Secrets of Time

By Michael Bennett Wilson

Jerome Martin is an awkward teenager living a seemingly meaningless existence in a small seaside village. Little does he know that is all about to change when he is drawn into the lives of those haunted by the Secrets of Time.

When a shy, unassuming Jerome crosses paths with Sam Addison, a teacher at his high school, neither of them expects it to be of any consequence. But by coincidence or fate, they soon find their lives becoming intertwined.

Jerome eventually lear

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781640962781

Book preview

1

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best option considering the alternative. Jerome Martin was fairly certain Sam Addison would be in his classroom; most likely, puttering around with a new project or repairing some worn-out part of a table saw. He barely knew the shop teacher and certainly had no intention of taking one of his tedious classes. There were, however, two things they had in common; they both shared an obvious dislike for the West Air High School Athletic Program and they both harbored an acute antipathy for school assemblies.

Jerome didn’t know why the old man was so openly disdainful of high school sports. He assumed there must have been a bad experience somewhere along the line. He figured Addison was probably some kind of geek as a kid and was the sort who was never picked for a team. Most likely, the guy was still holding a grudge. It was irrelevant to Jerome what the reason was, he just needed a refuge—a place to hide for the next hour or so. He was relieved to find the classroom door was unlocked as he turned the knob and stepped inside.

From inside the room, the distant sounds of a pep rally could still be heard. The yells and screams were edgy and distracting, echoing down the hallway and through the classroom door as it shut gently behind him. The pounding drums and crashing cymbals annoyed Jerome, though he tried to purge the noise from his consciousness. Still unsure as to the wisdom of his decision, he stood motionless and silent as the door lever slipped gently back into its strike plate, clicking audibly. Jerome cringed slightly, feeling as though a trap door to a lion’s den had just been sprung.

Jerome’s senses instantly came alive, and he quickly detected the acrid odor of machine oil mixed thickly in the air with the piney scent of sawdust. He cast his eyes about the room taking in its features, particularly the odd assortment of machines and tools orderly arrayed along the walls and upon the worktables.

He could see Addison sitting at his desk in the far corner. The man was gray and worn. He was also noticeably much older than the other teachers at the school. He appeared tired but sat in his chair with his back as straight as the wooden two by fours stacked neatly along the walls. Like a distance runner, Addison was lean and wiry. His hair was trimmed short in a military cut. He looked as mean as could be expected in the eyes of a young boy. His grim expression and taut jawline projected the well-established, no-nonsense reputation that had always garnered the respect and fear of even the unruliest of adolescents.

Jerome stood motionless, waiting to be acknowledged. An all too familiar sense of awkwardness began seeping into his resolve and quickly filled him with a desire to retreat back to the relative safety of the hallway. His mind told him there was still time to escape before he was detected, and he cautiously moved one foot back.

Sam Addison looked up from his work and glowered at Jerome from over the glasses, perched precariously on the end of his nose. He immediately recognized the skinny kid with the unkempt hair, baggy trousers, and faded T-shirt emblazoned with some sort of nondescript logo. He had seen the boy quite a few times in the school halls though they had only interacted on one or two occasions. With an annoyed expression and curt tone, he asked, Can I help you?

Hi, Mr. Addison. I saw your door was open and thought I would say hi.

Well, Jerome surmised, that introduction definitely fell flat. He had hoped he wouldn’t come across sounding quite so awkward.

Well, hello to you too … Don’t you have a pep rally to go to? The old shop teacher was annoyed and wasn’t trying to hide it.

Jerome was now certain this was a bad decision, and the small measure of confidence he had mustered had all but evaporated.

Oh, I’ve been to a bunch of pep rallies, he meekly replied. I doubt they will miss me at this one.

Addison looked at the boy and sarcastically quipped, Don’t you support your Wildcats in their quest for a state championship? After all, if I remember right, they are four and two.

If possible, Jerome was now even more uncomfortable than he was before. Why did he think this would be a good idea? The pep rally would have been better than this. There were only two previous occasions when he had any kind of interaction with this man, and, both times, he was left feeling like a real nerd. And now, for some foolish reason, he had managed to put himself in the crosshairs once again. Jerome’s mind whirled, trying to find a way out of this self-inflicted predicament without losing face.

Four and three, Jerome politely corrected. I’m not really into basketball, but the team is four and three.

Addison glared at him silently, and Jerome realized he was quickly wearing out his welcome. Searching for some spark of mutual acquiescence, Jerome continued, I might find the game more interesting if they raised the baskets a couple more feet.

It wasn’t working. Jerome scanned the room with his eyes desperately looking for anything he could use to change the subject. He needed a topic Addison might warm to. Jerome inexplicably blurted, I have been thinking about taking shop.

Is that right? Addison replied, with fake interest. The old man leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, before continuing, So, young man, when did you come to the realization you wanted to be creative with your hands and mind?

Jerome breathed deeply to steady his nerves. Oh, I have been thinking about it for a while now. I was thinking I might want to take a class and maybe learn to build something. You know, work with wood, that sort of thing. I think I might have a knack for it.

Jerome winced faintly as he measured the effect of his words. From the frown on Addison’s face, he was able to quickly gather how insincere his explanation must have sounded. This conversation was shaping up to be just as agonizing as their previous encounter in the study hall.

That incident was particularly embarrassing. As if on cue, an image momentarily flashed across Jerome’s mind, reminding him of the painful event. Like watching a video on fast forward, Jerome’s mind speedily raced through a scene that had taken place months before. He recalled what had occurred with particular clarity.

It had been a typically boring school day as he remembered. However, on this particular occasion, Addison had been assigned as the class monitor for the hour-long study hall. Jerome, who at the time was unaware of Addison’s reputation, fought off the boredom in his usual way. He let his mind wander for a while, bouncing from thought to thought and using the time to explore the depths of his imagination.

Then he retrieved some paper and a pencil from his backpack. He stared for a time at the empty white sheets brightly reflecting the overhead lighting. He imagined feeling much like an artist might, paintbrush at the ready, surveying an empty canvas. Foregoing the tedium of working on the arduous class assignments, Jerome decided instead that it would be the perfect time to explore the borders of his artistic nature and was soon busily sketching away.

Absorbed in his creativeness, he was caught completely by surprise when the grumpy old shop teacher slipped up behind him and caught him drawing graphic, yet artful pairs of stick figures, arrayed in various erotic poses. Adding insult to injury, the old grouch had gathered the drawings, in full view of the amused onlookers, and unceremoniously disposed of them in the classroom waste basket.

Jerome could never erase the episode from his memory banks. It was stuck there like so many other unfortunate moments from his life. And like a stale TV drama, the reruns would pop up over and over again. But, surely, Addison wouldn’t remember something as ridiculously minor as that; after all, that had happened almost a year ago.

Addison’s expression changed, and he smiled faintly. Sounds like you have been doing a great deal of thinking on the subject. So, I take it, you have given up on art?

There it is; the man’s memory was as sharp as the teeth of a steel trap with a piercing wit to match. Jerome felt the heat rise in his face from the sting of embarrassment. His throat tightened, and he was on the verge of panic; quite certain he was about to choke. He managed to murmur a weak response, Guess I’m not cut out for being an artist.

Jerome was suddenly startled as his phone vibrated. He reached into his pocket, retrieving the phone. A message on the screen read, WRU. He felt a sudden wave of relief as he now had a plan of escape. Uh, sorry, Mr. Addison, gotta go.

Addison, not bothering to conceal his impatience, replied sarcastically, Well, sorry to hear that and thanks so much for stopping by. Addison adjusted his glasses and returned to reading a newspaper folded neatly in front of him.

Jerome turned to leave, but as he took a hasty step toward the door, his eyes were diverted to an object attached to the wall in front of him. He stopped momentarily and stared at it, noticing how out of place it seemed. It was an ancient tool with a long wooden handle. The wood of the handle was of a dark, rich color and curved in a unique manner. The head was made of iron and had a long sharp blade. The pitted metal of the blade was worn to a gleaming shine from excessive use. It was obvious, even to the untrained eye, someone at some point had cherished the object and had taken great pains to maintain the fine texture of the wood.

Jerome jumped again, as the phone vibrated a second time. He looked at the text, r u here yet.

He nimbly tapped a response, K 1 sec, then slipped the phone back in his pocket. Jerome, again, turned his attention to the object on the wall and after a slight pause, whispered aloud, That’s an adze.

What? Addison uttered as he looked up from the paper on his desk.

That’s an adze, isn’t it?

Jerome turned toward Addison seeking some sort of confirmation. Addison sat back again and studied the boy, for what seemed to be, the first time. Yes, it is. More specifically, it is a shipwright’s foot adze. I estimate that one to be about two hundred years old.

Addison stood up, his curiosity about the boy, slightly kindled. He stepped from around the desk betraying a slight limp and walked across the room to where Jerome was standing. But how would you know about that?

"I watch the Discovery Channel quite a bit. I think I saw a guy using one. He was making something, but I can’t remember much about it. Do you use this one?"

Hell no! the old man loudly retorted. I’ve got my modern tools for work, that’s just for my peace of mind. Then quietly, with a hint of hesitation in his voice, he continued, It reminds me of the important things in life."

The phone buzzed again, but Jerome ignored it. Somehow, the way Addison spoke made him want to listen. An idea flashed in Jerome’s mind that there might be more to this old man than meets the eye. For a moment, Jerome was drawn in and wanted to hear more. He wanted to ask Addison what he meant by the important things, but the tenuous bond was quickly severed by the persistent buzz of the phone hidden in the boy’s pocket.

Addison snorted, You must be pretty damn popular. His moment was ruined too, and he was frustrated how he had allowed himself to be pulled in by the boy’s inquisitiveness. Kids this day and time, he surmised to himself. They don’t care about anything and have no interest in anything unless it’s a phone app, a video game or sex and not necessarily in that order.

Well, I have papers to grade and you have a pep rally to attend … so good-bye.

Uh right, well, thanks, Mr. Addison. See ya around.

Jerome hurriedly left the classroom and began to make his way to the auditorium. As he walked, he fumbled for the phone, which had continued to vibrate incessantly.

Peering at the screen, he could see Abbie Wascomb had sent five more messages, each one more animated than the last. My God, he thought, just chill. He fired back a response, k here, cu in a sec. Jerome arrived at the auditorium and stopped in front of the large double doors that guarded the entrance. He stared at them as if trying to see what was on the other side. At that moment, a large, thunderous roar erupted from the excited crowd inside. It would be so easy to just turn around, he conjectured. It would probably be impossible to find Abbie anyway. She would most likely be swallowed up in that room, with all those people and all that noise.

No, on second thought, he must learn to deal with things like this and he did promise her he would be there. After all, she was the only friend he really had. They had met in the cafeteria on his first day of high school and, strangely enough, had bonded very quickly. They had been hanging out for over a year and a half now, which was a record for him. He couldn’t afford to make her mad, or he would have to eat alone in the cafeteria and that would be simply devastating.

Jerome jerked the door wide as if to make a grand entrance, only to find the aisle crammed full of people. He began to push his way gingerly through the pack, trying not to draw attention to himself. His progress was slow but steady. He could feel the space close in behind him and knew there would be no escape; no way back from the way he came.

Halfway down the aisle, he stopped and squinted into the dimly lit seating area, straining his eyes, hoping to spot his friend’s face. Then to his immediate right, he caught a glimpse of Abbie. Surprisingly, she was right where she said she would be. As Jerome maneuvered through the throng to where she was seated, he could see her cheering and waving her arms. He found this to be somewhat baffling. Abbie was not a sports aficionado. It was one of the few things they shared a common distaste for.

Jerome eased his way down the row of clamoring students until he was next to her. At first, he thought, she must not have realized he was there, but seconds later, she leaned over and pulled him to her. Keeping her eyes glued to the onstage activity, she yelled, Hi, where have you been? Your brother is about to speak.

Jerome focused on the brightly lit stage for the first time. Sure enough, there was his big brother Jacob, front and center, in his letter jacket, fist pumping, skipping about and yelling encouragement to the crowd.

Unlike Jerome, Jacob was tall and muscular. He wore his haircut short but long on top. He had big dimples and an open smile along with the masculine kind of features most girls were attracted to. He was a letterman halfback in football, a star basketball forward, and he was definitely in his element when in front of a crowd. He grabbed a microphone and stepped to the edge of the platform, causing the audience to become even more frenzied.

All right, everybody, Jacob shouted, who are we?

The Wildcats! shot back the screaming throng.

What are we gonna do?

Beat the Trojans! screamed the crowd in unison.

That’s right, like a big bass drum. They are going down, and we will bury them on the court tonight.

The din increased and, on signal, the band struck up the school fight song. Jerome abruptly lost interest. He looked at Abbie, hoping she would show some sign of boredom. Instead, she began to bounce and fist pump along with the rhythm of the beat and was clearly caught up in the celebration.

The noise began to close in on Jerome. The closeness of the people, as they pressed against him, was overwhelming and made him feel claustrophobic. Jerome could feel his lungs tighten. Suddenly, he found it difficult to breathe. He began to perspire, as a wonted sense of anxiety slowly gained control of his thoughts.

Again, he turned to Abbie. This time, she was staring at him; a look of alarm on her face. Do you need to go?

Jerome leaned in with one ear. What?

Abbie yelled louder, Are you ready to go?

Yes, Jerome yelled back, nodding emphatically to make certain he was understood.

Together, they began to push their way into the aisle, then onward toward the exit, slicing methodically through the raucous mass of people. Jerome was now much less concerned about the pushes and shoves that were exchanged, as he heedlessly stepped on the toes and elbowed the ribs of those unfortunate enough to stand in his way.

The nearer he got to the doors, the more feverish were his efforts to escape. Jerome imagined himself, as if he were at the bottom of a deep, dark pool of cold water, struggling to swim to the top; his arms flailing, heart racing, and his lungs readying to burst. His eyes became singularly focused on a shaft of light illuminating a small crack between the two doors. It appeared to him as if an errant ray of sunlight was guiding him to the surface of an angry and unforgiving sea.

Finally, they pushed their way through the doors, and Jerome burst through the opening and into the hallway like a fish breaking the waves to elude its prey. His lungs filled with fresh air, his mind cleared, and he basked in the bright fluorescent light.

Abbie, still puzzled, asked, Are you okay, Jerome?

Yeah, yeah I’m okay. I just got some things to do and needed to leave.

So where were you earlier? I kept messaging you and couldn’t figure out what was going on.

I was hanging out with old man Addison in his shop class.

Abbie incredulously replied, Really, I didn’t know you and him were so tight. You don’t even know how to drive a nail. What could you two possibly have in common?

Oh, lots of stuff. We are both kinda like history geeks and like old school tools and things.

Yeah right. You don’t even know the guy. I remember how embarrassed you were in the cafeteria that day when he called you out for arguing with the cashier about your lunch account. You looked like my puppy, Daffy, when I catch her taking a poop on the floor.

Abbie abruptly laughed at her cleverness. Jerome felt the heat rising in his face, and he momentarily wondered if he really needed anyone to eat his lunch with.

They walked unhurriedly toward the front exit. Abbie was on her phone, texting some phantom phone pal and probably sharing her latest feat of humor at Jerome’s expense. Tomorrow, some dumbass who thinks he’s a genius will probably shout at him on the way to class; something like, Hey, little pup, you look like you just crapped on the floor, and someone else will have to respond and impart some other kind of Neanderthal like wisdom and everyone will laugh. And, of course, Jacob will be there and will be laughing longer and harder than anyone else.

As Jerome walked silently by Abbie’s side, he thought, Why can’t I have a brother like you see on TV or something? Why can’t it be like those old school shows from the fifties? I bet that Beaver kid never had to worry about his big brother treating him like crap.

So, what is it you want to do, Abbie?

I thought you said you had things to do.

Well, I do, but they can wait for a while.

Abbie replied mischievously, Whatever; you know … you’re really weird … but I still like you. Abbie flashed a smile.

Jerome glanced at her and thought how pretty she was. It wasn’t the kind of pretty that most girls strive for. It was more of a natural beauty, which could glow like a sunny day or suddenly turn stormy in a sensual way. Her slender features were accentuated by high cheek bones and dazzling green eyes that, in an instant, could slice the air with anger or dance merrily with amusement. Her hair, dark and glossy, tended to bounce carelessly about her shoulders but never seemed out of place. Abbie’s flair for simplistic allure extended to her clothes. She didn’t care about fashion. She wore what she liked but always seemed to be one step ahead of the trend.

Jerome stared back at the ground. Sometimes, he liked Abbie a lot and then sometimes, he just wanted to tell her off and find some new friends. He had other friends once, but then that pretty much ended after the fifth grade. It takes so much effort to commit to several people at once. People get jealous and then the next thing you know, they start gossiping and then lying about each other. Yes, he was convinced; it is better to just concentrate on one friendship at a time.

He was used to Abbie and her quirkiness. She was social but never too close to anyone. She confided more in Jerome than anyone else, probably because she knew he had no one to share her secrets with. It was safe to be his friend, and it didn’t take a lot of effort either. She could always count on him to be where he was supposed to be when she expected him to be—that is, of course, with the exception of pep rallies.

Abbie didn’t like too many boys. She particularly didn’t like the jocks and the popular guys. She would hang with the goth dudes and emos at times, but it was most likely just to prove she was not judgmental. Abbie might be what some people consider liberal. She believed mankind was destroying the world. According to her, the poor were getting poorer and the rich were getting richer. There was no real justice and people like Jerome’s brother Jacob and his friends were to blame.

Abbie once told Jerome she wanted to protest something, but there were so many wrongs in the world, she just didn’t know where to start. Each time, Jerome would listen to her intently and would nod his agreement; but inside, he would become confused and uncomfortable with her sudden bursts of anger and bitterness. One moment she could be so angry, and then the next she would be laughing and teasing him about something.

When guys asked her out, her answer was always no, that is, unless it was a group thing. Jerome always figured there had to be some kind of big secret that Abbie wouldn’t even share with him, but he figured it wasn’t any of his business anyway.

Once outside, Abbie sat on the low brick wall at the school entrance. The same wall she and Jerome shared at the end of each school day. Here they would hang out. Abbie would chat with Alissa, Detra, and the other girls in her social circle, and Jerome would sit patiently by her side, content and secure, as a member of the small group of trusted associates Abbie had established and totally controlled.

Interesting enough, Jacob and his jock buddies steered clear of Abbie, which was odd to Jerome. Abbie would be considered hot by most guy’s standards, and Jacob, sooner or later, would always get around to hitting on all the hot girls, even the younger ones who were Abbie’s age. Oddly enough, Jacob never spoke about Abbie to Jerome and never acknowledged the fact she was Jerome’s friend.

That was okay with Jerome. He had little in life that had not already been had and discarded by his older brother. Even the conversations with Jerome’s mother were always the hand-me-downs and leftovers from Jacob’s life and accomplishments. Mom held Jacob up as the example and was always encouraging Jerome to be more like his brother.

Trying to be like Jacob was difficult and confusing. Jerome didn’t like sports, mainly because he wasn’t good at them. He didn’t like crowds and being the center of attention either. People gawking at him made him uncomfortable and would sometimes cause him to forget what he was saying. Of course, when he would lose his train of thought, that would make things even more uncomfortable. That’s how he got a C in speech class. And to this day, Jerome believed the reason he got a C was because Ms. Spencer felt sorry for him.

Ms. Spencer was the newest teacher on campus and had not learned to be mean yet, unlike Mr. Addison. But just give her a little more time, just a few more years and she will be flunking all the little introverts of the world, who, for whatever reason, are inept in the sciences of communication. That’s what happens to teachers over time, they get callous or they just give up.

Jacob, on the other hand, was a solid B student. He probably could do better, but he valued the school most as a means of social networking. He was comfortable in his role as the big man on campus and was certain he would do great things after he graduated at the end of the year.

To Jerome, the public education system was nothing more than a diabolical scheme, perpetrated by sadists whose only purpose was to torture young minds. He could never remember liking school and usually expended the minimum amount of effort in his studies. In spite of that, he miraculously made passing scores. Some sort of osmosis was most likely the explanation. Some days, Jerome was certain he must be an underachieving genius. Other days, he believed his brother who often told him he didn’t get enough oxygen at birth.

While Abbie feverishly worked the keyboard on her phone, Jerome kicked his feet and tried to pretend he wasn’t peeking at her screen. But he soon found, as was usual, that trying to read with his peripheral vision was a waste of time so he gave up.

Jerome then pulled his journal from his backpack. Of the few things he could call his own, his favorite by far, was this small leather-bound book. He received it one Christmas from his uncle Jake, the one Jacob was named after. Uncle Jake was Jerome’s great uncle on his mom’s side of the family. He was a World War II veteran but never talked about it. The three times Uncle Jake came to visit, Mom always reminded Jerome and Jacob not to ask him questions about the war.

The journal was not fancy and, unlike the expensive ones, had no lock to secure it. Its most outstanding feature was its leather cover with a rawhide cord that tied it shut. Not much protection for a boy’s most important and private thoughts, but Jerome kept it close and never left it unattended.

When Uncle Jake gave him the gift, he told Jerome he hoped he liked it. He further explained, A man should write down his innermost thoughts. Then his uncle mentioned something Jerome considered to be a bit strange, yet memorable; something along the line of putting your secrets on paper helps you heal the wounds you never knew you had.

Jerome took out a pen and started to write. Abbie sat next to him and continued to tap away on her phone. This went on for several minutes. No words were exchanged and none was necessary. Suddenly, Abbie leaped to her feet and grinned at Jerome.

Whoops, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jerome.

A moment later, she was gone, and Jerome was left alone on the wall. He sat and watched a bird that had suddenly appeared. It was hopping about, dodging the feet of the few passersby. As Jerome looked on, the bird grabbed a plastic straw it had found lying on the ground. After a long moment, Jerome sensed the bird was studying him. When a brisk breeze fluttered the pages of the journal, the bird grasped its newfound treasure and flew to a nearby tree, disappearing from Jerome’s line of sight. He decided the bird was likely building a nest for its future family.

Jerome considered the irony of it all. Sometime recently, some uncaring human discarded the straw, throwing it on the ground in the erroneous belief; it had fulfilled its purpose and was now useless. And yet, here was this simple creature, gathering someone’s trash and using it to build a home—a home to protect and raise its babies. The straw meant little if anything to its original owner but was most likely about to play a new and more important function in the continuation of life.

Jerome felt a chill in the air and realized spring wasn’t quite here yet. Suddenly, there was a commotion and people began to emerge from the exits. The pep rally was over and now everyone was leaving. It was time for him to leave too.

2

Jerome was in no particular hurry as he walked the familiar route to his house. He usually kept his head down, eyes glued to the sidewalk. The sidewalk was old; almost as old and worn as the town itself. Jerome often wondered how many generations of kids had trekked this same path. The cracks, dips, and bumps in the old concrete were like landmarks on a map. Jerome knew exactly where he was without ever having to look up.

Hearing the rowdy banter from a group of boys gaining ground from behind, Jerome set a more vigorous pace that would keep him at a comfortable distance from any awkward situations that might arise with his classmates. Soon after, he turned a corner and was on his street. The house he had grown up in was nestled in one of the older neighborhoods where the homes were modest but well kept. The houses and yards looked identical other than the colorful veneer of cheap brick that was their most appealing feature. The neighborhood had been built when the old textile plant and the military base had been open. The base closed in the 1990s as defense spending was cut. A lot of people who worked as civilian contractors on the base lost their jobs. Soon after, the plant closed, leaving hundreds more people out of work. The textile company closed because of financial considerations. The owner, the board of directors, and the bank decided they could make the company’s products much cheaper overseas. No tariffs and cheap labor meant huge profits.

After the factory closed, people began to move away from the little coastal town of West Air as they desperately sought work and greater opportunity. Those who stayed relied mostly on tourism, sport fishing, and antique malls as a means to make a living.

As a child, Jerome often wondered how the town had gotten its name. It made very little sense to him that an East Coast village would be named West Air, especially since the wind rarely blew from the west.

On one occasion, when Jerome was about eight years old, he asked his dad about the town’s name. As always was the case, his dad had a ready answer. The only problem with his answers was that they weren’t always accurate. But right or not, they always made for a good story.

As his dad described it, the original settlement had been founded in the 1700s and was called Cusabo after a Native American tribe that had once thrived in the area. As time passed, more people immigrated and the population grew.

But just as Cusabo was on the cusp of becoming something more than a tiny hamlet, something tragic happened. In the mid-1800s, the tiny village was destroyed by a hurricane. When it was eventually rebuilt, the name had been changed. According to legend, the new town was named Wisteria, after a hardy and fast-growing plant that had been introduced to America from China over the previous decades. As time passed, the name was changed again. The new name, selected by a progressive and ambitious minded city leadership, was West Air.

Jerome never knew if any of his dad’s stories were true, but he always enjoyed listening to them. His dad had always had a knack for disarming even the worst of skeptics with his charming and persuasive manner.

As Jerome neared his house, he saw his mom’s car in the driveway, an older model Toyota. It was bought used but was a nice little ride. It was a perfect fit for Elaine Martin, a middle-aged divorcee, obsessed with her age and station in life. Jerome had hoped the car wouldn’t be there. His mom’s shift at the hospital emergency room ordinarily started at four, but she always liked to leave a little early; just to be on the safe side. It was now half past four and she was still here. Jerome began to regret that he had not lingered at school a while longer.

He put in his ear buds and turned on the music. At the front step, he wavered, then rushed through the door and down the hallway to his room; the roar of Failure in Faith blasting in his ears. Jerome’s hope was to be quick enough that his mom would never know he was home.

He gently shut the door to his room and collapsed into the beanbag chair lying on the floor. He slumped low in his seat, grabbed the game console controller, and clicked the on button for the Xbox. Assassins Creed, his current game of choice, would soon take him from reality to fantasy. Here was a domain where he could always be the fearless, agile, and enigmatic warrior and spy. It was a place where he could stalk his enemies and kill without remorse.

Jerome was a fierce competitor, equally respected by both teammates and opponents. The hours upon hours of gaming had made his fingers nimble and his mind sharp. He loved the games with their simulated power and control, which varied so greatly from a reality without meaning or hope.

On this particular evening, Jerome had an added