For Owen Strabis the day seemed as transparent as the window he was looking through. The last of the day’s rain was moving on. Despite the black puddles and slick charcoal streets it left behind, Darvin, Ohio, which stood just outside his window, looked as fragile as he had always remembered it.

It was the smell. Cornfields stretched for miles, ending at the pant legs of small, rolling hills capped with large maples and oaks, occasional bald spots of lanky meadow grass and narrow streams that seemed to empty into nowhere—the green smell of spring.

Owen Strabis was average—death hadn’t changed that. In life, he had few friends. In death, he was offered a window which provided a great view of Darvin’s Westside: a quaint pool that wouldn’t be used for another month, Frazier Park with its swinging children, Frisbees and dogs, manicured lawns, and two covered shelters, each picnic table a ghost beneath well-built roofs.

He was a prisoner to the window and struggled to come to grips with the emptiness of his situation. The window, attached to the apartment building he lived his entire adult life in, was his prison. He imagined it could be a façade. It was possible he had dropped out of life and into Hell with such a keen motion that his mind didn’t register the transfer; he imagined that Hell could be the memories of what was most adored. What, after all, could be more haunting than realizing death meant spending eternity viewing that which was most loved in life, having it mere inches away but always out of reach?

Yet this wasn’t Hell; the picture was too crisp. The days changed as they had during life. Plus, he could smell rain in the air. Though it wasn’t hard for him to believe that God, having created the world, could also make a duplicate where misguided souls, serial killers, and plain old bad people had to suffer their own specific hell, there remained a realness that he felt would be lacking in such duplication.

As if to prove his theory, the voices he heard coming from the kitchen behind him were as clear as his favorite window. The voices were coming from his former apartment—number 5; the one he remained to tenant but had ceased paying rent. These voices were as intrusive and annoying as they were awkward and odd. The most mysterious thing was, they had no bodies.

Owen had given up trying to escape the view. Oh, he could rise from his chair, could even walk to the other side of the room, but only in daylight, during those hours when the sun pushed its fingers through his window, spilling golden rays onto old ivory walls. At night, he was confined to his chair, bound invisibly to the pallor of the darkness. Once, he had been trudging the floor, deliberately pacing back and forth in search of answers for his dilemma without considering the passing of time, when the sun fell beneath the low hills in the western sky. As the rays lessened and the sky turned from orange to purple to blue to black, gravity seemed to shift, pulling him sideways instead of holding him to the shabby rug below. Alarmed, he fought the pressure. His heels scraped the carpet. His chair swung to meet him. The pressure, once he was seated, dissipated, withdrawing through the windowpane. Snapping his head to the right, wide eyes staring out the glass, Owen thought he glimpsed the tail of a trench coat as it disappeared around the building’s corner.

* * *

The chair was nice. He had a confused but certain feeling that it would last for eternity, never fraying, never tearing. Not everything was this way. Though he had no way of knowing how long he’d already been in this dead state, he was certain it had been for quite long. For one thing, the painted walls had begun to fade. No longer the crisp white he remembered when alive, their jaundice hue often soured his mood. Those who happened to pass his window also sustained that he was quite far into the future.

Their hairstyles and clothes were wilder than anything he had ever perceived. Sometimes he even gasped at their attire. These things should not be. Something is wrong here. I don’t know what … but something is wrong, he thought. The world changed. He had seen it change. All things continued to advance. Part of his mind discredited his thoughts, admitting that there was no possible way he could know what changes stood before the world after his time spent living had past. But there was the other part of him, the part everyone has that doubts things, questions things—like when a paper’s opened and it’s read that some lady’s been raped and that her sister, ten states to the west, had strange harrowing thoughts the previous night at the exact same time. He also thought that, in some cases, it was bullshit. This is what he based his worries on—the legitimacy of souls, which somehow seem to have the very distinct ability to warn and console.

This caused Owen Strabis to ponder. It confused him; with little to do other than pace and gaze out his window, Owen had plenty of time to be confused. What he did not understand was this: if he could stare indefinitely at the passersby outside his window, why couldn’t he even glimpse the owners of the voices that lingered in his apartment? It could be that he was a ghost. Unsettled and unfulfilled, not content with the life he’d led and wanting to alter his demise, he longed to ascertain if this could be the truth. Was the person in the trench coat merely another ghost? It was something he could not answer.

Things could have been worse. At least he had the view. Given the choice of confinements, the window would’ve been his choice. Certainly there were places more horrible than his chair.

* * *

Gazing out the window, he watched four kids playing tag football in a small clearing in the park. The teams were mismatched. A heavyset kid with enough hair on his chin to pass for an adult and a tall lanky kid with red hair and legs that looked like they could outrun a gazelle stood opposite two smaller kids in baggy sweats and T-shirts. To Owen, they looked like twins.

Intrigued, he watched the brothers kick the ball to the giants. It was an odd looking ball. It looked soft from his vantage, little firmer than a pillow. Also, it was colored yellow and blue. Redhead caught the ball as Facial Hair blocked. The twins ran down the field easily avoiding the large oak arms of the heavy boy and tagged Redhead before he could get up any steam. Owen smiled.

He continued to watch the four boys play their game. He recalled many of his own games, flashing back to the days when Earl and Rick would lift him up in the alleyway just outside their backyard so he could nail a bottomless basket to a pole that stood there. They’d take turns shooting with their makeshift ball, betting on who could make the most in a row. Those were good days. Rick and Earl, his two older brothers, usually lost. They’d spill their pockets and give Owen all their loose change, cursing as he grabbed it and ran away to buy candy. Owen had an idea those curses were only for his benefit, that they were really smiling as he ran off. He always loved them for that. He wished he could—

Outside the window came a screech. Owen snapped open his eyes in time to see the football hit the Chevy’s windshield. To his right: three of the boys from the park running toward the big truck. Beneath the truck, in the shadows of its bed, the smallest of the twins was crumpled into a ball. Owen could see blood trickling down the boy’s face, which poked out on his side of the Chevy. The narrow two-lane road between Owen’s apartment and the park was now filling with stopped cars and onlookers. Rising from the chair with hopes of a better view, Owen felt a sudden chill race into his heart. It was like diving into a pond in November. Had Owen still had breath he would have found himself unable to exhale. And then … it was gone.

The police arrived and managed to get the crowd to step back. The paramedics arrived too late. A gray-haired police officer opened the passenger door of his cruiser, waited until the boy slid in, and pressed the door closed. It was as if slamming the door would have sent the kid into shock. Owen thought that it probably would have. His view of the boy wasn’t good from his window, but he sensed the youth would be in counseling for a long time after this day was finished.

Owen, deciding he had seen enough, started to sit down. As he did, he noticed the driver of the Chevy slumped over the hood of his truck, arms draped around his head. His hair was long and black, except on the right side behind and beneath his ear where it was as white as new snow. He appeared to be sobbing into the sleeves of his shirt, but the sun was sagging and Owen couldn’t tell. He spun in his chair. Light flashed. Police cruiser, he thought. He checked as his chair spun past the window. In that brief moment, before the chair shifted his gaze back toward the wall, Owen Strabis noticed something. Reaching out, he put a hand against the wall, spun counterclockwise to the window, and looked out. There, at the front of the Chevy, was the owner. Except it wasn’t the owner. His hair had grown even longer; the splash of white was now braided and hung almost to the pavement. The driver’s face had changed and gone pale. Then he turned, looked at Owen. For the first time since realizing he was no longer alive, Owen Strabis was afraid. The man standing in the steadily lessening light had lavender eyes and lips black as death.

* * *

Night had a way of dragging by; hours stretched out beneath bleak cloudy skies leaving Owen with little to do. Sleep did not come to the dead, but the night after the death of the boy, Owen found himself tumbling down holes in search of sane thoughts. None came. Whether it was the horror of the boy’s death (which was keeping plenty of folks up in Darvin that night) or the brief glimpse of the man in the trench coat, Owen didn’t know. He struggled with his thoughts. Old memories crawled out of rusty-hinged chests deep within. He didn’t understand these memories—wasn’t sure he wanted to.

There was something about that nameless man. It was like a hair in his throat. No matter how he tried the fucking thing would not budge. He looked right at me. He knows I was watching him. Owen put a shaky hand to his temple; there was little he could do. The man could have his way. Vaguely he wondered how terrible things could be for someone who was already dead. He didn’t want to find out.

The twists in life are uncountable, but the very fabric that appears to hold it all together seems to be the yearning desire to know what lies in the afterworld. Owen had considered it many times during the course of his own life, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of such things, knowing the impossible task of ever finding a true answer. So here he was sitting in a chair in what he could only surmise was the afterlife, still a confused being not any closer to knowing the answers. If anything, this place was more perplexing than anything in life. It only brought unanswerable questions. He wondered if it was still okay to pray. Was there a God? If so, was this the hell they talked about? What about heaven? Did it exist? Owen had assumed these things would be discovered when he died, but that was bullshit. A horrifying thought crossed his mind. Human life, so precious and brittle, so hard and tiresome, was always a struggled breath. It was a gift presented to each who dared breathe. Perhaps, as some think, it is a test, and as the enjoyable years of youth turn into the blurring years of adulthood, merging stresses and woes like a bonfire, maybe some people stray and fail. What happens when these well-meaning but troubled people cannot pass life? Owen thought he knew. There was no hell. There was no such thing as heaven. Just answers. Those who pass live elsewhere and discover the meaning of life and death and all things in-between. Those who do not pass are subjected to live in some sort of limbo, perhaps for infinity, or until they came to some kind of realization that this has been the hand that they’ve been dealt for failures accrued in life. Answers remain unanswered forever. If that was true, then it was hell.

Owen wished he could cry. Like sane thoughts, no tears came.

* * *

When the sun stood above the cornfield discernable from the far right corner of Owen’s window the day had the look of a winning lottery ticket. It was quite unlike any day he had seen in the recent past. Time wasn’t relevant. Time was unpredictable. Time was everything. He hoped the day would be a happy day.

Like life, in death that which is wanted usually isn’t obtained, and as Owen stood staring out his window performing his usual routine, he could tell that this day was anything but happy.

Gazing out on the park: a fine film of dew caressed the grass, a swing at the park’s rear entrance swung empty in the faint breeze. The Chevy was no longer present and State Street had returned to normal. The young officer had done a good job cleansing the scene. Had Owen been naïve he may have thought it all a dream. Dreams were meant for the living. All he had was unwarranted hope. Dreams were for children who still had—

Movement.

Squinting, Owen pressed his face against the glass. The window fogged with his breath startling Owen. The seesaw ran horizontal to State Street. What Owen discerned startled him more than Mr. Trench Coat’s lavender eyes. The left side of the teeterboard had no rider. What was disconcerting to Owen was the small boy on the right side who was bending at the knees as gravity pushed his side back down. It was the action a thousand youths may have taken when bored and all their friends had prior engagements with parents in need of new shoes, lunch dates with friends, and new movies that had to be viewed. Owen had watched this child die yesterday.

Slumping back down into his chair, Owen continued to watch the boy. Visions swirled in his head: the ball hitting the windshield, the bleeding body beneath the truck, the fat kid trying to block, the officer cleaning the pavement, the trench coat, the braided white hair, the eyes. Oh, those fucking eyes. They flashed in his mind with that soft but haunting hue like some weird S&M club sign. Over and over, changing, staying the same, changing, blinking, flickering, freezing—NEON … DEAD … NOT DEAD … ALIVE … NEON … TRENCH COAT … OWEN … WINDOW … NEON … EYES … DON"T … BE … AFRAID … NEON.

Without thinking, Owen tried to open the window. He had no reason to believe it would work. Truth was, he had never thought about before. In this aspect, his current situation was not very different from life. Who would have thought apples were edible until some fool dared bite into one? With this ridiculous notion, Owen dared to open the window. The apple was sweet. The window opened with embarrassing ease.

* * *

The first thought Owen had as he crossed the road concerned the Chevy. He expected it to come roaring around the bend, bearing down on him as it came. He could already see Trench Coat sitting behind the wheel, his eyes two small glowing slits. Owen imagined he would be grinning, probably even laughing.

Concentrating on the apple, Owen put one foot in front of the other, pushing his way across the road. If he had been able to push the window open, then it was possible the truck could push him over. Also, Owen was positive that Trench Coat was as real in this world as he was in the other, and even if the truck couldn’t bring him harm, he was sure Trench Coat could.

Crossing the yellow lines in the middle of the road, he thought he heard the Chevy. It was a truck rolling down a side road. Nevertheless, he hurried his pace, and when he finally reached the grass in the park, he released the breath he had been holding.

The grass over here was richer than that in the small yard of the apartment complex. It had a thick smell that reminded him of youth and the exuberance that came along with it. He guessed the park was so appealing to all the adults for this reason. It was a way to relive something they had lost with maturity; so many seemed to lose their security and innocence. Stress is the antagonist to imagination.

The boy was sitting motionless on his side of the teeterboard. He looked as he had yesterday. His baggy blue sweats and bright yellow T-shirt stained with grass, as if he had worn those items a thousand times. His straw hair flapped in the breeze and his eyes, two emeralds set deep in the sockets, looked tired and woeful. He didn’t appear to be grasping his reality. Owen felt his stomach turn over. He forged ahead, determined, not only to help the boy, but hoping to gain a friend.

According to the sun, it was still early in the morning. Only a single couple and their two dogs were present, and they were walking the other way. Owen approached the seesaw slowly, respecting the boy’s fears—and his own. The boy stared at the warped wood of the teeter-totter. Owen noticed a pair of rimless glasses on the boy’s face and couldn’t remember seeing them the day before. Easily overlooked, he thought.

Not wanting to get too close, he stopped about ten feet away. "Hey. Need a partner?"

The kid’s head snapped up, looking Owen up and down. "Sure, mister. Hop on!"

It was a squeaky voice not quite fully mature, but not that of a child’s either.

"Take it easy on me."

The boy smiled.

"Name’s Owen."

"I’m Gaynor."

"I was watching you yesterday from my window."

"Got a thing for kids or something?"

Owen chuckled. "Other than admiring their exuberance, no."

"Ah, I see."

"Where are your friends?"

"I think you know."

"Do I?"

"You said you were watching yesterday."

"You mean … you know?"

"It’s strange, mister, but I do."

He thought the boy would be confused, not comprehending the gravity of the situation, when it appeared as if the boy was content with where he was and what had happened. He found himself wanting to ask questions. He had turned into the child, longing to receive the currents and currents of information that seemed to have been misplaced upon entering this world. Little shimmers of light pulsed and pushed their way through his brain, traversing avenues newly lit with the hopes of conceiving the proper questions with which to proceed. This had been a long, arduous journey. Despite all the twists and untraveled paths, he felt as if he had arrived safely. He was far from knowing the name of his destination, but like those exit ramps he mistook for gravel paths, it now seemed trivial.

"You okay, mister?"

"Yes. I think so."

"Good. For a moment there I thought you were … slipping."

"Slipping?"

"Going away."

Owen shook his head. "Don’t understand."

"This place is like any other place. You’re only here because you choose to be."

Owen laughed at this. "I chose it, huh?"

Gaynor smiled. "Of course you did."

"Sorry, kid. You’ve lost me."

"This is your Now. It’s the place in time you’ve chosen to wait."

"Wait? Wait for what?"

"For Judgment, of course. Think of this as the waiting room."

"You’re talking about God?"

"Kinda. Though it’s not Heaven or Hell."

"Heaven or Hell?"

"No. Those are fairy-tale places invented to ease the overloaded minds of the living. All we have are Nows."

"Nows?"

"Places to exist."

"Thought this was a waiting room?"

"It is. Imagine any actual waiting room. You have all those chairs and those outdated magazines. You wait there until a nurse calls your name, whereupon you’re led into the back. When you stand up and start walking, you follow her. She doesn’t consent which room you’d like to be placed in because it’s already been chosen. Think of it as you sitting in an office reading until your name is called."

Owen slipped off the teeterboard. His side rocketed into the air sending Gaynor’s end crashing into the small circle of dirt below. Standing, Owen shook his head. It was so obvious. His hands shook. It made so much sense. Oh, it was scary discovering the truth. He felt that fear rush through him and he tried to wish it away. It stayed.

What was frightening was the path ahead. It was shocking. He thought he had hated this place. Not in life. No, he had loved it then. In death, it was a few shades shy of reality. Those unseen stirring voices that called out within the depths of his cell were haunting. He remembered thinking how he might be a ghost with unfinished business leaving him dangling out of reach of the world he knew. Now he knew it was reversed. They—the owners of the voices—were ghosts; they were mirages casting enough illusion to intrigue him. Owen asked, "But what about you?"

"I’m in the waiting room with you."

"But I watched you die yesterday."

Gaynor smiled. It was a mother’s smile; like one given to a boy asking what’s wrong with touching a stove if it’s hot.

"Owen, I’ve been dead a long time. Not as long as you, but still a very long time."

Owen found he wasn’t surprised.

"Care to explain?"

Gaynor stood, dusted off his pants, walked over to Owen and grabbed his hand. "Let’s walk over to your place. The sun’s going down. It’s best we go inside before it gets dark"

It couldn’t have been on its way down! Owen had watched its rise in the sky. He then realized he didn’t care, not about the sun. He led Gaynor across the street, oblivious to oncoming cars (except those whirring by inside his head).

* * *

Owen had only the one chair. He offered it to Gaynor who refused. Instead, Gaynor sat on the floor in front of him. He didn’t look very young anymore. Perhaps it was the sudden understanding of all things deemed important that caused Owen to see his acquaintance in this new light; maybe it was just the night drowning the sun.

"These Nows merge realities. Just like waiting rooms are filled with people with varying backgrounds, so are the Nows. We may not be able to speak to some of these people, and some we don’t want to, but we’ve all been brought together, through different circumstances, to the same place. In the waiting room, those circumstances are illnesses. Here, it’s death."

"Yes, but if you died long ago, how could I have watched it yesterday?"

"Many never know they’ve died. Some simply don’t know how they died. These things only matter to each individual. We’re all concerned about the likeness of our Now to the reality we once knew. They overlap and constantly replay. You may just go to the doctor for a physical, but there are many there because they’re sick, and despite the doctor’s best wishes, those germs do spread in the waiting room. Some, such as yours and mine, may come together and leave. Others linger for years, spreading to all those who share the same room, leaving, coming back again. You may not have been in the waiting room when I was, but I left my illness behind. You happened to catch a glimpse of that yesterday."

Not understanding all of it, not knowing if he wanted to, Owen moved on. "Do you know Trench Coat?"

"Who?"

"A man. I’ve seen him twice. Wears a trench coat. A braided streak of white hair."

"Oh, you mean Caspian Jade."

"Weird name."

"He’s trouble."

"He looks like trouble. Who is he though?"

"Well … if we’re living in a waiting room, Caspian would be the receptionist."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he decides who stays and who goes. He’s running the show. If he wants you off the list, then you’re off the list."

"Does he … bring people here?"

"Yes. He escorts them in and out of here. He is the obstetrician and mortician. He is the pale man."

"How can he hurt us if we’re already dead?"

"That’s the thing."

"What is?"

"We’re not. There are times, remember, when there are no legitimate reasons why someone returns to life. Some have no earthly business being alive. Of course, it all depends on what caused death. I’m sure you’ll remember that when you lived there were times when you might pick up the paper and read a story about some kid who had been dead for twelve minutes. Maybe it was a man whose heart had stopped. Hell, I even recall a few people waking up and being in a body bag. Regardless of why they wake up, it’s the how that is most fascinating."

"So we’re all just kind of floating around here in limbo, neither alive nor dead, waiting for Dr. Jade to choose for us?"

"Oh, he doesn’t do the choosing. If he’s having a particularly bad night, and most nights he is, then he will do some random jobs, but there is another … one way more powerful than Caspian. He does the selecting. They never choose life. Those people have been lucky enough to have escaped."

Owen hears everything Gaynor shares with him. To be returned to all he loved, to be given a second chance … what things he could change. He dreams of soaring birds and high mountains, glistening snow and the smell of gentle streams, longs to know places again. Maybe have a kid to mow his lawn and to share whatever time he’s allowed—if he can just find his way back. All of those lights in his head started aligning, working together just to find that way. His thoughts were now behind the wheel of a classic automobile, not some speeding devil, and it was in show condition. Lanes and paths once concealed became clear, he felt as if—

"I know what you’re thinking. You must reconsider. Even if I were to tell you how, the percentage for success is small and oblique. The risk is great."

"Gaynor, I don’t doubt what you say is the truth, but think about the possibilities. You could come with me. We could go together. Get out of this fucking prison. We could leave the waiting room before the germs spread, before the nurse opens the door and calls out our names. We could make it. I know we could!"

Owen watched Gaynor think it over, weighing the options. He tried to push his own thoughts into Gaynor’s head, show him the sights that he was seeing. God, the boy was amazing and smart. There was so much he could offer. Owen longed to hear him say yes. Please, if there is a God, let him say yes.

Time stopped. Owen thought he might go mad.

He looked out the window, letting Gaynor take as much time as needed. The moon was a brilliant, round, white lake outside. They had left the window cracked a little, and for the first time in forever, Owen could smell the cool, fresh air of spring, the flowers that were growing just outside the neighboring windows. He regretted not trying the window sooner. How long had it been since he had felt rain? Years. All of a sudden Owen had an overwhelming desire to open the window and run. Just run and run. Until the night flickered into day and day winked back to night. Feeling that wind against his face would feel grand. He had the window up and one leg out when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Owen, don’t."

"Wh-what—"

"Not at night."

"I-I don’t remember moving."

"I think Caspian’s out there."

"Could he … draw me out? Before now I could never leave this chair unless the sun was shining."

"He has many tools. I don’t think that’s why you couldn’t move. I think you’ve accepted the light as the truth. When you opened your window for the first time this morning the spell you placed on yourself disappeared."

"Thank you, Gaynor. I hope you’re right. Listen, I know maybe you’re scared and if you don’t want to—"

"I’ll go with you."

"Great!"

"We go tomorrow … before I lose my nerve."

"Sooner the better."

"I have a plan but don’t know if it’ll work."

"It will."

"Owen, there’s something else. Caspian can catch us during the day. It’s just harder for him to see."

Owen Strabis turned, stared out the window, and looked for Caspian and his lavender eyes. Though Owen didn’t see anything but the moon, he had a haunting feeling that Caspian was out there, staring at them.

* * *

The sun must have been heavy, or so it seemed to Owen, for the night refused to relinquish its hold on the sky. If he had been alive, it would have been a sleepless night. Eventually, as it had innumerable times before, it slid above the trees lining the hills on Darvin’s eastside. As it did he analyzed the idea Gaynor had mentioned. It seemed unfathomable, strange, naïve and childish. For a brief moment, Owen Strabis reconsidered, but as Gaynor pushed the window open, Owen heard the wind whistling a rumble of thunder and his doubts subsided. He stepped through. A storm was on its way.

At State Street Owen turned, looked back at the apartment that had been his for so long—in life and in waiting. It wasn’t much to write home about, but it held good memories. Friends and lovers passed through his mind. He’d wanted a family. It never happened. He wondered if the real town of Darvin looked as he was seeing it. He had been gone a long time, but things had changed in this shitty little waiting room over the years. If that meant anything, Owen imagined that Darvin, Ohio was almost identical. But do you really want to see it? He couldn’t answer his own thought.

It felt like a bus when it hit him—remembrance of death. It shoved its way into his head with all the compassion of a pitchfork. The carpet’s red. The carpet’s red. The carpet’s red. Falling. Wet grass against his knees. His hands tore at the mud at the edge of State Street. His head flooded with forgotten memories, things best left hidden. He fought back a scream. He could see his lifeless body on the apartment floor, blood spreading from his head onto the carpet. The window was open, a foot slipping out, and glass sliding down. Someone was turning around, looking back in the—

"Owen?"

It was all gone. Everything. Owen looked around. He was still standing, staring at his apartment, Gaynor beside him. Looking down, his pants were clean and dry, hands and face free of mud.

"You okay?"

"I-I’m not sure."

"You look a little pale."

"I feel pale."

"Wanna go back?"

"No! We’re going to do this." He was far from okay. He wasn’t going to stay here though. His realization, vision, only served to clarify this. Any thoughts he had about turning back, waiting in that goddamn stripped down room for whatever hell or future prison awaited him, had vanished. The Waiting Room was such a stupid name. People choose to wait. This was no choice. This was forced regression. And walking east on State Street, Owen knew there was no God. Society preached on how God allowed humans to make their own decisions, select their own paths. It was horseshit and bumblebees. Who would allow their children to make such decisions, basing each individual life on the merit of what they chose, only to have it proven that none of it mattered; if they had chosen the other path, and it led here as well, it wasn’t really a choice in the first place—forced regression, horseshit and bumblebees.

It started to rain. He turned his face up, allowing the cold drops to splash across his skin.

* * *

About five miles from Owen’s apartment, on a little lane known as Ellen Road, an old bridge stood. It was rusting, ready to collapse. Though it should have been condemned and closed, it was still in use—a festering mole on fading blacktop. Owen remembered the bridge from his youth; Darvin had been home for a very long time. Standing a few hundred yards away, it was their destination. The rain increased. Streaks of lightning loomed above.

The walk passed with little conversation. Owen was the picture of desire and longing. Gaynor was a hard read for Owen. On the several times he had looked at Gaynor’s face, Owen found it drab and emotionless. Locked within his own dreams, he thought. Standing on both sides of the road were large cornfields. Beyond the fields were hills marking the end of Darvin.

Owen stopped, turned his attention back to the bridge. The rain was a sheet now, the clouds no longer gray but black. Despite this, Owen could see the outline of a man in the middle of the bridge. Without surprise, he knew it was Caspian. With nowhere to hide or run, he started walking toward the bridge again. What would be would be. He’d spent an eternity in this world of dead people. In life, his time had been too short. If it ended, he could accept that. "Scared, Gaynor?"

"A little."

"Me too."

"We’re gonna make it?"

"You bet we are!"

The surface of the bridge had dipped over the years, the pavement fractured in a zigzag. Day was as black as night. The lavender shone bright in Caspian’s eyes. His trench coat was open, flapping behind him in the circling wind, hands in the pockets of his leather pants. Both his shirt and hair, amazingly, were dry. The braided streak of white hair lay over his shoulder, end tapping against the leather concealing his shin.

"We finally meet, Owen."

His voice was feminine, but malice and ill will painted his face. His appearance elicited honesty but was haunting, permeating this world with his own brand of madness. Cowards were to be thwarted; those who attempted escape were to suffer immeasurable pain. All this was understood.

"A little shy are we?"

"Nothing needs said."

Caspian laughed. "You’re right. Gaynor?"

Gaynor remained silent. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Gaynor was still a kid.

"Maybe a cat has your tongue."

"Leave him alone!"

"Or … maybe I have it."

Caspian drew his hand from his pocket and flipped something toward them. Landing at his feet, Owen looked at the severed tongue.

Gaynor mumbled.

Owen looked. Gaynor’s hands were over his mouth, blood trickling beneath. His eyes were wide balls of fear. He turned, reached for Owen, mouth open. All Owen could see was a gaping red hole. Then Gaynor fell to the pavement.

"This is too much fun!"

"Leave us alone, asshole."

"Resorting to name-calling?"

His arms were outstretched and angled toward the sides of the bridge. His palms faced Owen, fingers twitching, little lines of electricity dancing from one finger to the next.

"Why do you try to flee?"

"Because I deserve better."

"You? Why are you different than the rest? You’re another death, just another nobody. Do you have any idea how hard these realities are to create?"

"It’s not fucking real. You claim this is for us, the dead. It isn’t real because there isn’t any happiness in it. It’s mundane drowning full of platitude and conceit."

"Unappreciative bastard! Have you no class? You should thank me. I could have sent you somewhere a thousand times worse. You lack gratitude."

"You think you’re charming with your placidity, when really you’re just a fool."

Caspian’s arms shot forward, lifting Owen off the ground, rain no longer touching him, the wind a whisper. He was on the move, drifting over the side of the bridge. He looked at Caspian thinking it the end. Tears slid down his face in regret for not living his life. In his mind, cars passed in a giant blur. He saw himself dead on the apartment floor. The window was eased down. His murderer’s back was a shadow in the moonlight. He was spinning, bending a little. Soft amber light bathed the room. Looking up to where memories hovered like ghosts. Owen watched him, those furtive, upturned, lavender eyes staring into his mind. He watched Caspian smile. That bastard had stolen his breath, left him to die in a puddle of his own blood.

"YOU THIEF!"

Laughter.

"You stole my life

More laughter.

Owen realized he had been swindled. This wasn’t death or a waiting room. It was a fucking den. Caspian was no devil, no god. He was a hunter in a strange world pretending to be dead. Gaynor had been right; everyone was a prisoner. Unable to return to the world they loved, Caspian created a doppelganger, haunting unfulfilled souls.

Could he … draw me out? Before now I could never leave this chair unless the sun was shining. Oh, yes. He has many tools. But I don’t think that’s why you couldn’t move. I think you just accepted the light as the truth. When you opened your window for the first time this morning the spell you placed on yourself disappeared. "Get up, Gaynor. It’s a ruse."

Nothing.

"I admit you fooled me. You slipped up—I never told you about yesterday being the first time I opened the window. I think you, Gaynor, are Caspian’s son."

Still nothing.

"You also called him ‘the pale man’. Gaynor means son of the fair-haired one. Now he isn’t really fair-haired, but he does have that white streak."

Gaynor shot up. "How do you know all that?"

Hovering over the rushing water, Owen smiled. "I haven’t a clue." True, he was letting the lights of the cars steer him now. Hope had vanished. Only thoughts remained.

Gaynor walked toward Caspian. He put his hand on Caspian’s shoulder. Caspian bent. Gaynor whispered into his ear. Caspian shot Owen a look.

Owen flinched.

Caspian smiled. "No listening in."

Owen flipped him the bird.

He started moving, drifting back. He thought about running, but where would he go? He couldn’t outrun the magic Caspian possessed.

Dropping his hands, Caspian released his hold. "Lucky."

"Don’t expect a thank you."

"Don’t expect to live long." Caspian turned and walked away, wrapping his coat around him as he went. "Very, very lucky," he said, loud enough for Owen to hear.

Gaynor stood in the middle of the bridge waiting. When Caspian was gone, Gaynor looked back at Owen. "Hurry!"

"What?"

"Hurry."

"Still helping?"

"Yes, but I can’t come."

"I don’t think I want you to."

Gaynor smiled. It was weary and pained. Pointing down. "The penny is right here."

Owen walked over. "Will this work?"

"Yeah."

"Got it with you?"

"Yeah, always have." He withdrew a small knife from the pocket of his sweats, handed it to Owen.

"Thanks, Gaynor. Thanks for everything."

Gaynor smiled.

Taking the knife, Owen squatted and opened it. The penny—face up—was dry. He rubbed its rough surface; stared in admiration of the man pictured, read its date—1942—and poked it with his finger—glued. Placing the edge of the knife at the penny’s edge, Owen punched at the knife’s casing with his palm. On the third try the penny flipped into the air, came back down on its side, rolled toward the bridge’s edge. Owen let it roll. Where the penny had been was a perfect round hole.

Standing, Owen looked at Gaynor. "That penny … its date … was the year I died."

"Fate?"

"Here it comes. Step back."

Owen did. Light started spilling out of it, growing taller and wider, tiny flecks of white sparking within. Thunder rumbled overhead.

Gaynor tapped him on the shoulder. "That’s it. Step in."

Owen looked at its controlled spin. Sorcery. The bottom remained only as wide as the penny; the top covered the sky. Sorcery was better than being here.

"You may think I lied about this being a waiting room. You may think it is something else. I didn’t. After we leave here, the place we wind up is Hell. Remember that. My father, as much as you may despise him, is only an employee. Being his son is the only thing I left out."

"It’s okay, Gaynor. I wouldn’t want to admit that either. Waiting room or not, I’m ready to go. Thanks for the help." He turned, waved without looking back, stepped into the swirling light. It was cool and relaxing. It was as if he wasn’t moving physically, but in his mind the headlights of the cars spun their tires, leaving via the nearest exit ramp. He exhaled, waited for the spinning to stop, wanting to forget all the years he’d spent in Caspian’s so-called waiting room; wanting only to look ahead.

He passed out, leaving his version of the Nows as peacefully as he had entered.

* * *

He awoke on his bed thinking it a dream. The smells were familiar; it felt as if he had never left. It was quiet, the way he once loved it. He longed for the unsubtle in everything. He longed to live. Sitting up, he looked at the bedroom he hadn’t seen in forever and smiled. Getting up, he walked to the small window that looked out onto the park. Reaching for the curtains, he struggled to remember closing them so very long ago. Not able to remember, he pulled them open.

Fear flared inside his stomach and he stumbled back, arms flailing for the bed. Where the glass should have been was a light bulb. It emulated the sun.

The window wasn’t there.

Running, he went into the spare bedroom, pulled the curtains, gasped—another bulb. He ran downstairs, pushed the floral curtains covering the old French doors. No doors. In their place: ten bulbs lacking sockets emitted heat and light like a pretend sun. Sprinting into the front room, the room he spent so many lonely days and nights in, the room he spent his time in the Nows—the room he loathed—he yanked down the curtains covering his window. A single lukewarm bulb glowed where the window should have been. He looked to his left. No door.

"NO! NO! NO!" He shook his fists, screamed. It couldn’t be! It wasn’t fair! He deserved better. He turned around, found his chair. There, balanced on one of its arms, was a note. He grabbed it and read the scrawled words:

Taped below was a penny, tail up. Owen pulled it free, looked at the front—1942.

© Todd K. Bush 2005