A brisk draft blows in from an open window and sends a chill up my spine. The alcohol permeating from my skin rises up into my nostrils, and the burning sensation stirs me from my booze induced coma. I awake on my couch with liquor cascading down my chest onto the floor. There is no immediate action on my part to contain the spill; instead, I lay motionless staring at the ceiling. I derive comfort from the stillness; and blandness of the white paint soothes my aching eyes. A quick glance toward the bookshelf breaks my concentration.

I bungle onto my feet, the world seemingly spinning beneath me. Bear, the trusty sidekick, sticks close as I journey to the other side of the room. Fast food wrappers and empty bottles lay on the ground beneath my bare feet, and serve as a barrier to my destination. The soft velvet box comes as a relief to my fingertips as I caress the corners of the case. The headset inside will be a further relief to my sight, and my inconsolable grief. As the silicon curves around my face and drowns me in illusion, I eagerly anticipate the solace. No matter how short lived.

"Did you miss me?" she asks. Her breath inches away from my neck.
"Hard to say," I answer.
"More like hard to admit," she counters.
"Guess we'll never know," I reply.
"I didn't expect to see you tonight," she says; immediately she intertwines our hands.

I am taken by the sight of her lips as they guide my steps forward. She draws me into a private library that is filled wall to wall with books. The large mahogany shelves tower over us, extending from floor to ceiling. With our hands still clutched tightly, we inch toward a brown reading chair centered in the middle of the room. She twirls quickly, gently pushing me backwards into the seat before finally collapsing into my lap. The fabric of her red dress cascades over my legs as she wraps her bare milky arms around my neck.

"Root— what are we doing here?"
She picks up a book from a nearby table and gives it to me. "Can we read this tonight?" she asks.
"Why, we never read at the same pace," I say, putting the book down.
"What's wrong sweetie?" she asks, while stroking my cheek.
"Nothing," I say.
She tilts her head slightly, "Maybe this will cheer you up," she says. Her lips forcefully collide into mine, catching me off guard. I flinch slightly, then surrender to the weight of her embrace.

My chronic carnal yearning is satiated by the mirrored intensity of her own appetite. She pulls back and stares intensely into my eyes. I remain motionless while she attempts to delve into my soul. Suddenly, her body erupts into an unwarranted fit of passion and she showers me with more fiery kisses. But I'm unmoved by her enthusiasm. My thoughts are consumed by a chubby and curly haired distraction.

I push her away. "Stop..." I demand. I remove myself from the chair, allowing her to shift into my place.
"Do you want me to leave?" she asks, staring at me longingly.
"No," I say.
"Then I'll stay," she says; leaning back into the chair.
I kneel in front of her, "This isn't right."
"Tell me what's wrong," she says while taking my hand, "I'll make it better."
"I shouldn't be here with you."
"Why not?" she asks; a speck of sorrow in her voice.
"Because I made a promise to a friend," I say.
"The Machine?" she asks.

I allow my mind to reconcile the question being asked, "Yeah sorta," I reply.
"Then, you should go," she insists.
"I can't just leave you here like this." The alarm sounds.
"Times up sweetie," she says with a smile.

The simulation ends, returning me back into the reality of my tiny desolate apartment. Bear is scoping me out from the corner of the room. He prefers me when I'm sober. My feet touch the floor and I'm overtaken by a small bout of turbulence. I wearily grab my jacket and trot out the door. My watch reads eleven fifteen. I'm already thirty minutes late. It's only a stake out. How much could I have missed?


There's a raging fire where the living room should be when I arrive on scene. The heat from the blaze warms the cold night air and covers the night sky with smoke and ash. Groups of neighbors congregate outside their homes to observe, but they maintain a safe distance from the rising flames. I surveil the area and spot Fusco's Crown Vic parked across the street. He's not there, then it occurs to me that he may be inside amongst the burning rubble.

My feet rush toward the inferno before my brain can process any further thought. Flames singe my face as smoke assaults my lungs upon entrance into the house. Using the sleeve of my jacket as a makeshift mask, I proceed recklessly into the cinder filled home. Something on the other side of the smoke screen catches my attention. A set of legs peek from behind the kitchen table. I rush over and find our target dead. One bullet through his temple, coupled with bruises on his face suggests it wasn't natural causes.

The wide open door entices me to retreat; but the ferocious flames draw my attention toward the staircase. An irrational assumption: he may be unconscious upstairs; and I cannot leave until my theory is proven untrue. Continuing with my streak of recklessness I advance toward the scorched staircase. A loud crackle resonates above me, and before I can determine where the sound is coming from, the ceiling collapses. I jump backwards to avoid the debris, but a burning beam hits me in the stomach, knocking me to the ground.

I attempt to retreat but am stalled by another beam that has toppled behind me. Burnt flesh smells horrible; and it's even worse when it's your own. The exertion I muster in an attempt to flee causes more smoke to enter my lungs. I notice the skin peel from my hands while I try to cover my mouth. Again, I try to rise but the heat is overwhelming, smothering, and unbearable. The fire devours the space and oxygen around me; gradually, I desist from trying to escape. Flames creep closer as my will power whittles away beneath the smoke, then slowly my eyes peel closed.

A muffled voice calls out, "Shaw wake up!" —I ignore it at first — "Shaw it's me." My eyes pierce open but my vision remains blurred. A hazy slender figure is frantically attempting to reach me, I cannot discern who it might be. From the tone of voice I can deduce the person is female. She kicks a piece of sizzling wood to the side and bolts toward me. Through my intermittent sight, she appears through a gust of smoke. Her pale skin and long brown hair seemingly prominent.

"Root..." I gasp.
"Shaw, it's me, Harper."

She lifts me to my feet and we rush toward the back of the house. Her brown skin and dark curly hair registers to me once we are clear of the smoke. We make it safely to the backyard and she places me cautiously on the grass. I struggle to breathe as the air fights to return to my lungs. My rescuer stands over me gasping for her own air, trying advertently to make direct eye contact. I take care not to let her get what she wanted. The sudden sound of grass rustling makes her draw the gun from her boot and point in the direction of the noise. After a few seconds Lionel appears from the bushes.

"Ladies, we gotta go," he insists.

Harper helps me to my feet, then the three of us run toward the front of the house. Multiple fire trucks are racing down the street as we make our way to the sedan. I take solace in the backseat while Lionel and Harper take the front. We take off into the night without interruption.