Tick tick tick tick tick tick DING! The little timer that was shaped like a chicken rang out a cheerful reminder that the cookies were done, and it was time for Carol to take them out of the oven. She pulled her oven mitts on and replaced the hot metal tray with a new one, and reset the chicken for twelve minutes. As she was pulling hot cookies off the tray and placing them on the cooling rack, there was a firm knock on the front door of her house.
Carol put down her spatula and wiped her floured hands on her apron as she walked to open the door. "Daryl, hi." She smiled when she saw her friend leaning on the rail of her porch picking at his fingernails.
"Got any smokes?" The man pushed himself off the rail and walked past Carol into the bright house.
"Upstairs on my nightstand. There should be some matches, too." She shut the door behind him as he climbed the stairs two at a time. "I made cookies!" Carol yelled up the stairs as she placed two cookies on a small plate. She could hear him coming back down the stairs again, slower this time. "Want some?" She came back into the hallway to see Daryl standing at the foot of the stairs with a small black notebook in his hand. The book was being held open to a page on which the number "18" was circled in thick, demanding ink.
"What's this?" The air seemed to be sucked out of the room.
Carol set the plate roughly down on the hall table, and stalked up to him. "If I'd known you'd go through my personal things, I wouldn't have let you go up there alone." Not true. She'd left the notebook open to that page next to her pack of cigarettes. But accusing Daryl of snooping was easier than the truth. She reached for the book, but he pulled it out of her reach.
"Carol," His voice was soft, but stern as he looked her dead in the eyes. "What is this?"
They stared each other down, the thick silence barely being filled by the quiet "tick tick tick tick" of the chicken timer. "None of your business, Dixon." Carol snatched the notebook out of his hands and brushed roughly past him to climb the stairs. "Those cookies are for you. Help yourself to them as you leave." She was done with this conversation.
Daryl continued to stare at the spot she'd vacated. "Carol, are you keeping track of the people you've killed?"
Carol stopped walking halfway up the staircase. She was staring at the polished wood. Tick tick tick tick tick. "I'm afraid, Daryl."
She wasn't sure how it happened, but she was now back at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in a strong hug from the only man she'd ever felt safe around. "I'm afraid." She whispered again and began to cry.
"I can't say 'it's OK'. Cause nuthin of the world we live in is OK. But torturing yourself ain't helpin." He paused. "My ma always used to tell me that I can't let my past define me." He hugged her tighter. "Your past doesn't define you, Carol. The people you've killed doesn't change who you are."
"And who am I?" She choked out through her tears.
"You're Carol."
"I'm afraid that just 'Carol' isn't enough."
"It is."
"Okay."
"What can I do?"
"Just this."
"Okay."
Daryl held her until she stopped crying, and even longer after that. Carol was exhausted, afraid, but also somehow determined. Just 'Carol' was enough. It was going to have to be.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick DING!