There’s so much I could say about this book, but it’s best served cold. Here’s the description from the back cover:

Alex hears a voice out his window…

He believes it’s his neighbors spying on him. Harassing him.

He struggles to catch them, but they burrow deeper under his skin until he’s convinced his tormentors are controlling him from within.

Alex has no idea how right he is.

Based on the author’s personal experience with auditory hallucinations, I Hear You Watching is a relentlessly interior psychological suspense novel about the abyss gazing back.

It’s my most vulnerable writing. It’s grotesque and beautiful, horrifying and hilarious—sometimes all at once.

Read it on Kindle Unlimited, or purchase the ebook or paperback!

Get the ebook free when you sign up for my newsletter.

*

People With Problems is a collection of stories I wrote, one a week, like scooping strange fish from the sea. All different sizes, textures, colors…

Then I asked talented artist friends to each choose a story to illustrate, and it was as if I had released my fish back into the ocean and saw them return with mates.

I put a lot of care into exploring the subjects of the stories, which range from absurd, to darkly comic, to heartbreaking. Kirkus Reviews was complimentary with regard to their breadth and depth:

A collection of 29 character-driven works of flash fiction … shows that a lot can be done with a very limited word count.

– Kirkus Reviews

I hope you enjoy meeting the book’s various People With Problems as much as I have.

It’s available as a paperback or ebook—both of which include the full-color illustrations—from these retailers.

If you sign up for my newsletter in the field below, you’ll immediately receive a copy of the ebook for free.

Thanks for reading, and thanks for your support!

I’m having triplets!

Let me clarify…

My wife is pregnant with a single human baby, and she’s begun the ninth month. We wave at him on the screen of the ultrasound machine. He waves back at us through the skin of my wife’s abdomen, like a tiny Freddy Krueger.

Now the caveat: my other two “babies” are books. Admittedly, less dramatic.

But the clock is ticking on my free time!

Near the end of last year, I aimed to keep the rhythm of posting a new short story every week. Then to make room for submitting to literary journals, assembling a book of the 2021 stories, and revising my novel, I dialed it down to a story a month.

…and wrote only one.

Listen, the feedback I got from beta readers of the novel had pulled me so deep into that headspace that when I sat down to write new stories, all I could think about was the massive literary tangle on my desk. All my fictional powers—conscious and unconscious—focused on that project.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few months, it’s that in my personal projects I’m a terrible creative multitasker.

The best visual aid I have is from an old Looney Tunes cartoon. Imagine that Cal the Chameleon is me, and each color is a different story I’m writing…

But my hands have not been idle.

The illustrated book of last year’s stories is almost DONE!

Subscribers to my newsletter get the ebook for free, so if you’re not already subscribed, sign up below.

The twenty-nine stories are all very different, but I found a common denominator (and title):

PEOPLE WITH PROBLEMS

I commissioned fourteen illustrations from talented artists I know. The rules were that the image had to be a certain size, and somehow inspired by their chosen story. That’s it.

The resulting art is as wildly diverse as the stories themselves.

Check some out for yourself.

More info soon. Thanks for your support.

We have no admissions desk, and no curators, but our collection is vast and eclectic.

The north wing borders the Kyner Playfield, and features an ever-growing collection of sporting goods. Soccer balls of all colors and patterns, from black-and-white to bright yellow, are suspended in the shelves of our vines. The sun has cracked most of their skins, and the seasons have relieved them of their pressure. Visitors are cautioned to watch their step, as the floor of the north wing is scattered with chipped golfballs and rain-swollen baseballs, split and spilling their strings.

We have two bicycles, one of which hangs from the ceiling of the north wing. It is a modern ten-speed, previously owned by Levi Orenstein and donated to us by Brayden Collins. Mr. Collins was our most generous benefactor of the last year, having donated the Orenstein bicycle, six baseball gloves, two basketballs, three schoolbags, five lunchboxes, one rented clarinet, and the headless body of a possum.

He recently departed to attend a military academy upstate. We thank him for his contributions.

The southeast wing features several exhibits dedicated to the science of time. This is where our second bicycle can be found, chained to a sapling by one Marcie Pittsmouth in 1975, and which now rests six feet off the ground, embedded in the trunk of that same tree. When it rains, visitors are invited to admire the drool of rust that issues from the tree’s lips of wrinkled bark.

The Green Tangle Museum is also excited to announce that approximately three years from now, coinciding with the fiftieth anniversary of Marcie Pittsmouth’s contribution, the bicycle’s front fork bolt will have completely rusted through, and the wheel will fall to the ground. We warn visitors that the timing of this event cannot be precisely predicted, and as such it will not be advertised.

While they wait, attendees may choose to explore the museum’s Dome, so-dubbed at its inauguration in 1988 by Crossbridge High School students Paul Ashby, Lindsay Milligan, and Roger Zarn, whose initials are inscribed in a commemorative tree in the Dome’s west wall. Use of the fire pit is open to all museum guests. But we caution visitors to wear closed toe shoes, and ask them not to disturb the Dome’s immersive diorama of drug paraphernalia and contraceptive materials.

The prize specimen of the Green Tangle Museum is not yet accessible to the public: the body of forty-four-year-old Herbert Selnick, offered to our archives in 1953 by an anonymous donor. The specimen’s exposure to the elements was mitigated by an archival covering of vines, and volunteer fauna served to remove the most perishable matter.

The “Selnick Skeleton” exhibit will treat visitors to a veritable time capsule, from the specimen’s intact ochre suit of polyester gabardine, to its red-and-white nubuck Oxford shoes. Ephemera enthusiasts will appreciate the still-legible dry cleaning ticket in the back pant pocket, as well as the matchbook from the long-defunct Cassman’s Deli in the jacket pocket. Amateur and experienced forensic analysts alike will marvel at the “kerf marks” carefully revealed by our preservation team, made in the lower thoracic and upper lumbar vertebrae with a Schrade Walden Muskrat 2 model folding knife.

The knife itself can be seen in the collection of the Silty Delta Museum, located six miles south, beneath the Route 80 overpass.

We encourage everyone to visit the Green Tangle, Silty Delta, or any of our sister museums worldwide—in forests, near freeways, behind buildings, under porches, or inside your very own home.

We welcome you and your donations any day, at any hour, year-round.

Jessica sees a few people crying. Under the rain rattling on the roof, she can hear even more. Life-jacketed and lined up on a plastic bench in a bright orange capsule with a hundred other tourists. Couples, families.

A four-year-old boy next to her keeps asking between sobs, “Mommy, why are we in the little boat?”

His mom has her sweaty face against the foam shoulder of her life jacket, and her breath heaves. They were all given seasickness pills when they boarded, but hers isn’t working. “It’s just a little longer, honey. Just sit—” she swallows, “sit tight, okay?”

Jessica sees the “big boat” out the rain-streaked window, many-storied and lit like a skyscraper, its nose sinking into the dark water as if ashamed.

*

Jessica bowed her head at dinner and chewed carefully.

She’d been liberal with the adhesive, because that night she planned to order the steak—her first in two months. She pinned her hair back and made up the scar on her cheek as best she could.

But even cut into small pieces and squished between her molars for a long time, steak was too tough. She was grateful that Chelsea and Trevor—those were their names?—probably didn’t notice her difficulty chewing while they described their cruise around Australia the year before.

Chelsea is pregnant and shouldn’t have ordered the swordfish, but Jessica didn’t say anything.

She felt her front-left teeth start to move. Too much adhesive. Her lip tightened against them. “Mm-hmm,” she said, nodding. She held up a finger and tried to say, “Excuse me,” but the teeth popped out and flipped between her lips, the metal support clicked against her real teeth.

Trevor said, “Oh. Sure,” and looked at his food.

“Oh,” as in, he hadn’t expected a thirty-four-year-old woman to have a denture. “Oh,” as in, now he better understood the scar showing through her makeup.

In her cabin Jessica spat the denture into her hand. Her left incisor stood alone at the front of her mouth, the one they could save. Her molars huddled in the back.

She ran warm water and scrubbed away the adhesive, then added more from the tube in her purse and pushed the denture back in. The false teeth settled around her incisor like strangers at the dinner table.

She decided to order room service instead—mashed potatoes and gravy.

*

Trevor is in the back corner of the lifeboat holding up his phone and frowning. Chelsea’s head rests on his shoulder. She and Jessica meet eyes. Chelsea looks away and puts a hand on her belly. Jessica has to make herself look away.

A crew member screeches open the hatch and fires a flare into the rain. The black water out the window lights pink-orange.

The boy asks, urgent, “Mommy, why is there fire?”

Others snap alert and look out the window.

“Honey, that’s not—” She covers her mouth. Her fingers graze Jessica’s life jacket. “I’m sorry,” she says, “could you wa—” she swallows, “watch him while…”

Jessica wants to say no, but the mom is already standing and shuffling between everyone’s knees toward the open porthole.

The boy screams for her and gets up.

Jessica holds his arm. “Stay here.”

*

Ryan said looking at her reminded him of what happened.

He should have been the one to drive, but he had a drink after dinner. The other car shouldn’t have swerved.

In the hospital, she felt his tears on her cheeks. She felt his lips push hers into the new emptiness behind them.

When he pulled away he didn’t look at her. It felt like he never looked at her again.

The last thing she said was, “Please stay.”

Her sister got her the cruise, for a “fresh start.” She shouldn’t have gone.

But she did. To get away from everyone’s sad smiles and overlong hugs. The house, empty of Ryan’s things. The closed room with the crib and playpen still folded in their boxes.

*

“Your mommy’s feeling sick. She’ll be back.”

His face is wet and red. “Why is mommy sick?”

She wants to say it’s because his mom is weak. “Because we’re in a boat, and there’s a storm.”

“Why?”

She waits for an answer to come. “Sometimes bad things happen.”

Ryan had jumped ship, and their son had drowned in her waters.

She feels the boy’s stare on her cheek. “What’s that?” He points.

She touches the scar. “I got hurt.” Now it’s her turn to cry. Her lips tighten, and she feels the denture loosen. In the midnight rush to get to the lifeboats she’d been hasty with the adhesive.

“How?”

“I was—” Her teeth slip, click against the others. She puts a hand on her mouth.

“What’s that?” His eyes are patient, fixed on her mouth. His little barrel chest rises and falls under his life jacket.

She sucks at her teeth, pushes the metal ridge with her tongue until they settle back into place. Then she smiles. “My teeth,” she says carefully.

“Can I see?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a crew member says from his windowed perch, “the coast guard is on their way. Shouldn’t be long now.”

Cheers and applause.

But the boy’s eyes haven’t left Jessica’s tight lips.

She hesitates. Then she parts her teeth and pops the denture loose, holds it for him to see. Four resin teeth in two humps of pink resin gum. Metal wire spans the gap between them and curls at either end to hold them among her real teeth.

His eyes get bigger. This is when he screams, her face forever burned in his mind as the toothless witch in the lifeboat.

Instead, his little finger rises to his mouth and pulls his lip down. He grimaces. His pink tongue squishes through the gap where he’s missing his middle-left incisor.

Jessica’s eyes blur. A drop crawls down her cheek. She asks, “Did it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

On peut à peine bouger dans ces quartiers étroits, donc on a pas été surpris quand ils sont allés se coucher et qu’on a entendu pop, pop-pop. Ça fait du bien de se marrer.

Ils parlent à voix basse quand on est dans les parages, et marchent sur la pointe des pieds partout, même quand ils ont enlevé leurs bois pour travailler.

Qualls a fait un jeu de mots : “Ma biche, sois mignonne et cerf-moi des patates.” Maintenant tout le monde le dit.

Shelby et Winston font semblant de viser les nouveaux avec des fusils imaginaires et rigolent bien de voir l’angoisse dans leurs yeux.

Hier, pendant leur temps libre, on a perdu la trace d’un des nouveaux. Kent a parcouru tout le sous-marin, des bois de cerf à bout de bras, en vérifiant chaque recoin, derrière les tuyaux, entre les consoles, et l’a finalement trouvé caché dans un tube de torpille. Il faisait semblant de dormir, comme s’il avait oublié que c’était l’heure de mettre ses bois.

Ce soir, c’est le grand spectacle. Huit Cors attend près des couchettes, Dix Cors près du periscope, nous on est assis à la cafétéria au milieu. On parie de l’argent et des patchs de nicotine qu’on glisse dans des boîtes de conserve de petits pois vides.

Quand Callahan aura fini de compter jusqu’à dix, ils vont charger. Les bois vont s’entrechoquer.

L’eau sombre tout autour de nous resta silencieuse.

À côté d’elle, un petit garçon de quatre ans demande entre deux sanglots : “Maman, pourquoi on est dans le petit bateau ?”

Sa mère a le visage en sueur contre le col en mousse de son gilet de sauvetage, elle respire difficilement. Ils ont tous reçu des médicaments contre le mal de mer lorsqu’ils ont embarqué, mais le sien ne fait pas effet. “C’est juste un peu plus long, chéri. Reste assis…” elle déglutit, “reste assis, d’accord ?”

Jessica voit le “gros bateau” par la fenêtre recouverte de pluie, sur plusieurs étages et éclairé comme un gratte-ciel, son nez s’enfonçant dans l’eau sombre comme s’il avait honte.

*

Jessica a baissé la tête lors du dîner et mâché avec précaution.

Elle n’avait pas lésiné sur l’adhésif, car ce soir-là, elle avait prévu de commander un steak, son premier en deux mois. Elle a attaché ses cheveux en arrière et a maquillé la cicatrice sur sa joue du mieux qu’elle a pu.

Mais même coupé en petits morceaux et écrasé entre ses molaires pendant un long moment, le steak était trop dur. Elle était contente que Chelsea et Trevor – c’est bien leurs noms ? – n’aient probablement pas remarqué sa difficulté à mâcher pendant qu’ils décrivaient leur croisière en Australie l’année précédente.

Chelsea était visiblement enceinte et n’aurait pas dû commander l’espadon, mais Jessica n’a rien dit.

Elle a senti ses dents de devant à gauche commencer à bouger. Trop d’adhésif. Sa lèvre s’est pressée contre ses dents. “Mm-hmm”, a-t-elle dit, en hochant la tête. Elle a levé un doigt et a essayé de dire “Excusez-moi”, mais les dents sont sorties et ont basculé entre ses lèvres, le support métallique a fait un bruit de cliquetis contre ses vraies dents.

Trevor a dit “Oh. Pas de problème” et a regardé son assiette.

“Oh,” comme dans, il ne s’attendait pas à ce qu’une femme de 34 ans ait un dentier. “Oh” comme dans, maintenant il comprenait mieux la cicatrice qui ressortait à travers son maquillage.

Dans sa cabine, Jessica a craché le dentier dans sa main. Son incisive gauche se tenait seule à l’avant de sa bouche, celle qu’ils avaient pu sauver. Ses molaires regroupées à l’arrière.

Elle a fait couler de l’eau chaude et a enlevé l’adhésif, puis en a ajouté à partir du tube de son sac à main et a remis le dentier en place. Les fausses dents se sont installées autour de son incisive comme des étrangers à la table du dîner.

Elle a décidé de commander du room service à la place – purée de pommes de terre en sauce.

*

Trevor est dans le coin arrière du canot de sauvetage et tient son téléphone en fronçant les sourcils. La tête de Chelsea repose sur son épaule. Elle et Jessica croisent leurs regards. Chelsea tourne la tête et pose une main sur son ventre. Jessica doit se forcer à détourner le regard.

Un membre de l’équipage ouvre l’écoutille en hurlant et lance une fusée de détresse dans la pluie. L’eau noire par la fenêtre devient rose-orange.

Le garçon demande avec inquiétude : “Maman, pourquoi il y a du feu ?”

Les autres passagers se retournent et regardent par la fenêtre.

“Chéri, ce n’est pas…” Elle se couvre la bouche. Ses doigts effleurent le gilet de sauvetage de Jessica. “Je suis désolée,” dit-elle, “pourriez-vous…” elle déglutit, “le surveiller pendant…”

Jessica veut dire non, mais la mère est déjà debout et se faufile entre les genoux de tout le monde vers le hublot ouvert.

Le garçon crie et se lève.

Jessica le retient par le bras. “Reste là.”

*

Ryan avait dit que la regarder lui rappelait ce qui s’était passé.

C’est lui qui aurait dû conduire, mais il avait bu un verre après le dîner. L’autre voiture n’aurait pas dû faire une embardée.

A l’hôpital, elle avait senti ses larmes à lui sur ses joues à elle. Elle avait senti ses lèvres pousser les siennes dans le nouveau vide dans sa bouche.

Quand il s’était éloigné, il ne l’avait pas regardée. C’est comme s’il ne l’avait plus jamais regardée.

“S’il te plaît, reste” est la dernière chose qu’elle lui avait dite.

Sa soeur lui avait offert la croisière, pour un “nouveau départ”. Elle n’aurait pas dû y aller.

Mais elle l’a fait. Pour s’éloigner des sourires tristes et des embrassades trop longues de tout le monde. La maison, vide des affaires de Ryan. La pièce fermée avec le berceau et le parc encore pliés dans leurs boîtes.

*

“Ta maman se sent mal. Elle va revenir.”

Son visage est humide et rouge. “Pourquoi maman est malade ?”

Elle veut dire que c’est parce que sa maman est faible. “Parce qu’on est dans un bateau et qu’il y a une tempête.”

“Pourquoi ?”

Elle attend que la réponse lui vienne. “Parfois, de mauvaises choses arrivent.”

Ryan avait quitté le navire, et leur fils s’était noyé dans les eaux de Jessica.

Elle sent le regard du garçon sur sa joue. “Qu’est-ce que c’est ?” Il la montre du doigt.

Elle touche sa cicatrice. “J’ai été blessée.” Maintenant, c’est à son tour de pleurer. Ses lèvres se serrent, et elle sent le dentier se détacher. Dans la précipitation de minuit pour rejoindre les canots de sauvetage, elle a été trop rapide avec l’adhésif.

“Comment ?”

“J’étais…” Ses dents glissent, claquent contre les autres. Elle porte sa main à sa bouche.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est ?” Ses yeux sont patients, fixés sur sa bouche. Sa petite poitrine se soulève et s’affaisse sous son gilet de sauvetage.

Elle suce ses dents, pousse l’arête métallique avec sa langue jusqu’à ce qu’elles se remettent en place. Puis elle sourit. “Mes dents”, dit-elle prudemment.

“Je peux voir ?”

“Mesdames et messieurs”, dit un membre de l’équipage depuis sa fenêtre en hauteur, “les garde-côtes sont en route. Ça ne devrait plus être long maintenant.”

Cris de joie et applaudissements.

Mais les yeux du garçon n’ont pas quitté les lèvres serrées de Jessica.

Elle hésite. Puis elle écarte les dents, détache le dentier et le tient dans sa main pour qu’il le voie. Quatre dents en résine dans deux bosses de gomme en résine rose. Un fil métallique les sépare et s’enroule à chaque extrémité pour les maintenir parmi ses vraies dents.

Les yeux du petit garçon s’agrandissent. C’est à ce moment-là qu’il crie, le visage de Jessica à jamais gravé dans son esprit comme celui de la sorcière édentée du canot de sauvetage.

Au lieu de ça, il porte son petit doigt à sa propre bouche et tire sa lèvre vers le bas. Il grimace. Sa langue rose vient se caler dans l’espace où il lui manque l’incisive du milieu.

Les yeux de Jessica se brouillent. Une goutte coule le long de sa joue. Elle lui demande : “Ça t’a fait mal ?”

“Oui.”

This led to the second way in which she was now stuck: Her brilliant idea to use washers, yarn, and thumbtacks to build a 3D model of book fifteen’s outline in her studio apartment. It was a wall-to-wall, criss-crossed web of events, relationships, themes, and symbols, and it had her literally cornered.

The nodes hung in the air like the stars of her fictional galaxy, pulling at each other with visible threads of gravity. She worried if she cut something, the whole thing would come apart.

She had to keep the side romance between the pit mechanic best friend (the large washer hung over the TV) and the butcher of exotic meats (the medium-sized washer under the desk), because that was the only way to trigger the Le Mans banquet horse meat scandal at the climax (hung like wind chimes by the bathroom door), bringing Marguerite’s journey full circle.

But the other major thread blocking her way was the series of flashbacks when Marguerite’s brother Clifford teaches her to cheat at cards, which details her adolescence at the Jespers estate, and leads to the fateful poker game when she loses her prize stallion to an opposing card shark, gets chased by bookie thugs, and escapes in a stolen ’66 Mustang convertible—without which part three of the book can’t happen.

She decided to move the knife fight in part four, when the bookies catch up to Marguerite, from the café in Monaco to the romantic beach scene with the Algerian jockey, so as to open up a spot by the coffee table for her to slide under the scene when Marguerite first meets the pit mechanic, and get to the couch to rest for a moment.

This put the jockey in peril and pulled the slack out of their romance, which had always felt a little forced.

Satisfied, she sipped from the mug of coffee gone cold and saw from a new angle. There was a large open tunnel between Marguerite’s decision to throw the final race in Le Mans and a cluster of thumbtacks in the kitchen cupboard representing Marguerite’s lifelong desire for her parents’ approval.

A thread hung over her head.

She reached up to take it. But then stopped and sighed, watched the thread sway in her breath. If she ever wanted to escape this mess, she’d have to leave one or two loose ends.

My foot was asleep, buzzed and stung like TV static, so I fell into my bookshelf, got the corner of it in my eye. I assumed my right arm was asleep too, which explained why I hadn’t caught myself, so I turned on the light and saw the problem: my right arm was missing. The shoulder was round and smooth except the patch of pit hair sticking out.

By the time I got to the living room, my arm was folding and scratching in the corner like a long, hinged mouse trying to escape.

I watched it, waiting to wake up. The sharp throb in the bony edge of my eye socket was too real to be dreamt.

*

Mother called my arm a blessing. It had stopped growing when I was a baby. She and her friends, who blew hazy smoke and pored over large, beautiful cards in the basement of our house, touched it with icy hands, drew patterns down its flesh with their fingernails, and whispered into its palm cupped over their large creased mouths.

I was suspicious of them, because all their effort made my arm feel weaker.

Then suddenly, overnight, it grew.

My mother kissed it and promised to keep me strong.

I was afraid but relieved. I questioned nothing.

She disappeared after that, and my father refused to speak of her.

*

The bell startled me, and my arm stopped scratching. It turned and used the grip of its fingers to pull across the wood floor.

In the entryway it tapped on the door.

I picked it up by the bicep and pressed it to my shoulder. The arm jerked and punched, hit the fresh bruise on my eye. I dropped it, and it writhed to flip itself palm-down.

Tapping came from the other side of the door. A light, clustered sound like gentle rain.

I ran cold water in the bathroom sink, splashed my face, smeared it on my neck, splashed my shoulder and concentrated on flexing the arm that was no longer there.

I slapped myself very hard, four times.

Finally, convinced I was awake, I went back to the door where my arm waited. I unlocked and opened, and it dragged past the doorjamb, across the porch, and fell into the bushes.

On the doormat lay a small, puffy thing, like a doll’s arm. Its hand lay on its back, flexing its wrist reaching up to me.

I picked it up, feeling its cool flesh wrapped in my large hand. I held its end to my shoulder, and it joined. It stung and tingled all over, its muscles responsive to my will. I held it against me to warm it, and its fingers touched my ribs. The patch of pit hair itched and tickled it.

The water chilled on my face and neck.

The bushes at the side of the house rustled, and I watched a dark shape run across the yard and down the street.

Wherever she was, my mother was dead.

I kept the plan secret, assuming my parents would laugh and say, “That’s ridiculous, you’re not doing that.”

I spent my days thinking about all the swim meets, karate lessons, piano recitals, and soccer games all the other kids would have to go to—wake up early, get dressed up, pack into the minivan with a string cheese and a Capri Sun for breakfast, and rush off to this or that obligation with a bunch of other loudmouth kids.

But me, I’d wake when I wanted. Sit on a rock, whittle a stick, strip bark to weave, and stare through the endless trees between trees between trees.

If I saw a neighbor walking their dog on the trail, I’d slip beneath the ferns and wait until the collar’s jingle faded.

A big tree fell in a storm that winter, and the crater beneath its suspended root ball would make a perfect shelter. I’d use my knife to cut pine boughs and make a bed. Maybe a conical roof of boughs secured around the root ball.

Birds and squirrels were plentiful but difficult to catch. I imagined traps I could make from branches, rocks, and pinecones. I’d strip ivy vines from tree trunks for cordage.

I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to build a fire to cook what I caught. There were some burnt pits, but they were behind the high school, littered with empty bottles and crumpled cigarette packs, and the trees around them were spray-painted with penises, so I assumed fires were probably illegal.

In the absence of meat, I knew spots for huckleberries and blackberries.

There was a muddy clearing far back, almost through to the next neighborhood, where a caravan was parked and taking on moss. Next to it was a chickenwire enclosure with a couple of decaying geese. When I discovered them, one goose’s feathers were still mostly white. There was a pitchfork leaning against the cage, and I used it to stab the dead goose until its head separated from its long neck. A waste of good meat, I thought.

The person who lived in the caravan had been so close to living the dream, but never connected the dots. Imagine, keeping geese in a man-made cage when there were plenty of birds all around them! The blackberry ravine was just down the hill. Surely in the caravan they had tools to do all the jobs a Swiss Army knife could do, and they hadn’t had to waste their energy building and maintaining a shelter.

Despite these concessions and cheats, this person had failed. I pitied them.

*

I didn’t get the Swiss Army knife for my birthday that year.

I mentally prepared myself every spring to receive that multifaceted key to my survivalist dream, but spent every summer without it resigned to my domestic existence.

By the time I got it for my thirteenth birthday, years of rain had filled in the root ball pit. My perfect shelter was ruined.

In one of the places I’d scouted, sitting on a fallen tree, I used my new knife to whittle a stick into a spear. I got it sharp enough to draw a bead of blood from my fingertip.