Chapter 1

Rolling sushi was hard work.

James still felt the burn in his forearms at the end of every shift. A few shifts per week at only four hours per shift made it tough to get into a groove. The constant eye-watering aroma of vinegar didn't help. It clung to his skin and never fully fled until after a long, hot shower.

James rolled his wrists and shoulders, then hung his apron on the rack at the back of the shop. "I'm heading out," he called.

"Aight, Prez!" Yuuhei shouted, cashing out the front register. "Off to the big white box again?"

"Yeah. See you."

"Hang loose!"

The back alley was chill and dark, the stink of trash from the bins almost corpse-like. The moon was behind a wisp of cloud. James hurried toward the street, pulling his collar up.

His cell phone buzzed. Probably another text from Dawn. He jogged across the street and slid into his Honda. As he started the engine, his writer's subconscious offered a haiku.

unread messages
unstable tower piled high
callous architect

***

It was nearing midnight by the time the Joseph Stenton Care Facility loomed up. James parked across the street. The cloud cover had increased, a bite of ozone hinting at rain. The only illumination was the streetlights. Even the care facility was dark, save the lobby.

"Good evening, James," said the nursing station clerk.

"Hey, Carol." James scrawled something in the guest log that might have been his name.

Carol smiled. "Well past visiting hours again."

"You won't tell on me?"

"Cross my heart."

"Thanks."

James took the elevator up four floors and walked the lifeless corridor, hollow steps echoing. Over the years it seemed his shoes were gathering dark layers from the floor, piling up like unwanted text messages, each stride minutely heavier than the last.

Room 459. Last week's flowers still sat on the corner table. The slats in the blinds were open, though no moonlight trickled through. Only the anemic green of the heart monitor lit the room.

James sat in the visiting chair and took his mother's hand.

"Had a shift at Tokyo Sunrise tonight," he said, squeezing her fingers in a ritual that always bore the same result. "It's getting a little easier, but working with sushi turns me off eating it. A greasy burger would hit the spot."

James soon ran out of conversations he could have by himself, sat in the dark, and gazed at his mother for a bit longer. Lying in a bed for years had not greatly diminished her beauty. If you could look past the feeding tube and respirator, the only thing missing was the spark.

"Well, take care." It sounded as stupid as every time before, but it was necessary.

The trip back to the lobby was faster. Outside, the wind had picked up. The macabre skittering of leaves was disturbing: unquiet revenants of autumn. James stood for a moment near the entrance.

Breathe in peace, breathe out everything.

"Hey."

A feminine shape leaned against the wall, an outline but for the glow of a cigarette which fell to the ground and was stamped out. She stepped into the small pool of light from the lobby doors.

"Dawn," James said. "I thought you quit smoking."

"I decided to worry about other things."

The wind died and the leaves stopped dancing. The calm that descended was comforting to James. Silence had become like a mother to him.

"You look good," he said.

"That's funny." Dawn tilted her head. "I feel like hell." Her hair shimmered as it swung, long and dark, as beautiful as the night. "Did you get my message?"

"I got it."

"But didn't read it?"

"No." James felt a spatter on his nose and looked at the sky. Pathetic fallacy: nature had understood his mood and was responding in kind.

"Storm coming in," Dawn said. "We need to talk. Will you come for a coffee?"

There's a reason I don't answer the phone, a part of him wanted to say.

"Okay. Coffee."

***

The burger sat there, monolithic. James was starving but didn't eat. He stared, since it gave him something to look at other than Dawn.

"I got an offer. Assistant professor, sociology." Dawn ran her finger around the rim of her coffee like it was a crystal wine glass that would sing. "Tenured, obviously. Everything I've been looking for."

The burger was so large that eating it would almost require a fork, or a forklift. James let his gaze slide to Dawn's murky expression while she was safely looking away. After all these years, he still couldn't read her.

"But?"

"It's at Berkeley."

"California?"

Dawn nodded at her coffee. "California."

James picked up the burger and took a bite. It tasted like nothing. Not like cardboard, not like meat. Just nothing. "Congratulations."

"You could come with me." Dawn looked up suddenly enough to catch his eye. "Together. We could go. Writers can work anywhere."

"I'm a writer that can't get paid for writing." James took another bite. Ketchup and part of a pickle spilled out the back.

Burgers and lives: messy.

"There are part time jobs anywhere." Dawn pushed her coffee away, final acknowledgement that she would never drink it. "We could move in together. I would pay. Until you find something."

James put the burger down. "It's not just about money, Dawn."

"Then what? What is it about?" For the first time, Dawn's voice rose. "You're going to say no, we both know it. You've been hiding from this conversation for weeks and so have I. I could have tracked you down any time, come to your house or the library or the arena, but I didn't. And what for?"

Dawn ran a hand over her eyes, closed them, opened them, breathed deeply. She looked up at the ceiling, down into her lap, and finally out the window, opaque as it was from the brightness within and the darkness without.

"Just say it, okay?" Her voice cracked on okay.

"I can't go with you," James said.

There were other people in the restaurant; they ate, slurped soda through straws, had conversations. In the kitchen, deep fryers sizzled and employees shouted orders. None of it penetrated the silence by the window—until it burst like the clouds had, in a sad trickle.

"Maybe long distance could work," Dawn said. "Technology. Donald's been telling me. You know, virtual spaces."

The unfinished burger reposed in a grinning half-moon. James ate another chunk, making it lopsided and bloody with ketchup. The man in the moon was dead.

"Technology," he said. "How long do you want to live like that? What's the end point?"

"Eventually you might want to come. You might be able to come." Dawn tore her gaze from the window to nowhere. "You—"

"If Mom dies, you mean."

"I didn't say that ... I just thought—"

"That I might unplug her?"

"No, I didn't, I..." Dawn wiped at her eyes, savagely. "I wouldn't, please, don't say that. We could bring her. If it's money, I could help. Couldn't we?"

"Mom belongs here."

"But why?"

"You know why."

"She doesn't even visit anymore! She—"

Dawn caught herself and took several slow, steadying breaths. She folded her hands on the table and stared down at them, and so did James. They looked small. Yet his urge to hold them was an instinct that could only be hurtful.

"Okay," Dawn said. "I guess we both knew how this would go. That's why I waited three weeks, sending stupid text messages."

"Hey," James said. "I'm not the one that's leaving. I'm just the one that's not going."

"I know." Dawn nodded. "I know that."

They stood. James held the door, but for the first time Dawn was stepping through a different door than he was.

"I've always loved you," she said, making a half-turn toward him. "But not enough to live this life. The hand that you're holding the tightest was never mine."

"Good luck," James said. "I wish you the best."

"And I wish I could've had the James I see in your stories," Dawn said, voice jagged under the rain. "All those dreams you put on paper. Why are they only on paper?" A tear washed down her cheek and fell, mixing with the puddles and their staccato twinkles. "I wanted to be with you when they came to life. But along the way, I guess we ran out of wishes."

She walked into the night.

saltwater raindrop
disappear into the ground
final empty page