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A large fee.

But worth every cent.

Because it told you her place of work. And from there you followed her to her place of working out. You like this word play. It feels neat.

And it led you to her place of living.

To her.

And now, it can finally begin.

Read It by Now

She will have read it by now, will have found the note in her fancy Coach purse and slid it out, eyes widening, puzzlement giving way to disbelief, then fear, then panic.

People are so predictable. They don’t think they are, of course, or they would be much harder to manipulate. They think they are all individuals, all unique, all special in some small but meaningful way, they think they matter, that their lives are not irrelevant and worthless.

You can be whatever you want. That’s the kind of drivel which feeds this illusion. Teachers, parents, sports coaches: they all spout this horseshit, all collude to convince their pupils or children or athletes that the dream is just around the corner, if only they work hard and believe and bring their own, unique talent to the party.

It’s a web of lies. It’s almost cruel. None of them are special. They are all destined for mediocrity, because they are all the same. People are a herd. They are a shapeless, formless, undifferentiated mass.

And they don’t matter.

Even the ones who they think are special or successful or accomplished are no different. Look at Mary Jordan: a lawyer and mother and community leader. People look up to her. But she will react to this like anyone else. She will do exactly as she is made to do. She is like a fish on a hook, panicking as it is reeled in, then relieved as it is let run, rushing away from the boat, captivated with the illusion that it is free, that the pain and pressure in its mouth that was pulling it inexorably towards its fate is finally gone, when all the while the hook is still there, set firm, impossible to remove.

Ready for the fisherman to flip the bail and yank the fish back to reality.

Does a fish know that this ends in death? Does it know that its fate was final and irrevocable the moment it bit on the bait and felt the slicing pain of the hook as it embedded itself in its gullet? Or does it think there is a way out, a way to set itself free?

No, of course not. It thinks nothing; it is a fish. But she – does she know?

Is she aware that this is already over? That it is only a matter of time before the hands holding the rod reel her in?

She does not. She will be wondering what is happening, unaware of the full picture, unaware she is in the grip of something much greater than she understands. She will think there is a way out.

But she will learn, soon enough, that she is mistaken. Just as the fish learns when it is finally lifted from the water and left to expire, gasping and thrashing on the wet, wooden deck of the fisherman’s craft.

The Miracle of a Baby

Mary put the paper face down on the kitchen counter. Her hands were shaking and she felt faint. She sat on a bar stool and rested her hands on her knees.

What the fuck was this?

She felt the familiar constellation of symptoms – tightness in her stomach, the prickling of sweat on her forehead, the narrowing of focus to the point of dizziness – that presaged a panic attack.

She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.

Another.

And another.

With each breath the panic receded. A little. Enough.

‘Mom!’

Otis’s voice: the cry of a baby seagull wanting its dinner. Of a lamb seeking the warmth of its mother. Of a teenage boy needing his AirPods.

‘Did you find them?’ His question came down the stairs. ‘I need them!’