Mr. Workman

Ken Workman is forty-four years old and from Key West, FL. He has been writing for just over a year and tries to make the most of his time at FPC Yankton by cultivating his writing skills. He has works of fiction, nonfiction, and creative nonfiction, and aspires to write full-time someday. This is the second 4 P.M. Count featuring his work.

THE CURE

Fiction

“Jeez, you look like an extra in a zombie movie this morning,” said Susan with a sigh. “Well, at least you’re clean-shaven.” Mike was a tall, handsome fellow with broad shoulders that always had a relaxed droop to them. His dark eyes suggested a mixture of passion and genius and were set deep in the canvas of a perpetual stoner’s expression.

“C’mon, Mike, we need to hurry. The lab is ready and everyone is waiting on you.” Mike ran his fingers through his bed head of wavy, dark hair.

“I haven’t had a wink of sleep in two nights,” he uttered in a groggy voice. “Mr. Roberts and his misfits of science can wait.”

“Not them waiting silly, the world.” Susan took Mike’s hand and pulled him through the series of white-tiled corridors and on to the elevator. Standing in customary elevator silence, Mike swallowed the goose egg sized lump in his throat and turned to his companion sheepishly.

“Susan it’s just that … I wanted to tell you-”

“Stop right there! Get that thought out of your head. You’re coming home.” Susan straightened and smoothed the lapels of Mike’s lab coat before stopping to scratch at a mustard stain on his shirt.

“Besides, you promised to cook me dinner tonight, remember?” Susan stepped back and tucked one side of her auburn hair behind her right ear, while allowing the other side to curve along the outside of her face where it stopped just below her jawline. She specifically chose auburn to complement the natural pigment of her crimson lips. Lips that were so vibrant she rarely needed to wear lipstick.

“It’s going to work Mike, it has to. You bringing back the cure is all we’ve got. Now that the coronavirus has mutated, it’s spreading like a California wildfire. It’s been only three years and the death toll is already nearing a billion. If it continues to spread exponentially, the entire planet may

be wiped out by 2026.” Eels coiled in their stomachs at the thought of their situation, while only faint breaths disturbed the silence as the elevator clicked past floor after floor. Susan glanced over, adjusting the smart pair of thin-framed spectacles that rested on her short pointed nose.

“The alien technology is still a mystery to us,” Mike said, in a tempo quicker than his normally relaxed pace. “Even the guys at Area 51 know this whole thing is just a crap shoot.”

“Relax, Mike, the first test went successfully, didn’t it?” Mike’s head fell and wagged like the pendulum of a sad clock winding down.

“Look, Mike, I’ve worked with you for over fifteen years. You’re super smart, you’re the bravest and most capable person I know, and are the best scientist we have. You’re our best shot. Even if you do obsessively weigh every variable before making any decision.”

“Susan, you know there’s only enough energy left in the alien ship’s power cell for one more trip. One mistake, one miscalculation, and I’m never coming home. I’ll never see you again.” Mike rubbed his face with both hands as if trying to wipe away the worried look, then continued. “Not to mention, what will become of the rest of the world.”

As the elevator doors dinged open, Susan skipped out and beckoned. “If there’s anyone who can do this, it’s you,” she beamed, with her horribly overflowing optimism. “Now come on, you’ve got history to make!”

The laboratory door opened and they entered a huge room walled in by equipment sprinkled with a galaxy of blinking lights. A littering of expressionless lab technicians in white lab coats performed a waltz across the ballroom floor like molecules being viewed from under a microscope. Robotic arms reciprocated between instruments, as sensors beeped in a rhythmic melody. The shiny green metallic paint of a spherical capsule that sat dead center in the laboratory glittered from the lights’ attention. A ramp at the capsule’s entrance led up to a single jet black leather chair that sat inside like a throne awaiting its king.

“Oh, Dr. Brown, you finally decided to join us,” Mr. Roberts snipped. He turned to face them with a frown that consolidated the small features of his face around a large hooked nose at its center. Mr. Roberts was a squat man of middle-eastern descent, with a horseshoe of grayish-white hair that circled his bald head like the atoll left by a dead reef and a potbelly that tested the integrity of the buttons on his size-too-small shirt. “I thought you said you would have him here on time, Dr. Miller,” he chastised as his brows knit further and mouth pressed into a hard thin line.

“We had to go over some, er, uh, last minute details,” Susan said, cutting Mike a sideways glance that forced them to fight back grins that hinted of a secret.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Roberts affirmed abruptly. “We need to get things underway. The time machine is ready and waiting, Dr. Brown.” After a lung-filling breath and exhale, Mike started toward the time machine, when suddenly, he was snatched backwards by his shirt sleeve.

“Wait, don’t take another step,” Susan ordered.

“Susan, relax, it will be okay,” Mike said. “I’m feeling much better about this now.”

“It’s not that, look down at your feet.”

Mike looked down to see a single, bright orange butterfly with black-trimmed wings slowly fanning itself on the floor.

“You almost stepped on it.” Susan cupped the butterfly in her hands and showed it to Mike. “It’s a monarch. They’re my favorite type of butterfly, and they’re almost extinct.”

“How the hell did that thing get in here? Kill it and let’s get back to work,” yelled Mr. Roberts.

“No way,” Susan snapped. “We don’t need any bad omens on a day like this.” She tossed it upward and the monarch fluttered high into the expansive area above the laboratory.

Mr. Roberts leaned forward coldly, pressing his palms firmly on the desk. “If you two are finished reliving the Nature Channel, I’d like to focus on the matter at hand,” he growled. “Or are you unclear about the gravity of our

current situation? People are dying as we speak. We can save your precious moths after we save Earth. Are we in accordance, doctors?”

“Crystal clear,” Susan muttered in a whisper from her low-hung head and hands clasped in front of her in the figleaf position.

“Now, Dr. Brown, we’re sending you with this log book to document as much information as possible. It is imperative that you leave nothing out. You’ll also be equipped with this personal mini-recorder. It records most sounds within a hundred years, and films everything you face towards. Even if you do look like death warmed-over and reek of dirty laundry.” Mr. Roberts regarded Mike for a moment, making his best attempt at admiration, then shook Mike’s hand with an accompanying pat on the shoulder.

“I can’t believe we’re sending someone into the future to find a cure for the coronavirus, and he looks like he just fell out of bed.” Mr. Roberts tried to shake the thought from his head as the two-inch heels of his polished shoes clicked against the hard tile floor on his way to take his position behind the control panel.

“Don’t worry about him,” Susan said, stepping close to Mike and giving him a hug and kiss on the cheek. “You’ll be fine, I can just feel it.”

“I hope you’re in the mood for spaghetti tonight,” Mike said. “It’s all I have.” He gave Susan a wink, then walked up the ramp and buckled himself into the chair. He gave a final salute as the door to the pod closed. Everyone moved to a safe distance as the countdown ended with Mr. Roberts’ hand smashing the bright red button. The time machine began to flicker, and in an instant it was gone. Only silence remained. Not a single set of lungs was in use for a full five seconds.

Then, as quickly as it went, the time machine reappeared, and sighs filled the laboratory. Susan kneaded her fingers as the door to the pod opened. Mouths hung ajar as Mike exited the time machine in a slow deliberate stride, chest out and shoulders back. His wide smile stretched back

to his jowls and rose up into the corners of his bright brown eyes. Susan lead the charge, with an awestruck Mr. Roberts trailing closely in tow. She surrounded Mike with octopuslike tentacle arms and buried her head deep into his chest. Mike cupped her head with his hand and planted a loving peck on its crown. Taking a step back to get a better look, she held Mike’s arms as she studied him closely. He was different.

“Your hair, it’s so neat and combed. Look at your face,” she said, rubbing his newly-grown stubble. She leaned in to take a long hard sniff. “And you smell like lavender. Oh, my,” her breath suddenly hitched. “The stain on your shirt, it’s gone. What happened to you there? Are you okay? How do you feel? Say something,” she begged, bouncing in place hands clasped together, awaiting every detail.

“I’m still tingling, and there’s a ringing in my ears. But aside from that, I feel great.” Mike gave his coat lapels a yank and followed with a mock gesture of brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. Mr. Roberts stepped forward, jaw agape, eyes expanded.

“Never mind that now,” he cracked, trying to regain his composure. “What do you have to report about the future? What about the cure for the coronavirus?”

“I don’t know. My mind is completely blank. I can only remember leaving here, and then coming back.”

“Damn it, man, enough of this Men-in-Black crap. We need to know the truth, Dr. Brown,” he demanded, hammering his fist into the palm of his hand. “What does the future hold for us?”

“Sorry chief, I got nothing,” Mike said with a shrug of the shoulders and palms-up gesture.

Mr. Roberts stared slack-jawed, taking it all in, then was compelled to ask. “Why would you leave the secrets of the future behind?”

Mike beamed enough to light a room as he rode the lull and regarded the moment. Mr. Roberts put his hands on his hips and tightened his lips into a thin crease, tucked right down to a stitch. “What in the world could you have seen

back there?”

A smile sliced across Mike’s face wide enough to touch his earlobes as a peaceful look filled his being and he answered confidently, “I can only imagine.”

Mr. Roberts stepped forward trying to process the situation. “Are you telling me that you traveled through time on a scientific mission to save the planet, and came back with absolutely nothing?”

“What about your personal recorder?” Susan asked, unclipping it from Mike’s lab coat.

“Quick, give it to me.” Mr. Roberts ran to the computer and plugged the device into the USB port. “It’s blank,” he roared. “There’s not a single image on it. Let me check the audio feed.” As he increased the volume, a light hum filled the speakers, and nothing more. Susan’s mouth lay slack, as she stared in disbelief.

“Wait a minute,” she said, snapping her fingers. “What about your journal? Surely you made an entry that can help explain things.” The trio raced to the pod, hoping to uncover the mystery. They flipped the log book open, only to see the monarch fly out from between its pages as if it were a warm spring day.

“What the hell is that thing doing in there?” Mr. Roberts hissed. There on the page, written in a beautiful calligraphy that glittered and seemed to move, was the following message:

“The monarch belongs with you. Please get him home safely. Your decision to leave all you saw and learned behind was graciously accepted.”

FREEDOM OF CHANGE

Fiction

Shadowed by inmates’ screams from outside the door, “I’ll be back for you in a minute,” the guard says to Maven through the small window of his prison cell. Maven takes a seat on the bunk of his paint-peeling, six-by-nine-foot cell. Resting his hands on his lowered head for comfort, he looks down at the worn pair of sneakers he calls the Frankenstein twins because of how many times he had to sew them back together. “What am I gonna do,” Maven asks himself, his mind a freeway of thoughts wondering what his next move would be. One thing in particular dominated his being above all others. Redemption.

With his world entirely contained in the footlocker under his bed, scarce sunlight penetrates the translucent window sliver, as moldy air spews from the vent. Like most convicts, he envisions how his life could have been different. Even should have been different. Having most of his life still ahead, he wonders if it has become irreparable, unsalvageable, ruined. His prison becomes a realm that erodes the will of men as they remain trapped in a relentless struggle against the gravity of a forsaken world. It is a harsh place known for breaking the spirits of stubborn men.

Prison changes men, willing or not. This is sometimes for the better, but more often, for the worse. The external and immediate changes, the hardening of men, are obvious. The inner, psychological changes, however, are more subtle, gradual. Maven was no exception. As time passed, this environmental programming made prison a place of security and familiarity for Maven. Life became simple here in a sanctuary that kept him safe from a world of decisions, responsibility, and conformity. A world where he never truly felt understood, or that he even belonged in. Today, however, for Maven, things will change.

“Well, Maven, it’s been an interesting ride, but it looks like our time together has finally forked,” says Maven’s

cellmate, School, entering the cell. School was short for Old School, a moniker he picked up in prison. Partly for his age, partly for the guru-like wisdom he was known for sharing throughout prison.

“It sounds crazy, but a part of me doesn’t feel right about leaving. I don’t like the thought of getting out and leaving you stuck in this place.”

“Aw, you’re just a little nervous, son. It happens to the best of us,” School says, in his mostly smooth, but slightly raspy voice. It was a comforting voice Maven found all too familiar. He always knew what to say to make Maven feel better. Regardless of their usual banter, Maven never could conceal how much respect he truly had for School. In fact, much of Maven’s self-respect comes from the tutelage and countless talks he and School had over the years. Through this mentoring, Maven strove to forge an indomitable spirit in the fires of his will. Refusing to break, Maven traded the uselessness of his despair for the more seductive intoxication and empowering benefits of anger. He used his rage and thoughts of redemption as the fuel necessary for the return trip from the Hades that had become his existence.

“I feel like something’s missing,” Maven says, looking up from clasped hands dangling from the edge of his lap. Hands with scarred knuckles resembling sloppily drawn games of tic-tac-toe, from a lifetime of scuffles, had the prestigious mounting on the ends of cigarette-burned arms, where four neat little perforated puncture holes displayed the penalty his mother gave by way of fork for asking the wrong question at the dinner table.

“Relax, you’ll be fine,” School says, placing a reassuring hand on Maven’s shoulder. “You’ve come a long way from the train wreck I met twelve years ago. How you’ve made it this far through life, without losing an eye or tooth, I’ll never know,” he added, giving Maven’s earlobe a playful tug of affection.

“I guess I was a bit of a knucklehead.”

“Whaddaya mean, was? You’re still a knucklehead, just a

little older, and I’m reluctant to admit, wiser. Thanks to me if I do say so myself,” School says, stroking his beard while gazing up and to the side in a mock expression of arrogance.

“I’ll give you that,” Maven says humbly. “Sometimes I wonder if you really do know everything.”

“I’m not young enough anymore, to know everything.”

Maven’s face, blanketed with a boyish charm, brings seriousness back to the moment. “I learned a lot from you, School, more than I could ever repay.”

“You can repay me by staying outta here. Don’t go and piss away all you’ve learned.” School’s tone sharpens just enough for Maven to recognize the sincerity and cause his eyes to moisten, forcing him to look away. Maven wasn’t comfortable with someone caring for him. Growing up, he simply never got the experience. As an adult, whenever confronted, the feeling gripped his heart like a vice. It wasn’t that Maven didn’t have a big loving heart under his edgy, rough exterior. That he had. It’s just that the life he knew growing up had no room for feelings that could get a young boy with abandonment issues hurt, or get in the way of his doing what he needed to do to survive. Over the years, he felt his drawn and quartered soul became a cavernous home to the echoes of a graveyard of memories, peppered with the tombstones of his nightmares. He believed he never even had a chance at normalcy, and often felt the hand life had dealt him was cursed. It was a life he kept buried, until School showed up with his loving shovel.

School was a natural teacher. Not only from the twenty years he had under his belt—compliments of the judicial system—but also from a life of harsh experiences. Recognizing himself in Maven enabled him to understand Maven, and get through to him so well. This connection riveted them together from the start. Taking a calming breath, School’s features soften as he reiterates. “Repay me by doing right, and by making better choices. Exercise wisdom and be conscious of your strengths and weaknesses.”

“Easy with the fortune cookie riddles, Confucius.”

“Look, wiseass, being smart is not always enough. The world is full of intelligent and talented failures. Being locked up is no way to live. You don’t want to end up like me, an old man in prison,” School adds, stroking the grey wool on his chin, their mirror’s pitiful polished-metal reflection helping keep the effects of time a secret. “Now I pee in Morse code, and if I want to call my friends, I have to use a freaking Ouija board. All I have to look forward to is getting out in time, to get myself a pretty little young thing on my arm, so I can be the butt of those cradle-robbing jokes.”

“You don’t gotta worry about that, School,” Maven says, leaning back. “In your case, she’ll be robbing the grave.”

“Awe, you ass, I had my pick of the litter while you were still trying to figure out why your friends’ parents kept saying you had the mailman’s eyes.”

“Ouch,” Maven says, mocking a winced face of pain. “OK, so what’s your plan then, Methuselah? Go after ‘em with a Pez dispenser full of Viagra, until your back goes out?”

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“Hey, it’s a gift.”

“Jesus Christ,” School says, with his hand across his forehead massaging his temples. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Look,” School says, turning back toward Maven, “I want you to listen before we get too far off topic. It’s not going to be easy, son,” he says, with one hand on his hip and the other pointing for emphasis. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been missing out on a lot being in here,” Maven says, the cadence of his voice revealing the sudden upward shift in his mood. “I owe it to myself to get out there and do some big things,” he continues, cupping his fist in the palm of his hand, while piercing the air with a laserfocused stare.

“That’s not what I mean,” School snaps, reading the thoughts plastered across Maven’s face like a billboard. “Dashing out of here to get back in the game, or going

looking for the guy that ratted on you is not the way for anyone to start out.”

“Nah, School, you know that’s not what I mean. I’m going straight this time.”

“Dammit, son, who do you think you’re talking to, Eddie Spaghetti? Don’t you think I know who you are by now? You’re like a child with chocolate on its face, trying to lie to its parents. You’re a smart kid, but thinking you’ve got everybody fooled all of the time is stupid. You don’t have half the things figured out you think you do. If you could guarantee to be right, just fifty-one percent of the time, you’d be in Vegas or on Wall Street making a million dollars a day, not sitting here in prison with me. I know you want to go after that guy, anyone would, but you have to leave that stuff in the past. I swear, just when I think you’re beginning to get it, you start sounding like the kid I had to set straight in this cell years ago.”

School’s words take Maven back to when he tried to push his weight around with his new cellmate. A miscalculation that had him on the floor wondering how someone half his size, and old enough to be his father, was able to use his size and strength against him with such little effort. This encounter left Maven spellbound. Maven grew up tough, but wasn’t prepared for School. “If one doesn’t have a lesson to teach,” School would say, “A lesson one shall receive.” Being School’s training partner for so many years bestowed on Maven lightning-quick reflexes and pumalike agility. More importantly, Maven gained experience on how to maintain a level head during times of turmoil, an indispensable skill for the impulsive Maven, both in and outside the preverbal ring of combat.

“Sometime you’re going to have to get yourself together, and stop trying to beat the system,” School says, turning to Maven. “Get this through that thick skull of yours. Society doesn’t owe you anything.”

“That’s a bunch of bull, and you know it,” Maven says, looking up, the fire of his hazel eyes white-hot. “You know more about what I’ve been through than anyone. I didn’t

create this life. I’m just dealing with it. What do you expect me to do, join the rat race, keep up with the Joneses? Work hard and save my money until some broad divorces me, and takes half the money and all the lovin’? Then what, I’m left old, alone, and too poor to get out of the bed? Screw that.”

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but playing the victim only puts the responsibility to fix the problem on someone or something else. This leaves either the lack of ability or the willingness to change. When we can’t overcome this,” School says, walking over to Maven, “We become stuck in who we are. It makes about as much sense as banging your head against a wall because it will feel good when you stop. I’ve heard better logic on an episode of HeeHaw. And if there’s one thing you need in life, its change. Starting with your attitude, it’s time to use that melon for something good,” School says, faking a punch at Maven’s gut, making him flinch. “Chicken,” he adds, stepping back, his lip angling into a slanted half-smile.

“I will, School. Hey, thanks again for everything. And don’t worry, you’ll be hearing from me again.”

“Just make sure it’s not a return visit, or the next whipping will make the first feel like a game of pattycake. Take care of yourself son,” School says, opening his arms inviting a final embrace. Maven liked it when School referred to him as son. He was the closest thing to a father he had ever had. “Now get out of here.”

Maven was grateful for all the words of wisdom that School bestowed upon him. Maven felt however, that without a dollar to his name, he would need to get something going. At least until he got back on his feet. He remembered waking up to cold rain dripping on his face while sleeping in the graveyard. Or on other occasions, when he had to use a knife to jimmy the lock of a park restroom, hoping the park attendant didn’t assist one of the morning joggers pounding on the door. Fresh out of prison, the fear of returning to this life was not something he could suppress, especially now back in a world of opportunity. A world he felt was owed him, and was there for the taking.

“Holy cow,” Maven says, “I’m free.”

Not far from the prison, Maven finds a garden hose to clean himself up. Having only one other change of clothes, he grabs a grey pullover shirt and shorts off a nearby clothesline and gets dressed. Throwing his soiled clothes in the trash, he hears a scraping pattern as a large dingolooking mutt comes around the corner of the house at about ninety miles per hour, jaws agape, slobber flying. “Oh no,” Maven spits, making a dash for a wooden fence. “YEEOW,” Maven screams as the mutt, barely missing him, grabs Maven by the shorts. “No, stop, sit, bad dog,” Maven pleads in vain straining to get over the fence. “Get off me, you mongrel,” Maven orders, yanking free and falling over the fence and into a painter’s setup, splashing powder blue paint all over. With the grey pullover hanging over shorts torn and looking like a skirt, and exactly half his face covered in blue paint, Maven stood there looking like William Wallace from Braveheart. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Maven says, as the blue paint drips from his chin. “What next,” he snorts, walking across the house’s backyard.

“There’s the enemy,” a voice shouts behind him, as Maven looks back to see two young boys dressed head-totoe in camouflage come around the corner of the house with paintball guns drawn. “Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop,” the paintballs burst against the fence around Maven, as he takes off running.

“You little brats,” Maven yells, jumping the fence into the alley. Grabbing a newspaper from the trash, he flags a cab. “Take me to the bus station,” Maven says, spreading the newspaper across the seat.

“No problem,” the dark-skinned cabdriver says in his middle-eastern accent. “Are you with the Blue-Man group in Vegas?”

“Let me guess, you’re moonlighting as a cabbie on the off hours of your booming comedy career,” Maven hisses back.

“More like blue-moon lighting in your case,” the cabbie fires back, cracking up at his comeback. “Hey, you have to

be careful of the dye-packs when you rob the banks.”

“Just drive, Chuckles,” Maven says, crossing his arms, having his fill of the conversation.

Maven felt he had a good life before prison. He had his choice of women, a decent ride, and enough money in his pockets to keep a young man happy. Maven struggled with the thought of going straight. He didn’t know if he had it in him to live a crime-free life. He knew being in prison cost him everything, but felt redemption was the only thing he had left in life. With that on his mind for so many years, the seed grew into a redwood. Until School’s words showed him another way. School introduced Maven to an untapped strength in him that could overcome his dark side. He wasn’t going to let the time he just spent in prison just go unaddressed. A battle of good versus evil raged within his flesh and bones.

Approaching the bus station counter, dressed in his dismal attire, Maven hands the ticket to the clerk, as a huge smile stretches across her face, “Feeling a little blue today my friend?”

“Everybody’s a comedian today.”

“I do my best,” she says, checking the bus’ schedule. “Sir, this bus won’t be here until eleven o’clock.”

“That’s cool. Is there somewhere I can put my stuff and get cleaned up?”

“The restroom and lockers are right around that corner.”

After cleaning himself up, Maven tosses his bag in a locker and heads outside, taking the freshest breath he’s had in years. With time to kill, the tiger prowls his surroundings, Maven thinks as the gears of his mind start their rotation. Hungry, ambitious, and not wasting any time, he scans the area in search of the next opportunity to present itself.

Gliding down the sidewalk as if the star of a Bee Gees’ video, Maven notices a curvaceous young woman in an all-white spandex bodysuit sashaying enough to give him motion sickness. From her downward tilted head, she glances upward, flashing him a seductive smile that keeps

the straw of her slurpee clasped between her teeth. Look at this little vixen, Maven thinks, adjusting his collar and shoulders to maximum swagger.

“Hey there little mama, I see that tractor beam look in your eyes. You don’t have to play coy with me.”

A suck of her teeth and roll of the eyes quickly breaks their contact as she tosses her head back and exaggerates her gait to a full strut.

“Aw, c’mon, Luna, that caboose is a werewolf maker if I ever seen one,” Maven taunts, giving her a playful swat as she passes.

“YOU JERK!” she screeches, throwing her slurpee in Maven’s face.

“Again,” Maven barks in shock, as the drops of red syrup populate the ground with a collage of Japanese flags. Maven is trapped in disbelief as the slurpee drips from his face, when suddenly, his eyes pulse to full expansion in a field of white light as a firm kick to his groin doubles him forward.

“You’re a pig,” she adds, following with a slap that nearly knocked both eyes into the same socket.

“OK, OK, get off me, Linda Blair. I was only kidding. Holy cow,” he says, checking himself and noting the kick was hard enough to leave the faint taste of copper in his mouth.

Maven continues down the sidewalk and passes a homeless man sitting on a piece of cardboard, holding a cup.

“Change, young man?” he says to Maven, raising his cup.

“Sorry man, none at the moment,” Maven answers, but says to himself, change your life dude, as he continues on, his face painted with a look as stubborn as a dandelion’s root. After a few blocks, the searing heat begins to take its toll. Maven happens upon a soda machine outside of an appliance shop. Thirsty as a hot pepper taster in a sandstorm, Maven inserts his only dollar bill in the machine and presses the button. A cold soda comes tumbling out. But nothing else.

“Where’s my change? Piece of junk!” Maven yells, smashing the coin return and shoving the soda machine hard enough for it to rock back and forth.

“Hey, what’s going on out here?” the shop owner hisses as he storms out of the shop’s entrance.

“This stupid machine stole my change!”

“I don’t have anything to do with that,” the shop owner says matter-of-factly. “But this is the only soda machine in the area, and if you break it, all of us are screwed.”

“But what about my change,” Maven pleads to no avail.

“I said I can’t help ya,” the man snaps flatly, turning to the store entrance before pausing to look back one last time. “And what’s that red stuff all over your clothes? It looks like what needs a change, is you,” The man cackles, shaking his head on the way back into his shop.

Change—change. All I’ve heard about all day is change, Maven thought, remembering his last chat with School, before noticing the sign in the appliance shop’s window. Next to a picture of an old refrigerator, where the sign once read: Need to Exchange this Freezer? Domestic Resque Can Help! Several small light bulbs had gone out, now leaving the only letters illuminating: “change is Free Dom.” With the stubborn look on Maven’s face changing to a sardonic one, he looks at you, head to the side and lips firmly pressed together, and utters, “You see what type of stuff I gotta put up with?”