Lodz shut his eyes to see the image more clearly in his head. Whenever he read minds, he found that a person's more recent memories were always sharp and clear -vibrant and full of color- while the older ones were harder to see, depending upon their age. The memory in Garcia's head, the one Management had asked Lodz to find, was at least twenty-five years old. The images that Lodz 'saw' had lost their color long ago; they were mostly black and white now with the occasional splash of color -a particular dress one of the nurses had worn that day, the operating table sheet, and, of course, the blood. Blood was always red. No matter how long ago the memory, no one ever forgot the color of blood.

An operating room. Nurses huddled around the table. A body underneath a sheet -a woman, pregnant. She was screaming and writhing in pain. Labor. She was giving birth. Garcia was the doctor in charge of her delivery. He was young then. So very young. Fresh out of school. New to the hospital. New to the medical profession. "Push! Push it out for me!" he was telling the young woman. She was on her back, legs up and spread. Bleeding from her vagina. Heavily. No baby's head yet. "I can't! Something's wrong! I can feel it! Something's wrong!" she screamed. Still no baby. He reached inside of her, felt the baby. Felt its feet. "The baby's breached! We have to cut it out!" Garcia told the nurses and they scrambled to get the necessary supplies. "Oh God! My baby's dying! Get it out! Get it out of me!" the woman screamed. Alcohol wiped across her distended belly. A scalpel in his hand now. The incision -fast, done in one swift move. It looked like he'd drawn a smile on her stomach. The smile began to bleed. In his haste, he fumbled with the instrument. Cut his finger. No time to dress it, had to save the baby. The nurses pulled apart the loose flaps of skin on the mother's belly. One more cut through the abdominal muscles. His finger throbbed. Cleared the membrane. Removed the baby. Severed the umbilical and pulled it free. "Got it! We've got it!" he told the mother. "It's a boy!" The baby -crying, lungs okay. It reached out and grabbed hold of Garcia's hand, clamped down onto his cut finger. The baby stopped crying. A tingle in Garcia's hand, like when an extremity goes to sleep and you shake it awake again. The baby held tight onto Garcia's finger. Almost a full minute. Healed it! The baby healed his cut! One of the nurses suddenly clutched her chest. Old. Can't breathe. Cardiac Arrest. Died right there in the delivery room. Baby wrapped in blankets and taken away. Mother sewn up while the dead nurse is carried out.

The memory blurs, grows hazy. Lodz frowns. "I need more!"

"I don't remember!" Garcia said, trying to catch his breath. "It was too long ago."

"I need a name!" Lodz insisted and gripped the doctor's head even tighter. "Think!"

Next day. Mother in hospital bed. Baby asleep in her arms. He wanted to tell her about his cut and how the baby healed it. Decided not to. Maybe he only imagined that he'd cut himself. The blood he saw could have been from the mother. "What's his name?" he asked.

"Sin," her answer, but her lips formed a different word. Something that only sounded like "sin". Garcia just couldn't remember what she'd said.

"Then what was the mother's name?" Lodz prodded. "Can you remember her name at least?"

Filling out her paperwork. Birth certificate. Baby's name too blurry to make out. Mother's name…What was it? He wrote it down. So long ago. F-l-o-r-a. Flora! Her first name was Flora. Last name began with an 'H'.

"I can't remember any more," Garcia shook his head and Lodz released his grip. "I can't ---"

"I think it's enough. Thank you, Doctor. I'm finished with you now." And with that, he swung his Hickory walking stick in the direction of Garcia's voice. There was a heavy thonk as it connected with the man's skull, followed by a loud thud as the doctor's body dropped to the floor. Being blind, Lodz didn't know if he had killed the man or just knocked him out. It didn't matter. Lodz had gotten what he came for. The woman's name was Flora H. and she had given birth to a boy with a name that sounded like "sin".

Lodz confidently strode out of Garcia's office and shut the door behind him as if he had not a care in the world. Then he walked through the lobby and stopped at the front desk.

The young nurse who had helped his friends outside glanced up from her paperwork. She was surprised to see him, thought he'd left with the others. "Yes? Can I help you?"

He smiled at her, pleasantly. "I am in need of a ride."

Jonesy had no problems following the nurse's directions to this fellow's house. Everything was just as she had described it, right down to the red mailbox by the roadside. They turned onto the dirt road that would supposedly lead them to this man's doorstep, the truck bouncing through each and every pot-hole.

"This can't be good for the shocks," Jonesy grumbled, swerving to avoid the deep pockets.

"Think he's still holding on back there?" Samson asked.

"Truthfully? No, he's probably dead. Maybe had a chance back there at the hospital but now?" Jonesy shook his head. "Even if this doctor guy turns out to be some kind of miracle worker and gets him breathin' again, there ain't gonna be too much left of him worth saving. Brain's gone too long without oxygen. He's better off dead at this point. But, you know, I don't wanna say that in front of Gecko. Poor guy."

Samson nodded. He, too, had lost a love and knew all too well the pain of heartbreak. But that was a long time ago and he'd put that part of his life to rest. He buried her in Arizona and moved on. Only a select few knew why Samson never took the carnival beyond the borders of New Mexico: Jonesy. Management, of course. And Ruthie. Ruthie knew everybody's secrets. She was the first one people ran to whenever they needed to talk, needed to cry, needed advice. A surrogate mother for the entire outfit. Her trailer door was always open. Ruthie knew how to keep a secret and people loved her for that. Respected her. And she respected them right back. A real class act.

"There it is," Jonesy said and pointed ahead to an old, rickety house made of wood. It looked abandoned. Its front yard was a jungle of overgrown weeds, burned brown by the hot, Oklahoma sun. Its windows were boarded over though whether the intention was to keep out the dust or people was up for speculation. The roof was in desperate need of repair. A makeshift tarp covered one corner that was in the process of collapsing in on itself. Jonesy pulled the truck up to the front porch and cut the engine. No one made a move in the back of the truck, just stared out at the house before them and wondered if this trip had all been for not.

"This doesn't look good," Jonesy commented, leaning on wheel.

"You sure this is the right place?" Samson asked.

"How many other red mailboxes could there be in a three-horse town? Yeah, this is the place, all right. Or at least it used to be."

A knock at the glass behind the cab. It was Sophie. She, too, had immediate reservations upon setting eyes on the place. "Think we should go back to the hospital?"

Before Jonesy could answer, the house's front door opened and a man stood in its doorway, hidden in shadow. "What're you all doin on my property?"

Jonesy slid out of the truck and gestured towards the flatbed. "We got a dying man back there. Heard you might could help us."

"Yeah? Who said that?"

Sophie stood up from the back of the truck. "Young girl back in town. A nurse at the hospital we just came from. She said you could help us."

"Nurse, huh?" the man in the doorway paused, changed his posture into something a little less guarded, a little more relaxed. "Dark hair? 'Bout twenty years old?"

"Yes, Sir. That's her," Sophie nodded.

"That'd be Elizabeth. I know her family well."

"And you're Cleveland?"

"Indeed I am." The wooden floorboards creaked underneath his weight as the man stepped out of the shadows and moved to the front of the porch. He squinted at the sunlight, shielded his eyes with hands that were pale and white, like a ghost's. It looked like he'd jumped head-first into a ten pound bag of flour. A knot suddenly developed in Sophie's stomach. Something was wrong here but she didn't know what it could be. Samson and Jonesy both turned to each other at the sight of him. He quickly descended the porch steps and approached Clayton with an outstretched hand. "She wouldn't have sent ya if she didn't see something in you worth trusting. Cleveland Moore M.D. at your service."

"You're an albino," Jonesy said, stating the obvious.

Cleveland smiled as he shook the man's hand. "And you have a bum knee. Now where's your friend?"

"He's up here!" Gecko answered as he stood up. "Hurry! I don't think we have much time!"

Cleveland made his way to the back of the truck and held out his hand for assistance. Sophie and Lila grabbed it and hauled him up. He glanced at Sophie for just the quickest of moments, long enough to say "thank you, young lady", long enough for Sophie to catch a glimpse of his eyes. They were pink. Like a rabbit's.

Steer clear of the pink-eyed man.

Those were her mother's parting words to her before she left the bus. They had been meant as a warning but her mother wouldn't elaborate. The knot in Sophie's stomach tightened. Why should she steer clear of this man? What was wrong with him?

Cleveland crouched over Lionel and listened to his chest. He paused, frowned. He checked his eyes next, lifted his lids and inspected the pupils. There was no response to the sunlight, no dilation. Gecko gripped hard onto Lila's hand and she squeezed back. Jonesy and Samson stood and watched from the sidelines. Sophie had forgotten all about Lionel and the others, had forgotten the entire reason they were here, actually. She couldn't stop wondering about this strange, powder-white man in the back of their truck. Next, Cleveland checked Lionel's carotid artery for a pulse. Sighed. Felt Lionel's wrist.

"Is he still…?" Gecko asked quietly.

Cleveland gently folded Lionel's arm across his chest. "I'm sorry. Your friend is dead."

"No! No! NO!" Gecko burst out crying. He turned into Lila and cried into her bosom. She embraced him, rubbed his back, stroked his long, matted hair. "Oh, Lionel….Lionel…"

Cleveland stood up and wiped his brow. He wasn't used to being outside this long and the direct sunlight made his sensitive skin itch and burn. If he didn't get back into the safety of darkness soon, his epidermis would start to blister. "Why don't you all come inside for a spell? I've got some fresh lemonaid we can drink."

No one had offered to give Lodz a ride to the carnival, so Elizabeth took an early lunch break and drove him back herself. He sat perfectly upright in his seat, the wind blowing through his hair, a slight grin on his face. "Is this your automobile?" he asked, making polite conversation.

"Yes, Sir. Well, it's my mother's actually but she's scared to death of driving it so I guess you could say it's mine by default. Used to be my father's though, before he ran off."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," Lodz said.

"Oh, don't be. It's been a couple of years now. Said he was gonna go out and look for work one day and never came back. Used to wire us money every month but then he stopped and we haven't heard from him since. Probably got himself dead or locked up. Poor Momma. She swears up and down he's coming back, but then she also thinks Calvin Coolidge is still President if that tells you anything about her state of mind."

"Do you miss him, much, your father?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "Sometimes, but not really. People are just like anything else in the world: the longer you go without it the less you miss it. Besides, he wasn't much of a father even when he was around. Always out boozing and playing cards. The only reason he ever came home it seemed was so he could have a place to sleep off a hangover. So I guess the answer to your question is no. I don't miss him."

"I admire you. You're a very strong young lady," Lodz smiled and softly patted her knee; a soft, non-threatening touch. The images came immediately.

Elizabeth blushed. She felt uncomfortable with compliments. "How do you know I'm young if you can't see?"

"I can hear it in your voice. You still have that wonderful 'devil may care' attitude that so empowers the youth; that enables you to stand up to adversity, to meet life's challenges head-on no matter how difficult they may seem. You're a giver, my dear. Every day, you come to the hospital and take care of the sick and infirm and then go home every night to take care of your mother. Only someone with an inner well of incredible strength could manage such a feat."

Elizabeth's face was still red with blush. "I'm not that strong. Well, not as strong as you are. I can't imagine what it must be like not being able to see."

"It's just like anything else in the world: the longer you go without something the less you miss it." They both laughed. Then, when the frivolity of the moment had died down a small bit, Lodz asked the question he'd been waiting to ask all along. "So tell me, Elizabeth. Why did you just lie to me about your father?"

Elizabeth's smile died on her lips. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play coy with me, little girl," Lodz said, his voice cold and stern. "You know damn well what I mean."

Despite its hideously dilapidated appearance on the outside, Cleveland's house -on the inside- was surprisingly beautiful and immaculate. Antique furniture decorated every room. Expensive paintings hung on the walls. Ornate, hand-woven rugs covered every floor. And there was not a single speck of dust to be found. Everybody who entered the place all walked in wearing the same expression: utter disbelief.

"Holy mackeral," Jonesy gasped. "Get a load of this place."

"Make yourselves at home," Cleveland said, gesturing to the living room. "I'll go pour the drinks." And then he disappeared around the corner and ducked into the kitchen.

"You sure we can sit down on this stuff?" Samson asked, rubbing the velvet slip-cover protecting the sofa. "Seems to me this kind of furniture is more for looking than for sitting."

Gecko sat down in a loveseat, still clutching onto Lila's hand. She sat down next to him and rubbed his back while he cried. "I know I shut the window over his bed last night," he said, shaking his head. "I just don't understand."

Sophie was still troubled and wore it all over her face. She seemed agitated, distracted. Something was wrong here, she just knew it. The immaculate condition of the house, coupled with what her mother had said (steer clear of the pink-eyed man) this morning, unnerved her to the point of being nautious. "I need to find the powder room," she whispered under her breath and scampered off down a long hallway.

"Don't stray off too far," Samson called out after her but she didn't respond.

The hallway was long and narrow and covered with the portraits of strangers. Old men, middle-aged women. Young men. Children. Teenaged girls. So many faces, all wearing the same, queer expression. Not smiling or frowning but something inbetween; a look of shame, almost, as if they were embarrassed to have their pictures taken. Sophie returned her attention to finding the toilet when something suddenly caught her eye and she stopped in her tracks. She turned to the last picture hanging on the wall and studied the young and haunted face staring back at her. Sophie knew this face. Recognized it immediately. It was the young nurse from the hospital. It was Elizabeth's face.

to be continued!