Cassy’s Plight: Night Holds the Dark

By T. Richard

Have you ever thrown caution to the wind and done something out of the ordinary—something to break up the monotonous and the mundane? And if so, was this choice you made so outlandish and irresponsible, were there times you felt your life was perilously hanging in the balance? Well, that’s exactly what twenty-three year old, scatterbrain extraordinaire, Cassy Carter did. In fact, that’s how this whole nightmare of an adventure begins: Hitchhiking on a dare!
On a roadside nearing the hour of dusk, a young woman thumbing it for kicks and giggles, and maybe a bit more. For what happens next in these lush foothills and mountains dusted with snow, is the making of things unexpected. Things involving hellish demons, a killer copter, and a bloodthirsty drug baron. And if that doesn’t sound like enough of a risk, how about falling for the man responsible for all this craziness?
Meet Jack Reynolds, an unorthodox character if there ever was one, a manly man who lives in a treehouse and eats whatever can be snared with a fishing rod or a crossbow. For Cassy soon becomes one of the snared, often wondering if she was pegged to be more than a lover—like the possible fixings for a scrumptious meal.
Following a mad chase along the primitive logging trails, an accident finds the two of them at the mercy of drug-running thugs in dire want of a payday. And when it becomes apparent that Jack cannot fulfil this request, the young heroine turns into the only prize left in this deadly game of cat and mouse.
For as with most people, love can play tricks and cloud judgements. With Cassy, this lingering struggle is no different. At times these feelings gave her unbound strength; when in other moments, they seemed to render her with obvious paralysis. But the question remains...would this emotion prove to be her downfall, or the precise ingredient required to make it out alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662908194

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cassy Carter walked the highway’s edge, wearing black lululemon yoga pants and a gray North Face windbreaker, desperate to do so with a lick of authority. Asking herself for the zillionth time why she was doing this. What had compelled her to leave the harbor of protection, the tranquility of her postage-stamp for an apartment? To be out like this, exposed to the elements, vulnerable to the creeps and crawlies of nature’s snare.

Thoughts of the jamboree came to mind, and how it was packed with a frenzy of wall-to-wall women. Women of every age, affinity and background attended. The yearning in some of their faces spoke of anguish and desperation, the wanting of peace and contentment. Supposing this was how she might be remembered, as one of the anguished and confused. At last, choosing not to believe in such rubbish. Hardly thinking herself so weak-minded as to allow a few bone-headed lectures to alter her entire perception of life. How pathetic would she be if such driveling was all it took?

For if those seasoned ladies at the convention really had this much power and influence, there was no end to the line of fixes that could befall the naivety of her ways. But why hadn’t her mother been as influential? Or maybe she had, it was just offered in smaller doses and on the sly. Those comments with respect to cheeky blokes and chasing snogs. How there was more to life than shagging; and, You best keep those knickers fastened, girl.

Emma perpetually lacked fondness for her daughter’s choice in leggings. She felt the pants were considerably too snug in their fitting to align with her taste, for it was a style which left little to the imagination. However, there was a positive aspect when it came to a tight fit; that being, the material aided in keeping her child’s soft belly in check. After all, most of the jiggly wiggly might go disguised behind the ruffles of baggy cotton. Even so, the wearer of this forgiving attire was sure to feel the jiggle just the same.

Cassy had yet to hear the accusation of being chubby or fat, as not even her mother’s choice—the dreaded big-boned had she heard. Though she would also never be mistaken for a swimsuit model either. With sentiments summed-up in the form of a question and an answer, encapsulated in the same eleven words: why bother with all those sweaty crunches when Lycra spandex exists?

And the name-brand jacket: a stroke of good fortune and serendipitous find at The Second Chance House of Wares. The blue-hair at checkout had also paused to take notice. Her cataracts struggling to focus behind thick tortoiseshell glasses, having a more thorough lookie-loo at the one that got away.

Both ladies ignorant of the treasure purposely left behind in one of the secret pouches—a Bible track having to do with Psalm 91; a passage for times when one’s faith is stretched to the limit.

Sure this is your size, darlin’? the checker asked, evidence of past addiction lining the crooks of her spindly arms. Without glancing Cassy’s way, she was unaware the girl had already draped herself in the coveted item after paying call to a dressing room.

The woman rolled and smacked her chewing gum, wagging about her unnatural set of curls while thinking of those grandchildren and their wishlists. And the peculiar fact suddenly chided her fading awareness, as every darn last of them seemed to come with a birthday.

Could that be another reason for doing this, Cassy wondered? The staving off of being a washed-away druggie. And if such a lifestyle befell her, would she later resort to pawning used fodder to the desolate and below middle class? But in the end, even if she hadn’t found herself in similar shoes, the rabid ladies who’d flooded those seminars would surely tell of plenteous dire circumstances.

Traversing the heavily-graveled surface, Cassy’s stride became forced, attempting to show this ever-darkening world that a particular twenty-three-year-old belonged. Regardless of the many ill-fated stops and starts, hoping these far-from-meditated intentions must be worth something to someone. But deep down, the girl’s fragile heart was convinced otherwise. For this land covered with the spikes of green fir trees and the sherbet-orange of maple leaves, held not a single inclination for her satisfactions.

Well, two can play this game, she brooded. An atom of gumption stepping forward, asserting itself in that five-foot-two frame of hers. Kicking at stray pebbles with a furious prod, those random wood chips begging for mercy under her pigeon-toed stride. Cassy, no matter the parade of examples, failed to learn how such hardheaded ways are usually the most unproductive.

The Carters were good at throwing down a wicked tournament of not caring. Going weeks, maybe the better part of a month without giving a rat’s turd about anything. Letting piles of soiled clothes grow so wide, they became roadblocks. Allowing stacks of dirty CorningWare to reach catastrophic heights, the haphazard dishes had formed leaning towers of future drama. Her brother, Mason, would scrounge for the least smelly shirt. And later still, finding the coffee cup with the fewest remnants to rinse out and reuse.

But this wasn’t her. It really, really wasn’t, she told herself—a mantra never having worked to her liking. Now picturing her favorite lacy threads, tidily folded and snugly tucked away. The plastic china, free of cheese and tomato residue, no longer teetering with a stray fork in the crease. Indeed, everything was now uniform and smartly hidden behind cupboard doors.

Picking up a small rock and hurling it into the unkempt wild of Mother Nature, Cassy’s iPhone started playing, I Don’t Wanna Be. It was her BFF, her soulmate, her roommate, the other half of her conscience: Sophie Pak. The girl’s pretty Korean face was unmistakable, currently lighting up the handheld.

Hey, Soph! You find my note? Cassy asked.

Uh-huh. Tums up, Sophie replied, her own take on thumbs. Going on to ask, Why you no tell?

Because you’d just try and talk me out of it.

Sophie couldn’t disagree, for that was the primary reason she was calling and not texting. Been you snagged yet? she asked.

Nah, I’m still hitchin’.

Cass—me you let pick up? That count, sort of.

No, I’m doing this, Cassy said, resolutely. You heard that Monica chick—it totally changed her. Did one of those one-eighties. Now she’s gotta book tour, and I think Netflix even signed her. Besides, what the heck you gonna pick me up with?

Don’t know. Maybe Uber call.

Just let me do this, please. I’ll be fine. Don’t be a Miss Worrywart!

There was a pause, as Cassy’s grating words lingered. Her utterances were left to roam the yonder of the outdoors on one end, while trapped inside the cramped quarters of the other.

Okey-dokey, Sophie finally said, her verbal rendition of the emoji. Next time see you, be no dead.

Bye, Soph!

Although Cassy was well-versed in Sophie speech, the unique lingo never ceased to put a crooked smile on her freckled face. Her friend had been a foreign-exchange student who couldn’t wait to move to the states for good. From Malibu to Martha’s Vineyard, bit by bit, the Korean girl dreamt of the experience from sea to shining sea.

For not only was Sophie attending the same high school at the time they met, but was taking citizenship classes as well. Talk about motivated. Cassy recalling how inspired she was by Sophie’s endeavor, and how it lit a flame inside her own boring and stale existence. And this flame quickly grew into a roaring blaze, prompting the supposition to move out of her parent’s three-bedroom ranch and find a place of her own. Figuring, if Sophie’s skinny backside took a chance on moving here from a different continent, how big of a risk was it to haul a few measly cardboard boxes down the road a ways?

Cassy went back to waiting for cars and raising a thumb, its nail slathered in Mod About You pink. There’d been a paltry few having slowed down, only to scurry away with the kind of speed that inferred she was jailbait—or something worse. "What? Do I have ‘cop’ written on my butt, or something?" she questioned aloud.

Resembling a malfunctioning compass, Cassy turned her pointed nose in every direction, seeing what there was to see. Not much, she examined, defeatedly.

It seemed a mere moment ago, the low-hanging sun was putting a nice sensation on the back of her fuzzy pencil for a neck. Yet with that grapefruit gone to brighten other horizons and warm a different hemisphere, she worried the evening thermometer would take a dip. And how the night air would become scads too unforgiving, expressly when it came to hitchhiking. The dreadful notion had caused the need to do something with her straggly thatch, which was presently in a clump and producing a stiff ponytail.

Despite her mother’s wishes and many disapproving glares, Cassy had styled her hair in this manner more often than not. A long ways from gilded to raid haunted tombs—though reckoned it cast off somewhat of a Lara Croft aura—Emma felt it came across forced, giving her youngest child a look of uncompromising will. But there was always a method to people’s madness; a reason (no matter how cockamamie) for doing things a certain way. Cassy’s chosen style kept stray hairs out of her speckled face, along with the occasional breakfast burrito. And most importantly, away from the wicked contraption that eats bus fare.

Oh, mama. Can’t ya just leave her be? her father, Big Ben Benjamin would often say. His low-toned words resonating as he nonchalantly batted the air. All the while, the man tried to remain mostly impartial. Learning long ago, the longer he could wade under the safe waters of neutrality, this was the best place for someone caught in the line of fire.

Having spent another dreary day at the Tractor Haul, Benjamin’s hairless head refused to quit yielding to the glare of the fifty-inch high-def plasma. The glowing rectangle displayed the musings of Chris Wallace, a television personality who rarely earned nods of agreement from the Carter’s residence.

Nevertheless, mama was too stubborn to comply. Far too busy checking the basil amount on a chicken-and-rice recipe, Emma continued on with a forecast of falling skies. As if it were any wonder her only daughter drifted from menial jobs and loser boyfriends, blaming this solitary act of lazy primping for the reason she was stuck in a quagmire of below average.

Deciding to pull the hairband slightly, Cassy loosened its grip on the countless strands of wheat. Never satisfied with what we’re given, knowing it failed the litmus test every time. For its level of dark was too insufficient to be deemed a brunette, nor did it hold the correct measure of light to be considered a true blonde. Frustratingly, it continuously held somewhere between dirty and strawberry. With respect to the color of certain follicles, such wavering discourse would often adjust with the seasons. Primarily influenced by the amount of vitamin-D intake during the summer months.

Indubitably, Sophie would kill for just a single tress of this stuff raining down the side of her sheer-black silk. But no matter how daringly close she held it to the desk lamp, there was not one fleck of difference. Nothing there to stretch the imagination, to bring it into the realm of golden honey or the richness of caramel. Who would ever wish for a neutral-brown highlight? She would!

Using muscle memory and her own version of Braille, Cassy discretely rallied and tucked those sixteen-inch locks. Presently hiding them inside the jacket’s hood, along with the rest of her pasty head. A head which was known for housing a scatterbrain, if there ever was one. Her cousin referred to it as her gourd, swearing she would forget to bring it to algebra class if it had not come preassembled and attached to her shoulders. Unable to hone in on a singular concept and take it through its natural progression, alternatively, Cassy held a menagerie of lofty ideas. For these ideas would originate with an upward trend, only to later cascade with a lasting plunge.

Recollecting the moment she became aware of this inherited trait—a twelve-year-old witnessing her parents scurry about during a typical outing. The variety where there are errands to run, people to pay visits, and staples of nourishment to gather. Amidst these checkoffs came the hunt for the misplaced keys, immediately followed by the scavenging for the misplaced car, and the head-scratching over the misplaced garage in a misplaced town. And on and on and so forth it would go.

The art school went as deep as getting her first negative review. Which was basically the instructor saying in a skewed rendition of encouragement, I believe Cassy’s talents lie somewhere outside the campus.

It started with a lump of clay. A lump of clay that never turned into anything other than a lumpier lump. Then came the photography lessons. Snapshot upon snapshot, the captions consisted of nothing else besides perfectly centered bowls of fruit. Not even capturing them in black and white, because in her words, It wouldn’t do the bananas justice.

And her paintings were the final straw. Having shown the inability to go beyond solid-pale blue, not wanting to blemish what amounted to flawless interpretations of her most-liked color. Each one with the inscription reading from left to right: Cloudless Sky One; Cloudless Sky No. 2; Cloudless Sky The Third; and Cloudless Sky Four-ever. Needless to say, there wasn’t a fifth offering.

So it was back to working retail and the occasional food circus. But there were times when even these mind-numbing institutions had confounded her. Because Cassy would often forget shoe and dress sizes, and whether the customer wanted to make it a combo with fries or coleslaw. And if left to her own devices, she may have confused the two careers by bringing back a four-inch heel smothered in tarter sauce.

In any case, combating the urge to count the years since high school, Cassy consternated on what might or might not happen in the ones to come. Years that will no doubt unfold the way of a crested dam following this very moment in the fulcrum of time. Fretting she would do what so many others have done before: filling the days with the stuff of this material world. From window treatments to the shade of the bathroom grout, it was all so unimportant and so unworthy in this giant experimental test tube. A test tube labelled, ‘My Simultaneous Life.’

Nothing but the proper dose of distractions. Just enough so no one has to think about what really matters. Performing the high-wire act humans have not quite perfected—the one slaloming the thin cleft of emotional stability. Straddling the course between wants and desires for today, and a longing for the stillness our final breath will bring.

The motivational speaker in the tailor-made suit, who simply went by Monica, kept flashing in Cassy’s mind. "Don’t just think outside the box, crush the box! the woman had shouted, scissoring those long legs from one end of the stage to the other. Why merely dream big, when you can dream really big? And whatever needed emphasis, this Monica lady would punctuate it with clenched fists. Then stopping for a dramatic pause, she grabbed the attention she so desired. And while you’re being you, be the best you!"

These catchphrases echoed over and over, a template causing Cassy to question everything she had ever been told. All the parental guidance, the Bible studies, the TED Talks and classroom lectures—the lot of it ground up into a mealy talcum. An herbal coalesce, failing to make good inside that colossal mug of hot water: a cocktail otherwise known as learning retention.

The approaching rumble of a trucker could be heard rounding the bend, its gears grinding. But were they going up or down on that panel of ten-on-the-floor?

Not today, Pilgrim.

Cassy pictured the captain of this cargo train, complete with burly arms riddled with an assortment of prison tats. She then turned to face the greenbelt, aspiring to blend in with the other yoga pants-wearing shrubbery. Preparing to have a go with defecating on the public roadside if that’s what it took. Admitting there was a time or two which might have dipped extra-low on the depression meter. Not that those days had ever sunk to such depths; the kind of depths qualifying her for suicide watch. Especially if it meant enduring the crutch of some talked-up, hyped-up medication—the sort making everlasting promises to balance the tottering scales in her waxy brain.

Putting everything aside, there was not a chance she was climbing aboard an eighteen-wheeler. Too many stories of people held for ransom or sold on the black market. Worse still, wrapped in duct tape and dragged out into the middle of a barren desert somewhere; forthwith, an instant meal for the languorous ones not savvy enough to give chase.

Once a con, always a con, her father would say, glossy eyes beholden to Peninsula Daily News or The Kitsap Herald. He advertised in both, hoping to catch the attention of those rurals in the surrounding counties.

The ad read: ‘Big Ben’s Tractor Haul — Specializing in the sale and rental of outdoor machinery and farming equipment.’

Drugs! came Benjamin’s random shout while watching Hannity on mute, making assumptions about what was being said strictly by the offering of video clips. They’ll be the end of us, was his personal summary, plunging a trawling hand into the freezer chest for some peach cobbler parfait.

Cassy knew all too well how ice cream was Benjamin’s go-to whenever things looked bleak. Or at the very least, heading in a direction not to his liking. Thinking her old man’s liver must be grateful to him for keeping the booze under wraps, but his waistline better watch out. Remembering once upon a time, the day her mother smashed some heart-healthy bran inside his serving. And how the test-trial lasted about as long as a chew-and-spit, along with the look of wanting to perform a chokehold.

The Peterbilt 379 kept trucking on, with the driver doing no worse than wrenching the chord and sounding the eat my dust air horn. A sigh of relief was then followed by a familiar string of mumbling curses. Maledictions, they were, bent towards that determined old biddy at the convention.

Oh, you just have to try it. It’ll change your life! The gleam in her mottled eyes fell exquisitely in line with the shimmering banners. Colorful streamers had flanked the building’s outer shell, resembling spinnakers ready to set them all a sail into the promising waters of a better horizon. But if this were the case, why had the feeling of drifting off into the unforgiving swells of a self-inflicted tempest squall taken hold?

The list of things Cassy would rather be doing in such moments was growing by record leaps and unprecedented bounds. Tending to her cat, Freckles, with his awaiting cuticles moving farther north in the batting order.

Appearing the fan-feathered bird, Cassy was not. For she was altogether remote from stridently repositioning her hitchhiker mode. Her Great Grandmother would call her something akin to, Plucked and ready for kettle. The plucking part she could do without, albeit the steam of a simmering cauldron hardly sounded like the worst way to go. Better than becoming caught in the direful undertow of a sinking Titanic, or the fiery crash of a toasted Hindenburg. It was simply based on the angle in which something was perceived. And after contemplating said harrowing predicaments, a final snooze in the old copper-lined Jacuzzi might just prove the better option. At the very least, it was sure to get the kinks worked out.

Quite permanently, she concluded.

Chapter 2

Though not possessing eyes in the traditional sense, their external stimulus could feel the sting in other ways. Light in and of itself was not harmful, for the dazzle of neon or the string of artificial blinkers on a marquee had demonstrated nothing short of hunky-dory. But natural light was a different animal. Its source being holy and authentic, produced on the earliest day of creation. And this godly inspiration proved challenging when these whispering spirits happened too close, chiefly while hovering in a place promising eternal darkness. And the added touch of a hard and clammy pillow, both qualities befitting a perfectly-improper and restless sleep.

Whenever a sharp ray of this blessed stuff pierced between the conifers, spilling across a given path, it could virtually render them blind. Not in the normal way, of course, but far more drastic. Their brand of blindness was unique, effectively paralyzing. This made them useless to any movement, no matter how sudden or slight. And the more intense the shine, the more it exposed their weakness to all that was virtuous.

Their maggot-like bodies (in shape, not stature) were covered with countless, sensitive tentacles. These subtle, hairy feelers made for being content in dark and slimy caverns. Yet not so much the dry balminess of a cloudless, summer afternoon.

Thankfully, for the average demons’ sake, this place was far from those pleasant and cozy conditions. Whether it was the misty haze of nimbostratus, or the occasional churning from massive plumes of cumulonimbus. Either formation had kept the burning sun at bay.

Although these ghostlike creatures did not carry with them cases of fleshy nerves and bones of marrow, characteristics of the living, there was still something innate clawing at their insides in the wanting of more.

These demonic apparitions were of similar ilk to those which came upon the Reynolds’ plantation in the years preceding. Riding the gathering dust devil, it began somewhere between Pine Bluff and Memphis. Gaining traction through the forests of Ozark and Ouachita, the twister touching down just outside Tulsa.

Wheat fields outlined the property, framing the greener edges of the big red house and the short white picket. Shells of rusty combines and propane tanks littered the passageways between outbuildings. Threadbare tires scattered about, were now the natural place for chickweed and finger grasses to take hold.

In spite of the wraparound porch needing a coat of whitewash, it still held the charm of the craftsman who built it. Inside, the generous kitchen was crusted-over with used needles, burnt spoons and other drug paraphernalia. Ashtrays piled with crumpled cigarette butts, and a lasting roach presently emitting an ascending snake of purple smoke.

The losing hand in a game of poker had reached the sort of level where life and death became so intertwined, one could hardly tell the difference.

John Reynolds was nearing his own version of paradise, the opioids having their way with his struggling cognitions. Even dropping the silver dollar he’d been rolling over his twitchy fingers, as the base of each digit were etched with small tattoos.

I’m offerin’… one of the boys, the newly-crowned father slurred, to see-and-raise in lieu of money. Now barely able to hold up even the slightest scaly finger, the Chinese characters becoming more visible in the glimmer of the sixty-watt. The green and yellow lantern hung like a charm above the playing surface, exposing to a large degree a covering blotched with spilt drink and the scattering of stale tobacco. The permanent ink of simple Mandarin translated into ‘fear no evil,’ a motto which was easier said than put into practice.

Only one, he repeated, not wanting to totally sacrifice having his name carried on and into the trailing roots of the family tree.

Why’s you think I be in the market for another screamer t’feed? The question came from the mouth full of cigar and rancid breath—John’s closest neighbor, Tucker Hollands, the one holding a full house. And apropos, the aging rancher already had a wife and four kids of his own. And just as many grandkids when stopping long enough to ponder on it.

A deed to some parcel of land became part of the take, along with bags of weed and colorful powders of narcotics to be smoked, snorted, and shot-up by the winner and their whores.

Frank Wagner, the man who married John’s sister, Dorris, was on the verge of folding. However, one of the prizes had fought for his attention, preventing him from letting go of his pair of lucky sevens.

Where’s this plot, by chance? Frank asked, picking up the deed and brushing a callused thumb over it. A wooden crucifix dangled from his lean neck; the weight of it, a constant reminder of Who to thank for another day.

Somewhere’s up north and west o’here. Nears Alaska ’r Canada, replied the son of Mr. Hollands, with nobody catching the young man’s first name. It was given me from a great uncle. ’Tain’t worth much for all the bullshit loggin’ restrictions and whatnot.

In a blink, the backdoor swung open, bringing with it the smell of castoff milk cartons denied a rinsing. Dorris had just returned from tending to the goats out in the lean-to, along with seeing a dozen or so chickens be given a turning in. Her brown and wayward hair seemed to flare out in every direction with static. But it was the worry in her pale expression that told all, pausing to study the round of betters and drug abusers. The scene lent itself to paranoia, her boots now traipsing about the place. Enlivened hands busied themselves, unearthing couch cushions and checking the underside of portable tables.

Spotting something: a possible thief in the night. Eyes darting in a zigzag, her mind in a hasty flashback. Without delay, she took her frantic ways into the back quarters—a dimly lit space holding her newborn nephews. It was just three-short weeks prior, above this very room where the deafening blast of lightening struck the roof’s antenna. The result was an array of sparks scattering down the cedar shakes, and soon the deluge of the immediate rainfall doused the growing embers. The battle raged, as the two sterilizing elements were at war: one trying to feed what amounted to fire starters lined with debris, that over time had congested its many grooves; the other lapping at them, drowning out their own similar intentions to wipe away and start anew.

What had come instead was the acrid smell of death. Dorris watched as her brother’s wife struggled mightily in giving birth to twins. The ravaged girl having pushed out the first, with the blood-drenched sheet catching the boy just before he was lifted to the whicker cradle. Even so, it was too late for the second one, as the hemorrhaging continued to siphon the life out of his mother.

Dorris was called to retrieve Jack the same way she had when aiding the farm animals with their young. Pulling him from his dead mother’s torn womb, she held the babe until a cry eked forth to shape its inaugural breath. Meanwhile, the whimpering Jimbo went ignored. The babe who came minutes before was left to wail in the bassinet, alone and there for the taking. The makeshift nurse paced the floor until the horrid sight of the boy’s long and raspy inhales caught her interest. Its eerie glow that a much older Jack would later be haunted by, largely on nights when sleep never captured him.

Spreading her filth and barnyard of stink, remnants of chickenfeed fell from Dorris’ wool slacks with each hurried step. Opening the hatch to a closet holding the ingredients to everything she needed, it was time to rid the place of evil once and forever. Not about to let an imbecilic gambling habit break the family apart, the babies’ auntie set fire to the end of a broom. Having doused the bristles with a cleaning agent, a last-ditch effort in shooing these wicked creatures to the waste bin of eternity. Catching the draperies first, those things went up the way of petroleum to a hay barn.

Crazy-ass woman, Tucker shouted, the old timer tossing his cards before heading for the nearest exit.

Poker night was officially over, as even the ghost of John’s wife was urged to make haste. The mother of the twin boys had died during labor. Her spirit desperately wanting to cleave to her sons, but was now rising up from the featherbed. The exodus was made official by the gamblers’ crying shouts of I’m gone, and Fuck this shit!

The curses had come from the younger Hollands, now grabbing at piles of cash and coin. Making off with a few baggies of coke and heroin, he then followed his old man’s strides. Having already blazed a trail, Tucker was presently tromping his way into the back forty.

The torchbearer watched as they scattered like ants on a compromised hill, not seeking the ones with spines and working joints. The arson’s interest was the extermination of a different entity, the sort finding the gaps along the floorboards and the loose mends in the ceiling. But there was a lingerer between the wall and bassinet, twinkling dimmer than the faintest of fireflies. It hovered, waiting for its chance to strike. And before the hour turned over a brighter day, it managed to slither across the loosening fringes and affirm the winnings for the pair of kings and three sixes.

Flames overtook the belly of the house, taking the owner prisoner with their swelling licks of deadly heat. John Reynolds would perish in the blaze that night, giving up in a cauterized finale to the seat of the wobbly kitchen chair. In the meantime, his deceased bride was finally set free from the bonds of this forsaken ground. Alas, what remained could now be transferred to the beyond, along with the assurance her offspring would be cared for.

Frank and Dorris took on both boys, pocketing the forgotten deed and whatever else they could carry. He was oblivious to those spooks and their ungodly intentions, making the move for the possibilities of finding work and starting again; a clean slate. Putting spade to ground and giving life to his drawings, erecting the chalet and topping it with a jutting beam that resembled a godlike finger.

His wife believing she could fool even the shiftiest of specters, moving far away to those mountains cloaked by rock and tree. But she failed in her comprehension, underestimating the other realm and their hunger for a host. Later realizing that wherever Jimbo went, they would be also.

Over the years, the demons had grown in number, spawning more and more of their sinister ways. The commands never ceasing, not until they declared an entire village before moving on to the next. And doing so in the name of their nastiest of rulers—The Prince of Darkness.

Chapter 3

Avaritia slapped Hubris across the spot where his face should have been, as it was hard to know for sure due to this particular area being totally blank.

Hey, what was that for? Hubris shrieked, crying for an answer.

If you don’t know, than it’s official—you’re dumber than you look, Avaritia said, adding insult to injury. Then she took off like a shot, daring him to make chase.

Take it back, Ava. You know I’ve gotta problem with numbers. Hubris’ demand went ignored, as her reaction to his excuses were indifferent.

The demons returned to their whirling and dancing, twisting their smoky-yellow and woolly-violet frames. The performance was done with the odd-coupling of both the dutiful and the carefree.

In the amount of time it takes a hummingbird to bat a wing, they could shrink or expand their designated proportions to the desired shape. They could slither around the rough hide of a tree stem, or bound off the dew-covered feathers of a sprouting fern, and no human would be the wiser.

While one of them stooped to crawl beneath exposed roots, the other would then go to acrobatic heights and playfully loop themselves on a lower branch. Whatever struck their fancy, the lively spirits were turning this dim and damp forest into one massive romp.

I get my fours and nines mixed up, Hubris said, using a doleful verbal whimper, as even the stunted spikes flanking his noggin seemed to wilt with humility. So I was off by a few miles. Big whoop!

I don’t care about stupid mileage, Avaritia snapped. Now spinning around and producing a sharp pointer, she began jabbing her partner in his guttural area. An area looking to be full of marshmallows and marbles, hefty and light all at the same time. I’m talking about you not having my back with Captain Kratos.

Oh, that, Hubris sulked, trying to form a guilty countenance. But without eyes, this proved quite difficult. B-But he scares me.

He’s supposed to, okay. That’s his job, Avaritia explained. When they gave him the title of Satan’s right hand man, it was stamped on the letterhead… ‘SCARE THE CRAP OUT OF EVERYONE!’

Evidence left from their gaseous shells came in the form of gooey treads atop already marshy loam. And then there was the random burn marks on other things not yet rotten, such as recently-fallen twigs and branches where their touch happened to linger.

Now settled with an undulating sway, the demon-duo resembled a couple of escapees taking a spell against a decomposing stump. Their buoyant images were made from thousands of acid tongues, presently casting forked-tips into the night.

They did not speak in a manner coherent to humans, for it wasn’t audible in the way normal earth-dwellers with ears would even confuse as language. It was done by making use of this strange osmosis, instantly translated for the reader’s convenience. Upon each remark, with the exception of a marginal increase in size and radiation, their form of communication was rather difficult to explain.

Listen, Hue. We go way back, Avaritia gathered herself to make a point.

Yeah, we do, Hubris agreed. Remember the Carolina days? Those were some good times. He could tell she wasn’t in the mood, deciding to reverse course. Okay, fine. You’re right, and… I’m sorry. I promise to stand up for you, even if it costs me my head.

That’s not much of a sacrifice, considering you don’t actually have one.

I do, too. Look at this. You want Cary Grant? Hubris concentrated extra-long, causing his version of the movie star to come out redder than a decorative salad onion.

Don’t you mean, Archibald Alec Leach? she asked.

Despite Avaritia being blessed with a photographic memory, it was habitual for her to command the Wikipedia page in her mind’s hard drive. For Hubris’ sake, she then sent it out in a floating bubble for closer examination.

Yikes! Hubris’ new jaw flapped, taking advantage of having a face and turning it into something appearing horrified. If that was his real name, no wonder he changed it, assessed the demon, unable to fathom Vivien Leigh hanging with the likes of a Leach named Archie.

They sat there awhile, talking and not talking. One would point out a constellation, and the other would remind them they weren’t supposed to speak about those things. Anytime the subject of planets and stars came up, it was immediately quashed. Mostly because everyone knew who placed them there. The Big So & So, as they were referred, was a very sore topic. And whatever was said to change the conversation had caused his reddish glow to throb with laughter. But for the time being, Avaritia remained unshaken, not finding her fellow comrade funny in the least.

Having spoken about how he wished he could feel the tickle and chew from the countless mites and critters below, Hubris was riveted by their tiny thoraxes and minuscule shells being singed beyond repair. He was further fascinated at how the insects poked around hundreds of random tunnels they had bit upon and spit out, all for the honor of their queen.

Avaritia implied the daring and mischievous, saying something to the gist of busting through the canopy and exposing her ameba-like self to the catastrophic luminosity of the coming dawn. Insisting it was not a suicidal exploit, but one that held temerity. Realizing the need to evolve in order for their kind to survive, even in the leanest of times when unforeseen revivals and spiritual awakenings ruled the day.

Come on, we ain’t got all night, Avaritia insisted, leading the charge. You heard what the boss said.

I know, but this Carver assignment better be worth it, Hubris complained. Last time, I got stuck with the preacher’s son.

Actually, the name’s Carter, Avaritia corrected. She was always having to do this, as her partner was not known for his upward grasp of details. And what’s there to be upset about? You kept him from going on that mission trip.

Yeah, but— he interrupted himself with a full-ghost shiver, having to dodge so many of those b-o-b-l-e thumpers, was a pain in my you know where. Hubris had misspelled the word of the deified book, as he was not very good with letters either. Yet even more notable was the fact that he was unable to actually say it. Beyond terrified, the cowardly demon would often melt into a puddle of slime if he did. For it wasn’t so long ago in their many travels when he had rivaled that of a leaky transmission.

The pair of fallen cherubs had grown accustomed to their circumstance. Ages ago, a rally of believers had cast them out, sending them down by way of the Arkansas River. Without a host, they were in a state of seeking or soul fishing, always on the prowl for the desperate and despaired. Taking advantage of the sick and vulnerable, they would perpetually feel out those too weak to shake addiction.

Carter, Carter, Carter, Hubris repeated, committing it to memory. It was similar to how he would fixate on a much-awaited type of submarine sandwich. Picturing each toothsome layer of ambrosial provision, until zooming out for the luscious panoramic shot.

The mister runs a business just off the main junction, Avaritia said, getting on with it. "Something to do with selling and renting heavy machinery. He’s an imposing fella. But by most considerations, the man’s fairly harmless. Doesn’t want much to do with the local chapel, and he only attends because of a pathetic moral obligation. Avaritia was relaying the details of their next assignment, reading from a teletype. His wife is apparently the town gossiper, our saving grace, and always on the lookout for a juicy story. Unfortunately, she’s a scrap more enthused about churchgoing. And as expected, why wouldn’t she be? What better place to spread those tasty rumors?"

The kiddos! What about the kiddos? I so love messing with the bitty ones. For reals, I do. Hubris began salivating more with each component his partner revealed, as the toxic liquid keeping him animate and flourishing was currently seeping and dripping from his overly-large pores.

Pipe down, Avaritia scolded. You’re leaking all over the place. Scooping up a tentacle full of composted matter, she dabbed it along his featureless face the way humans would do a cloth to a fever. They’ve got two, and they’re not kiddos. Both grown and out and about. The boy apparently runs with a bunch of losers, so he’s probably not going to need much attention. The girl is the one to watch. Word on the street has it she’s on the brink.

On the brink! On the brink! On the brink? Hubris blathered, going from exuberant to bewildered, doing so quicker than a human sucks-in and releases air. What’s that mean again?

She’s walking a fine line between living large and just, you know… existing, hanging out—taking up space. But there’s something in here, an asterisk next to her bio. Avaritia held a nearer appraisal, quantifying the details. Looks like we might catch a break with this one. According to the latest printout, she may be getting close to her expiration date.

"Oh, yes! I love expiration dates. Those are the insta-gators. They tell me things have taken a turn, and I can eat as much as I want. Hubris meant to say indicators," wanting to do a fist pump if he had such a thing. Then remembering he was a virtual shapeshifter, he forced an arm-like feeler, forming the closest thing he could imagine to be a hand. Now looking at this strange appendage he had just produced, already forgetting why it was there.

Fist pump? Avaritia reminded, taking a guess as to why he had given himself this configuration. She then turned around, not wanting to watch him perform the jolly-good mannerism males tend to do. Specifically, the human ones. And even more specifically, when their favorite team takes the lead in a big game. And instead of thrusting the newest of features into the air, she watched as he used it to scratch himself in places deemed private.

Sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Jock Itch, but this expiration date isn’t referring to a block of cheddar. It means there’s a chance she’s gonna, you know— Avaritia made the gesture of someone hanging. She did this using the universally known, imaginary rope to the neck. Although for some, maybe not so universally known.

Hubris gave her his usual, stupefied body language, still disappointed she wasn’t referencing food. Then he accidentally punched himself with an errant flail, now thankful for the small blessings of not having a nose.

It means she’s gonna die, you idiot.

Hubris danced a celebratory jig, inserting lyrics to his own song. "The-girl’s-gonna-d-i-e. The-girl’s-gonna-d-i-e. Then he stopped mid-air kick. Wait! That’s a good thing, right?"

Yeah, except their body is rendered useless. It’s kind of a waste, unless there’s enough of them. Apparently if this happens, there’s a good chance of the zombie apocalypse.

"Useless-waste, useless-waste, useless-waste-of-zom-beez." Hubris rattled and hummed, doing his little juke and jive over and over, acting the part of the mumbling oafish fool that he was.

Listen, birdbrain— Avaritia put a halt to his immature form of singing. It’s gonna make it more of a challenge, but we can flip for who gets to keep tabs on which.

I’ll take the mom. The mom’s are always so much fun. Hubris spun around in another fit of jumpy delight. Forming a set of stubby fingers, he then clicked them together with nervous anticipation. Is she hot? Please tell me she’s hot.

If Avaritia were granted normal eyes and a skull, they would be rolling around in their sockets right about now.

Oh, no. She then bent her strange and parasitic form backward, as if peering into the great beyond. Okay, look out. Here we go.

Only they could feel what was coming. And without warning, the static in the air had grown so intense, there was no place adequate to hide.

Hubris used his cartoon tiptoes, cowardly crouching behind a far-too slender tree. For whenever he became paralyzed with fear, his shape-shifting abilities were sometimes put on hold. I hate this part, he whined, doing so the way of a hapless orphan about to receive the hose.

In a blink, the spirits were gone. Both Avaritia and Hubris vanished into thin air. This was them being sent away, as the demons were instantly transported to the destination of their current assignment.

That was how it was for the likes of departed angels. One moment, they could be romping along the moist bed of a forest floor. And the next, resting atop rafters covered with the tickle of fiberglass insulation.

Even Ethan Hunt gets to decide if he wants to do whatever that self-destructing tape thingy tells him, Hubris immediately starts in with the complaining. We’re nothing but sliced fruit, ground up in a blender and spit out wherever.

Shush! Avaritia ordered, now leading the way through a pinhole in a section of false ceiling. This isn’t Mission Impossible, and I refuse to be compared to something in a smoothie.

They floated down, little by little, not unlike smoke from a freshly-extinguished candlewick. Now finding themselves in the midst of a foyer, a spacious room warmly lit by can lights turned low.

Where do you think we are? Hubris ventured to ask.

I think were in a— The height of Avaritia’s fears were about to come true, as she hovered over a nearby credenza. The lacquered table held a stack of readied bulletins for this weeks service. The tops of them displayed in bold heading, ‘Our Divine Savior.’

CHUUURCH!!! she shrieked in utter horror.

Lobbing themselves in loop-de-loops, the demons going end over end. The sanctuary had become anything but what its name implied. Dashing down vestibules, the egregious phantoms ricocheted off textured walls and into one another. Making the quickest of pitstops inside corridors, they shouted out in their unusual and near-silent way. The kind of screams only those animals known as man’s best friend can detect.

The demons did not favor hotspots where missionaries dwelled, wanting to avoid constant prayers and hideous exaltations. For such things gave them a spiritual rendition of hives. And heaven help them in all their talk of mercies and healings, the times they cracked the seal and opened hymnals of praise and worship, those being the absolute worst. Then came the readings of promises and forgiveness, from Ephesians and Colossians to the gospels of Matthew and John. The inspired words sent chills down the demons’ spineless, slug-like forms.

And the most recent verse to leave an indelible mark, And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. First Corinthians 13:13 had echoed throughout fanned hallways and the leanest of porticos, sending the evildoers flailing for a side room. Here they were witness to a giant bald man appearing bored and apathetic. Several feet away sat a petite English woman, her delicate fingers busily playing a game on her phone.

Do you think it’s them? Hubris asked, his current head resembling a mass of exhausted blubber.

I sure hope so. Look how far apart they’re sitting. Avaritia’s more lissome shape peered around a temporary wall, her leaning motion showing curiosity. This annulment’s been in the making for over a quarter of a century.

Piece o’cake! Hubris declared.

"Might not be that easy," Avaritia said, tamping down her partner’s enthusiasm.

No, Ava. Look on the floor. Hubris gestured toward the peel-and-stick tiles. I think that’s a piece of—ooh la la—vanilla with chocolate frosting and confetti sprinkles!

You don’t even have a real mouth to taste anything.

I have my ways, he insisted, doing so with a lack of conviction. You know that’s never stopped me before.

Gross! Her comment, on the flip side, came with loads of belief.

Avaritia then pulled out the official assignment, again studying the specifics. The erubescent ticket described another marriage on the cusp of folding, and how there was an ever-widening division between them. The last of the instructions hinted of an extra push to search out ways which promote nagging and nitpicking.

‘And in the name of His Unholy Deity,’ she recited with a demonic whisper, ‘soon, the Hammer of Divorce shall fall.’

Chapter 4

Doing pushups was an activity Cassy had become obsessed with. And it wasn’t because she was particularly good at them, for she struggled mightily. In fact, some might say she was downright pitiful in this endeavor. This was due to her arms being inordinately long, making the exercise all the more challenging.

Her roommate would often spot her face down on the floor, gathering the strength to complete a single rep. Pushups do you again? Sophie would ask. The whole time thinking she was being kindly, when in actuality it sounded more like a ribbing.

Yes, pushups do me again, Cassy would answer back. Or not do, she’d say, frustrated at another failed attempt. But here on the side of the highway, Ms. Long Arms of the Law tried hoisting her ample torso. Busting out as many reps as she could, which was precisely two!

Dusting off hands, she now stood with shoulders back and fervent legs strutting. The feeling of vulnerability had come no different than a gust of stirred ocean air hitting her full on. Then a reluctant chirp, I am confident, emitted from Cassy’s small mouth. The words initially springing forth a hiccup of vitality, only to fall clumsily out of her disinclined voice box.

What am I doing? Am I completely insane? To be out here, alone, with only the security of an infinitesimal canister of pepper spray. Off my rocker, was the only viable answer.

Cassy’s group discussed leaps of faith; taking chances, and seeking opportunity in the unlooked-for. To boldly take precarious situations by the horns, and then go for it!

Do something uncomfortable! the leader had shouted from the faux-wooden stage. Stretch yourself. Jump through a circle of fire and live to tell of the searing heat. Her instructions boomed under tweezer’d brows and through perfect chops. Doing so straight over the sound system, the way of a lonely god searching for its future tribe of believers.

The main speaker of the ladies-only conference hadn’t mentioned plummeting from the bowels of an airplane, nor clinging to the narrow finger-holds pitting the side of a rock face. As an alternative, this woman in charge spoke of everyday things people just don’t do anymore. Things that by today’s far from rough-and-tumble standards, almost appear fanciful and quaint.

Still playing the pedestrian, Cassy heard the familiar sound of more tires on asphalt. Thankfully, not a long-hauler this time.

Tank b’Jesus, Sophie’s broken English echoed from somewhere in Cassy’s far-flung synapsis.

Without looking, her mind’s eye could see them rounding the corner of the distant s-curve. As the vehicle approached from the rear, her frame chucked an exaggeratedly-long and threadlike shadow. Its angular and willow-thin characteristics—a one-girl animation.

My, my, my. To be that skinny.

The cartoon shifted on the ground below, becoming trapped somewhere underneath the guardrail. But shadows could never tell the whole picture of a rising sleeved arm and a protruding pale hand. Headlights exposed the single digit of her painted thumb currently aiming skyward.

Let this be the one, she silently prayed, although her belief in Heaven’s Almighty had been tested like nothing before. Between the stalemate with Sophie and the lack of overall direction in life, everything in this corner of her universe was somewhat misaligned. Earlier aspirations of future undertakings had since crumbled the way of milled flour without the yeast.

The fear of change in those graying heads prevented any appreciation for her numerous ideas. Notions prompting many privately-held discussions: ones comprised of words such as lunacy and derangement. For instead of becoming the savior of the community center, the council had flushed it all down the drainpipe with her outside the lines creativity.

And when it came to the Sophie standoff, there once had been a time when the virgins had promised to remain celibate. They even arranged a day of chastity-belt fittings, sealed with a wink and a nod. They would do their best to push back on their coworkers’ stories of one-night stands, and the incessant rumors of the opposite sex with their love ’em and leave ’em lifestyle.

Acknowledging the ignominious fact that, up to this point, neither of them had done little more than kiss a boy. Or a man, as they would have to remind each other at how grownup they were supposed to be. And furthermore on the crosshairs of accuracy, it had seemed forever-and-a-day since either of them were kissed by one. Although, Sophie did mention something about recently getting felt-up. And in her words, Me up-felted. Never mind it being a routine visit to an aging female doctor, she insisted it counted.

And so the girls made expeditious plans to join a non-worshiping nunnery, where the only obligation was to swear off men for the rest of eternity. With per usual lack of thinking sequential, not fully realizing that a clock without end was set for a quarter past perpetual. Upon this revelation, it hardly stymied them from singing their preferred hymns titled, Curs’ed be thy Name O’ Bob and Take Thee Joe No Mo’.

For lack of reasoning, Cassy and her preeminent friend had grown apart. This became quite challenging considering they lived together, with the pair of them sharing a cramped apartment. So cramped it was, it didn’t actually contain a real bedroom. Something deemed ‘a thriving studio,’ which was bragged about at nauseam in the blurb from the classifieds. Whoever penned the description made it sound as though the place was only worthy to house those with aspirations of becoming a world-renowned artist.

The rift began last June at a wedding, as the daughter of Sophie’s host family was getting married. Amid the cake and flowers and live music, there was the usual flirting going on at the reception. The problem arose when the so-called best man kept pestering Cassy to dance. She repeatedly declined his beyond-friendly advances and overdose of cologne. That was until he finally wore her down with such insistence, she came to the belief that it was probably easier to just concede.

"No doesn’t always mean ‘no,’ shu-weet thing," he had said.

Despite the lovely sentiment, Cassy could have done without the look of missing incisors and other gaps in random teeth coated in brown. As the night wore on, the platters of food on the buffet line were lessening in their appeal. For what remained was irreversibly heading toward that gloppy, congealing stage. Having reached the later hour, Cassy took mercy on this best man and his horny soul, agreeing to the confinement of a single dance. And doggone-it to those paying attention over by the three-drink minimum, she actually gave the impression of a partygoer enjoying oneself. But alas, when the band raised their stringed bows and brass blowers to strike up again, Sophie cut in with the doggedness of busting up a melee.

A month or so later, came the funeral services of Cassy’s grandfather. The whole experience of marching in and out to those depressing dirges, and seeing his lifeless body amongst the white lilies—the lot of it had cast her psychology in a bad funk. And when Sophie kept beating the dead horse of attending the women’s symposium, that was the closest things ever came to Splitsville. Yet in the end, just as it went at the reception with Mr. Lady Killer in a penguin suit, Cassy caved. And where did it land her, besides a late Thursday afternoon while walking alongside a cold and lonely road? A road for which function it seemed was the linking of one Podunk town with another.

Supposing this was slightly better than the hours the girls had spent living in the manner of the homeless. Daring each other to bite into a partially-eaten sausage biscuit, the one found jammed in the rubbish bin near the McDonald’s. It was an exercise in empathy, an effort to see how the less fortunate do the day-to-day. However, instead of softening their stringent opinions regarding the destitute residing on the streets, it only reinforced an ever-hardening stance of: GET A JOB!

The latest four wheels sped forward, doing so without the hint of a brake light or a glimpse of courtesy.

So much for small favors, Cassy grumbled in silence. Growing disgusted, she again kicked at the pebbled earth. The action had sent a spray of multicolored stones into a berm, right along with the memory of her lame request. She appeared the runaway, minus the forethought of bringing her buckwheat pillow. But this would have been contradictory. For she was plainly The Surviving Cassy—and not Sophie, The Survivor. There was a wide chasm between the word that ends in ing, and the one ending in "or."

Sophie was a good one to have around if the stinky stuff ever hit the blades of a motorized fan set to, ‘Let’s hurl some shit.’ She was the responsible friend with the extra set of batteries to the military-grade miner’s headlamp. She was the dutiful roommate who took on laborious tasks. Things like, religiously updating the industrial-size jugs of emergency water. Shoving the supply to the corner of their only closet, she would house them closely beside a carton of those Hard-to-Chew-&-Swallow protein bars.

They were the perfect match: Sophie, the girl to have around if you’re ever in a pinch; and Cassy, the girl to have around if you ever want to find yourself in one. Conjoined, they were ready for world’s end. Or at minimum, whenever the lights threatened to take leave.

Though it could be said that the baby Carter aided in other ways. Chiefly, personal areas. For instance, when Sophie needed that special pad during those hours of heavy flow. It was oddly similar to a railroad switch, and the manner in which conjoining tracks can be steered a certain direction. Because shortly after they moved in with the other, their cycles aligned. And when this happened, the girls’ menstruation had formed two profound and hellaciously-monumental periods. From the spillage of the first day to the spotting on the last, with one beginning and the other summing things up just strides apart.

Hitchhiking had been on the list of examples. Only it was inscribed with the heading, ‘Hitch-a-Ride.’ Why Cassy chose to do this activity was simple—she had never done it before. And besides the intrigue, on her own scale of difficulty, this proved low on the dial. But there was something else she had overlooked; another detail gone to the neglected and forgotten. Her takeoff point should have begun earlier in the day, and not this close to dusk. To make matters worse, she was growing hungry. Which meant fatigue was soon to follow. And so it was official: this freckled nomad had found herself in the midst of nowhere with zero sustenance.

Looking down, Cassy ignored the many gum wrappers and cigarette filters; and whatever else stood apart from the cultivating mulch and mostly unidentifiable debris. It appreciably did not help matters that the bulk of her attention was focused on the discarded beverage disposables, plastic straws, and other balled-up sandwich refuse. For the litter decorating the hollow ditches got her mind churning and her stomach growling.

Ignoring her roommate’s weekly heed of carrying a backpack with supplies, for this had brought with it further regret. Another one of life’s hacks going to the neglected, unable to rub off. How Cassy wished she had something simple, as even the smallest pouch of Goldfish crackers or the swig from a sports drink would suffice. Then came the impression of some Vitamin Water chilling in a side pocket of their humble fridge. A lot of good it was doing there, and not here—while I’m shriveling up from spontaneous dehydration! She shouted her complaint, silently.

As the official youngest of the Carter family, Cassy was always one for drama. Her older brother was constantly teasing her for it. Baby this and baby that, Mason would mock, as his normally friendly composition had devolved into a scowl of bad intent. Whine, whine, whine! He berated.

But all things being equal, Mason was not wise to this venture. And as far as Cassy was concerned, he was never to be in the loop. None of them could. ’Specially Ems and pops, she thought. For even a rube of a hitchhiker knew better than to bring another Carter into this world of the unattainable. And as much as her wild imaginings could spin a tale longer than the longest of yarns,