The paddle is in the bag in the hall closet and I've been looking at the closet door since eight in the morning.

I get it out around ten. The bag has the new paddle in it. It's the replacement I ordered after I put the other one through its edge guard the night this started. I take it out and grip it. The grip wraps the same. The flare of the handle, the weight forward of my hand, all of it as it should be. I bounced a ball off the face a few times in the apartment and it goes where I aim it.

Wes is good at managing women, until his body starts becoming one. He's sleeping with two women and lying to both of them, and they respond to his shifting body in ways that confuse and excite him even as they terrify him. Jenny, the ex he wronged, is a gynecologist who knows more than what she lets on. A story about desire, consequence, and what it feels like to learn something from the inside.

---

The hallway's dark and I don't bother with the light.

Mail on the floor I haven't dealt with. The kitchen through the doorway. I stand on the rug in my coat for a moment — just standing, just the quiet — and then I kick my shoes off. I stand there in my socks on the rug and just breathe.

The bed is wrong on both sides now.

I wake at 5:31 and lie there in the gray light with the sheets and the wrong silence. Kate's side of the bed is just her side of the bed now, the impression her hip has made in the mattress over two years, the pillow she's taken, the whole absence of her breathing. She took the comforter, or I let her take it. I can't reconstruct that part of the conversation. What's left is the spare blanket from the hall closet, the one that smells like the cedar block I put in there two winters ago, and I've slept one night under it and woken up cold.

The integration runs through the morning.

I'm at my desk, the cuff on, Seo-yeon at her desk running the verification sequence. It doesn't feel like anything dramatic. It feels like work — the familiar rhythm of the lab, the data building on the screen, the two of us in companionable quiet. The integration opening degree by degree, the resistance dropping, the access widening.

ARIA is present throughout. She has been present since I put the cuff on. Attending, keeping the promise. And then, at ninety minutes, she opens the cognitive space.

Mark Lansing never wanted to stand out. He was perfectly happy disappearing into a football huddle with the rest of the team until one play made him the talk of the town. Thrust into a spotlight he never wanted, every choice can reshape his future, and every decision could transform him in ways he never believed possible. Mark’s destiny will be determined on the field … assuming he can figure out how to dress the part.

Marcus calls at nine.

Not unusual — he calls most evenings now, has since the hospice visit, checking in the manner he checks in which is obliquely, under the cover of other subjects, asking how I am by asking about the trial and the apartment and whether I've eaten. I've learned to receive this for what it is.

"Still you, bro?" he says, which is what he's been saying since the video call in week one, his way of orienting himself each time, making sure the person on the other end of the line is still the person he expects.

"Still me," I say.

The fluorescent over Exam Three has been buzzing all morning and nobody's put in the ticket yet. I notice it again while Aaron Bell tells me, for the second time, that he found it in the shower.

I go to her apartment that evening.

She opens the door and reads my face immediately — she always reads my face immediately, this has been true since the first week — and she steps back and lets me in without asking anything.

Her apartment is warm. The laptop is on the kitchen table from last night, the whiskey bottle still there, most of it gone. She closes the laptop. She stands at the kitchen counter and waits.

"I talked to her," I say.

Seo-yeon is still.

Home at ten-thirty. Emily pays the cab while I get the keys. Inside, the house quiet - Jenna on the sofa with her phone, the monitor on the coffee table showing Theo's breathing steady and slow.

"He went down at nine," Jenna says. "Took the bottle fine."

Emily thanks her and counts out cash and I wait by the door. When Jenna's gone Emily sets the monitor to low and looks at the stairs.

"He'll wake in a few hours," she says. Not a complaint. Just the math of it, working out what the night holds. She takes her shoes off at the bottom of the stairs.

---

Inspired by Erin Halfelven and revised from a story completed 2008/4/2

"What might happen to such a person {'a troll'} who ran a foul of some of the mythical beings who lurk in the back of the BigCloset? :)"
~ Erin Halfelven

The house smells like garlic and rosemary when I push through the door, gym bag on my shoulder, the t-shirt still damp at the collar from the shower. No bra underneath - the sports bra is in the bag with the soaked sweats, and I didn't put it back on, just pulled the t-shirt over bare skin. The cold outside made itself known on the walk from the cab.