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  “Fine,” Micah says. “I don’t presume to speak for everybody, but the feeling’s mutual from where I sit. Now that that’s settled, am I the only one who thinks we’d better find food and water if we plan to stay here much longer?”

  “It’s crossed my mind,” says Ronnie. “I’ve got the water-bottle, but that’s not gonna go far. Ideas?”

  “Yo, Rachel,” Micah says. “How far is the kitchen from here?”

  “Other side of the building.”

  “Damn.”

  “I saw one of those food carts in the hallway when we ran in here,” says Anita. “Maybe we could open the door just far enough to roll it inside?”

  “That would be from this morning’s breakfast rounds,” says Larry. “Milk, eggs. Help yourselves, but I ain’t gonna eat that now.”

  “I don’t think we should stay here,” says Rachel. “We should make a run for it. Soon. It’ll be dark in a few hours. We should leave before the sun goes down.”

  “Things might be worse outside,” mutters Alex.

  Ronnie says, “Moot point. We’ve discussed this already. There’s too many of them. It’s about a hundred feet from here to the exit at the end of the hall. We’d never make it. Not all of us.”

  Anita lets out a little whimper, starts that nervous habit of hers again: rubbing at her left wrist with the thumb of her right hand like she’s trying to wipe something grimy off her skin.

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Larry says, more to himself than anyone else.

  Micah clears his throat, stands. Stares at his reflection in the business end of his golf club, wincing at the sight of his bruised and blood-crusted jaw.

  “If we do decide to stay,” he says, “there is another matter we need to discuss.”

  They all look at Micah, wondering where he’s going with this.

  “I think we need to talk about what we’re gonna do with him.”

  Hard to believe, but with everything else going on, they had nearly forgotten about the seventh person in the room.

  The man in the bed.

  VERONICA “RONNIE” LABIANCA-OLIVERI, 39 (BEFORE)

  “I wish I could say I love you, that I care what’s happened to you. But you never loved anyone but yourself. Why should I sit here and pretend to be sad? If I cry, I can assure you they’re crocodile tears. Just like you used to cry every time you hit Mom, and then you’d beg her to take you back again and again. I can’t be sad for you. I wish I could. But I barely feel anything for you, Daddy… you hateful, miserable old bastard….”

  For what was surely the ten-millionth time (make that ten million and one), I rehearsed what I would say to him, tried to find the right words as I jogged through the park.

  I dreaded what lay before me worse than I had ever dreaded anything in my life.

  I had just started my eleventh lap around the trail. Almost done for the day. Feeling good. Not great. Couldn’t quite reach that point. Too much on my mind. Hard to get into that groove – that perfect zone that’s so damn fine it’s better than any drug – knowing what awaited me once I finished here.

  Breathe, Ronnie. Focus. Forget about the prick for now. During this moment, nothing else mattered. Daddy wasn’t going anywhere. Docs were surprised he had lasted this long, after he had slipped into a coma six weeks ago. However, I was alive and well. Healthy, happy. I beat him. Got out of that house, out from under the asshole’s iron fist. And look what I had to show for it. A good life. I was strong, successful. Not to mention one hot little package, if I do say so myself. He couldn’t break me like he broke Mom, no matter how hard he tried.

  Breathe. Focus. Faster. Faster!

  Always loved pushing my body to its limits. Started my second year in college, this obsession with fitness, this compulsion to look good. Had a monster crush on my Principles of Modern Business prof – can’t recall her name, but I sure remember that body. She’d jog around campus every morning in her halter top and tight little shorts, looking nothing like the spectacled librarian type we all saw in class. Most folks didn’t recognize her, thought she was just another student. But I sure did. Every morning she was out there. So dedicated. So driven. I think about her still, on those days when I’d rather curl up in bed with a bucket of Neapolitan ice cream than go out for my morning jog. Gotta live it. Every day. No pain, no gain, as they say, and even though I hate clichés they’re right. Gotta keep in shape, keep everything high and tight. Firm. Savor the reward, but never settle. Never let it be enough. Constantly demand more of myself. Otherwise, I might as well be her again. The fat little “Ronnie Roly-Poly” I used to be in high school. Kids could be so cruel. Wonder how much fun they would’ve had with it if they’d known their “Varicose Veronica” was a burgeoning lez to boot?

  Screw ’em. Screw them all.

  Breathe, now.

  Focus.

  No dice. Couldn’t forget the task at hand no matter how hard I tried. It was always there, needling at the back of my mind.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go. Just forget about the whole frigging thing.

  Not an option. Had to get this done. So I would never have any doubt that I had done the right thing.

  Call it closure. Catharsis. Whatever. I had put it off long enough.

  I had rehearsed what I planned to say to the old man, over and over, until I could have recited those words in my sleep. Yet I still had no clue exactly what would come out of my mouth once I got there. Most likely, when the moment arrived and I sat beside his bed, looking down at him, it would be nothing like I had planned.

  I reached into my fanny-pack, turned up the volume on my iPod almost as loud as it would go. My favorite band, the Foo Fighters, blasted through my skull: there goes my hero, watch him as he goes….

  Hell, yeah. Pumped my legs faster to the beat. Faster. Making it hurt. That’s it, baby. Feeling the burn. Lovin’ it….

  Twelve miles a day I run, every single day. The only exception: Christmas. Not that I’m a believer, never have been, even when the bastard used to drag us to church every time its doors were open. Those services were Mom’s only reprieve from his drunken beatings. I guess everybody needs a break now and then.

  Dammit, old man, get out of my head! I’ll see you soon enough.

  This was my sanctuary, the public park. My favorite place in the world. My run was my ritual. I didn’t feel complete, could barely get through the rest of my day if I missed my morning run. Even with the dread of what lay before me, I was at peace here. Mostly.

  It was going to be a beautiful day. Barely nine o’ clock in the morning, and already the sun was bright and warm. Not a cloud in the sky. The smell of recently-mown grass permeated the spring air. On a day like this, it wouldn’t be too much longer till the park started filling up. Yet, as I pushed my body to its limits, lost in my own internal microcosm of labored breaths and thumping heartbeats and kick-ass rock n’ roll, I might as well have been alone. I would ignore the single mothers arriving with their strollers, sipping from their jumbo Orange Julius cups, chatting amongst themselves like some elite club communicating in their own secret language… I would ignore the toddlers laughing, crying, squealing, and shouting on the playground (I could not hear them anyway, thankfully, beneath the music in my ear-buds)… I would ignore the occasional lanky cyclist with his or her complete disregard for the BICYCLES AND SKATEBOARDS PROHIBITED ON THIS TRAIL signs… I would ignore the frumpy, sweatsuited, middle-aged fast-walkers with their perpetual desire to get in my way, and the dog-lovers with their own disregard for the PLEASE CLEAN UP AFTER YOUR PETS signs… and I definitely would ignore, as I had just every day this week, the two blond frat-boy regulars tossing their football back and forth in the middle of the park (although I couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of me yesterday morning when one of them caught it with his face, as he was busy watching me instead of the ball – did the little shithead’s shirt really say GOT PUSSY? Kid, if you only knew).

  But then, as I rounded the last leg of the trail, there
was one thing I could not ignore.

  Behind my sunglasses, my eyes grew wide as I spotted something that demanded my attention.

  It killed my rhythm. I slowed.

  What the hell? I mouthed the words. Or maybe I said them aloud, but could not hear my own voice beneath the music in my ears.

  There were three of them. Senior citizens. Not a rare thing to see in a city park, of course. But there was something strange about this trio… something not quite right….

  They stood side by side on the edge of the pond in the center of the park, a hundred feet or so from where I now jogged in place.

  They were just standing there, not moving. Their heads were tilted up toward the sky. Their mouths hung open as if they were mesmerized by something in the heavens that only they could see.

  I frowned, hit the Pause button on my iPod.

  I was pretty sure I recognized one of them. A pear-shaped senior citizen in a brown ivy cap and matching slacks, he visited the park every morning to feed the pigeons. Always had a friendly wave for me. He sported a full Santa Claus beard, and each day his t-shirt had a different silly slogan on it: OLD FARTS RULE or I’VE REACHED THE AGE WHERE HAPPY HOUR IS A NAP or GETTING OLD ISN’T SO BAD, WHEN YOU CONSIDER THE ALTERNATIVE!

  Until today, Mr. T-Shirt (as I had come to think of him) had always been alone.

  I noticed that the bag of bread he normally carried with him lay crumpled at his feet. He had lost his hat as well; it floated beside a raft of ducks in the pond nearby.

  He did not care. He just stood there, staring up into the sky.

  I did not recognize the two senior citizens who had joined Mr. T-Shirt in his bizarre behavior. The guy in the middle was bald, very skinny. He wore a wrinkled white shirt, gray slacks, and a pair of those huge, gaudy old-folk sunglasses. From this distance I estimated his age to be at least ninety. His female companion wore a billowy flower-print dress. A purple port-wine stain birthmark covered half of her face. She leaned against a metal walker.

  I brought one hand to my brow, craned my neck to look where they were looking, expecting to see something amazing up there.

  Nothing. Just cloudless blue sky.

  “Weird,” I said to myself.

  The old lady’s head lowered then… and she appeared to look right at me.

  The expression on her disfigured face was one of utter hatred. As if she had never laid eyes on any living thing so despicable.

  Of course she was just some harmless old lady. I did not know her, she did not know me.

  All the same, that look chilled me to the bone.

  I tore my gaze from the trio, forced myself to get my head back in the game.

  … and I nearly collided with a fellow jogger in my path.

  “Watch where you’re going, lady!” the young man spat.

  I stammered out an apology. Picked up my pace. Continued on down the trail.

  As I passed the pond again on my next (and final) lap, I saw that they were gone. As if those three old folks and their freaky fascination with something in the sky had never been there at all.

  Finished with my run, I strolled to my car. I powered off my iPod, returned the ear-buds to my fanny-pack. Removed the scrunchie that kept my long black hair tied back out of my face.

  I took a deep breath, attempted to steel myself anew for the task at hand.

  About the time I started up the car, I heard sirens screaming across town. Police cars, ambulances, fire engines.

  I didn’t think anything of it then. Barely even noticed them, in fact. I was too preoccupied with my own troubles.

  Only later did it occur to me that this distant commotion should have felt like an omen. A visit with dear old Dad would soon be the least of my worries.

  III.

  They all stare at the man in the bed.

  His chest slowly rises, falls. Otherwise he is motionless. Silent. Beneath the saline bag, the unit on the IV pole beeps quietly, old Mr. LaBianca’s sole contribution to the conversation.

  “Snoop Dogg’s got a point, yo.” Larry crosses the room, stands over the man in the bed. He holds a fist out toward Micah, but the young man ignores his offer to bump knuckles. “If we’re gonna stay here overnight, we oughta do something with him. Who’s to say Sleeping Beauty won’t wake up all of a sudden, turn on us like the rest of them?”

  “You are kidding, right?” says Rachel.

  “Never been more serious.”

  “I’m not sure if this is your usual douchebag self talking, Larry, or if you’re just being willfully dense. But in case you haven’t noticed, Mr. LaBianca has been in a coma for the last six weeks.”

  “Maybe he’s just waiting. Biding his time.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “My God, you are an idiot,” Alex mumbles from his place on the floor. Nevertheless, he scoots away from the bed, putting a little more distance between himself and Mr. LaBianca.

  “I’m just saying. It’s something we oughta think about. Despite how you feel about me, Rachel, don’t forget —you’re not the only one who’s a Licensed Nurse here. I know it’s impossible. He is in a coma. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t eaten on his own for a month-and-a-half. The guy’s not gonna sit up all of a sudden, out of the blue, and start doing somersaults. But all you’ve gotta do is open that door to see that the normal rules no longer apply. ’Cause there ain’t no normal anymore. What’s going on out there is fucking impossible!”

  “That’s what I’m screaming,” Micah agrees.

  No one speaks for several seconds. The only sound in the room is another beep from Mr. LaBianca’s IV.

  Larry runs one hand through his spiky, sweat-damp hair. Then he pauses, as if an idea just struck him.

  “Maybe we should put him out of his misery.”

  “What?” Rachel’s jaw drops.

  Anita holds one hand to her mouth. “Oh, my goodness.”

  Larry approaches the man in the bed. Looks down at him. Nods as if this is the best idea anyone has thought of all day. “Think about it. It would be self-defense. He’s one of them. That makes him the enemy.”

  “You are out of your mind,” says Rachel.

  “That’s definitely not what I was suggesting,” says Micah. “He’s unarmed. Helpless.”

  “Sure he is,” says Larry. “For now.”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Come on! There is no right and wrong anymore! We have to be proactive, people. It’s the only way to win a war.”

  Rachel shakes her head, curses Larry under her breath. Just when she thinks she couldn’t possibly hate him more….

  “If you guys are too chickenshit to do it, I volunteer. I’ll take care of it. Right now. Alex, give me your knife. It’ll be over in two seconds. Old Mr. LaBianca won’t ever feel a thing.”

  Larry extends a hand toward Alex, palm up. Waggles his fingers, waiting. Alex glances toward the bedside table, where he stashed the butcher knife earlier, but he doesn’t get up.

  “Don’t touch him,” says Ronnie.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Don’t touch him!”

  Ronnie suddenly plucks the Saturday Night Special out of her fanny-pack. She points the gun at Larry.

  “Whoa,” says Larry, eyes wide.

  The others gasp.

  “Get away from him,” says Ronnie.

  “Okay, okay! Just get that thing out of my face.”

  Anita says, “Ronnie, no….”

  “What are we gonna do with him if you pop a cap in his ass?” says Micah. “He’ll just stink up the place.”

  “He’s not worth it,” Rachel says.

  Ronnie shrugs. “The normal rules no longer apply, right? He said so himself.”

  “If you shoot him, they’ll hear it,” Alex says. “They’ll start beating at the door again. We don’t want to get them riled up, remember? That’s what you said to me.”

  Micah says, “He’s right. C’mon, Ronnie. Put the gun away.”

  �
�Please,” Anita begs. “Don’t do this.”

  Again, Ronnie orders Larry: “I said get away from him. Now. Or, I swear to God….”

  “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Wait a minute,” says Micah. He steps forward, one hand on his injured shoulder. “Ronnie? You don’t… know this guy, do you?”

  Ronnie swallows loudly. Her voice cracks as she informs the others, “He’s my father.”

  “Oh, shit,” says Larry. “That is rich.”

  Ronnie bites her lip, wipes at her eyes with the back of her free hand.

  “First time you’ve said a word about this,” Larry taunts her, even with the gun hovering inches from his face.

  “That’s because it’s nobody’s business.”

  “So that’s your Daddy lying there. Interesting. Recognize her name from the visitor’s log, Rachel? ’Cause I sure don’t. Oh, we see this all the time. Folks think they’ve made their peace, don’t have any guilt eating at their conscience, ’cause at least they dropped by to tell Pop adios before he shuffles off this mortal coil. Of course, they haven’t stepped foot on the property since the day they dumped him here like a pile of garbage for somebody else to take care of. Is that what’s going on here? Tell us, Ronnie. We all want to know.”

  “Shut up!” Ronnie shouts. “That’s not the point. You don’t know what you’re talking about. And I told you, it’s none of your business anyway.”

  “What is the point, Ronnie? Enlighten us.”

  “He’s not hurting anybody. He doesn’t even know we’re here. He doesn’t know anything. He’s in a coma, you prick. And if anybody’s gonna decide if he lives or dies, it sure as hell won’t be you. You’re the last person who’s gonna lay a finger on him.”

  “Whatever,” says Larry.

  “Ronnie, please put the gun away,” says Rachel. “You’ve been the level head around here. The voice of reason. We need that to continue. And Larry, you’ve got a lot of nerve judging anyone for mistreatment of the elderly.” She shoots Micah a look. “We’ll keep a close eye on Mr. LaBianca, okay? I don’t think that’s a bad idea. But nobody is going to hurt him. I promise.”

  Slowly, Ronnie lowers the gun. She slides it back into her fanny-pack, never taking her eyes off of Larry.