grabs a can of dog food as she soars down the aisle directly behind the hooded robbers, staying low. About ten feet out, she launches the can with a dazzling overhand pitch. As it leaves her hand, she shouts, HEY!

Boo turns. The can is eight inches away from his face. He has no time to react before it strikes him square between the eyes. The last thing his brain registers is the word BEEF. The impact makes a sickening THONK, and he drops like a brick. His buddy catches him, but not the falling gun. Kate snatches it out of the air and brings it’s business end to within an inch of the other kid’s eye as he helplessly holds his stunned partner.

Get out.

The kid doesn’t take his eyes off the menacing barrel, telling her it is loaded. She backs away to give him room to drag his dazed pal out the door. Kate looks over to see Tom’s stunned face.

Oh, thank you thank you thank you! the owner jabbers. Kate pays no attention as she looks to see where they’ve gone. With a deep breath, Kate spins around.

Okay, guys. Let’s go, everybody out, she calls.

What just happened? her neighbor Julie asks, emerging from the back. They’ve heard the commotion but saw nothing.

Kate hides the gun behind her back. I guess they got scared and ran off. I didn’t think I smelled that bad.

Both the shopkeeper and Tom look at her puzzled.

I said, let’s go. She prods Tom to get them moving out the door.

No, you must stay for the police. You hero! the owner pleads. Tom gives his mother a sideways glance passing by.

Kate grabs Julie by the arm. Julie, I’ll call you later.

Okay, Julie says with hesitation, but Kate doesn’t let her go.

Please, let’s keep this to ourselves.

Okay, Kate.

Then she tells Tom, I’ll be there in a second.

Kate goes back into the store. The old man is out from behind the counter now. Please, stay, the police are coming!

Kate shakes her head. No. I don’t want get involved, okay?

But you help, they should know!

"I don’t want them to know. Now, you must do me a favor…"

The rush is still with her as they ride silently home, the endorphins tingling her entire being. Kate tries to resist the enjoyment; it’s dangerous for her. Finally, Robbie speaks up. Mom?

Yes, sweetie?

I’m sorry about the bottle.

You’re an idiot, Tom scolds.

I’m sorry! It was an accident! Robbie shoots back.

It’s okay, sweetie, Kate chuckles. Just be more careful next time, especially when I ask you seriously to do something.

Like don’t move.

Tom looks over at his mother. Only he knows how serious the situation was, and he’s not quite sure how to handle it.

Feeling his eyes on her, she slowly droops like one of those Mylar party balloons, unwanted, unneeded now that the fun is over. It’s not you, Kate, she tells herself. There is another voice somewhere that Kate knows will tell her otherwise, that it is her, that she’s damaged goods and beyond the expiration date. But she doesn’t listen to that voice anymore.

Minutes later, they