Unforgettable

by FaziO

Unforgettable, that's what you are. Unforgettable, though near or far. Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me. Never before, has someone been more, Unforgettable in every way. And forever more, that's how you'll stay…

7. Chapter 7

Unforgettable

A/N: Hello—lo—lo—lo—lo…

Anyone out there—eh—eh—eh—eh?

Yelling into the abyss—ss—ss—ss—sss…

What's with the chilly reception, huh? Cloudy with a chance of echoing acoustics? Or the sound of silent protest?

Not that I blame you. It's been a hot minute between updates. My bad.

Perhaps, though, it's the Amnesiac SL that strains credulity for you? Yeah, I doubt that this was what Nat King Cole had in mind about being Unforgettable.

Or maybe that other reason? You know the one.

Ixnay the owshay? Oycottbay that oxictay otray? Ipskay the essmay?

Yeah. Me too. All of the above.

Anyways…

Are we Japril distancing or in Japril Quarantine, Peeps? No need to panic, Plandemic.

Okay, okay, calm down. Dramatic much?

Just adding a bit o whimsy to this intro. And maybe a wee bite of Total World Order Domination?

Alas, I've gotten more than a little creative with the timeline too, playing fast and loose with some current events. Yep, 2020 vision isn't all it's cracked up to be.

So, I've taken heed. And I hear ya. Or not, as the case may be. Where this installment was meant to conclude the tale, I've been gently prodded to get my ass into gear by that one person – or possibly three – on AO3, and give this story a proper send-off by not rushing the ending. Who knows, eight seems to have been my lucky number for past multi fics…

Disclaimer: As with previous chapters… The characters, even those forgotten and discarded, belong to Shonda Rhimes. Well, except for the fringe ones my imagination supplied to this fic.

PS: Holla at me if you want the Pig Latin translated. Hint, it's all about those vowels, bout those vowels… not consonants ;-)

PPS: In honor of August being Women's Month followed by Springy September (here in sunny but still coldish South Africa) a nice long April POV chapter. Enjoy :-)

PPPS: On a more private note… To all the Japril friends I've lost along the way, Miss U Guyz.

With Cancel Culture being all the rage, I have to apologize to friends I may have pushed away, some maybe even inadvertently. I still believe that for social justice to prevail, institutions and individuals oppressing others and perpetrating unfairness, should be called out or boycotted. THEY deserve to be cancelled.

To that end, I haven't watched GA since Sarah Drew's firing. Her final episode was mine too. Finishing my incomplete works is a labor of love for what was. Also, you may have noticed some anger and bitterness spillage making it's way into the fics themselves – sorry for that. Tiny bit of overkill, hey :-P

Anyway, if you're feeling Japril nostalgic, might I suggest you take yourself over to Collective Challenge stories. Talented writers, Wonderful friends. Wish that last one – Animated Japril – had more submissions though…

---

Chapter 7

She'd felt strange today.

Or rather stranger still. More than her new normal anyways. The anticipation of an unknown presence at the edge of her consciousness coupled with a sensation-numbing certainty of the wrongness of his absence. A soothing cadence echoing from her dreams. Yet the voice so elusively out of reach during those awake times.

Then there was that peculiar hint of a scent. Yeah, no. It was weird. Like individual fumes coursing through a maze on a seemingly attempted one-upmanship race for dominance within her olfactory senses.

Hey, maybe in a previous remembrance she'd worked a Macy's Perfume Counter? Perhaps even gone on an acid trip past life regression to the Roaring Twenties? Century of Flapper Fashion and Al Capone, of course. Obviously not last weeks Back to the Future-ness.

Now if she was simply chucking ridiculous, scent-saturated sensory notions into the Black Hole that was her memory, then how bout a new-age finagled, Peyote-induced Walkabout? Or even the taking of a vow of silence in one of those materialistic minimalist, faux-natural accented, Yogic Ashrams that tried to look like they belonged deep in the Himalayas?

In all honesty though, she did not see herself as a Silence of the Lambs personality. Neither silent be she, nor a lamb off to… slaughter-ee?

Okay look, you couldn't tell her that the verse didn't just silently scream out for an iambic pentameter, now would you?

Be that as it may, if one were to lead by the nose, then of the four scenarios, she would have to go with the first. Those black and white oldies sure gave the Perfume Saleslady Profession a glamorous make-over, no?

The bouquet – maybe a Winery? – seemed to have faint notes of Fifth Avenue Nouveau Riche duking it out with woodsy, earthy undertones of sweaty Lumberjack. Individually overpowering, combined they appeared harmoniously balanced. Pretentious even – like a full-bodied red – but without being overtly obnoxious about it. By turns, each seemed to subtly nose the other out.

Both the contrasting aromas however, were overlaid by a stringent, almost noxious odor of disinfectant. Forgotten deodorant not even scratching the itch – tickling the sneeze? – of this fragrance medley.

Maybe she was a poet… and didn't know it! Hah. Or a song writer?

Yep, whatevs.

Those eyes though… and that intense stare that seemed to pierce her very soul. They reached out through her unconscious. Inscrutable, they appeared as mercurial as the ever-changing ocean. One moment calm and serene, the next brewing an electrical storm. They skirted that nightmarish scenario of a demonic stare pinning her to the spot. But what saved them both, him and her, was the thawing of that icy gaze.

Clash of the Titanics, huh? Big boat meets Ice Cube. Luckily not Ice T. Now that woulda caused a humdinger of a special victim. Talk about the effect of a great force meeting that immovable object. Bam! Tsunami.

Apparently, the floating iceberg had nothing on this guy. But the melting of that icecap…? Yeah. Not Warming on any Global scale, per se. So mayhap individual defrosting brought into play? Demystifying that would likely herald the release of a hidden blanket of warmth. Along with the demeanor of a thoughtful intellect and a sparkling twinkle that connoted a surprising sense of humor.

Witty banter it would have been. Likely, probably was. If only her waking moments did not disappear any vestige of recollection. Poof, dissipated in a metaphorical puff of smoke. Like clockwork. Each morning as she arose from the arms of slumber, it retreated into repose.

Morpheus be like that. Possessive asshole.

Just out of reach, they were. Memories. Not lighting the corners of her mind. Misty, watercolor memories… Aaarrgh… So Barbara, of what way were they again?

It was like that oldish-era classic on the tube the other day. Wolf-Hawke. No. She-Hawke? Unlikely. Air Wolfe? Nah. But there were definitely Hawks and Wolves. The latter not seeming to be given prominence in the title, maybe? She kinda felt surer about the birds thing though… Something something Hawke?

Perhaps Charades would help. Old school, yep – no BLeBRiTY SHLeBRiTY for her – but this she was fairly certain she was good at.

It wasn't bragging if you could back it up, you know. So yeah, it sparked her competitive spirit. Even if it was only herself she bested. She wasn't one for empty promises. What she was, was a firm proponent of the 'Practice makes perfect' school of thought. And on the plus side, if repetition was the mother of memory, then an amnesiac could hope, right? Repeating an action just made you better at it. Whatever the IT was. Like repetitive baking. Why, that was the entire concept of Great British Bake-off, yes?

So, like… Serial Killers too? Dang! Loophole? Or did it mean she'd have to rethink her philosophy? Nah. What's to say that murderous psychopaths didn't adhere to a strict work ethic either?

Right. Anyone up for a guess? So, here goes.

Two – maybe three? – syllables. Movie. Girl ... Woman … Female … Lady? Lady—fingers. Uh, no. They weren't making Tiramisu here. Flying Bird? Hmmm. Girl-Hawke? LadyBird...?

Yeah, no. Didn't ring true. All close, but no cigar.

Shit. She knew she knew this. Remembering ain't what it used to be. She would have to DuckDuckGo it or it would bug her forever. From Duckie to symbolic Swan, eh? Quack-Quack.

Aah. Ladyhawke. Made sense. Duh, Doe.

That's Doe. April Doe. Movies, Googled not Guessed.

Speaking of names… now why did she have to go and choose one for herself that sounded ridiculous when contracted? Only a Neanderthal would call her "Apes."

So, Ladyhawke. Three syllables.

In the show, Michelle Pfeiffer and Rutger Hauer were lovers cursed by the medieval equivalent of an envious Sheriff, who wanted the girl.

Ain't that always the case?

What was it about law enforcement that, without fail, drew in those types who believed it was their right to take whomever and whatever they wanted? However they wanted. Up to cutting out a rival's heart with a dull spoon. Don't even ask. Cough—Sheriff of Nottingham—Cough.

Heavy-handed power trip, eh? By The Popo…

"C'mon, that's just fiction," you may be tempted to scoff at the comparison. And you would be correct. Somewhat. That saying about art imitating life…? Now who would think to use the juxtaposition in the entertainment industry, right? Damn, that sarcastic wit tickled fast into quite the giggle fest.

Speaking of uncontrollable laughter… Stand-up must surely have been her jam. Seriously. She killed at it. Like an assassin.

Affirmative, yo. She could confirmative.

So look. In either sphere, real or fake, it was true. Cops weren't called Pigs for nothing. Surviving Police Brutality – especially while Black… Yeah, Black Lives Matter – one needed to collectively protest or safely amscray from those bottom-feeding, filth-scrounging Oinkers. The word scramble was called Pig Latin for a reason and well, if the snout fit… it probably would. Into a doughnut hole.

Long story snort—err short, the beautiful damsel became a Hawk during daylight hours, and the manly man a Wolf at night. Yep. A heads I win, tails you lose situation. And lose the lovers did. The only time they got to be together in their natural human forms was that split second when the sun began to rise. As night turned to day. Just that one moment in time.

Okay, so the equivalence was a bit of a reach and big picture, was an unlikely and not really relatable love story. But it was oh so bittersweet… and romantic. Sigh. Not to mention frustrating. Yeah, that sentiment she could get behind. Except, regarding herself, the game of chicken was between her and her memories. Blink and you missed it.

Now, she had no time to ponder, to sit and reflect, on the mystery of it all. The curveball that Life seemed to have thrown at her was a much more pressing concern. Feeding, clothing, educating – generally everything required to bring up her son – were her immediate priorities.

Her son. No, not the current occupant of her womb, even if the baby was a he. This child of her body, gifted to her courtesy of Immaculate Conception. Not in any religious context, mind you. She was no Virgin April. At least, that was the assumption. Memory notwithstanding, evidence supported that conclusion. So yeah, Immaculate in the sense of having no remembrance of how she'd come to be in this condition. Okay, not how how, since she wasn't clueless about the mechanics. Even if she was slightly birth-control challenged. Perhaps she should simply say being in the dark as to her baby daddy.

But, no. Here she meant her other kid. Her son. The Angel child of her heart.

There was just something so familiar about him… about his eyes. A feeling? An emotional connection? His vibrational energy? That immediate attachment? A hidden, deep-seated need to be accepted… loved even?

Yeah. She got all that from his eyes. And they were pretty too.

She had the strong sense that being his mother, she would be the most important relationship in his life.

Currently for her, living entailed working to exist, and motherhood. With moments of almost memory seeming to be just beyond her grasp. Mostly in that space between sleep and wakefulness when the presence of a strong pair of arms protectively enclosing her, was a possibility. And where, without the spectre of this homie, the vibe didn't feel quite right.

And now when Dré needed her. Just as she'd needed him. She had faith in them and an unshakeable belief that they were meant to find each other. Him changing his past abusive name, after having slipped through the cracks of the US Child Welfare and Foster Care System. Her, still incognito, but rejecting the anonymity of Jane Doe for a lesser anonymous. A clean slate for both.

Although it was not fair for his tiny frame to bear this heavy burden of her, he was her lifeline. Essential to her very existence. But she consoled herself with the thought that the turntables had… turned? Wait, what… the Michael Scott?! She just meant that it was up to her to carry the load now. Her shoulders were broad. And well, she was a shark. Just as a shark would die if it stopped swimming, so too could that life lesson be applied here. The only way for her to survive was to keep moving forward. Swish swish.

Notwithstanding the how of it, she was also Dré's parent. Of course, being his own keeper for much of his young life, there had been an initial battle of wills. But she had stood her ground. That's who she was; a woman of integrity, one who kept her promises. At least, she hoped so. Be that as it may, that's who she was now. She finally knew that her perseverance had paid off when, unbidden, she'd been surprised with that first, hard won, "Mom" and its interchangeable buddy, the diminutive "Ma". It was like music to her ears. Her kid was hers.

At times she'd self-chastised, though. "André is his own person," she would repeatedly remind herself. With the unspoken reprimand, of course, being that her little man was not a convenient companion to ease her loneliness with nor a charity case to mirror a purposeful life.

In her rational moments she knew all this. It was aggravating though. That uphill battle for even a glimmer of thought to jog those synapses into action. Not to mention her having to circumnavigate the law. Which was the only way she'd be able to be his mother, to nurture this child of her soul. Her end goal for them to become only one thing. Family.

---

"Hey. What's up? Back from school already?"

"Umm—yeah… And uh… no?"

Could he be any more cryptic? The boy got real shifty when he was trying to keep something from her.

"What? What does that even mean? Did school let out or not?"

"Not exactly."

She smelt a rat. Yeah, she knew that he wouldn't outright lie to her. Which was not to say that he never skirted the truth. Usually in one of three ways. Either by being non-committal, utterly silent or, as evidenced here, feeding her non-answers.

Although she didn't have much time and needed to make tracks soon to her other job, she motioned him to the Diner kitchen. They didn't need an audience here. This was not a free-for-all. "Dré…" she tried a patient tone but a sliver of exasperation, fond though it was, seeped through. "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't ditch anymore, bud?"

"Yeah, bout that…"

"Don't tell me that you haven't been going at all? We discussed this and you agreed. I thought you were being straight with me. Where have you been going everyday then? Coz I didn't just imagine you getting ready every morning for school." She couldn't blame pregnancy hormones for her outburst here. Being a parent to a pre pre-teen was enough to drive any sane person from zero to volatile.

"No! I swear I've been goin. Word. Went today too. It's just that I heard... err—and…"

"What? What did you hear?"

Silence. Then he seemed to go on the defensive. "Nothing. Wasn't nothin."

So much for being unable to lie to her. Lying by omission was still a lie, no? She hit that nail on its head. Now he just needed to fess up.

"If you hadn't skipped English then you would already know that a double negative is an absolute no-no. Pun intended," she murmured the last under her breath. "Not nothin is somethin, kiddo. So spill." At least she'd collected herself, retained a modicum of control. Her voice was calmness personified. Even cracking a pun. Punning a crack? Nah, scratch that. She did not promote the white powder. Don't do Drugs, kids. Stay in School.

"I had to take care of a thing, kay? No biggie."

"Yes, biggie. Ditching school is a big deal, Dré. To get anywhere in this world, you need a formal education."

"Knowledge which is acquired under compulsion obtains no hold on the mind… Plato," was smugly quoted to her in response.

"Smartass." But she grinned as she said it, impressed by his chutzpah. "See, you just proved my point. Answer me this… How was a quote by Plato able to stick in that hard head of yours, huh?" she quizzed. "School, that's how." This time the self-satisfaction was all hers. If it didn't border on condescending she might just have given herself a pat on the back. Oh, what the hell. She winked at Dré as she pantomimed the Obama Brush. Dirt off her shoulder, Mon.

"Not so Speedy there, Gonzales. I read it today at the Hos… err, nevermind."

"So you read Philosophy for fun, huh?" Shocker. But still a win in her book. She was impressed. Her kid was a reader and wise beyond his years. Yet, at times, the young child made an appearance. Surviving on the streets, André had had to grow up so fast. But he'd managed to retain some childish exuberance. Evidenced by his referencing an Animated Mexican Mouse.

His loud guffaw caught her off-guard. "It was in a magazine at the…"

Aah, the other part of his sentence. Which he'd tried hiding from her? Or not, as he'd given himself away. Twice. The boy was not sloppy. "Which hospital keeps Philosophy Magazines?" She took a chance. Though it worried her to wonder why, there was only one type of place that she could think of that began with 'Hos'.

"Grey Sloan Memorial." He gave it up easily. Which confirmed her suspicions that he'd been leading her to it. Coincidence? She thought not.

That hospital though… anytime she came across the name it did something to her brain. Some kind of Neuro-linguistic Programming maybe? GSM accompanying a pounding headache meant that she avoided the spot, and tried distancing herself from any mention of it. Even knowing that Dré's Surgeon – should he ever get his damn act together – practiced out of those rooms. Likely Nip, Tuck and Lipo Central over there. Rife with nose jobs, boob implants, butt lifts, tummy tucks and the all-important fat sucking. Catering to the moneyed, moneyed, moneyed… kissing plastic ass. The Real Housewives of Politics.

Seriously, what was up with the bitchiness? Get it together, girl. There was nothing to be bitter about. Not really. And she wasn't one to make snap judgements either. Not usually. There was just something about the hovering presence that aggravated, looming over her like a dark cloud.

Rubbing her temples, she got back to the topic at hand. Practicing her own form of mental hygiene, as it were. "Regardless, you gotta know how necessary schooling is? You have to be educated, bud. This gig has no short cuts and yeah, you're gonna have to work your butt off. But then… then you can school others. And you'll have the receipts to back you up."

"I know, Ma," he mumbled, seemingly contrite. But having gotten this earful before, it was more likely a resigned acceptance.

She was on a roll, though, and plenty immersed. Her headache all but forgotten. Ha-ha. An Amnesiac forgetting? Who woulda thunk? In all frankness she'd had it up to her eyeballs with the memory jokes, even those self-inflicted. They got old real fast.

But unremembering the back of the head throbbing? That she didn't much mind. Unless the symptom was indicative of a stroke. Or the Big C. Or even The Pandemic C. Then ignoring it wasn't the wisest course of action, huh?

Maybe she was a Neurologist. Ophthalmologist? Virologist? No, not Oncologist. That would be heartbreaking.

So, yeah anyway, if she had to drill the message repeatedly to get through to him, then she would go there. If he didn't want the speech then he should've just lied to her. Okay, so she didn't really want that either. Now that pushed her buttons. She got so worked up that the realization that he had to have a reason for volunteering his screw-up didn't immediately register. "You got street smarts and that's an advantage. But think of what you could do with an education too? Anything you set your mind to." In lecture mode, she asked and answered her own questions. Maybe she was a Teacher? "The world would be your oyster, and it would all be yours for the taking." By observing the slight lift to one eyebrow she figured that clichés didn't seem to be cutting it in the motivational department. So she tried a more practical approach. "You don't want to have to hustle for the rest of your life, do you? And I'll do whatever I need to get you to a tertiary education. Bursaries, Programs, After-school Credits… whatever. I'm there. But you gotta do your part, André. I have so much faith in you. I know you got the goods, man." Out of breath, she chanced a quick glance to see if her words were having any impact. Boy, was the boy hard to read sometimes. His once again inscrutable expression gave nothing away here. Well, nearly nothing. Was that a glimpse of contrition… guilt almost? Since she'd known him, he'd always been such a responsible kid. Overly protective anyway. But something was rotten in the state of Denmark. She needed to get to the bottom of it. Dr. Gibson would just have to understand. "What's really going on, André? What are you not telling me?"

With a seemingly almost resigned acceptance, he grumbled, "How do you do that?"

"I'm a mom." Nuff said.

---

After a quick call she fixed him a couple of sandwiches and waited. Thankfully Max's Diner didn't follow the traditional definition of a diner. For one thing it was more upper class and didn't serve greasy fast food. Perhaps better presented, slightly slower food? For another it boasted good quality, shiny, regularly spotlessly cleaned and disinfected equipment. All this in a spacious kitchen that somehow managed to house a smallish nook where the chefs and wait staff could, by turns, have their meal breaks.

Like a starving hound he attacked his food, almost seeming to inhale it. His Pavlovian response to food. She was used to that though, figuring it stemmed from the time he'd had to scrounge for every scrap, every morsel. Also, growing boys, yeah? Usually he never slowed down until he'd hoovered it all. But today, around the third or fourth huge bite he mumbled, "Err—don't you have to get to the Clinic? Dr. G is not a patient woman. Patient, hah. Get it?" The deflection and nervous laughter did not divert her, though it did give her pause. Whatever this was, it was big.

"No sweat. Sofia will manage to cover the admin desk for me till I get there. Now, what's…?"

"Coz you know, what if she fires you?" he interrupted. "Actually, you know what? You work too hard anyway so maybe… no, no you need to be there. She'll help you, when the baby comes." Okay, now he really had her worried. The vacillating was one thing, but bringing up the baby? – a subject he studiously avoided? – was not only astounding it immediately red-flagged that something was up.

"What is going on, Dré?" She tried soothing, gentle and calm. It was her default go-to with difficult patients and parents at the OBCC, who ironically, had no patience. She was just the admin, the front-desk, so it was par for the course that she would bear the brunt of irate, sometimes scared voices. But recently she'd discovered she had a knack for more than busy bookwork and scheduling. She also was not squeamish about blood and other nasty bodily excretions. Maybe she was a Nurse?

"You know this sandwich is delish. Good. You cook good. What all you put in here? Mayo, Ketchup and Mustard? It's a… err—interesting?... combination. Surprisingly good too. I like it. And…"

"Cut it out." She also had it in her to be firm and no-nonsense. This was one of those times. "Tell me."

"Okay, okay. Calm your tits."

"Say what now?" At least he had the grace to look sheepish. "Language, Jack! You better check yaself, son."

"Sorry, Ma'am. My bad."

"Don't think you can distract me, either."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Ma."

"Seriously?"

"You betcha."

"Then why am I still waiting? C'mon now, spit it out."

"Yeah. Right. So you remember the time… Sorry," he laughed at her arched brow and wry grimace. His own grin more natural this time. It was kinda their inside joke, coz, of course, she couldn't.

"Dré…" she began warningly.

"I wasn't funning. Honest." Apparently steeling himself, he inhaled a huge gulp of air before continuing. "I meant… when we first met."

"Right. When you and Father Jordan found me unconscious and rescued me."

"No… no. Before that. I—I…"

"Honey, whatever it is, just tell me."

"I left you there," he whispered so softly that she had to strain to actually catch his words. "I just left you there."

"What? No. You found me. That's why I'm here today," she insisted.

"Don't you understand?! It's because of me that you were hurt. I—I ran away. And they hurt you," he cried, his anguished voice stirring her Mama Bear instinct to soothe her child.

Who were they and what exactly did they do to him… and her, she wondered? And why did her child carry the weight of it? What was this guilt that ate at him? Quite possibly, his overinflated sense of responsibility rearing its heavy head again. With a calmness that belied her creeping anxiety for him, she took his flailing hand into both of hers. "André. Look at me. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Whatever you tell me, I'm not going anywhere," she emphasized. "We'll get to the bottom of why you think you had anything to do with it. One step at a time, okay bud? Capiche? C'mon now, walk me through our first meeting together. And don't leave anything out."

Now while she didn't for a second believe that he was in any way responsible for her condition, she had to tread lightly so as to not spook him into clamping up again.

Despite their short acquaintance, she'd gotten a fairly good read on him. Damn, he was just a kid, but beneath that tough exterior he showed to the world lay a sensitive old soul. His vulnerability? He was quick to hide it. Those walls were high. Until they weren't. When someone whose presence he needed in his life, in turn needed him.

Being neglected and deserted, first by the person who should have had his back, then repeatedly by the system, he'd somehow, in spite of those deficits, singlehandedly cultivated an empathetic persona. Empathy. That was his love language.

So while she wasn't a Psychologist, Profiler or Professional People Reader – or was she? – here is where nature took over. Or did she mean nurture? Good thing she wasn't a Diagnostician like House, MD. She couldn't even pronounce Sarcoidosis, Amyloidosis or any of the Dosises. Dosai? Let alone know what all those big words meant. Unlike House, she didn't have a God-complex either.

Steeling himself he seemed to brush off negative energy. She always knew that he possessed a firm resolve and once he made up his mind he got things done. Yeah. Nothing could keep him down. He was Teflon.

"Umm. Where to begin?" he wondered out loud. Seemed to be more of a self-reflective, rhetorical question though.

She had no problem prodding him with the obvious answer. "Start at the very beginning," she laughingly replied, trying to interject a smidge of Sound of Music humor to what was bound to get full on serious soon.

Exactly how the freaking old was she to know this, she wondered.

In the meantime the remainder of the tune hummed in her head...

Let's start at the very beginning… A very good place to start… When you read you begin with ABC… When you… count you begin with 123?

Huh… Counting not singing? But numbers… yeah. The letters of math. Maybe she was an Accountant?

Leave it to her brain to Jazz up the famous song by substituting Do-Re-Mi with 1-2-3. If it wouldn't have spooked her boy and made her look like a loon – not to mention being physically impossible – then she would've smacked herself roundly. Hey now, of course that didn't make her a masochist. Or would the word have to be sadist instead? Whatever it was, a glutton for punishment, yeah? Okay, you got her. She was simply thinking metaphorically for effect.

But really, there had to be some serious defect in her Grey Matter. Why was she unable to recall simply one of her past favorite things yet she managed to retain the entire Turner Classic Movie Channel? Understandable – to Neuro Specialists not lay people, she supposed – since the human brain was the most complex object in the universe… according to the human brain.

"Mom… Ma? Are you listening to me?"

Well yes, but actually no. "Err—yeah, yeah of course. All yours. Continue."

"I haven't started yet. You just looked kinda spaced out. Are you okay?"

"I'm sorry!" She was mortified. How could this instill confidence that she would be all there all the time for him, if she couldn't even pull herself together enough to get her mind to concentrate? Maybe she had ADD? "I didn't mean to drift. It's just, you were starting at the beginning, like Maria. You know… Julie Andrews? And that made me think of the song. Then the movie. Then favorite things. And I started wondering what mine were and that made me mad at myself. Such a Grumpus," she sighed, wondering for a second where she'd picked up that nonsense word. "I'm sorry I got distracted. I didn't mean to be a Flibbertijibbet," she rambled on. This time quite clear on the memory birth of the latter jibber-jabber gibberish. Did you think she was gonna go with the alliteration, making it jibberish? Yeah, no. She may be unpredictable, but not deliberately perverse just to be provocative. C'mon man, common sense here. You know it's gotta be gif not jif, girl. Jirl? So much Jabberwocky afoot. "I'm not making light of anything, okay? And I want to hear everything. You have my full attention, André. I promise."

"I believe you, Ma. Even when you make up strange words," he laughed. "You always listen. Sometimes too much," he grinned too, obviously tryna give her a break.

Attentive listening had the unintended consequence though of reading too much into what was said and what wasn't shared. Well, for her anyway. Quite contrary, huh Mary? But she let him have this. "Hey! Check yourself before you wreck yourself, buddy," she chuckled while saying it. Where the freck did she come up with this stuff?! You know what they said, right? Location, Location, Location.

"I tried to make it right, you know. But Lobo is not known for his patience. Or for giving breaks."

Okay, so sue her. This wasn't therapy and she knew that the boy had his own way of telling the story. "Lobo?"

"Rafael Villalobos. Aka Rio. Boss of The Lobos."

"But doesn't Lobo mean Lone Wolf? How can a gang be called Lone Wolves? It's an oxymoron."

"I think it just means Wolf. But yeah, Villalobos is a moron. I know, I know," he kiboshed her interruption, "that's not what an oxymoron is. I told you I haven't been skipping school," he gloated. "But Rio… he's not the brightest bulb in the meth lab. Uhh—I mean shed," he swiftly returned to conventional comparison, probably noticing the change to her expressive brow. "He fell into some shit but pure dumb luck got him coming up smelling roses."

"Doubtful, that. Unless you talking manure, I suppose."

"Look, he's a creep." He clearly ignored the insert from the peanut gallery. "Yet somehow he's running a gang. Successfully, too. If his bling and rep and babes—," he fake coughed, "err, female companions," he corrected himself, "have anything to do with it. He's also super paranoid and trigger happy. Dangerous combo. So yeah, any little thing that he takes as an act of aggression or worse, disloyalty, he rewards with a bullet to the brain. Courtesy of any one of his lieutenants, so that his own hands stay clean. Maybe that's why nobody's been able to pin anything on him."

"The authorities…?"

"Not interested. Likely they're on his payroll. Or he's supplying them with… stuff. Incentives, you know. Some he got hooked on his… other product. And once that happens all he has to do is reel the fish in."

This sounded too much like first-hand experience. It was enough to raise goosebumps on her flesh. "You had run ins with him? You know him?" her voice quivered slightly with fear, grieving for his lost childhood. Her subconscious found that the idea was too abhorrent to contemplate.

"Yeah. He's a playa. The douche-bag kind. He thinks he's charming, a regular ladies man. But he's just a low-life thug." He was matter of fact about it, like reading stats off a teleprompter. "He started out as a pimp, a con-man who convinced women into giving it up to him, then roped them into the game with big promises." His slight pause here was the only indication that it was gonna get real personal. "He got her hooked after I was born, I guess. You know how I know this? It's only coz this trick baby," he pointed, his right thumb turned backwards toward himself, "wasn't a crack baby."

Her heart ached for what he, her innocent child, had been put through. But for that one thing she was grateful. At least he wasn't born addicted to drugs.

"So you have history with Villalobos. Is he your…?" She was hesitant in the asking, but she needed to know. Why else would they be talking about the gangster? And it seemed so… so up close. In your face personal. Unless…

"Ugh. As if. No way, Jose." A triple negative? Clearly the emphatic denial confirmed the level of veracity. Lo-bo was definitely not daddy-o. "Anyway, Kelli would have leveraged that. Besides, I don't look anything like him."

"Then, why…? What does he have to do with us?"

"He…" he seemed to hesitate, "he's just a very bad guy."

"Sounds like he belongs behind bars. Where's Benson when you need her, right? The victim just has to come forward."

"Uhh, so you want the bad news... or the… bad news?"

"What? I don't understand."

"The special victim? That would be you."

"No way."

"Way."

"So wait… what exactly are you saying here?" Did she somehow suffer from alcohol poisoning?! Or had Mr. Criminal drugged her?! She couldn't even comprehend of the R-word that would classify her a Special Victim.

"That day, when we found you? Err—" he coughed again, clearly uncomfortable with this part. "Err—yeah. So you weren't exactly lost. I knew where you were."

"Wait, is this true? You know who I was—am?" unconsciously giving herself away. At least how she thought of her life. Then and now.

"No, no. I didn't mean it like that. It's just… I was there. When you interrupted Lobo, I was there."

Say what now? "I know this Lobo?" her expression paired with the high pitch squeak of her voice, probably gave away her incredulity. "What—I mean, how? Was he my pimp? My dealer? My baby daddy?!" Who knew a voice could reach that decibel? That last one…? Yeah, it scrambled her brain. Actually, all of them did. Although it was a subconscious bias, she'd prided herself on taking care of Dré as her own child. Not as a charity case, mind you, but some deep, deep part of her did look down upon his birth parent, disgusted with her choices. But, now? She had to wonder. Had it been an unconscious case of transference? Was she no better than Kelli, then?!

Shocked as she was, she didn't miss Dré's sigh. "No, Ma. You're overthinking again. Before that day I don't think you'd ever met."

"Wait. Hold up. Hold up. Then how—what was I doing there?" The feeling of foreboding still persisted. Why was she not reassured?

Prevaricating over, he came right out and said it. "You were rescuing me."

So she was right to feel apprehensive. Dré had been in danger all along.

"I—I don't understand. How did I do that? And, more importantly, why did you need to be saved?" They'd way surpassed subtle persuasion, so she simply got down to the nitty gritty.

His initial look of awkwardness quickly gave way to a nervous apprehension. No! Had this been an attempted physical assault? Rape, even? That dreaded, awful R-word again. But not of her, this time. Of him. It did not bear thinking about.

"They've been trying to recruit me for as long as I can remember. First, by wanting me to take over from Kelli… No, not that," he clarified, possibly gauging her shocked expression. "Moving product. Low level drug running," he explained. "I don't half-step on the 'caine."

"Say what now?"

"Jus schooling you on Hip-Hop. Like Jay-Z with that Triple Entendre Rap."

"Wait, triple? How is that pos...? No, no, I don't want to know. Stop distracting me! Tell me about the drugs."

"I didn't do it, Ma. I got by without having to resort to that. And for the most part they left me alone coz well, I could outrun all those heavies." His smugness at that felt kinda outa place but who was she to deny his coping mechanisms in the light of all he'd been through. But wait, he wasn't finished. Apparently there was more. The second reason. "Until Father Jordan fostered me. He was taking young girls and boys off the streets. However many he could accommodate at a time. Sheltering us. Protecting us. Giving us opportunities. A chance at something better. But," he sighed "that wouldn't fly with Rio. He had to recover not only lost ground, but his power. His reputation. And what better way to have Father Jordan's sanctuary invaded? From inside… and by someone he trusted."

"They threatened you?" she prompted.

Moving from a serious retelling of his situation, now he reverted to typical young boy. It was always bout that rep. With an attitude of invincibility and a false sense of bravado, he replied, "Nah. They didn't want any of this." He flexed his guns. Well, whatever imaginary muscles he could show. "I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

Somehow she was not reassured, but she was charmed. She loved butterflies. She didn't know about her past, but currently they were her thing. And aside from the stinging part – well she didn't plan to interfere with them, thereby causing an angry retaliation – she had nothing against bees. She was actually quite partial to honey.

"You do, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm so mean I make medicine sick."

Was she being had? This all had a vaguely familiar ring to it. Like she'd come across the sayings before.

"Umm, so…"

"They dint want no Rumble in this here Jungle. A Jackson Thrilla? Only in Manila."

Aah. These two cinched it for her. Even though he'd messed up MJ's and Ali's two very different Thrillers. Truth is, she was embarrassed that it took her this long.

"Damn, boi."

"Exercise some chill, Ma."

Having gotten caught up in the persona did he just sass her? She would not stand for that.

"What the bollocks!"

"Huh, what?"

Seriously! "Cut the crap."

"My bad." At least he appeared somewhat contrite. "Okay, yeah. They tried squeezing me. But I had hiding places and I was able to give them the slip. Until that day. They cornered me. I was outnumbered. Outgunned."

"You brought a knife to a gunfight."

"Uhh, not really."

"Metaphorically speaking, of course. You were the knife."

"Oh, okay. Gotcha."

"You don't want to go to war with a water pistol, you know."

"Just like you don't rob a bank when the getaway car has a flat tyre?"

"Hah, good one." They really should stop with all these crime-riddled analogies, no matter how amusing. They were inappropriate and if their audience was anyone other than the two of them, then she would call it in bad taste.

Somehow and however unintentionally, Kelli had put him in the crosshairs. The boy had been set down in a high stakes poker game with no cards and told to bluff. Okay, okay, last one. But, gosh darn it. How had the kid managed to survive that long… and on his wits alone?

He related the incident so matter of factly that a person could be lulled into believing that it had had no impact. That he was simply relating some convoluted, gang-related Law and Order episode. But the nervous folding and refolding of his paper serviette gave him away. As did those expressive eyes. He'd feared for his life.

"Oh André," she cried, her own eyes misting over.

"It's okay, Ma, I don't care," he said caringly, as he cared deeply. "And anyway, I was rescued."

"Father Jordan." Phew, that was a relief. She swept imaginary sweat from her brow. Anticlimactic, to be sure. But rather that than the alternative.

"No. You."

"Wait, what? No way. Seriously? How?" She was all over the place.

"Well you did something stupid…"

Umm harsh. "Hey!"

"… you interrupted them. Kinda like what's happening now."

"Smartass."

"You shouted at them to let me go and because their attention was on you I was able to duck and get away. So you see, you saved me. You call me your Guardian Angel but you're the OA."

"OA?" What a thing to be distracted about! An acronym for heavens sake.

"Original Angel."

"Oh." Well that was sweet.

"I'm so sorry, Mom!" His anguished apology shocked her.

"What, no. Why? You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do. I do. I left you there."

"I don't blame you, Dré. In fact, I'm glad you got away."

"But they hurt you."

"That's not your fault. I'm the adult. I should have known better then to go charging willy nilly into a dangerous situation. But you know what? If it meant you weren't hurt, I would do it all over again. Every time."

He was too distracted by his own self-disappointment, otherwise there would have been some snarky retort about the old-timey words.

"I let you down, Ma."

Oh, her poor baby. He spent so much time beating himself up. Must have been exhausting.

"No. No you didn't. Disabuse yourself of that notion," she popped her lips in a tsk sound. "You weren't responsible for me but you got help and you came back. Did you forget that part? Who's got amnesia now, huh?" Damn. And she was doing so well in convincing him that he had nothing to feel guilty about. Why then did she have to go and bring up the memory loss?

"I—I… I'm really sorry about what they did to you."

"It'll be fine, Dré. Doc G says there's improvement. One day when I least expect it, some small thing will likely prod my memory and everything will come swooshing back. And if it doesn't? Well… I've made my peace. So, I'm okay with that too."

It seemed that even with all the clearing of the air between them, both were content to ignore the other elephant in the room. Who was the father of her unborn child and had he/she been conceived on that fateful day?

"Uhh… there's another thing. I've been trying to help that process along. You remembering, I mean. Even if it means you go back to your old life." And leave him. The unspoken thought echoed.

"That will never happen. Sorry, bud, you're stuck with me. Where I go, you go. Where you go, I go. Got it? We follow each other."

She would walk five hundred miles and she would walk five hundred more, to be the mom who'd walk a thousand miles just to be there for him.

"Yeah." That actually got her a smile. Slight, though it was.

"What was the other thing you had to tell me?"

"Right. So, according to my sources, you had some jewelry on you. Rio took those for himself."

"Sources, huh? Ohhkay." This earned him some side eye. "Wait… I did? What were they?"

"Two rings. One he took off your finger, the other was on a chain around your neck. That's all you had on you."

"Nothing else that could identify me?"

"No. No phone, no ID. No purse or wallet. Weird, huh? From what I could tell, from my err—sources, nobody from Lobos took anything else off you. You never had them to begin with." Now that was suspicious in itself. "But about Villalobos, I been tryna get some Intel on him. And today? I hit pay-dirt."

"That sounds dangerous. Stay away from Viva Las Lobos, please. I rather you be safe."

He scratched his head in apparent bemusement, but then let it go. Likely figuring an Elvis comparison wasn't worth the agro. That's if he knew who the guy was in the first place. "So you don't want to know what I found?"

"No. Okay, yes. No use closing the barn door after the horse has bolted." Huh… what was with the animal cliché? Maybe she was a farm girl? She had a feeling that she was accustomed to big piles of horse shit.

"I was so close, Ma. I had it, I tell you. In my hands. And it slipped through my fingers."

"What did you have?"

"Lobo's chain. With your ring on it."

"Wait… what? Seriously? Way to bury the lead, bud." Being hit with surprise upon surprise. Was this what it felt like living in a Gangster's Paradise? "So where is it now?"

"I don't know. I don't know where I could've lost it. At the hospital. Or between there and here."

"Hos—hospital? What Hospital?"

"Grey Sloan Memorial."

Okay, so that explained the earlier Philosophy magazine bit. But GSM? "What? What were you doing there? And how did you get the chain?"

"Someone John Wick-ed his ass."

Accompanied by acoustical effect she pantomimed the whooshing sound of words as they flew overhead. "Who? This doesn't even make sense, Dré. Was he sexually assaulted with a wick?"

Huge sigh from the exasperated, extremely put-upon almost teen. "No. Movie slang, Ma. Keep up."

"Watch it, dude." He knew better. She wasn't one of his little buddies. Rudeness was unacceptable.

"Yeah, uhh sorry. It just means someone bust a cap in his ass. Maybe he killed the guy's dog."

So cut her a break here. She'd discovered that she was a Classical-Movie buff. That is, the Golden Oldies were her movie jam. Just add Musicals to the mix and she would be one singing, happy camper. Now though, she was slowly being schooled in popular culture. Resulting in some hilarious faux par.

"What you talkin bout, Willis?" She hit him with an ancient sitcom one. Different Strokes that, buddy boy!

"No, Ma. Keanu Reeves not Bruce Willis."

"Wait… seriously?" She meant about him not getting the reference. Millennials! Who was the schooler and who was schoolee now, huh?

"Yeah. Keanu Reeves is the Alpha Dog in The John Wick Trilogy. You know… like the main guy?" he explained, probably thinking the hound terminology was the basis for her incredulity.

"No, I—uhh nevermind." She let it slide. Otherwise they'd be there forever, going off on tangents. Although she was a talker, she really wasn't trying to bump up the word count here.

"I heard that Rafael Villalobos was taken to GSM. Courtesy of some violent altercation that involved cars and guns. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

"You didn't…? You weren't involved?"

"No. Someone beat me to it."

"Don't say that. All life is precious, even that of a low-life. Murdering him… you would be killing something within yourself. You wouldn't be able to come back from that. It would haunt you forever." Philosophical first. "Not to mention, you'd be in the slammer." Then practical.

"No pain, no gain." First blasé. But then he read his audience. So even though he looked sceptical, he acceded to her advice. "A'ight. I won't do it. But if someone else has, well then I'm no hypocrite. I wouldn't shed a tear."

"I think we should go to the cops."

Score one for her. Paybacks this bitch, Riolobos!

"Wait, wh—a…" he stared at her in open-mouthed stupefaction.

He appeared flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. His gast had never been so flabbered, his gob unsmacked. No. C'mon now, not like that. Perverts.

So. Flabbersmacked? Gobgasted? Yeah, whatever. Apparently in merry old Brexit land, any word became acceptable, provided it arrived via the dramatic flourish of a Shakespearean swoon… and a hoity toity accent. Out out, damn colonizer!

Anyway, any which way you cut it, she'd managed to shock him. She gave herself a few precious seconds to savor the victory before putting her out of his misery. "To report the theft of my rings. I mean, we know exactly who had it, right?"

But turnabout was fair play. He got her right back. "I was just thinking that," he replied, supposedly in response to both statements and consequently concurring with the previous one about reporting it to the authorities.

"Really?" She fell for it. Hook, line and sinker.

"No."

Doffing an imaginary hat, she acknowledged his win. He got her but good. "Touché, dude."

---

Plausible deniability was a thing. As was pleading the fifth. Neither though, were valid excuses she could pull. Not with a clear conscience, anyhow. Necessity being the mother of invention however, meant that a straightforward approach wasn't on the cards. She would have to be sneaky and not spill her guts. Finesse was the name of this game.

"I ain't no snitch," she grumbled under her breath to André, as they stood in front of the Police Station, debating how much information she could share. It's not like they didn't know her here. I mean she had rolled up to their drive-thru window previously, unfortunately leaving without a happy meal. But, like before, she'd come to the conclusion that bringing Dré into it would just muddy the waters. Not to mention the DCFS shit-storm that could hit the fan. Without hyperventilating she would have to control the narrative.

"Slow your roll there, DaVinci Code," His Smart-Aleckness advised. The brainy mouth on this kid! Let the record reflect that she wasn't averse to smart-aleckry, but there was a time and a place for everything, no?

"When you say it like that…" Who was the parent here, again?

"Less salt, more flavor, right?" he coached.

"Copy that. Saltiness be gone. Say nothin to no one bout anythin. Gotcha."

"Right. No. Not exactly." Well that cleared it up. "Just be subtle. Don't make information mountains. They only need molehills."

She rolled her eyes at the cliché gone wild. "Anything else, Coach?" she somewhat sarcastically asked. Like really. He didn't need to micromanage her. She could maneuver with the best of them. And it's not like she planned on manipulation by using Mata Hari wiles or even controllable feminine tears to obtain state secrets or stolen rings. Not only would that be sexist and misogynistic, but well, this was merely a fact-finding mission.

Disregarding the sarcasm, he took the question at face value. "Be vague. Even though it takes the same amount of time, remember that specificity is not our friend. And definitely don't get in their faces, no matter what they ask or how hard they push. Play it cool." The voice of experience? In dealing with the system? Scary thought.

Admittedly the advice was good. Practical, even. So on the one hand she was proud of Dré for his words and on the other she was a bit peeved that he doubted her control. Despite the red hair, she wasn't a hot-head by nature. And yeah, au naturel was all natural. Carpet… Drapes… you get the picture.

So, of course she did not plan to be combative with the cops. Her mission was not to end up a chalk outline.

"I think you should come inside with me."

His quizzical look spoke volumes but all he said out loud was, "You'll be okay in there, Ma. I'm not ditching you. I'll just be here outside, till you're done."

"It's not me I'm afraid for, André. I can handle myself just fine. And anyway making a complaint is a piece of cake," she clarified, leaving out a very telling bit. That phrase being… 'For a white woman'.

She did not subscribe to that racist 911 Nuisance Nancy Callers mentality. Neither would she ever resort to racial profiling or even unfair discrimination. Kinda redundant, she knew, for when was prejudice ever fair? It was simply unfortunate that with this one act of reporting a crime, she could, to an onlooker, come across as being any or all of those. Worse still, doing nothing could brandish her as an Apathetic April. Bystander syndrome was not something to aspire to.

"Hey, don't worry. You got this."

"I just don't like the idea of you waiting out here like this. It'll look suspicious."

"That's a really great example… of a horrible idea."

He had her going for a second. But then that mouth. True, it was a good rejoinder though. One she couldn't ignore. "I know you know right from wrong. And you only trust people who…"

"… earn it," he finished the homily. "My point exactly, Ma."

"Bud, I'm not asking you to trust them. I don't. In fact I'm all out of trust too. Dang, these trigger happy Bozos look for any excuse." She watched his eyes widen at the uncharacteristically disrespectful descriptor. But where was the lie? She was not unaware of the recent escalation of police brutality towards Black lives. "Yeah. I'm calling it. You can wait for me in the reception area while I meet with a detective."

"Nah, nah, that's all right. No really. Bye."

"Get back here. With me there, I think this will be the safest place for you." She wasn't being arrogant, just practical. "I don't want to draw unwanted attention to you and I don't want to have to lie. But I also hate the idea of you being an easy target out there." With the social climate being what it was, her concerns were valid, no? "It'll paralyze me, you know. The uncertainty. All I'll be able to do is worry. At least this way, I'll be able to keep an eye on you. Or rather on them. Keeping them away from you," she explained.

Fatalism assumes that disaster is inevitable. And that everything and nothing can be controlled. Luckily for them she wasn't a fatalist. Perhaps, slightly paranoid…? With and within reason, of course. Paranoid about paranoia, huh? At least that kept her metabolism on her toes.

"Now you're using guilt." Yeah, he was onto her. You had to admit that guilting him into accepting her concern for his welfare, was a novel approach. No blowback expected. "Real smooth, Ma."

"What can I say, I'm a results orientated gal."

---

As good fortune would have it she was directed to the cop she'd spoken to previously. Now while Detective Williams hadn't been particularly helpful before, he'd been kind. And at least she wouldn't have to re-explain the whole disappearing memory saga. Provided he remembered her, of course.

Waiting in line for assistance from the front-desk officer, she'd had a good chuckle – silently, to herself, of course – at the interaction in front of her. She had to give it up to the policeman for his respectful put-down. Poor guy probably had to deal with it constantly. The "I need to speak to the manager" energy. She shook her head. Only white women could pull that crap and get away with no repercussions.

Officer Assist though had his response down pat. After about a full five minutes of being harangued, he'd responded. "Ma'am, I know this may come as a shock to you but the reason you're unhappy everywhere you go is because every time you go somewhere, you are there," he'd let fly. "I can sympathize," he continued. "Because I'm experiencing this problem right now, too." And the big finish, "But together, I believe we can make it through this."

She figured the reason she'd gotten past reception so swiftly after the Complaining Caren – Whining Wendy? – was because the guy was fed-up, and she didn't make a fuss. She wasn't problematic.

Anyhow, from her recollection of the floor plan and Detective Williams location in relation to it, she figured she'd scored. Partitioned as the desks had been, from the vantage point of Williams' cubicle, her line of sight to reception was certain to be clear. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long. In and out in a hot minute. That was the plan, anyway.

Precise recall... Meticulous calculation … Attention to detail. Okay, wait a cool second here. This had all the earmarks of heist planning? Was she a bank robber, maybe? In that case, not the sharpest idea for her to be where she was.

You know what they said about change, right? That it was an unavoidable constant? Yeah well, she was in for a rude awakening. About the wait time, among other things. It appeared that Police Plaza was in the midst of an overhaul. It hit her then, like a lightning bolt. Having construction crew abounding would, quite likely, be advantageous. Big Time. Without vanishing like the blush of innocence – hyperbole courtesy of… Keats was it? or some other pompous pompadour – André could be invisible. For all the traipsing around these burly fellows had to be doing, it wouldn't be difficult for one inconspicuous young boy to remain hidden in their Blindspot, so to speak. For the moment though, the reception area seemed to be the safe choice.

Chaos was a friend of hers. However, working her way through rubble, tarp and paint she got turned around. It was like a three-ring circus. To navigate the minefield of dirt she needed signage. Or maybe a 'Where's Waldo' Puzzle Board? Perhaps a 'You are here' Information Directory, or at the very least a map detailing where X marked the spot? Even floor arrows could have been helpful. Come to think of it, with technological advancement being what it was, for them to not have an updated GPS Locator was pretty irresponsible. Yep, Co-ordinates was what was needed here. Surely, there existed a Program for just this contingency? EBroJack… ELoJi? Maybe even EBlackBox? Something like those. You know there had to be an App for any and everything these days.

So, while she was in the midst of descriptive destination hot-spots, why not throw in a Rubik's Cube for good measure, huh? Old school, hand coordinating, color-coded, brain teaser. One could safely go there, no? Only to while away the time until found, she tongue-in-cheek supposed. Say, if one were to crash-land on a deserted island, she could think of way worse things to be Cast Away with. Like Tom Hanks ball. Okay, cut it out. You gotta know she meant Wilson. Bunch of weirdos.

Luckily there were no live explosives here, even if it did look like some had purposely been detonated. For all she knew, a plane could have crashed into the building. Wink wink.

Picked up the dryness in that, now did you? Too smart to not know that Jet Fuel can't melt steel beams.

Talk about your hidden in plain sight Insurance scam. And what about the 2.3 Trillion that took a walk out the Pentagon just before the plane that hit it disintegrated? With a snap, it vanished in a tornado-like plume of dust. Like an illusion and just like the aircraft itself.

That's right. If a disappearing Boeing wasn't a major red flag – or black box – and didn't strain credulity, then simply follow that Kwan. It was all bout the money, money, money. Making the world dance with that steep price-tag.

If she were a betting woman, she'd stake her credibility on the theory that the illicit funds were sitting pretty in israel's coffers. Small i, yeah. She didn't believe in Capitalism. Nah, that was just a joke. The oppressive occupier did not deserve her stamp of approval and Palestine did not deserve to be sold out on all the maps of the world.

Looking at you Google and Apple Maps.

And America? Its bias too was clear. C'mon. Uncle Sam couldn't even be bothered to hide how far up the butt of that illegally occupied country it was. Kowtowing to the pro-israeli agenda was obviously anti-Palestinian. A literal slap in the face of human rights. Who in their right minds would support a state that tortures human beings? Only those lacking in ethics, conscience and principles of fair play, justness and decency.

Cowards whose only rebuttal to truth was censorship. I see you, Bill Gates, with your diabolical tagging and culling programs. When the implausible spin they put on fact became glaringly apparent to woke folk, their other recourse was to remove the platform of free speech. Just ask iladyjay. Becoming a victim to this suppression, she knew all about it.

Here's looking at you Tumblr… and Twitter too.

Miraculously though, deviant porn blogs were considered sacrosanct. Assbackwards USA showing the world who they really were. Having the freedom to Jack-off to every kind of perverted fantasy but being censored, suppressed, fined and even jailed when truth and justice were disseminated. Freeing the nipple considered progressive but modesty attacked. Predators, perverts, racist hatemongers guarded by police while BLM Protesters tear-gassed by the very same. Yeah. Good old Uncle Sam… Limbo forerunner. You know that race of 'how low can you go'.

You simply had to peruse their history to see how the so-called leader of the free world treated its citizens. Having Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr. literally taken out. And Muhammad Ali being stripped of his rightfully earned Boxing Heavy-weight Title. Their pretext? His refusal to be drafted as a killer for them. And that's not even getting into the kidnapping and subjugation of an entire race of people. Not to mention the thievery. Yes, the land grab. As well as the ousting of the indigenous population already occupying the continent. Those were the actions that brought the ill-gotten US of A into being.

Was there anything worse they could have done to earn these accolades? Glad you asked. How about the unspeakable atrocities of seventy-five years ago? When Japan was retreating on all fronts, the 'moral army' dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, killing countless innocent people. The effects of those bombs felt even to this day. The truly immoral part though was that the beef wasn't even with Japan. It was an arrogant thumbing of the nose at The Soviet Union. Showing the might of their militia as a warning to their opponents, by attacking a third party. Calling it a war-time maneuver or even collateral damage didn't negate the vile evilness of the action.

So stealing the paltry sum of 2.3 Trillion Dollars of taxpayer money would be business as usual for the governments of the stolen territory and its minion, the US. Although, if one were going strictly by numbers alone, then Britain's exploitation and theft of 45 Trillion Dollars from India, far surpassed that. By almost 20 times more. In fact one could go as far as to make a comparison. Current looting to that of British Empires past track record. It's like the playbook was never not in play. And as if a Trillion was like pocket change to them.

In effect, both – well all three nations, really – were morally bankrupt, corrupt, murderous thieves. One shouldn't forget too that in addition to everything else they were given – like someone else's country – the human rights violator, breacher of international declarations and illegal occupier, as stated by Article 49 of the Fourth Geneva Convention, was also on the receiving end of a yearly stipend. Yes. That so-called military budget that was transparently handed over to the beasts to continue with their pogroms of ethnic cleansing and genocide? Handed over with an ass-lick and no strings attached.

Her memory of her individual life may be doubtful and in question, but her comprehension skills and analysis while wading through the BS that mainstream media put out there, was on point. If she did say so herself.

So anyway, where were the damned Detectives Desks in all this mess?

Passing an interview room she was surprised to hear voices coming to her, tinny sounds as if from a distance. Curious, she investigated, finding a one way mirror. Adjacent to it was a switched on but unattended intercom; the origin of the noises. Really sloppy if you asked her. Perhaps an interrupted eavesdropper had made tracks upon her unscheduled approach? Well, their loss. There was no interrogation happening then, but some kind of task force meeting appeared to be going on. What she heard stunned her.

She was aware of and planned to join in – accompanied by André – an upcoming BLM Rally. Marching in solidarity to protest Black lives lost to Police Brutality. It was counterintuitive, she knew, to approach now the very people she would be protesting tomorrow. Some would even say hypocritical. But she looked at it like this: She was not asking them for help. They were Government Employees which meant that her taxes paid their salaries. Yeah, yeah. She figured that at some point in her illustrious life she had been tax compliant. So really, she was simply asking them Coppers to do their jobs. A slight prompt, really. Protect and Serve without Discrimination, Racism, Xenophobia and other Prejudices and forms of Intolerance.

Their motto of Protecting and Serving definitely did not include profiling and targeting an unsuspecting group on the basis of assumed characteristics or behaviors of a racial, ethnic, religious or national origin, rather than on an individual suspicion. But then many took that oath as more of a guideline instead of actual rules of conduct. So unbecoming. Hence, a Black Man or Boy was seen by them as being a violent criminal. Or a Brown Boy or Man viewed as a Muslim Terrorist.

Okay, calm down now. She wasn't being sexist in leaving out Black Women, coz of course they were being targeted too. In fact, demographically, Black Women as a class were the ones who suffered the most oppression. So women weren't being given a pass here. Her statements were simply meant to shine a spotlight on how profiling Black and Brown people amped up fear, resulting in young children – especially males – being perceived as threats. Being a mother to a young Black Boy, well, it hit close to home.

Following from their skewered mindset of protection for fragile white life, there arose from among the Blue Brigade, the Agent Provocateur; he – or she – ready to infiltrate and rile up marchers. While the Saboteur would be intent on mischief-making and sabotage. The disruptions aiming to paint the peaceful protestors as violent looters. Thereby perpetuating the stereotype. Their objective was diabolical. And shocking.

Like the lurker before her, she got away from that room fast. Not abandoning her own mission, though.

She came upon the triage bullpen quite suddenly. It was a messy, buzzing hive of activity. Sounds and smells coming to her in waves, attacking her senses. It's like they were preparing for some incursion while also going about business as usual. With a slight detour through smoke and debris.

It boasted the question of what temporary security protocols, if any, they had in place during the revamp. None, as far as she could see. Which is what led her here, to being an undrafted yet somewhat willing audience to an identikit parade of hotness. Okay, lukewarm-ness.

During all the craziness of mad activity, two extremely chill female officers, arms casually folded, seemed to be observing some unscripted catwalk modelling. The ramp in question being a passageway of dirt, carpeted in dust. Way less genre appropriate. Engrossed as they were, she was hesitant to interrupt the pair, even though all she needed was to be pointed towards Detective Williams' desk. They were armed, you know. And he was nowhere to be seen.

Initially reluctant, she soon got into the groove, unwittingly becoming a girly Curly to their Moe and Larry campy, Vaudeville Routine. Wait, he was the silent one, right? Entertaining though their commentary was, to be fair, the real Stooges were the blokes along the way.

"On the right you have Construction Conrad swinging that hammer with all he's got. Ummhmm Thor… Minus the red cape, chainmail and armor. My, what big… equipment, Mr. Big Bad Wolf. A round of applause for the Lumberjack-man. Ooh, watch that flex. Those buns certainly whet the appetite… for a snack," the older officer salivated as she announced and her audience of two clapped. Following up with an appreciative wink. "How bout you turn that frown upside down, Jack?"

Not to be outdone, the fresh-faced Rookie got in on the action. "Next," she began, "we have an eye-catching entrance. Give it up for Worker Bee Wesley. No need to sic the Fashion police dog on this man about town. Pairing his dayglow orange vest with a yellow hard hat certainly is a bold choice. Ooh la la. What a fetching combo! On Fleek," she added, not realizing or perhaps not caring about the inappropriateness, as she hijacked AAVE. "And what do we have here?" she cluelessly continued. "This chic fellow has decided to go full… on geek! Go on, shake that moneymaker booty! Grind it, scratch that itch, shake it some more!"

Wait, what? Oh. Phew. She didn't say Full Monty. That woulda been some indecent exposure shit. Though that didn't stop Wesley from adjusting the boys. Sure sounded like this mini-cop was familiar with Male strip clubs. But, wait. About the other, he was just wearing glasses, no? Okay, goggles. I mean, it's not like Superman pulling a mild-mannered Clark Kent now, right? Hollywood would have you believe that spectacles changeth the man.

"A roundup of the usual suspects, has netted us… 50 Shades of Leather! Doing the strut of shame, we have here, Harley Biker. His all-in-black, whole caboodle, plainly flaunts those crooked lines and lumpy curves, accentuating that lovingly cradled beer bump. Does the silhouette not scream look at my package?"

Moe with a turn again. It was a hilarious critique. Especially when you considered her glaringly obvious omissions: the napkins hanging out biker-dude's nose. Napkins, pfft. You know, in some places, napkin was the word one used for diaper. Hah. Now that created a whole other wardrobe choice here. Who knows, perhaps the guy had shat his pants too? But whichever way you looked at it, the stains were likely evidence of an epic fight. She wondered what the other guy looked like.

Larry answered. "Welcome, Sir—err Madam? Oh…" This one flustered the almost-officer for a beat. But she got right back on that horse. No need to pander to PC platitudes. They were The Police. "I see… business in front, party at the back, hey?" This got her stink-eye and a grunt in response. Well, whatever kind of impact a shiner, blood-spattered beard and split lip could make. "I say, if you got it, flaunt it," she winked. Yep. This was the other guy. Not to be deterred, the fashion line-up commentary continued. "So here we have… Sullen Mullet with a double-edged ensemble. By day, cool cucumber at the office. But at night, partying hearty. With a twist of the head, he lets down those sassy locks. Feisty!" Boy, were these guys on point. "Lighten up honey, huh. Gotta smile for me? You know you'd look much prettier if you did." And they were giving it to these dudes.

It was bizarre. The labelling system, that is. If you weren't Jocks or Goths or Bad-asses then what were you? Nerds, apparently.

They didn't keep it on the down low. No way. The 4-11 hotline was a flashing. So while there were no wolf-whistles or catcalls, neither did Moe or Larry whisper. The objectification was clear. Power to them for the point they were making.

Like countless other industries, these women too were probably experiencing disparity in the workplace. Anyone could tell that the police force was still a 'Good ol Boys' Club. Dinosaurs, complacent in their comfort zones, they were not wont to change. Possibly still upholding those racist beliefs, with the only concession to time being that white sheets were replaced by red hats. It was also no longer done secretly, under cover of darkness. If they could manipulate votes why worry about coming under fire from their voting public, right?

To compensate, the gals on the team, unable to beat, had joined them. Even up to adopting the violent approach of men while putting down their own gender. For this to change, both groups would need to be open to dialogue that aimed to promote a synergistic relationship between the sexes. One that would heal the social damage caused by the gender divide.

This equalization process, though? She didn't think it was the way to go. Adopting the objectification approach in reverse would be inconsequential, about as effective as banging your head into a brick wall and expecting it to cure your headache. All the one-upmanship play did was compound the problem and the relationship between the sexes remained combative, if not more vitriolic. In her opinion, the purpose of feminism should not be to become like men, but for women to have their own agency, to be respected as they are, and for holding those who did not meet those standards, to account.

Hashtag MeToo was a step in the direction towards truth and reconciliation. However, the serious issue could very easily be derailed by celebrity pandering and consequently their organizing of stuff like the fame-driven, superficial act of marching with pussy-shaped hats on. In this way abhorrent views were given a pass, simply because a woman held them. The Bombshell of a rape allegation here was, sadly, opportunistic.

So, fair and balanced reporting? Their asses. They're asses? Yeah, Autocorrect, the latter could work too.

Looking at you here Megyn K and Tomi L.

Baby steps, right? The female officers were a few pages behind still. If giving men a taste of their own medicine allowed them a modicum of control, well then who was she to dictate the pace of their enlightenment. They were getting their own back. At least this way no one was harmed and it was done in the spirit of fun.

Catching sight of Detective Williams, coffee cup in hand – where were the doughnuts? – gave her pause. Would he be drawn into the game as well? Their past short acquaintance gave her no basis to judge if he would be a good sport. Not about this, the parade of Male pulchritude, apparently. He wasn't even given an opportunity to shoot them down. Not literally, c'mon. But okay, point taken. It was dangerous to use gun analogies in a cop shop. This was not high noon at the O.K. Corral.

Someone – Moe or Larry, she wasn't sure which – did bring up a valid question, though. This was the police precinct… hangout for newbies and veterans alike. Without it, the buildings cop card was in danger of being revoked.

"So where's the doughnuts?" It bore reiteration.

For their sakes she hoped they were all gone. As in eaten… consumed… devoured. For what was a cop without his doughnut?

Williams' apathetic affectation gave nothing away. If by nothing was meant zilch, zero, nada. No reaction. It wasn't difficult to guess who the wheel of misfortune had stopped on. Rotten attitude, that's where. He did hold up his index finger towards her, motioning for her to wait. Probably until her number was up or he finished his beverage. No, not her end of life number, come on now. Well, at least she hoped not. She did not fancy having to wait until that ticket was called up even if Government departments were notorious for forever being on go slows. Unless, one supposed, if their race was towards Krispy Kreme. Then all bets were likely off. Was she right or was she right? Made you wonder if a prerequisite for the job was having a sweet tooth and no scruples as to whose toes got stepped on to get that craving satisfied.

Since waiting was her lot she tuned in to Policewoman-in-training Barbie and her apparent TO once again. Though seemingly moving away from suspects and construction workers this time, the conversation still piqued her curiosity and peaked her interest.

"Do you think that's The Rock?" the wide-eyed Rookie seemed all star-struck now, if slightly visually challenged. Perhaps with a more deferential attitude too. Or did she mean reverential? Either worked, she supposed.

"A girl can dream," her companion slash Training Officer, replied.

Mentally she concurred. Who wouldn't? Aside from Johnson's obvious physical attributes – c'mon the guy was hot... much more so than this almost doppelgänger – he was no slouch in the brains or talent departments either. Not even delving into his wicked wit. Okay, so the respect she had for his abilities had pulled a one-eighty – or was it three-sixty – circling back round to objectification.

She may have lost her memories but she wasn't clueless. And she had eyes. She also had Sofia, an avid celebrity blogger. So while Sofia had been all a titter, she herself had been richly amused by Mr. The Rock Johnson twitter-sassing DJ Khaled for the latter's sexual double standard. Displaying an unexpected subtlety of humor, Rock had crushed the misogynistic DJ mindset. Unwilling to succumb to Tourette's syndrome, DJ's lazy lips had left him vulnerable like. In more than one way. Yep, the guy had major stubbornness issues. Resistant to conquering that final frontier by boldly going where no man had gone before. He was a flaccid—err firm proponent of the receiving instead of giving school of thought. Resulting in all of Twitterverse coming for him. Except, apparently, his own wife.

Finally. Officer Williams was ready for her. Looks like the water-cooler cum coffee-pot gossip fest was on a timeout as Williams' neighbor – Detective Drew the nameplate read… yeah her eyesight was that good – returned to his desk. Which happened to be diagonally opposite from Williams one, thus prompting her detective to return to his own table too. You know she didn't mean he was hers hers, right? No ownership or love or any of those possessive pronouns. For Pete's sake, she hardly knew the guy. It's just that he was the lucky cop that had taken her statement before and had seemed to take his job seriously then.

Now Drew, on the other hand, looked to be a career desk-jockey, who started out patrolling the streets at least twenty pounds ago. In fact his was the picture that came to mind when uniformed beat-cop was mentioned. Sans uniform, would promote that image to grunt-work investigator. Supercilious, like Inspector Jacques Clouseau, but minus the French swag. And the Hitler moustache. But adding a couple or ten to thirty kilos. So actually not like the Pink Panther Policeman at all. Sacré bleu! Neither version worked. Not Peter Sellers nor Steve Martin. Not even animated Clouseau. Perhaps it was simply the pompous, patronizing mannerisms that drove the comparison towards the bumbling, inept French police detective.

Or maybe having Panthers on the brain. Rest in Power, King T'Challa: The Black Panther. Wakanda Forever, G. You will be missed, Chadwick Boseman... gentle, kind soul.

Anyhoo. So, Drew was a short, rotund fellow, slow on his feet. Someone whose middle gave evidence to the fact that those sugary treats never escaped his custody. Probably hard to maintain his girlish figure when those addictive mini desserts beckoned. To glaze or not to glaze, that was the million dollar question.

Unlike the fastidious Williams, Drew's entire look screamed unkempt, fried dough lover. From his white-speckled tie to the flecks of powder dotting the surrounds of his pie hole, he looked ready for a dust-up. One would almost be tempted to survey the dude over his preference.

"Mr. Donut?"

"Call me Duncan. Mr. Donut is my father."

Aaaahhh… and the crowd goes wild.

Hah. Good one, huh? She could almost hear him saying that, though perhaps she was ascribing drollness to where no dry wit existed. You know it was almost sacrilegious to get between a cop and his doughnut, but what could she say? She liked living on the edge.

Speaking of state sanctioned violence against the non-Doughnut Elite, how about some food for thought.

You're not afraid for your life, Barney Fife, when you're shooting someone in the back. You're a murderer, Johnny Law.

Perhaps it wasn't so much the adrenalin rush caused at the thought of imminent danger, but rather the doughnut sugar high and subsequent crash that impaired the ability for logical thought and action. Made about as much sense as shooting someone in the back 7 times and justifying it with the 'I Feared for my Life' excuse.

Now firstly, there was no escaping the inevitability of death and taxes. Secondly, why get into the profession? But thirdly, was the kicker. How was shooting an innocent in the back considered defensive? Loco, no?

Ready for her, Williams crooked his finger in her direction, motioning for her to sit herself on the spot adjacent to his desk. Starting the long trek… nah she was just kidding. She simply took her time, walking slowly. Partly in silent protest at the deliberately long wait and, provided he could be bothered by it, likely aggravating the detective in the process. Good. He deserved it. And secondly, to remain for as long as possible within hearing distance of the comedy duos latest. They certainly were entertaining.

"Yowzer Wowzer! I think my ovaries just exploded."

"Not again..." If it was possible to hear an eye-roll, here would be its birthplace. Gave new meaning to the term Audio-visual, wouldn't you say?

"Yeah, but—but look at him! Huba huba, am I rite? Those pretty eyes... they call me. Bright eyes."

"I think not. You mixing your tunes there, Moana."

"Pfft, please," she scoffed. But then, "It's worth it." Obviously no one had schooled her on the policy of not shitting where you ate. Though, technically, it didn't seem like 'Eyes' worked there. Hence, it was a moot point.

"C'mon focus. Here, take this folder. At least try to look like you're working." The sound of getting lightly smacked by a folder thrust at her person, loudly echoed. "And not working it."

"Rude." At the snort of exasperation she received, "Okay, that's fair."

"Don't I know it."

"Say do you have kids that I don't know about or do you watch cartoons for fun?"

"Duh. My man Dwayne Rocking it."

"Hah. Gotcha. I see what you did there." Didn't they just have that conversation? "So, are you gonna want this back or can I keep it?" The busy-looking folder, one would assume.

"Excuse me… Detective Drew?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, no. He not me. Oof." Sounds like she received a 'Get it together' reminder to her solar plexus. "Uhh… not him. But, lemme jus, uh, you know, show you to his desk." From the acoustics alone one could imagine the appreciative slobber. The dude's voice however, was kinda nondescript. Or it could just be sound interference that made it seem so.

Whoever this guy was, he sure had Larry's tongue all tied up in knots. Of course it would be hard for anyone to speak through a pool of saliva. Too bad that her view of the fine specimen was blocked. As was his of her. Firstly by the ample girth of Drew who'd come across to hand something to Williams. No, unfortunately, not doughnuts. Williams was really crushing her cop to doughnut ratio here. The permutations did not seem to compute.

The second person in the way was Larry herself as she directed the guy to the space next to Drew's table. Which would put him squarely, yeah you got it, with his back facing hers. In actuality, if one were to remove the behinds of both their chairs – it was some kinda two-sided, connected bench-type contraption – then their butts would be touching. That's how close they were. Before he took his place, though, she got a good gander of Larry's googly-eyed expression. To the mini-cop, discretion was obviously not the better part of valor, ogling was. Larry scanned him like she had terminator vision, then looked impressed with her findings, wiggling her eyebrows at April as if to say 'Get a load of this'.

For herself, it took all the willpower at her disposal to feign interest at Detective Williams' droning voice and not turn around to give McMystery the once over. But control was overrated and impulses were there for a reason, no?

Unable to resist, she swiveled around to get a quick glimpse, almost tumbling out of her seat in the process. But what stopped her mid-fall-turn, and halted any subsequent movement in its tracks, was the loud throat clearing of the officer she was there to see. Dang it. Musical chairs was outa the question now. One thing she did notice was the cool kicks. The dude must be quite secure in his masculinity to pull off that shade of red and with such apparent ease and panache. Guy had swag. The rest of her curiosity though, would have to remain unsatisfied. So, back to the business of lodging her complaint, it was. Pretty-Boi, bye.

She had to be sneaky in the telling. Or at least tactful in skirting the issue of her CI, and in turn how he'd sourced the information. What could possibly go wrong?

So she glossed over how she'd come by the Perp's name. I mean, she was no Nark. She'd certainly picked-up on the lingo though, no? Thinking of Dré as her Confidential Informant really tickled her sense of the absurd.

"My gut tells me he's guilty," she offered up suspect Lobo.

"Likely it's acid reflux." The guy was a laugh riot. Maybe it was all those doughnuts.

"Okay, then where's my…?"

"Have you thought of offering a reward?"

Williams was being an ass. She cancelled all the previous pleasant thoughts she'd had about his helpfulness.

"Are you being serious right now?"

"Like a heart attack." Heart burn, gas and heart attacks? Either the guy was pregnant or she'd been wrong before about him not being that into doughnuts. "What else you got for me besides vague suspicions?"

"Well, if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, chances are it's not a goose."

In retrospect, that probably wasn't the way to go to win him over, huh?

"Look, if your source is erroneous…"

Now why did he have to go there? She quickly interrupted. "I know, I know. I stand the risk of ruining my credibility."

His 'Get Real' expression gave off a 'Who cares about that' vibe. And in case she wasn't clear about the repercussions, he spelled it out. "No… you have a very good chance of going to jail."

"Wait… what?! Seriously?"

"Yes. Laying a false charge is no laughing matter. We take it very, very seriously."

"But—but it's not fake. He's guilty and he has my property."

"What evidence have you got to back that up?"

"Isn't that kinda your job, Mr. Police Man?"

"Really? Do tell, Ms. Doe."

"Why don't you just pop in and ask him? I'm sure he'll tell you. And if you do it nicely, maybe he'll even return my stuff." Well, it was worth a shot.

"How sweet. A criminal with a moral code."

"Damn straight. We all have our contradictions."

"Okay, look. I'm not making any promises, but if you're straight with me, tell me where you got this information, then maybe…"

"You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!" She Jack Nicholson-ed him. It was obviously a joke but she did wonder if the subconscious choice of 'A Few Good Men' was some kind of portent? From his non-committal expression she realized that, like the IRS and Uncle Sam, Five-O also did not have a sense of humor. Just to be sure she tried another. "Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies." This time she went with an idiom. Went over about as well as the other. Williams appeared unimpressed. Almost catatonic, likely bored to death. Perhaps she could sing him a Lullaby to put him to sleep. In a metaphorical stupor, so to speak. Taking him out the non-permanent way.

So, yeah. "There once was a man from Nantucket…" No wait, that was a Limerick. Good thing she didn't get to the bawdy part yet.

"Stop. No shenanigans on my watch, thank you very much." With an implied, no monkey business, tomfoolery or hijinks, either.

This guy obviously loved kissing the Blarney Stone. Was he Irish maybe? Well she did detect a hint of malarkey, so there.

The cacophony encompassing her meant that she'd had to bend forward to hear and be heard by her interviewer. Surround sound seemed to get louder all around, so much so that it was difficult to make out what was being said even a short distance away. It's not to say she wasn't curious but one had to prioritize own business over inquisitiveness, right? So while she couldn't clearly hear the goings on – aside from a dropped word or two here and there – she did notice that Larry's gaze had not wavered from her vicinity. Yeah, no. The Rookie'd made no bones about it, so everyone and their cousin knew exactly who Larry was transfixed by. Mr. McPretty-Eyes. Wasn't that the name she'd coined for him? McPretty. Small c, Big P. She herself didn't place much stock in looks but, pure nosiness aside, she had to admit that Larry's over the top reaction had stirred her curiosity. Especially when the bar was set to Dwayne Johnson.

She was partial to the name Williams – she liked the way it rolled off the tongue – but today she was having as much luck with him as McPretty behind her was having with Detective Drew. As Williams was occupied with his notes or whatever, she took the opportunity to just lean back and chill. Which distraction was how she, once again, landed in McMystery's business. Close as they were she could feel the guy's tension. Not that it oozed off of him, but the shoulders against her back felt hard as rock. Not Dwayne hard. Knock it off. Seriously. Can it with the risqué innuendo and double entendres… C'mon.

Right, then. Where was she going with this again? Oh yeah… yeah, why was the guy so tense? She allowed her curiosity free reign to find out. Quite coincidentally, it seemed that Pretty's issue also related to missing jewelry. At least that's what a reasonable person would glean from words like "Band", "Diamond studded" and "Inscription", no?

It quickly became clear to her that her Mystery Man was African American. She could tell this simply by Officer Drew's attitude and yeah, the micro-aggressions stood out. Drew was not just busting Pretty's chops, he was treating him like a suspect. His tone screamed vindictiveness. It wasn't right.

She had to give herself a pep talk to stop from interfering in whatever was happening across the divide.

"Suck it up, buttercup, it will all blow over soon," she whispered, not sure if it was a silent motivation for him or a clichéd incentive for her. Of course she wasn't a narcissist, so he must be the buttercup. "Don't become unhinged. You got this," she reminded herself of her mission.

"Huh? You say something?" Williams asked.

Now was not the time for him to wake up. "No," she succinctly replied, giving him the hairy eyeball, anxious to get back to it. Then, ignoring him, "Get a grip, pull yourself together. There's more than one way to skin a cat," she told herself.

Gazing strangely at her Williams chimed in, "I got nothin."

No. This wouldn't fly. It wasn't right. This was a call to arms. All body parts, really. Yes, she was being facetious. Of course she knew that arms here meant war… fighting… ammunition.

She had to say something. As MLK Jr. wrote, "The time is always ripe to do right."

She may have been tiny of stature but she could be fierce with indignation. She was ready to yell Timber… the racists better move… or else this mighty oak would make it so they didn't remember being crushed in one fell swoop.

Damn it! She hated that. Idiomatic though it was, she loathed the thought of the environmental damage caused by Tree Logging. They couldn't see the forest for there were no trees left, eh?

Her anger at the injustice being perpetrated – no, not the trees… that was a march for another time… she meant the discrimination – propelled her forcefully from her seat. Almost like her bum was on fire. She shuddered at the painful memory of Indian Curry Day and the resultant big blast. The really outrageous thing about that? She went back for more. Pregnancy cravings and they weren't talking desserts here. This baby had much to answer for.

Psyching herself up, she was ready to give the asshole Officer a severe talking-to. Collecting breath for the verbal tirade she was about to let loose, her awareness was captured on two fronts. Thank the Good Lord she'd eschewed Savory Doughnuts and Bunny Chows this day – nope, nothin to do with cute rabbits – otherwise she'd be releasing another type of noxious tirade.

Still seated in his seat across from her, McPretty was now slumped over with his elbows on his knees, head cradled in both his hands. The posture of a defeated man. Still couldn't make out any of his attractive, apparently swoon-worthy facial features though.

Number two attention grabber was the one she couldn't turn away from. Dré stood just outside of the temporary squad-area frantically motioning for her to go to him and for them both to leave in a hurry. More haste, less speed seemed to be the order of the moment. Now while she really wanted to stand up for the stranger, the precarious position she was in precluded that. And, of course she couldn't ignore her son's desperation. Anything to keep him out of institutionalized foster-care.

She was right to feel alarmed. As she cleared the makeshift doorway, moving out of sight of the persons occupying that long, vast space, she chanced a glance towards a wide-eyed Dré. He appeared to be transfixed. By who or what she wasn't sure. Hearing a shouted, "Hey, it's you… wait… come back!" seemed to shock him into action. They rushed out of there, but he was agitated, shooting nervous glances behind him all the while. His uneasiness increased her own. He was anxious. Worried. Yeah. Going to the Cops hadn't been the smartest of moves.

---

Talk about your hostile work environment! Was she tryna square up? Damn. With one suggestion she's unleashed the beast. Likely aggravated by her taking of personal time. Apparently her second strike of the day.

Getting reamed out by Dr. Gibson for the infraction of proposing an alternate, less invasive treatment, was not only embarrassing but rude and unfair too. And way extra. Why did the Doc assume that she was the smartest in the room? For herself, she may not be any type of Medical Professional, but she still took the oath seriously. After today's humiliation and the awkwardness that followed, she changed it up a bit. "Do no harm but take no shit. Use as required." But yeah, she would never ever stop advocating for her patients either.

Doc G should know her by now. Even with more than one thing on her plate, her work ethic was impeccable. She was not one to half-ass two things. She would whole-ass one thing… at a time.

Bring it on, G. She was bulletproof, had nothing to lose. Fire away, fire away. Ricochet, Doc take your aim. Fire away, fire away. Shoot her down, but she wouldn't fall. She was Titanium.

Shoot her down… Yeah, her game face came with game tunes.

Thankfully, as parents and patient X left – shooting her a pitying glance on their way out – they were the last for a short while. The waiting room was empty. Being on the wrong side of the reception desk, she nevertheless took the opportunity to rest her head on it. She hated being on the receiving end of all those woeful looks but yeah, today she felt a bit sorry for herself. She banged her head on the smooth surface. Tattarrattat. Not hard enough to cause injury or concussion, but a light tap of self-castigation. Tattarrattat. Hah, the sound of onomatopoeia and palindrome rolled into one.

So immersed was she in this exercise of self-flagellation, while conversely fascinated by the acoustical effects, that she failed to comprehend the sound of the door opening. The first she knew of another presence was when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a bright red pair of sneakers. Very familiar Nikes. Not only was it hard to miss the upside down tick – well right side up from her vantage point – but the attention grabbing color did just that. What brought her head fully upright however, was the absolute shock she heard in the utterance of her name. Almost like Flash – fast, furious and accessorized in red, duh – had seen a ghost.

"April!" he exclaimed with a discernible quiver of astonishment. Followed by an equally stunned, "You're Pregnant!"

Yeah. Larry had been right. Pretty eyes.