The FairGrounds: Message in a Bottle

By Blake Alb

Can you stomach the Fairgrounds?
Based on nothing but a modern-day message in a bottle and a secret invention that can measure the ebb and flow of Karma itself, watch as three troubled strangers each takes a leap of faith to find fairness in an unfair world. But things get close and personal as a masked vigilante vows to take Karma into his own hands. But no matter what brought our band of less-than-merry men together, one thing is for certain, common enemies make for strange bedfellows!
In Book 1, get acquainted with each of our three misunderstood adventurers as they independently try to make sense of a secret message embedded in a mysterious $2 bill. Who wrote the secret message, and can they be trusted? Each of our protagonists must face their inner conflicts and weigh the pros and cons of endeavoring on such a risky pilgrimage. Is it fate that guides these complete strangers towards a common destiny? Or is it simply a disaster waiting to happen, the wishful and wistful thinking wrought by the telltale imaginations of overzealous dreamers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Feb 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956788617

Blake Alb

Blake Alb is a writer with a passion for stories that stray from the beaten path. He has an MS in psychology and works as a mental health professional. He attributes his psychology degree as playing a significant role in providing a wellspring of ideas for storytelling. He is a big fan of all things geeky, with a penchant for anime, fantasy, science fiction, and video games. He also enjoys British Comedy and improv.

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The Fairgrounds

Book 1 Message in a Bottle

by

Blake Alb

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

WCP Logo 7

World Castle Publishing, LLC

Pensacola, Florida

Copyright © Blake Alb 2022

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 9781956788600

eBook ISBN: 9781956788617

First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, February 21, 2022

http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

Smashwords Licensing Notes

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

Cover Art: John Davies

Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

Chapter 1: Feasibility and Changes of Heart

Main Character: Shawn Schroeder

Setting: Backyard of Shawn’s Home, inside privacy fence

Date: May 9, 2019, Thursday afternoon

To whom it may concern (if anyone),

Consider this to be my suicide note. Sadly, they don’t teach you how to properly pen one of these in school, in the same manner, they instruct and give direction on the proper sections, styling, or formatting techniques of a cover letter, thank you note, or letter to a friend. As such, you will need to forgive any lapses in proper form or rhythm. But I think you will get the point, and the picture, as evidenced by the unsightly view of my body dangling from this very apple tree. After all, necessity is the mother of invention. Or is it really the other way around? Oh, my precious Emeril, my beloved! They say that parents should never outlive their children. But alas, in my situation, this is not the case. And it is for this very reason, I believe, that life just isn’t fair. There is no justice in the world! Like they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

--------------unused suicide note

At just before five in the afternoon on this Thursday, the mid-fifties and divorced Shawn Schroeder was pacing around his twenty-seven-year-old Whitney crab apple tree in Alexandria, MN. He had heard the last of his immediate neighbors go into their humble abodes of picket fence suburban ramblers after what seemed to him like an eternity. The smell of mesquite was permeating the air as the last of them was putting away his Weber barbecue grill. Shawn mused at the irony of how such a scent would normally rekindle his own nostalgic revelations to pull out his own grill and do the same. But today was not that day.

By now, he had already dug a two-foot grave for his time capsule of his deceased nine-year-old son Emeril, containing baby pictures, the boy’s favorite jacks and marbles, fourth-grade class photo, various school awards and knick-knacks, and his favorite stuffed teddy bear Nettles. He decided to bury the metal box underneath the apple tree as if he could take such possessions with him into the realms of the next life, like in the tales of ancient Egypt. How long does it really take to put away your stupid backyard barbecue equipment? he thought to himself. He also wondered if the privacy fence was high enough to block any visible vestiges of what might transpire within the dark hour. He walked towards the wooden and rusty old park bench he had purchased at an antique shop some three years ago and pulled it closer to the apple tree. With a brute force method, he finagled it under one of the sturdier branches, about eight feet above the freshly cut lawn below. Hobbling to the garage, he retrieved the old dirty tow rope that he used to pull cars from ditches in winter. Tying the knot required more than one trip to the Internet via his cell phone, no small feat for a less than computer-savvy gentleman such as himself. After all, this certainly wasn’t your grandfather’s Windsor knot or the pleasant sort of tying the knot that oft accompanied marrying one’s true love. To get the height just right, he had to wind the rope a few times around the branch.

And all the while, he thought about his nine-year-old son and all the joyous times they had spent together, particularly their escapades involving their matching yellow metal detectors and all the precious coins and metals they had unearthed in the most unlikely of places. But these thoughts quickly diminished as the look of Emeril’s dying face took precedence, like faces suddenly appearing from background to foreground like phantoms in the night or the famous face/vase illusion.

Shawn stepped on the bench and put his head into the hole of the rope, like a child inserting his head into a cardboard cutout at the county fair. Ah, I almost forgot, he thought to himself as he snapped his fingers, took off the rope, and stepped off the bench as if merely forgetting one’s keys for work. After a short jog back to the 1964 rambler, he snatched the envelope containing the suicide note from the top of the deep freeze. Two seconds later, the envelope found its way into his breast pocket. Returning to the apple tree, he mounted the old rusty bench, placed his head back into the circle of the rope, and slowly tip-toed off the bench as if he were a bashful child stepping off a diving board into a deep swimming pool.

Shiiiit, he mumbled with a guttural sound, his legs flapping and flailing like a marionette puppet. He noticed that this was every bit as painful as it looked in the movies. He also found himself having second thoughts, or second feelings, to be more apt. The rope was the killer but also his safety net as he grappled for the top of the rope with both hands and pulled his legs back onto the welcoming safety of the bench. It took a moment for his breath to return. And then he tried again. But this time, the pain was even more intense than before. His body was so numb and weak that he was barely able to dismount from this rather lackluster carnival ride. It took even longer for his breath to return to a calm and collected rhythm. After untying the rope from the branch and tidying his collar, he pulled the bench back to the shadows from whence it came, and untied the noose from his neck and put it back on its reserved hook on the wall of the garage as if it had never left. With a hard toss, the suicide note from his breast pocket found its way into the metal garbage can in the corner of the garage. After this bout of drama, he didn’t love life any more per se, but he sure feared the pain of death that much more. And that was enough motivation to keep our Shawn alive, at least in the interim.

Leaving the garage, a thought ran through his head. Maybe this rope is better suited for saving the lives of stranded cars.

. _

Chapter 2: Terra Incognita

Main characters: Shawn Schroeder and Nathan Dickson

Setting: Alexandria Hospital’s Food for Thought cafeteria, Children’s Cancer Wing

Date: May 11, 2019, Saturday, 10:00 am

And the killer beekeeper, not to be confused with a keeper of killer bees, the fractious Amrak, has apparently been up to his zany old hijinks once again, reprising his role as lord of karma in yet another act of depravity, his death toll now reaching fifty people. This includes the seven people he killed in 2017 when he re-enacted the 1929 St. Valentine’s Day Massacre and the twenty-six people he killed in 2018, each having a name starting with a different letter of the alphabet. He has just claimed his seventeenth victim this year alone and the second one in April. This time around, he has taken it upon himself to wreak havoc on the old, senile, and decrepit. Seventy-year-old Justin Thompson from Louisiana was found dead in his trailer home on Sunday afternoon five days after he was released from federal penitentiary for killing his stockbroker in 1989 for giving lackluster financial advice. After inundating his home with killer bees, Amrak and several of his cronies barricaded Thompson’s door with a large bronze statue of himself, a six-foot man in beekeeper’s regalia, waving a flag with the name Amrak. The body was found just over a week later, and police found yet another philippic at the scene. It was pinned to his body with a flagpole, what has become his usual formal censure to highlight the victim’s wrongdoing. The note read as follows. ‘Young or old, rich or poor, male or female, or any other classification you can muster, you will get what you deserve! I am not a killer. This man’s sin is what killed him. I am just the messenger. And we all know what not to do with messengers!’

----- from Vigilante Vignettes, May issue, 2019

Is life fair? asked Shawn Schroeder to his friend of thirty years, Nate Dickson, as the formerly mentioned homo sapien closed the magazine and set it on one of the dining room tables in the Alexandria Children’s Hospital. On this particular day, Shawn was dressed in black jeans, Rockport hiking boots, and a lambswool Fair Isle sweater. He was reading what was intended to be a feel-good article about a Shetland sheepdog being rescued from a well. Nate was wearing a wildlife fleece jacket with a Northwestern moose on the front, black dress slacks, and Tony Lama western boots.

Today was the annual open house for the Alexandria Hospital Cafeteria’s Food for Thought. There were buffet tables encircling two of the walls, and today’s amenities were free (free will donation requested). The foodstuffs included such things as mixed nuts, Little Smokies with barbecue sauce, crackers and cheese, and desserts like macaroons, snickerdoodles, caramel rolls, scotcharoos, and toffee bars. There was a large blue ribbon dangling from the ceiling, which said in bold letters, Food for Thought: Not Just Hospital Food.

And while a hospital cafeteria may not be one’s usual haunt for top-shelf dining, this cafeteria had a better reputation. This particular cafeteria, as many locals would surely attest, was just as much about distraction as it was about the food. After all, they knew full well that a hospital can be the stuff of birthing rooms and convalescence, or it can also be the middleman to the mausoleum. And like any hospital perhaps, this one was known to represent the very dichotomy between life and death and everything in between. In many ways, the dining hall was similar to any other hospital cafeteria, with its sterile industrial kitchens, portable wooden tables and chairs, and various booths scattered haphazardly around the room amidst a smell of the cross between foodstuffs and disinfectant cleaners. The place could seat fifty if some elbow room was compromised.

While many hospitals may be notorious for lackluster foodstuffs, this hospital was locally known to be a cut above the rest in the local vicinity. This reputation held so steadfast that there were rumors of occasions where people would come to the cafeteria for the sole pastime of repast, their lack of medical necessity notwithstanding. And when impugned by non-locals about whether quality of food was really a top priority in a medical facility, they would simply remind such nay-sayers that quality of food was not to be taken lightly, especially for an expedient recovery. It’s good for the morale of the infirm and their families, some would say. Or, If chicken soup is good for the soul, just imagine what sorts of feelings a mid-west hot dish could conjure with all its visceral power. Or so the theory goes.

But there were several enticements that set this cafeteria apart. One, it had large pane-glass windows overlooking the sunny view of Lake Winona. And two, it had a stellar menu with more options than any other hospital in the tri-state area, including the aforementioned iconic midwest desserts. As for main dishes, the foodstuffs consisted of midwest fare, things like hot dishes, meat/potatoes, burgers/fries, and even funeral potatoes.

It was early enough that Nate and Shawn were the only ones in the room, save for an elderly couple in one of the booths across from them. They each had their paper plates adequately stuffed with the open house amenities, to the point where various foods were encroaching over each other to make room. Shawn was armed with a concoction that consisted of one part French vanilla creamer and four parts dark roast coffee. Nate had chosen an unsweetened peach iced tea.

Is that a rhetorical question? asked Nate Dickson as he considered Shawn’s question. He took a long drink of his tea and clanked his mug on the wooden table.

Let’s just suffice it to say that I am being quite serious, repeated Shawn, taking a short sip of his coffee. Do you think life is fair in your heart of hearts? He took a napkin from the dispenser and dabbed his mouth.

Shawn was genuinely curious in this equally curious manner of incisive inquisition, further evidenced by the steadfastness of his piercing gaze and the way he positioned his elbows on the table, placing his chin on the knuckles of his clenched hands. One might think that Shawn had just asked Nate, Are you now or have you ever been a communist?

***

To offer but a moment of brief backstory, Shawn was a tall fifty-five-year-old gentleman of German and Polish descent. He was born and raised in the typical manners and fashions endemic to the local Midwest traditions of MN Nice and Puritan Work Ethics. And while he might on occasion gossip about his neighbor, he wouldn’t hesitate to help him or her should they ever find themselves stuck in a ditch in winter. His occupation was one of bank manager, for more than twenty years, from the time he was twenty-five to the time he was forty-nine. And during that tenure, one could say he was almost betrothed to the profession, out of a combination of necessity, penchant for the familiar, and even a genuine liking for the trade. Be it from exhaustion or sudden dearth of passion, he had resigned from the bank about five years ago to work at the local rare coin shop Treasure Island, for a substantial pay decrease. And while the nature of both of these employments was quite disparate, the passing of coins was the common thread. He was most fascinated with American history, most notably all manner of American currency, and even on his own time, he had been an avid and astute coin collector since the day of his ninth birthday. He owned several metal detectors and had amassed an impressive coin collection over the course of his life. And while the pay was not surreal at his new job, he likened himself to a pirate of sorts, and such embellishment, hyperbole, and small use of humor and fantasy helped make his rather boring place of employment seem all the more exciting.

But an actual pirate, he was not, as he was as honest as the bust of Lincoln on that aforementioned penny. And in similar accord, while he knew virtually everything there was to know about counterfeit money, his knowledge was more tantamount to making sure he could spot it and avoid it at all costs, especially in his coin collecting pursuits. But make no mistake, his love of money mustn’t be confused with a love of making it. His connection was with the rich history, craftsmanship, and the aesthetic aspect, the flip-side of the coin, as it were. It could be said he had just as much love for a nickel as he did for a diamond. How much would you pay for a bust of Abraham Lincoln? he would ask. Five hundred dollars, you say? As for me, I wouldn’t pay more than a penny!

But his pride and joy was his childhood stuffed animals. He had them sitting on three layers of wall shelves in his bedroom quarters of his rambler. And near the shelving was a very large bookcase, with volumes upon volumes of daily planners, one for every year, since February of 1980. Each daily planner served as a diary, which was rather befitting to his organizational spirit. His manner of routine was to write at least three sentences about his day, right before bedtime, a habit he very rarely deviated from. Occasionally he would even have conversations with his plush friends and jot down the gist of the conversation in the journals. He had an entire bookshelf dedicated to these tomes. And what fun it was for him to take out a volume, from whence he was twelve, twenty, or even twenty-five, and relish and reminisce in the nostalgia, memory, and sentiment of it all. Even the bad memories stirred up a sort of wistful longing of his halcyon days of youth, as if simply being that young again, notwithstanding the drama of the day, was promise enough of the zest and zeal of a brighter future!

***

Nate donned a crooked grin. He bought a moment of time by stealing another sip from his iced tea. I would much rather wax small talk regarding your growing coin collection. I am still waiting to see your three-legged buffalo. Nuff said. Done and dusted.

So how about it, fair or unfair?

Nate cracked a small smile. Now that is what they used to call a cavalier question.

That I don’t dispute. I know it runs counter to my usual shy disposition.

Might be a loaded question, said Nate as he cracked his knuckles. First, we gotta make sure we are on the same page of what exactly fairness even means. Are we talking equal opportunity or equal outcomes? Happiness or pursuit of happiness? Equal but different?

Let me put it like this, said Shawn as he moved condiments around the table like a war general positioning models of troops on a map. Does everyone have a purpose? Or are we just stuck with what or who we are? You are either a mustard bottle or napkin dispenser, and you gotta make the best of it? Is there a rhyme or reason for what everyone goes through?

Nate considered him for a moment, squinted his eyes, and took a long sip of iced tea as if reading him. H set down his cup with a loud thud and licked his lips. But maybe the answer about life being fair isn’t so black and white. Maybe it’s a matter of degree? Maybe the answer is more like ‘maybe’? Or ‘sometimes’?

Perhaps, Shawn said with a nod as if talking to himself just as much as to Nate. See, I got to thinking about this lately with all the news these days about this Amrak fellow—you know, the ‘Karma Killer,’ among other things.

Yes, I have heard of him, said Nate. Who hasn’t. Not that I want to give him the time of day. Or the time of night, for that matter.

Although he is a convicted criminal, he has his fans, mostly from the pro-vigilante camp, said Shawn. Let’s just suffice it to say that there are many who believe that his victims got what they deserved and deserved what they got.

Nate rubbed his eyes. So what exactly are you saying now?

Well, fairness, like morality, may have a subjective element, continued Shawn. He picked up the Time magazine and a book of crossword puzzles from the stack of books on the table and tossed them in front of Nate, where they made a loud thump. Take this hospital, for example. We are taught to think that hospitals are hospitals and libraries are libraries. But if you think about it, libraries have first-aid kits, and hospitals also have magazines. There is a small area of overlap, like those Venn diagrams that used to litter my textbooks back in school. Even disciplines that seem incongruous may have a common element, even for the likes of, say, politics or religion. Art and science. Good and evil. Fair and unfair.

So the answer to whether life is fair, then, is sometimes, said Nate. I couldn’t agree more. Nuff said. Done and dusted. Let’s move on.

Perhaps, said Shawn, as he picked away at a hangnail on his finger. Still, even if life is sometimes fair at best, there has got to be a reason for such a less-than-ideal arrangement. And I don’t see why we have to be okay with the way things are without complaint.

Nate rested his hands on the edge of the table. But this still begs the question, why this line of inquiry in the first place?

Shawn tapped on the window until the horsefly standing on the other side took flight. Well, Nate, despite all the well-wishes and sympathy cards, condolences, and commiserations, my son hasn’t been doing all that well in the last four months. He turned to face Nate. Let’s not beat around the bush or tiptoe around the elephant in the room. At some point, somebody’s gotta point out that the emperor is not wearing any clothes.

For a bit of backstory, Nate was freshly retired at sixty-seven. He had just stepped down from his seventeen-year stint as the chief game warden for the MN Game and Fish Department (after another ten years west of the Red River as a Game Warden in ND). He was born and raised in Bismarck, ND, and he had recently moved to Alexandria only a year ago to be closer to his work, not to mention the fringe benefit of residing closer to his best friend and confidant Shawn Schroeder. Despite his enduring tenure for the Game and Fish Department, though, he seldom did any fishing or hunting on his own volition.

Shawn paged through the magazine some and settled on the crossword puzzle. What’s an eleven letter word for justice?

Nate paused. "Hmm, comeuppance?

Well done, said Shawn as he took the pencil from behind his ear and wrote in the word. He then set the pencil and magazine aside, folded his hands, and gave Nate his undivided attention. Now, back to Emeril.

Now now, don’t get all morbid on me, said Nate as he began fiddling with his napkin. He looked around from side to side, trying to avoid making eye contact with Shawn.

Shawn grunted. Well, this is a hospital, isn’t it?

Well, that’s not the point, said Nate. We gotta be strong, you know, not for our sake, but for Emeril’s. What you are alluding to here, in not so many words, questioning the gods and the like, is tantamount to blasphemy round these parts. Such talk is best reserved for homeless philosophers who have far too much time on their hands. We have no choice in the matter. Fair or unfair, we have to be here for Emeril until he breathes his last breath, heaven forbid. The way I see it, ‘fairness’ is a moot point. A privilege even.

‘These parts’ are starting to sound mighty bleak if you ask me, said Shawn. And if the translation of that poignant little soliloquy of yours is ‘suck it up,’ save it for the coffee. Shawn pushed Nate’s cup towards him as some sloshed out. Besides, blasphemy is quite therapeutic, if I say so myself.

With that, Shawn took a long and loud sip as if such an impertinent gesture was the stuff of righteous protestation. The display lost some of its dramatic zest and zeal, however, when he winced from the pain of the hot coffee.

Yeah yeah, I told you they have hot coffee here, said Nate. No need to show off.

There are better ways to show off than chugging hot coffee, rest assured, said Shawn. But since you mentioned lips, I am not into any of that ‘stiff upper lip’ lip service or any of that macho posturing, which is more often than not meant for the comfort of those that do not wish to hear such complaints or grievances. For them, such cloaked well-wishes are more about their own comfort.

Nate put up his hands like a traffic cop indicating to slow down. Now now, I should really take offense that you think so little of your old chum sitting in front of you. I wasn’t accusing you of being weak in any way, make no mistake.

Well, that is something, said Shawn, wiping the spilled coffee with a new napkin.

I have no intent to be sanctimonious here, said Nate.

Shawn’s voice grew louder. The Boy Scouts can have their ‘Always Be Prepared’ nonsense. AA can shove their ‘It works if you work it’ platitudes. And the marines can keep their ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body’ euphemisms. Truth is, I have never really considered Murphy’s Law to be cynical, just proactive, even if I don’t follow it to the letter—

Nate interrupted.Well, I don’t always want to think about how things might go wrong. What I am really alluding to, in not so many words, is that sometimes it helps to be stupid. I am not talking about malingering or playing dumb. I am talking about the real McCoy. Actually, being stupid. Not playing. And being none the wiser for it. We need to find our ‘irrational courage,’ the kind born from dumb luck and fool’s hope.

As if placing a cherry on top of the insipid ice cream will somehow make it taste like sweet ambrosia, murmured Shawn as he gazed out the window with a dead blank stare.

What do you mean by that, pray tell? asked Nate, squinting to see what Shawn was looking at.

Shawn returned his gaze back to Nate. "One can put a positive, or even delusional, spin on just about anything, I suppose. My brother Jacob, the one that’s a janitor, one time he was taking his lunch break, in the bathroom of all places, and he placed a bit of his ice cream on the urinal cake and even put a maraschino cherry on top. The picture was posted on the Internet, and he called it ‘Toilet Humor: Commode à la mode.’ But what I took out of it was that just because you put a cherry on top, it doesn’t necessarily make everything better. I suppose there is a difference between making the best out of something or merely deluding yourself that everything is fine."

Who says toilet humor has to be about popular bodily fluids? laughed Nate.

Speaking of which, I suppose you see your fair share of animal bodily fluids managing all those habitats and wildlife reserves.

Indeed I do, said Nate, sitting back in his chair, taking a swig of his tea. You are really missing out.

By now, there were about a dozen people in the cafeteria, and the air was filled with the murmurs of nervous conversation about the status of loved ones.

The pair enjoyed a moment of silence until Shawn pulled out a small square sleeve containing a three-legged buffalo nickel from his pocket and slid it towards Nate like a curling stone, and it stopped just as it reached the edge of the table. At any rate, we all have our defenses, eh?

Nate slapped it with his palm. He held it up and stared at it. Wow, that’s three legs all right. He handed it back.

And they say emblazoned imperfections can’t be beautiful, said Shawn. Sometimes flaws become the most highly coveted features.

Say what you want about circus sideshows, but those so-called flaws bring in money and crowds, said Nate.

Flaws or not, everyone has worth, said Shawn. It’s one of the reasons I carry it.

Just don’t let anyone steal it, Nate said, sliding it back to Shawn. Shawn stopped it dead in its tracks by slapping it with his palm just as Nate had done prior. He wiped it with a napkin as if it were sullied with Nate’s hands before putting it back into his pants pocket.

So is life fair? repeated Shawn once again, more to himself than anything.

My own life? said Nate as he fiddled with the napkin dispenser. Certainly not. And definitely not yours either, if I may speak freely and frankly. No offense.

Shawn leaned in closer. I am not talking about just my life or anyone else’s life. I mean life in general, the human condition, the matters affecting your average Joe. It’s not fair, is it? Nobody’s life is fair.

Nate laughed as he nodded to himself. You know how many times people in the world, over the course of thousands of years, had this very conversation? Utter waste of time if you ask me. Nuff said. Done and dusted.

Indeed, but repetition of said line of questioning has naught to do with the veracity of the question’s answer, now does it? To put it another way, the reason this theme crops up in conversations of the world, on occasion, is because it’s an unresolved inquiry. As such, it should not be asked less. It should be asked more. The technology of the world grows at an exponential rate. Look at how computers evolved since the mid-seventies.

Nate smiled. Yes, and you still don’t know how to use one.

Even still, we are still in the Stone Age when it comes to the big picture, the truth of truths, the very reason we are having this very conversation at this very moment. We know nothing more than the old world philosophers knew ten thousand years ago. Maybe less.

Nate leaned in closer until their faces were only about four inches apart. Very poignant, if not a bit paranoid. But why worry about things you can’t control?

Shawn positioned his face even closer so that Nate could feel his breath against his cheek. Why not?

I asked you first, said Nate, as they both resumed their leisurely positions.

Shawn sighed and allowed his muscles to relax in resignation. Isn’t that the very definition of worry? Fear of the unknown? The unexpected? How can one not worry about things like death, the very crux of uncertainty and unfamiliarity? It would be counter-intuitive not to worry about such things if you ask me.

Nate rubbed the tired from his eyes. You make it sound like life itself is one of the grand mysteries of the world.

Well, isn’t it? One minute we are enjoying the company of those we love, and the next minute they are gone like a foggy morning come afternoon, with not a glimmer of evidence that we will ever see them again.

If only game wardens were privy to top-secret information outside the scope of conservation reserve programs.

So bigfoot and aliens are not in the purview of the Game and Fish Department? asked Shawn. What a shame. He followed it with a long drink of his coffee.

Nate shook his head. I like to see humans as just bees in a hive. Mere animals. The same quest for survival, competition, scarce resources, and the like. ‘The human race,’ it even sounds like a marathon. It’s not rocket science. It’s just the stark truth. Game wardens know about such things. And it’s not just about kill or be killed. There is also overpopulation to worry about.

Shawn removed a piece of lint from his sweater and fiddled with it between his fingers. Spoken like a game warden. Oh yes, and you guys are the ones that have to come up with hunting bag limits for deer every year.

Many people, including yourself, I suspect, think those limits are heartless, said Nate.

You are more right than wrong there, returned Shawn. Nature is a heartless beast.

But without it, we face the threat of overpopulation. By the end of the day, I still think life is a miracle, don’t forget it. Even if I don’t think life is always fair.

Shawn watched an elderly couple bickering about the expense of a medical bill. He continued as he watched them. "But