Alana spends Thanksgiving Day with Mary and her friends and realizes how much she, herself, has changed. Alana tries to make sense of some strange, unexplainable experiences.
GOOD NEWS! Thanks to you, we’ve received enough real-life messages to record a bonus episode soon. But we still want to hear from you, if you’ve been meaning to send us a message but haven’t gotten around to it yet. PLEASE DO SO THIS WEEK. Send your message to: messengerthenovel@gmail.com. We can’t wait to receive it!
Credits/Contacts
Find Us Online
Questions to Ponder
---------------------------------
Episode 9 Complete Text 📖
(Click here to access the PDF)
---------------------------------
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:
I saw the CLINAMN license plate! Right when I was thinking about Mom. Was it a sign to keep going?
What choice do I really have? I don’t want to wonder the rest of my life if Messenger’s story was my big break, the one I’d longed for and dreamed about, but then I blew it. I’d never forgive myself. I have to go on. Am I insane to think that Messenger’s story should be a book? What about a movie? Or a TV show? Each person’s message could be an episode, with an on-going narrative arc that follows the Alana character, who’s struggling to uncover the bigger story arc. What about a big, expanded website? World-wide readers? Are there other Messengers in other countries? Why not? Why wouldn’t there be? All working together to shore us up? Could they be like a spiritual force field, like gravity, holding things in place on Planet Earth? Is that too uber science fiction?
Of course, I also want to work for something bigger than myself and help change the world for the better. To help move our planet forward positively, to break free from the same obnoxious, annoying rut we seem to find ourselves in. As I spend time with Messenger, I’m just so touched by this beautiful woman who’s given her life to the messages. Her all. I can truly say I’ve never met anyone like her, so filled with love, with good intentions. To be in her presence, to hear her voice, to have her touch you—extraordinary. She’s working so hard to do her part, to make the Clinamen happen. Something big is at work here. I still don’t really understand but hopefully Messenger will reveal more.
But the waiting, the frustrations, the disappointments, exhaustion, money worries, mount. Just finding her is the first challenge of the day. She won’t let me watch as she receives a message (just once, I happened to be there and witness it). While her secrecy really bums me out, it does make sense. She talks about vibrations. Would my vibration interfere with the delivery of the message or interfere with the exchange between her and the recipient? Is that how it works? Am I beginning to understand? To think like Messenger?
She won’t take me along to deliver a message, either. It’s like that’s something immensely private between her and the recipient. Vibrations again, I guess. I beg her, but she shakes her head. “No, Baby. That’s not for you to see.” Always when we’re together, she reaches over and gently massages my forehead between my eyes, where wrinkles are etching themselves while I struggle to figure all this out. “Relax, Honey,” she says. It feels good. I know I’m always in a hurry, my shoulders up to my ears, my neck tight. I try to have good posture, but it’s hard with all the writing. “Give yourself a break,” she tells me. She’s right. I’m making myself crazy. Something’s got to give.
Messenger isn’t going to change. That’s clear. I’m the one who has to change, who has to accept her, this situation and the way she does things. Stop fighting her. If I’m too aggressive or demanding, I might alienate her or scare her off, like Mary said. I’ll swallow my frustration and allow everything to evolve on her terms. Meanwhile, I’ll keep building my website, collecting posts and interviews, slow and steady. It will all work out. This is my story to write. I’ll make a name for myself and promote all the good Messenger is doing in the world. Win-win. Create positive momentum. The money? I’ll figure it out somehow. Maybe Gus can give me more shifts. Or a raise.
So, yeah. I’ll take Mary’s advice. Easy does it. I’ll accept Messenger as she is. I’ll be more patient. I won’t rush her or push her. We’ll proceed on her timeline. Maybe we’ll even create our own Clinamen, Messenger and me, with this book.
CAT IN THE COFFEE SHOP
Alana and Messenger sat in Ed’s coffee shop. Through the plate-glass front window, Alana spied a guy she’d seen many times before, but always near the other coffee shop around the corner from the park. This guy walked the streets of the city with his fat black-and-white tuxedo cat perched on his head. Really—the cat just sat on the guy’s head. The guy was super tall, thin and dark-haired. His hair blended in with the cat’s fur. The cat’s tail would often wrap around his head right where his eyebrows were, forming a unibrow. He’d stand on a corner and people would give him money just to see it.
“Look, Messenger,” Alana pointed. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”
At the same time, a woman opened the door to Ed’s. The cat jumped down off his perch. This apparently shocked the guy so much he didn’t react soon enough to grab the leash attached to the cat’s red collar. The cat bolted through the door between the legs of a woman trying to come in.
“Whoa!” Ed cried.
The cat ran down the aisle, jumped right up onto Messenger’s lap and purred.
All of these events happened within about 30 seconds.
“Oh, my,” Messenger said. “You are one good-looking cat!” She patted it between its ears.
The cat’s owner stood beside them, fumed. He grabbed the leash from the floor and yanked the cat off Messenger’s lap.
“MRAAAR,” the cat cried.
“For God’s sakes, Lady. What did you do to my cat? People pay to see him stay on my head!” His face reddened and he looked fierce.
“Hey, Buddy.” Alana had never heard Ed’s quiet voice take a tone like that. “Outside. Leave her alone.”
The tall guy looked around the coffee shop for allies. Finding none, he put the cat under his arm. Alana figured he didn’t want to chance a repeat performance. He stomped out.
Alana laughed nervously. “Way to go, Ed!”
Ed grinned at Messenger and Alana, then busied himself clearing dishes off tables. Today he’d made a fancy letter “A” in her coffee.
Everybody in the shop went back to what they were doing.
“Ed’s all right,” was all Messenger said.
“Yeah. But how’d you do that?” Alana asked her.
Messenger looked up from picking cat-hairs off her lap. “Do what, Honey?”
“You know.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“No?”
“Apparently that kitty doesn’t like him as much as he thinks it does.”
Alana just stared at her.
“Never know what a cat might do,” Messenger added.
MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK: ANIMALS ARE IN ON THE CLINAMEN
The animals are coming closer because there’s nowhere else for them to go now. We’ve cut down all the trees, taken all their homes to build things for ourselves. Taken it all. Soon they’ll voice what we’ve done to them, to our planet. They will rise up and the birds of the air and the fish of the sea, the animals near and far, ferocious and tame, will sing with one voice. And what will we humans tell them? If we’re wise and courageous we’ll face the terrible truth—and join hands and paws with our four-legged brothers and sisters. And go forward—together. The moment the first monkey opens her mouth and speaks will be the tipping point. Soon all will follow and that boundary between human and animal will fall forever. We’ll see ourselves through their eyes. And be amazed, but most of all—ashamed.
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK
I’m struggling each day to stick with my new resolution about the Messenger project. But wild things just keep happening.
A new development: I wake up almost every morning and remember my dreams in great detail. They make no sense and go all over the place, but they stay with me all day. And that’s not the craziest part. The dreams feel like deja-vus, because people come into the coffee shop or stand beside me on the street who I know I’ve seen before. In my dreams! I’m sure of it. Did I actually see them or dream about them and then see them again? Some stand out, like the woman dressed like a baby doll in a pink bustier and tight, accordion skirt, with circles of pink rouge on her cheeks, Anime-style. Some are just as ordinary and random as you could ever imagine—a guy in a navy-blue T-shirt in Tale of the Whale. An overweight woman in black stretch pants, messenger bag draped across her body.
What’s going on?
ALANA CONFIDES IN MESSENGER
Alana hurried through the crowds on her way to Tale of the Whale for her five o’clock extra shift. Something made her look up a few blocks away and freeze. Her stomach dropped like she’d fallen ten stories in an elevator in one second. She watched a drag queen in super high heels, breasts pushed up to a dizzying height, sway down the street towards her. A crown of peacock feathers stuck out from her head on all sides. She winked at Alana as she passed, as if they shared a secret. It wasn’t the first time Alana had seen her. They’d met just last night in Alana’s dreams. Alana clutched a nearby bike rack and held on for dear life. What’s happening to me?
Alana hadn’t told Messenger about any of these weird events—not even the CLINAMN license plate. Why? Her mom. Every time Alana thought about telling Messenger, a clammy dread filled her stomach. Her mother’s shocking reaction to the Cathy’s Birthday incident flooded back. Alana had come home so happy. She’d won a cake! Even dearer was the magical experience of having known it would happen before it did. She hadn’t told Mrs. Snyder or Sara, had saved it to share with her mother that night. She’d practically danced herself home, so eager to tell her Mom everything that had happened.
“You will not tell anyone about this. Do you hear me?” Her mom stood at the door having just come in from the hospital, her face fierce. “I swear,” she muttered, slammed her plastic cup on the kitchen table, threw her lunch bag down beside it and peeled out of her hospital sweater. “You know, your father used to talk like that. Believe me, weirdos ran in his family.”
Alana had started to cry at the mention of her father. She’d sunk into the kitchen chair and watched her mom tromp around the kitchen, pull things out of the fridge to begin dinner. Then Mom had added, “Your father was always fascinated by anything supernatural. He’d create preposterous claims meant to make him seem special. He just couldn’t stay in the real world.” She turned around and faced Alana. “No!” she demanded. “No fuss! No tears. I mean it. He’s not worth it.”
Alana shivered but nodded.
“Oh, Alana.” Mom’s voice softened. “Just forget all this foolishness. It was all in your head—just a coincidence. Say no more about it—to anyone.”
Alana knew Messenger would never react like her mom had. It was getting too weird—she couldn’t wait any longer. “I’ll tell her tomorrow,” she decided.
The next day was cold and cloudy. Alana finally found Messenger after searching at least an hour and the two of them headed down Fifth Street.
“Messenger, I need to tell you something.”
Messenger was bagless today. She pulled her red cap down over one ear, then the other. “Okay, Honey,” she answered. “Wait. Got any of those chocolates?”
Alana laughed. After they’d settled on their bench, she pulled a big handful out of her backpack. Messenger stuffed them into her pockets and unwrapped the red foil on one. “One for you?” she asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? Chocolate always helps.”
Alana shook her head no.
Messenger popped the chocolate into her mouth, closed her eyes and sucked. “Mmmm! That is so good,” she gurgled.
“Great! Listen, you probably won’t believe this, but I saw the car.”
“The car?”
“The green Mini-Cooper with the C-L-I-N-A-M-N license plate.”
“You did?” Messenger’s voice rose and a huge smile spread across her face. If Alana had told her she’d won the lottery, Messenger couldn’t have look more pleased.
“Yes. A while ago.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
Alana ignored her question because she didn’t really know the answer. “That’s not all.”
“It’s not?”
“No. Another really weird thing. I’m remembering my dreams now.” Alana sensed how excited Messenger grew and it threw her off. She suddenly wished she hadn’t said anything about any of it.
“So . . . yeah.”
Messenger reached out and massaged her forehead. “It’s okay, Honey. What is it? Just tell me everything. Don’t hold back.”
“I’ve been seeing people from my dreams.” Her voice shook. “On the street. While I’m awake. Last night during my shift at Tale of the Whale, this guy walked in and stood at the door waiting for a table. He was a totally average guy. He told me he was visiting from Harrisonburg, Virginia. ‘I’m from Virginia, too,’ I said. Then my stomach dropped and I felt dizzy, like I was on a roller coaster, because I remembered I’d had the same conversation with him the night before in a dream!”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No, not really.”
Alana let out a huge sigh. She hadn’t realized she’d held her breath this whole time. “It’s happened a lot. I see people on the street and recognize them. What’s going on?”
Messenger paused. “What do you think’s going on?”
“I don’t know. What does it mean? Am I going crazy?”
Messenger patted her shoulder. “I don’t think it means anything except a door’s opened for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t let it worry you. Just roll with it, Honey.” She patted her again. “You’re not going crazy. I can guarantee that!”
She decided to take Messenger’s word for it. She knew about these things, right? “Okay. That’s good to know. But do you think these things just happen to some people? Or to everybody, and they just won’t admit it?”
“They happen to everybody. But you have to be awake, to notice.”
“I guess they happen to you. A lot.”
Messenger smiled one of her huge smiles where her eyes, her lips, everything about her face turned up and opened. “All the time, Baby. All the time!”
ALANA’S THANKSGIVING
“You CAME!” Mary exclaimed, too strongly, when Alana walked through the door.
“Of course! I said I would.” Alana ignored the surprise on Mary’s face. She handed Mary a pumpkin pie she’d picked up from the fancy bakery on First Avenue and a bottle of barely respectable pinot noir.
Mary always hosted pot-luck Thanksgiving for her friends because she had the biggest, nicest apartment, decorated in a slick minimalist style. It even opened onto a rooftop garden all the tenants shared. Since the sun was bright and clear, the air crisp but not too cold, her guests overflowed onto it. Everyone had brought great food to contribute. The vibe was cozy and festive.
Alana held her face in a smile that showed some teeth. Everything was going just fine, great, in fact. She was surprised how good it felt to be with people her own age for a change, even though she didn’t know many of them well. She chatted with those she’d met before at Mary’s, the usual suspects, with the addition of Stephen, a new guy from Mary’s office. Stephen wore black slim jeans and a blazer with a white t-shirt under it that Alana bet cost a hundred bucks. Although attractive and friendly, his studied casual look segued into trying too hard. Stephen stayed by Alana’s side after they were introduced. Inevitably, after the first few backs-and-forths of polite conversation, he queried, “So, what do you do?”
Oh, no, she cringed, knew exactly how this would go. “I’m a writer.” She held that fake smile plastered on her face.
“Oh, wow. Blogger?”
“Yeah, sort of. Journalist.”
“Awesome.” She watched him straighten up. “With what publication?”
Yep. There it was. “Oh, none, at the moment. I’m working on an independent project.”
“About what?”
She watched his eyes glaze. “I’m investigating this person who, well, actually, I really can’t say.”
“Why?” he asked, a little aggressively. “Is it someone we know?”
“Give it up, Stephen,” Mary butted in. “This project’s top secret. She can’t talk about it.”
Alana flashed a grateful smile Mary’s way, then turned back to Stephen. “Sorry. It’s complicated . . .”
There was an awkward silence, which Stephen broke. “Well, guess we’ll all be taking a break from work soon, with Christmas coming.”
Mary sighed and stared at the floor.
Alana suddenly got it. Mary had invited Stephen here for her. She felt herself blush and her first thought was, I told Mary about Ed. What? He’s not good enough? Alana shook her head to clear it. “It’ll be here before we know it,” she heard herself reply.
“Time always goes too fast.” Mary gave Alana the stink-eye. “Actually, it’s already Christmas, thanks to retail. Has been for a couple of weeks.”
Stephen’s eyes roamed the room, but he added, “Yeah. The trees and lights and all.”
Come on, Alana. Make an effort, for Mary’s sake. She’s trying to be sweet to you, not dis Ed. “Oh, the lights are my favorite part. I love the tree, of course, who doesn’t? But I also love how they outline the buildings, cover everything with lights—trees, the bushes. Even the fences look soft and magical in the early twilight. Astoria has these wild retro bell lights strung across the power lines at every intersection. They blink.”
Stephen finished his drink.
“I’ve got to check my turkey,” Mary said.
“Heading to the bar,” Stephen announced and walked away from her.
So much for trying.
Mary served the food buffet-style and everyone soon settled their plates on their laps. The energy of the group built as people drank more wine, got more wound up. Voices and laughter grew louder. Alana sat between Mary and Stephen, both of whom talked at the same time, but not to her. Alana watched as if outside herself and realized that, six months ago, she would have been very interested in Stephen, thrilled that Mary had invited him for her. But now, looking around at all of Mary’s beautiful friends, so polished and smart and successful, Alana wanted nothing more than to be anywhere but here—at Ed’s Starbucks or on Fifth Street with Messenger and her friends.
But she couldn’t leave yet, of course. Mary hadn’t even served the desserts. Alana had to sit there, listen to Stephen drone on about his favorite subject, himself, for the rest of the evening, which would now plod along in super slow motion as everybody else grew drunker and louder. Alana knew from hard experience she was not a drinker and didn’t want to be. Two glasses of wine were her limit.
“Alana. Alana!” She heard Mary call her name. “Hey, girl. You okay? You’re not looking so good.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“You were a million miles away.” Mary put an arm around her shoulder. “How’s it going with the project?”
Alana shook her head. “Messenger’s still not ready to go public. I took your advice, though. I’m not pushing her so much.”
“Good.” Mary took a big drink from her glass. “Mmmm. This wine is excellent. More?” She motioned with the bottle towards Alana’s empty glass, but Alana put her hand over it. “No thanks.”
“How’s it going with Stephen?” Mary’s eyes sparkled.
“Not great. Not really my type. Sorry.”
“Not a barista?”
Alana heard the barb in Mary’s voice. “Manager! And I told you nothing’s going on with him. But if there was, Ed’s great. You’d like him.”
Mary drank again, paused, then changed the subject. “How much longer do you think you can keep going with the project with, you know—your problems.”
Alana smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, Mary.”
“Okay, fine.” Mary picked up her glass and headed towards the kitchen. “Dessert, People!” she yelled over the din.
Alana crossed her arms. She had ages to wait before she could politely leave. You can make it through this night somehow, Alana, she told herself. She sighed. Thanksgiving meant only one thing to her. Soon she’d have Christmas to deal with.
ALANA’S THREE CHRISTMASES
Alana sat on the bench by the playground fence on Fifth Street on the first day of December, hoping Messenger would show up. Her phone buzzed. She wasn’t at all surprised to see who it was—Aunt Jane. Right on time.
“Hi, Dear!” Aunt Jane trilled. “Just calling to see how you’re doing in the big city. Staying safe?”
Alana laughed. “Sure am! Very safe.”
“That’s terrific, Sweetheart! I’m so glad to hear it! Now—Christmas is right around the corner and Kristen told me to call and invite you to come out and be with us. Remember the wonderful time we had a few years ago? Listen, Kristen’s boys are getting so big. Matthew’s in middle school now. You will not believe this, but he’s exactly as tall as I am! When did it happen?”
Alana didn’t hesitate in her answer. “You’ll have to send me a photo. That’s really nice, Aunt Jane, but I’ve already made plans to go with Sara Snyder and her family.”
“Oh really? Back to Virginia?”
Was that relief I heard in her voice? Alana wondered.
Aunt Jane didn’t miss a beat. “Feels more like home, I guess, than here with us in sunny California.”
“Yeah. I guess. Visiting the old neighborhood and everything. But listen, thanks so much. And you all have a great holiday, too.”
“Please stay in touch, Alana. I know Sue would want you to.” Her voice caught. “She’d want us all to stay close.”
“Of course. Thanks again. Talk with you soon.”
Alana put her phone into her backpack and watched the lady with the Chihuahuas slowly walk past. She searched up and down the street. No Messenger. She decided to wait a little longer.
Alana leaned back against the wooden bench and slouched. Well, she thought. Aunt Jane’s taken care of. But Alana’s throat felt thick and her body heavy. Why are you feeling guilty? She asked herself. The first year after Alana’s mom had died, Alana had spent way too much money that she didn’t have to fly out and spend Christmas with them. She hadn’t felt at home. She’d felt like odd one out, like she’d put a damper on Aunt Jane and her family’s holiday. Alana had promised herself, if she could just get through the visit, she’d never do it again. That’s how she came up with this strategy. Funny, she thought. Lying to Aunt Jane didn’t feel so good this time. Why had it never bothered her before?
When Messenger didn’t show up on Fifth Street, Alana decided to head to Ed’s to check there. On the way, Mary texted her.
What r u doing for xmas?
Alana stopped walking and studied the phone. She knew exactly where Mary was going with her question. She put the phone into her coat pocket and walked another block. Then she pulled it out again and typed: Going to my aunts.
in Cali?
Yeah.
Lucky! Mom told me to invite u again.
Alana’s stomach twisted. She paused again, considered finishing the text later. NO. Just get it over with, she told herself.That’s nice. Next year? When r u leaving?
Xmas eve. Insane but no time off. Back the 26th.
That sucks!
Let’s get a drink before we both go. What might work?
Alana’s stomach turned. She wasn’t sure she could carry off her lies in person. Let me get back to you. Things kind of hectic.
KK. Me, too. Take care.
Alana walked into Ed’s and didn’t feel her spirits lift, as she usually did. Lying to Mary felt terrible. And there was more lying to come.
That sick feeling in her stomach followed her to work that evening. On her break, Alana sat in Gus’s office and called Mrs. Snyder back. She’d left a voice message for Alana earlier in the day.
“Hi, Mrs. Snyder! It’s Alana!”
“Well, hello there! Calling all the way from New York City! How are you doing up there?”
“Fine.”
“Are you keeping safe?” she asked.
Mrs. Snyder’s calm, soothing voice hasn’t changed a bit since I used to sit at her kitchen table and eat brownies with Sara as a girl, Alana thought. “Perfectly safe,” she answered. “Everything’s going just great.”
"Good, good. Well, Sara and I were wondering if you’d like to come for a Christmas visit this year!”
Alana suspected it was more Mrs. Snyder than Sara, since she and Sara weren’t in touch very often these days. She took a breath, but the smooth lie stuck in her throat. She had to force it out. “You’re so nice to keep asking me, but I’m already going to my Aunt Jane’s.”
“California? My goodness!”
“Yes.”
“That is just wonderful! Sun is what you need right now, I bet. It’s darker up there, isn’t it? Days are much shorter?”
“I guess you’re right.”
“And Christmas with your family. What could be better?”
“Uh huh.”
“Well, if you’re ever in the area or just feel like visiting your old stomping grounds you know you’re always welcome here.”
Alana’s eyes filled with tears. “Thanks so much. I really do appreciate it.”
“Honey, are you okay?”
“Yes, sure,” she forced herself to reply, then held her breath.
“Okay, Sweetie. You take good care of yourself. And Merry Christmas!”
Alana managed to duck out of the office and into the bathroom before Gus came in to call her back. She wiped mascara smears from beneath each eye and tried to breathe deeply. Whew! She thought. What is wrong with me? Before she’d always felt relief after she’d fended off her Christmas offers. Come on, January, she thought. She loved January, when all the holiday drama was over for another year.
ALANA’S NOTEBOOK:
I just pulled up my blog and there were even more new posts from all over the city. Likes and comments. I couldn’t believe it. Other people have posted about how much just reading the posts meant to them. I’m so excited! I’m going to do some real good, help people and hopefully sell a lot of books. I’ve got to get going on the query and writing the book. I’m just not sure how to structure it. I want it to be dramatic and compelling—and I want the reader to understand it’s real. All real. Some people have already questioned this on the blog, like I might be making up these stories or even making up Messenger herself. I’ve got to reassure people that, no, this is not some hoax or urban legend. Messenger is real. I’ve got the expanded website all finished and set to go. It looks good. At least I did learn how to create a website from that last soul-sucking job. I named the site The Messenger Files. Provocative, right? I wrote an introduction to Messenger, an explanation of how I got interested in the project, created a section for the best of the posts—Marty’s, of course, Brenda’s, Elaine’s, Scott’s and a few others. Also, transcripts of my interviews. Places to find Messenger. How she receives and delivers messages. Hopefully I’ve included just enough information to create interest in the book but leave people intrigued and wanting to learn more.
Now, I’ve just got to get Messenger to tell me more about herself and her past, how she started on this path to become a messenger. The farthest back in her story she’ll go is when the messages first came to her, but she had to have a life before that. Any personal questions she ignores or refuses to answer. She tells me she isn’t important at all—just the messages. But she is important from the reader’s standpoint. I mean, this isn’t a normal life she’s living. How did it happen? I also need to focus on the Clinamen. Why would it be dangerous? When it’s going to bring about wonderful changes? I need to learn more.
Just waiting for Messenger to give the go-ahead. Hope it’s soon. Mom’s money really is almost gone—impossible to believe, but true. Mom, you’d NEVER understand what I’m doing. You were always so practical, self-sufficient, organized, methodical. Frugal. Even Mary’s doubting everything. I get it! My money problems are real. At least I have Tale of the Whale. Gus gave me one more shift a week, which helps, but I’m still dipping into Mom’s money to make it to the end of the month. It’s getting bleak and I don’t want to end up on the streets myself. Hopefully it will all pay off,
MESSENGER’S COMPOSITION BOOK
Good news can be very dangerous. Just look at history. Anybody with a new idea or thought, or healing ways. Good news always brings a power shift. People will do ANYTHING—lie, cheat, kill if they have to—to keep things just the way they’ve always been.
Problem is, all momentum is forward.
Never back.
There is no back.
Evolution.
Motion.
Speeding up now.
Forward is the only direction.
Love is pulling us forward 24/7.
But there’s always a price. A payment. That’s the razor’s edge—the more power, the more danger. The Clinamen, the swerve, is the most dangerous part. Chock full of dangers. Everything is at stake. I thought this book idea of hers would slow her down. Give us more time to work. No. Guess that was asking too much. Maybe it’ll all turn out okay. I do know things are moving in the right direction. She’s had openings and shows promise. She’ll learn enough in the nick of time. At least to start. She’ll know what she needs to know.
© 2nd Star, LLC