Deep

By Aquino Loayza

           There are places on earth that carry an air of the ethereal-an aura of malevolence that can only be felt in the breathless whisper of a passing breeze. One of these places is found along the rugged mystical coastline of Maine's northern shores-Juneberg. Since its inception th

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aquino Loayza
• Release date: Feb 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986845517

Book preview

Introduction

Every time I slip into the Ocean, it’s like I am going home.

– Sylvia Earle

Chapter 1

Giovanni Divale had a love-hate relationship with the rain. Sometimes it made the commute home a pain in the ass or made it impossible to get a cup of coffee on his lunch break. But other times, it did so much for his psyche. It felt like, for a fleeting moment, the rain had taken away the stress of the day, washed away the burden on his shoulders, as though nothing else mattered besides the primal elements of Mother Earth.

His favorite rain was the foggy kind, where it wasn’t quite humid, but the dampness had a cooling effect on the air—the universal sign in New England that the time had come to pull out the hoodie and put away the tank top.

In Maine, this sign came sooner than Giovanni had grown accustomed to.

He had grown up in northern Massachusetts. Now he was living in what some called hipster New England paradise: Portland, Maine, the city of lobsters and wealthy-leaning white people, a city that had more taco bars than actual Mexicans. Despite the lack of diversity, the cuisine assuaged any concerns he had about moving away.

He was outside, on his smoke break, doing his best to avoid scratching his real addiction. He harkened back to the rain, which was obstructing him from the opportunity to indulge in a French roast—two parts sugar, no parts cream, all delicious. He supposed he could brave it, despite having left his umbrella in the office. However, resting under the awning proved a safer—drier—proposition.

A buzzing vibration filled his pocket: his cell phone. It was Adam. Should he pick it up or ignore the impulse? Adam was his ex-boyfriend. Giovanni felt bad about it not working out, but they’d wanted different things. Adam wanted to move to Boston—a city Gio only claimed to be from when he was drunk out of his mind. Maine wasn’t the friendliest place to be a biracial gay couple, especially in the northern reaches where Adam grew up (Adam was Black, Giovanni Italian).

How’s your day, Gio? Adam knew damn well Giovanni hated small talk, and he knew when his lunch breaks were. They’d spent years on their failed experiment of a relationship.

Fluff pieces and local politics, the usual. Why’d you call? It’s been a month since you talked to me last; I thought you believed it best to not call me anymore. Gio had found that arrangement to work. While he felt guilty about his obsession with his ex’s hometown—with Juneberg—he did not feel guilty enough to give it up for the sake of their relationship.

Mango has stomach cancer. They said it would be better to put him down than pay for the treatments. I couldn’t afford it, anyway—lost my job a few weeks ago.

Jesus Christ, way to drop a bombshell before the end of the day. How was he going to write about anything after this news? The irony of personal news preventing him from covering local news was not lost upon Giovanni.

I will pay for the treatments. Mango is only two years old—why would he have stomach cancer? You’re from there; you know all about those disappearances. Where did you walk him? he asked Adam in a cold, scolding tone. Giovanni wasn’t the emotional type, at least not outwardly. He preferred to mask his emotions with a bit of whiskey and some mental gymnastics to absolve himself from blame.

Mary took him on the trails near the Waterfront. There’s been a spike of cases, vet said. The damn Waterfront, Gio thought to himself. He bit his lip to resist tearing into Adam.

The Waterfront was a sprawling marsh in Juneberg, on the edge of the northern Maine coastline. People went missing up there—not in droves, but with a troubling frequency. The people who most often went missing weren’t exactly members of the Juneberg tourism board either. Instead, they were mostly vocal critics of the local church. Gio had once taken an investigative trip up there when he was still with Adam, but finding people who were willing to speak out had been easier said than done.

He had discovered Juneberg when he was a child, reading through old New England folklore books in the Andover Library. The stories went back to the town’s founding in the 1830s, when a missing ship of Black sailors destined for Nova Scotia reappeared—with all the crew deceased and smelling of the sea itself.

Why did she do that? Giovanni replied. He tapped his foot on the asphalt and impatiently awaited some sort of justification.

There was a silence from Adam’s end that felt like an eternity. You know how it gets around here; people just don’t think. Sometimes they do shit that doesn’t make sense. You know what happened to my cousin. He paused, and Gio felt a pang in his heart.

Giovanni often wondered if the cousin’s story had solidified his interest in Juneberg. But he never meant to make Adam feel like a means to an end, collateral in the pursuit of notoriety and respect.

Adam’s cousin, his girlfriend, and a close friend met at a cove just outside of town. What happened after they met up was still the source of much speculation. Some people think there was drinking involved. Some say the friends got in a fight; others claim they went skinny-dipping. The car they were in had gone missing. Days turned to weeks. It was surreal, picturesque, true-crime podcast material.

This time, the sea fog mixed with the great pines of the Maine heartland and it all descended into a region-wide search party. They had troopers all the way from Portland in town, looking for the car.

The first thing found was her body.

It was just like the sailors headed for Nova Scotia, the grayness of the eyes and skin, but this time the body had been damaged. It had a vine-like growth in between sores in strange formations across the woman’s flesh. She had been wearing odd clothes: a simple brown robe, not the clothes she had last been seen in. She was lying in the middle of a field far from the coast with a rope tied around her neck.

The rope was not the typical twine variety, which may have contributed to the lack of media coverage. It was made of the same vine and moss that had grown about her face. Her skin was tinged a steel gray, her veins green pockets of discoloration.

Her condition was never disclosed publicly, just that they’d found her deceased.

They found the car next. The engine was gone, and the vine overgrowth had been replaced with something a bit more akin to the sea. There were dozens of crabs and lobsters in the car, made stranger because it had been found in the middle of a clearing for a planned regional airport, miles from the shore. Inside the car, the sea creatures floated in puddles of ocean brine.

What wasn’t in the car were the two men—they were still missing. It was quickly becoming a national story; it made the daily Boston broadcasts with hastily made graphics and cheesy, self-indulgent journalism: The Missing in the Mists of Maine. The alliteration made Giovanni cringe now. At the time, however, he had fully bought into the story.

Days passed before they found the last clue. He was alive somehow—not Adam’s cousin, but the friend. The vines had grown around his socks, but he was wearing his original clothes and not the robe in which they had found the girl.

They found him unresponsive in the harbor near a cave. The police told news outlets he’d suffered a mental break. Eventually, he slipped into a coma. The local news even went into the cave afterward, to see what happened. But they couldn’t find anything. Just a cave full of seawater with moss-laden rocks at the mouth.

This all happened near the Waterfront. The mouth of the expansive land held a defunct observation tower, which was crumbling as time pushed forward. The cavern was farther south in this strange, foggy place. The entire Waterfront totaled about five miles of woods and marsh at different elevations, jutting out against the coastline.

They never found Adam’s cousin.

That Adam’s sister had walked Mango near the Waterfront was strange. Not only did they know what happened there, but they had their own personal attachment to it. Then again, that was the thing about Juneberg—people made choices there that seemed out of character.

The memories had caused Giovanni to drift away into his own head, but Adam’s voice on the other end of the line tethered him back to reality. Hello? Gio, are you there?

Yeah, I am here. I can send some cash for the vet appointment; not sure if going up there is a good idea. Work’s been busy.

"Gio, he’s our dog. Our dog."

Giovanni looked down at his shoes, fixating on their scuff marks as though he were avoiding eye contact with a person who wasn’t there. Even over the phone, his social anxiety manifested. Adam filled the silence with a cold clairvoyance, predicting the behavior of his ex.

I know about Juneberg. I am from here; I don’t need to hear the stump speech. Save it, Adam said, his words cutting through Giovanni like a knife to butter. There was a bitterness in them that only familiarity could breed.

I don’t even know if I could get the time off. Giovanni knew better than to say too much about work. Give someone with an obsession a media pass, and scorched earth was inevitable.

He heard a sigh on the other end. Then Adam said, I get it, I do. But we signed up for this together. We owe him that much.

He was right, but Giovanni hated to admit it. Mango was a sweet animal, ignorant of the failings of his owners, unaware of their shortcomings.

I will. I am sorry about Mango, but he’s a fighter, doesn’t give up. Didn’t get that from me, Giovanni said. Then he hung up the phone and hoped Adam would accept his thinly veiled olive branch.

To say the call had ruined his day was an understatement. Mango did not deserve the affliction that fate had bestowed upon him. Nobody did, but least of all an animal of pure love. Then there was Adam. They hadn’t spoken for quite a while. While their relationship now could’ve been worse, Adam had gone above and beyond to maintain the peace—a quality Giovanni strived to achieve but consistently came up short with.

It was Peter who first approached Giovanni as he made his way back to his cubicle. In between his stubbled lips was an unlit cigarette. Clearly, he was waiting for his turn to go outside. The stale odor of tobacco carried throughout the office, the smell of a bygone era. The whole office was stuck in the seventies, with faded wallpaper and cheap particleboard cubicles that desperately needed replacing.

Hey, bud, you good? You look like you saw a fuckin’ ghost, Peter said in his thick Mainer accent. He shuffled over and placed his ass on the edge of Giovanni’s desk. A small grin escaped Gio’s otherwise straight face. Peter could light up a room and bring a smile to just about anyone’s face.

He did a bad impression of a mobster: Pal, you know the jig is up. You been holdin’ out on secrets, and it’s time to spill the beans, buddy. Peter’s hand pushed back his ginger locks as he scrunched his face in concern. Seriously, dude, what happened? You went for a smoke, and now you look like you’ve seen the Holy Spirit Jesus himself, Peter said, looking around the cubicle. The only other person in the room was Becky.

Becky was another one of Giovanni’s coworkers. She, Peter, and Gio had formed their own office clique of sorts, being all around the same age. As far as Gio knew, she also came from Massachusetts, but the western edge. She strutted toward the two men with a slight limp.

Juneberg. C’mon, Peter. You know him well enough to know that’s the only thing that can get his attention, Becky said.

Mango has cancer. Adam called me outside on my break. Told him I’d send him some money, but don’t have the time off to go up.

Could make a good Halloween piece, going up there. Maybe ask Gerald? I know he’s been meaning to go up there for some time, given Juneberg’s nature, Becky said, resting her back against an adjacent cubicle. Gerald was their supervisor, the visionary behind Portland’s seventh-most-watched news network. When Gio had first moved into town, he was surprised the market could sustain that many broadcasts, and yet, like a cockroach, Gerald had thrived and found his niche.

Great idea; already shot off a text. If Gerald has finally learned how a keyboard works, we will be getting a response shortly, Peter said, pointing toward the lit-up screen in Gio’s pocket. Sure enough, it buzzed again. Gerald had responded.

Becky seemed excited to be getting out of the annual Halloween interview with Mr. King—there were only so many questions one could ask year in and year out. Every Maine news crew under the sun had done it for decades. However, as her own screen lit up her face, she frowned.

No luck. Guess you’re still on his shit list, Gio. Maybe just call out sick? It’s a day trip, isn’t it?

I should stay home. Going up there ain’t good for me, and it ain’t good for Adam. Plus, I got a lot of work to do. Gerald’s thrown a lot more bullshit stories my way since I bailed out of the car accident piece. Gio didn’t say it aloud, but the piece in question was about Adam’s father, Victor, who had been the driver.

I gotta go; doctor’s appointment at four. Peter, I expect that draft on the garbage loopholes in my email tonight. Sorry, Gio, I don’t know what to say. I hope it gets better. Becky shot a stern look at Peter, who nodded agreeably. Then she limped her way out of the room, leaving Peter and Gio alone.

I know I just took my smoke break, but mind if I join you on yours? Gio pointed to the cigarette still between Peter’s lips. He just chuckled as he walked back toward the hall that led to the Alley of Ash, a name gifted to it by a particularly upset Becky one evening. If given her way, the entire office staff would be covered head to toe in nicotine patches to avoid the smell that came with the habit. But it was a losing battle in the high-pressure career of journalism.

Peter spoke after igniting his cigarette. Did you want...did you want to talk about how you feel? Peter flicked his cigarette ash on the ground. The image of an enraged Becky crossed Gio’s mind, causing him to grin before meeting Peter’s eyes.

I don’t know what to do. Dogs don’t just get cancer like that. I know it was that town, something in the water. Gio shook his head as his mind lingered on Juneberg.

I am here for you, Gio. I don’t know all the answers, but if you need to skip out tomorrow, your secret’s safe with me. Doubt Becky would tell Gerald either. Just go, man. Be there for the dog. Be there for Adam. Gio could tell he meant it.

I don’t know if I can. My mind...it just keeps going back to the first time I learned about Juneberg. Bored kid trying to fill his summer reading requirements at the library. Couldn’t believe it was real. I wrote my college thesis on Juneberg. What if I am right? What if there’s something up there?

I don’t know all the possibilities, but I know Adam needs you. I know you guys didn’t end well, and I know it’s because Gerald put you on that story despite it clearly being a conflict of interest. Adam knows it too. Juneberg, Augustberg, Novemberburg—it doesn’t matter where he is. He needs your help. Take the day. Hell, take the next day too. I don’t need to be at the office; I can do my work on the laptop. I can come with, if you don’t think you can do it alone.

There was a pause, then Gio hugged Peter. I’d appreciate that. I am just scared. You’re a great friend, Peter. Would you be able to come by in the morning? Is ten too early?

"Sure, works for me. Just got to dump some paisans in the marsh first. Mooks wasn’t kicking up to the consigliere. Youse knows how it goes. The mobster accent had returned, and Gio rolled his eyes but chuckled. Seriously, between the two of us, ain’t nothing to fear. They should fear me. Do they know who I am connected to? I am a made guy."

Gio eyed the other doorway into the Alley of Ash, the one leading to the news station’s parking lot. I will see you tomorrow. We will make a day trip out of it. Check in with Adam, see Mango, make sure he’s good, and skip town, Gio said as he made his way to the parking lot.

"Whatever tomorrow brings, you got me by your side. I promise, Gio. Now I got to finish up that piece for Becky or she’s going to kill me. Can’t call out sick and not get her what she asked for. That’s playing with fire." With that, Peter departed back into the news station, leaving Gio alone with his thoughts and another drizzle above, his cigarette unsmoked and left on the ashtray that was the alley’s namesake.

Gio got home twenty minutes later. As he entered his apartment, he felt a weight lift, one he hadn’t realized was even there before. Perhaps it was just the start of grieving his dog, who was not yet dead but was almost assuredly on his way. But there was a feeling in the air that something more was afoot. He couldn’t figure out exactly what, just that there was more to it.

He had a voicemail from his father. They spoke from time to time, but after Adam and Gio broke up, Gio had slowly isolated himself in his work, a pattern that had been going on for months. He clicked the voicemail and listened.

Sal Divale’s voice was deep and reassuring, as always. He was careful with his words, as though he valued them like a credit score. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was measured. I just thought I’d say hello. Living your dream in the great north? I miss you here. They tore down the old Tommy Market and replaced it with condominiums. I bet it’s probably more of the same up there.

He paused, and Gio smiled to himself. Gio loved his father’s voicemails; his voice was calming. I just want you to know Mom’s been unwell. I know you two don’t get along great. I can’t say I blame you. But end of the day, she’s still your mother.

That wasn’t entirely untrue. She was homophobic, and she and Sal had divorced over it. He tried his best to maintain a relationship, but some scars just don’t heal. Her new partner validated her anti-gay tirades, in the name of the Lord and to the detriment of her son.

Please give her a ring. We both know how she is. But she’s sick. Stomach cancer, they fear. Won’t know until the tests come back.

Gio froze in fear. He must’ve misheard. He shook his head and passed it off as exhaustion, the long hours at the office catching up to him.

He tried to refocus to hear the rest of the voicemail. The flu or something, they think. The flu in September, go figure. Call me back when you can, he said.

Was it cancer or the flu? Had he misheard his father? The odds of his dog and mom having cancer—the same type, no less—were highly unlikely.

Gio sent a text:

Mom has cancer? I think I misheard. Things have been good up here. I know you hate texting, but love you Dad.

Then he sat on the couch and tried to sigh out his angst and anxiety. The day was piling on the bullshit, but Giovanni had endured worse.

He saw his phone glow with a notification: his dad’s reply.

Ha ha, really? I said she couldn’t stomach selling your old Lancer. Are you losing your hearing? Young for that, don’t you think? Must be all those gluten free salads. Next time, why don’t you be like me and get the steak?

Gio breathed a deep sigh of relief. Despite the complete degradation of his relationship with his mother, cancer was not something he ever wished upon her.

He rested his phone on the coffee table. He’d respond to his father later. He stared at the blank screen of his television for a moment as he collected his thoughts. There was a lot to digest with Mango. Young dogs like that don’t get sick. There’s more, Gio—you know there’s more. The inner conflict spilled outward and into an empty apartment.

He got to his feet and made his way toward his walnut computer desk, a gracious gift from his father for the big thirty. It’s all downhill from there, he thought to himself as he made his way to an adjacent filing cabinet.

He opened the top drawer and pulled out a large binder, resting it on his desk as he moved into the chair and powered on his machine. I am back like I never left, he said to himself as his hand lovingly caressed the top of the binder, which was labeled Juneberg. He hesitated before opening it, like an addict relapsing into an old habit—a habit that had torn apart his love life.

It’s okay, Gio. You’re just going up for the dog, nothing less, nothing more. If they wanted you to do a story, they’d let you. Yet as he spoke, he flipped through the pages, taking a deep inhale. His hand was over the flame of the proverbial candle, but he liked the feeling, the rush. It was everything he wanted, everything he needed.

The binder started when he was a child. It was just research, nothing more than a hobby back then. Some kids liked dinosaurs, other kids enjoyed writing. Gio? He loved investigating. His parents even dressed him up as Sherlock Holmes for Halloween one year.

From the binder, he could get more substantial information. He’d used it to research his piece on Juneberg. At that point, he realized his childhood obsession had viability.

Son, if you’re good at something, never do it for free. His father’s voice rang in his ears. Back then, he was nothing more than a lanky teenager, coming to terms with the reality that he wasn’t like the other kids at Catholic school. They knew it too, and the bullying carousel began to spin, first at school, then at home. The cycle went on and on, so he focused on the only thing he knew how to—Juneberg.

He paused on a page, glancing over a crime scene picture of the girl who had been found in the brown robes. He frowned at the sight of her gray skin. The photo had gone viral, and most people claimed it was photoshopped. But Gio knew better. He looked into her lifeless eyes. There was something sinister in that city, something more than just disproportionate rain and disappearances.

To an outsider, there was no link to his dog. But to Giovanni, the unexplainable in Juneberg all came down to something sinister beneath the city, something most outsiders rarely cared to explore.

There was little money to be made in Juneberg. Never do it for free. Gio did not hold such unrealistic expectations; there was no money in loosely tied together threads, theories. At best, he’d have made an episode of some alien TV show played at night before the infomercials took over for the evening. He simply just didn’t have enough to accomplish more.

It was then that he remembered through his research the occasional mention of a cult. As he kept flipping through the pages, trying to find his research on the cult, he felt as though he was being watched. Perhaps it was paranoia, perhaps it was a sign.

He’s watching, isn’t he? he asked himself in the silence, referring to the famed Slickerman. The Specter of Juneberg. He was an unspoken horror lurking about the town’s periphery. A mythic figure nobody knew the origins of. A folktale to outsiders, a tormentor to the locals who dared utter the secrets of the mists. However, when Gio turned to look behind him, there was nothing to see. Just the light of his bathroom vanity pouring out into the hall.

He felt a gust from the open window in front of his desk and turned back around to see the binder had changed pages. The page now open before him was in a plastic sheet protector, and there was a wet handprint on the page, as though someone had reached in and flipped to where it now lay open.

He read the page, and his eyes widened as he realized where the binder had opened to. Suspected occult activity all stems from St. Dismas. Several previous pastors were arrested and released. On a few occasions, the arresting officer disappeared. Likely epicenter of unexplained activities.

He remembered when he had researched this information ages ago—anything to escape the reality he had found himself in. He’d been living a lie just to keep his home peaceful. Not that it mattered. He’d been too young to keep a good lie secret. Now he lied to himself without a second thought.

That’s the devil, Sal. Ain’t no way the Lord gave us a boy like that. That’s the devil lurking. I won’t have it.

There is not much mention of membership throughout the years, but at least I was able to find out what they call themselves: The Deep. Very on the nose.

He looked out the window and down toward Casco Bay. The waves made sloshing noises, as though they mocked him with a taunting laugh, one shrill and haunting like his mother’s: That’s the devil, Sal.

The VHS tapes. How had he forgotten? Archival footage from the height of his obsession, accumulated over the course of many years. He made way to his living room, opened up the console, and went through a stack of VHS tapes, all labeled with dates. There was one called Kauffman’s Sermon. He was unsure if that pastor was still in charge of the church; the tape was at least nineteen years old based on the label. He popped it in and watched what the pastor had to say.

I’d like to thank our guests for coming. It was a shame to hear about the disappearance of Officer O’Connor. While I know my arrest was misguided, I wish him no harm and hope he can return to his family. I’d like to start the service with a prayer for the O’Connors.

The handheld camera shook as it surveyed the church. People chattered amongst themselves as Kauffman’s words rang hollow, as though he were reading a script devoid of any warmth or authenticity.

Gio shook his head, watching the pastor go on about the many memories he’d shared with the officer who had arrested him and subsequently disappeared. Anywhere else in the world, there would’ve been an investigation. But not in Juneberg—never in Juneberg.

Gio’s mind drifted once more to the lifeless eyes of the girl in the brown robe. Nobody else could stop it, nobody would expose it—it would have to be him. This was his calling, it always had been.

Watching tape after tape late into the night, he constructed a web. Connected everything he could. The docile, fearful nature of his interactions at the news station was in the rearview. Only I can stop them. Only I can get the truth. Nobody else cares. I will show them who’s crazy. Just you wait.

He did not know what he would find in the foreboding north of Maine, in the coastal city of Juneberg. It appeared, though, that something had found him, and he had a feeling it wasn’t quite done with him yet. It was just getting started.

Unfortunately for it, so was he.

Part One: Submerge

"For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),

It’s always our self we find in the sea."

- E.E Cummings

The sea is a desert of waves. A wilderness of water.

- Langston Hughes

If you don’t want to sink, you better figure out how to swim.

- Jeannette Walls

Chapter 2

He woke up to the sound of his alarm clock, drool escaping his mouth onto the plastic sheets of his binder. His neck ached in protest from the awkward position he had slept in, and he rotated his neck until several satisfying cracks suggested he was on the right track. From the living room, he could hear the static of his television. He must’ve made his way back into the office while the tapes played.

Gio went through his texts—nothing of particular interest. One from a guy who wondered why he hadn’t called. Gio ignored this, as he felt that the date had gone poorly. Giovanni had spent the entire night talking about Juneberg, and the other guy was an oversharer, his family trauma unfolding before Giovanni had even gotten a taste of the sweet social lubricant known as whiskey.

He remembered one of his dreams from the night before. He was in a cab, leaving Logan Airport, in a rush to get to some sort of dinner. The ride there was clearly the work of a dream. The only other vehicles on the road were log trucks—strange for a busy, congested city like Boston. He only ever knew one log truck driver: Victor, Adam’s father. Perhaps a guilt dream of some kind, he thought to himself as he tried to squeeze a second cologne bottle into his travel bag’s small pocket. It wouldn’t be long before Peter was here to have a conversation he was dreading.

He went through his wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. He settled on the usual: a black T-shirt and black jeans to go with his black hair and black-framed glasses—Gio was certainly going for a statement. With that, he entered the shower.

While he bathed, his thoughts raced on how to break the news to Adam. The hot water smacked his flesh in the all too familiar balancing act of relaxation and agony. He was doing a balancing act himself.

He could not deny that part of him wished he and Adam could fix their relationship, even months after they had separated. But he also wondered if they were doomed to fail. No matter how much closer they became, his job or his obsession with Juneberg always reared its head.

Giovanni wanted to be a better man. Perhaps putting his obsession to bed would let him move on. Closure would be cathartic, and in that catharsis, Adam and Gio could move on. I just can’t let it go...I need to let it go. Doubt emerged again, but he shook it off—literally and figuratively as soap flung itself across the far reaches of his shower.

I can just text him when I get to Juneberg. Need to focus on the big prize, he said to the showerhead, whose only answer was to spurt more hot water as he shampooed his hair. I need to open up more, huh?

More silence from the showerhead.

Gio stepped out of the shower feeling reassured he had made the right decision—he would text Adam later. There was still a lot to chew on when it came to the information he had pored over the night before. But now he was more awake, as most people are after being peppered with boiling water. He’d developed a more concrete game plan.

Naked in his own home—a blissful act of chaos he only dared to do alone. He looked over his notes. The wall of his bedroom was covered in notes and photographs copied from his Juneberg binder. They sprawled out, covering the entire wall, a connective web that made sense to him, but any bystander would regard him as insane.

As he got dressed, he debated packing the binder, but he realized taking pictures with his phone would prove more practical. So that’s what he did. He methodically captured the contents of each binder page—of which there were many. There needs to be something left of me. Just in case I don’t make it back.

His phone buzzed—a second text message from his father. He had forgotten to text him back last night; he’d gotten caught up in the research.

Hey Gio, what’s going on this weekend? I was thinking you could come down, maybe get some ice cream with your old man before they close for the season. They still have your favorite: cotton candy.

The message was punctuated with a gif of an old man rubbing cotton candy on his face. Gio could not be sure if this was intentional humor on his father’s part or incidental. Either way, the result was a small chuckle.

Hey Dad, I am