Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 14

[On the good news front, I just accepted a job at a disability law firm across the valley. It means a small commute every day, but it also means health benefits. Go, disabilities! ...is something that Atty would cheer. But not me. I would never give a cheer like that.]

    Stacy Longmore took great pride in the fact that she had never had a multigrain bagel. She knew, as far as lifetime accomplishments went, this was a very small one, but she didn’t let that bother her. Even the little things add up to something big, she figured.
    “Never?” asked Beau. He looked down at her, black and massive and slightly ridiculous in the undersized apron he had somehow tied around his waist.
    “Tell me again how you forgot your apron,” said Stacy, grinning. “I like this story.”
    “There is no story,” said Beau, “I just forgot it, and stop changing the subject. You’ve never tried one of our multigrain bagels?”
    “So your apron is at home.”
    “Cut that out.”
    “And you’re wearing Tamara’s.”
    “I said stop it. This is serious.”
    “And Tamara is about the size of your left bicep.”
    “I mean it, Stacy. You need to eat a multigrain bagel.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s...it’s because…” Beau blinked furiously. “It’s tradition. Bagels are a pinnacle of health-food consciousness. Kinda. I bet you the very first bagel was multigrain. See that? So if you don’t eat one, it’s like you’re spitting on the tradition of bagels.”
    “Not true,” said Stacy.
    “How do you know?”
    “I looked it up. Bagels were invented in the late 1500’s in Poland. Are you saying the Poles of sixteenth-century Europe were four-hundred years ahead of the health food craze?”
    “Huh,” said Beau. “I thought Jews invented them. In New York.”
    “They are traditionally Jewish,” said Stacy, pulling another tray of bagels out of the oven and sliding them off into a basket, ready to go out front. “Jews lived in Poland.”
    “Jews have lived everywhere,” said Beau, turning to wash his hands. “Even Africa. I have Jewish ancestors.”
    “You’re Jewish?”
    “Something like one-twenty-fifth. Not much of me.”
    “That’s impossible,” said Stacy, picking up the basket and walking out of the kitchen. It was five minutes to open, and one of the regulars was already outside, stamping his feet. She always thought of him as Ernest Borgnine, even though his name was Gustavo and he didn’t look anything like the actor. Stacy just liked the name ‘Ernest Borgnine,’ and she figured everyone ought to have one of those in her life. Gustavo happened to be her Ernest Borgnine, that was all.
    Beau followed her out front. “Why do you say it’s impossible? You don’t think a black guy can be Jewish? I’ll find my family history and show it to you.”
    Stacy dropped the basket into its slot. “‘Sun-dried tomato,’” she read out loud. “What’s so special about drying something in the sun? Might as well call them ‘tomatoes someone accidentally left out, but we’re using them anyway.’ I believe a black guy can be Jewish, Beau. I just don’t believe that you’re one-twenty-fifth Jewish. It has to come in doubles.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know: one-half, one-fourth, one-eighth, one-sixteenth. Like that. Doubles.”
    “So maybe I’m one-thirty-second Jewish.”
    “I’ll take that,” said Stacy, smiling and typing her code into the register. “But for a Jew, you know bupkis about bagels.”
    “Don’t pull out your Yiddish on me, you putz. I know bagels have been to space. Some Canadian guy took a bunch of sesame seed bagels up to the International Space Station.”
    “Was he Jewish?”
    “Pretty sure he was.”
    “Then you’re right,” said Stacy. “Those Jews really are everywhere. You going to open up the door and let Mr. Borgnine in? He looks cold.”
    “I still don’t get why you call him that,” said Beau, making his way around the counter.
    Stacy just smiled. Gustavo didn’t mind being her Ernest. He was old and had a wrinkly smile and he seemed to understand: everyone needs an Ernest Borgnine in her life.
    She had sold a half-dozen of the multigrain--not to mention several coffees, a mixed bucket, seven cinnamon-raisin, and a poor, sad, sun-dried tomato--before the skinny guy walked in.
    "Check him out, Stacy," said Beau, leaning in behind her. "He's just your type."
    "Go be Jewish somewhere else, Beau. I am not going to meet my new boyfriend at work."
    "Why not?"
    "I could never be with someone who would eat a multigrain bagel. Now go away. Good morning. What can I get you?"
    The skinny guy shrugged in his jacket, looking cold. His knit cap was pulled down over his ears, but it didn't look like it was doing its job very well.
    "What's good?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
    "The multigrain," called Beau as he stepped back into the kitchen.
    "Ignore him," said Stacy. "Chilly, isn't it."
    "Sorry?"
    "The weather. It's cold out."
    "Yeah, no kidding. I thought my jacket would be enough. Guess I'm just not used to the mornings. I usually work nights."
    "Isn't it cold at night?" asked Stacy.
    The skinny guy blinked and smiled. "It is. Can you believe that? I somehow assumed it would be warmer in the morning than it is at night. I've always thought that. It's not true at all, is it?"
    Stacy smiled back. "Don't think so. So coffee to warm you up?"
    The skinny guy shuddered, and it took Stacy a second to realize it wasn't from the cold.     "The only kind of coffee I've ever liked was the kind that doesn't actually have any coffee in it. Aren't there coffees like that?"
    "We have hot chocolate."
    "I'll take that. And a bagel."
    "Any particular kind?"
    The skinny guy glanced over the baskets holding five more kinds of bagels than should exist in the world, at least by Stacy's count. "I have no idea," he said. "I'm terrible at decisions like this."
    "Like what food you should eat?"
    "Kinda. Yeah. That makes me sound completely pathetic, doesn't it?"
    Stacy laughed. "Just slightly. But that's okay. I'm sure there are other things you're good at."
    The guy shrugged. "Maybe." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, folded into quarters. "I drew this on the way over. The thing followed me. You ever seen anything like it? I don't think it's a bird."
    Stacy leaned over to see it. The sketch was quick, rough, but the lines were clear and he'd put in enough detail at the right places that the creature looked alive to her. Real.
    "I have no idea what it is," she said, and she didn't. "Does it have six legs? Is it one of those chaotic creatures?"
    "Not chaotic," said a baritone voice. "Entropic. Good morning, Stacy."
    "Luther! I didn't notice you come in. How are you?"
    "Unemployed," said the angel. "I have come to you for consolation. Your bagels are the only thing standing between me and despair."
    Stacy cocked her head, not sure whether he was joking or not. Luther was smiling, but there was an edge under it, rough like cracked concrete. The angel had already turned back to the picture.
    "Where did you see that creature, young man? They don't usually come out in the daylight. Well," he glanced outside, "in the almost daylight. We're definitely into the Fall, aren't we? So he followed you here?"
    The skinny guy looked down at the angel--skinny was pretty tall, wasn't he? Stacy did like tall men--and nodded. "I kept seeing it skitter along the walls, so I drew it. It's entropic? Like demons are?"
    Luther nodded. "Exactly. Well, not entirely exactly, but close enough. It's called a 'brogut,' and it's one of the creatures in the world that devours divine energy, breaking it down from perfect preservation into chaos and change. Part of the balance." Luther smiled. "But I'm getting pedantic. You're right. The same way that angels and owls and portellains are naturally sensitive to the energy of preservation, demons and broguts and chickens are sensitive to entropy and destruction."
    "Chickens are?" asked Stacy.
    "Absolutely," said Luther.
    "That's weird."
    "I've never liked eggs," said the angel.
    "Huh," said skinny. "So they don't come out much?"
    "Not much at all. I wonder what brought him out of his nest?"
    "Could be the god that was killed," called Beau from the back.
    "Eavesdropping is rude," yelled Stacy.
    "And hereditary," yelled the big man. "Blame my mother."
    "I've met your mother. I'm not blaming her for anything."
    "That makes you a smart girl," called Beau. "I'm going out for a smoke."
    "Already? That stuff will kill you."
    "Yes, it will, but I'm not giving it up until Lent."
    "I thought you were Jewish."
    "Then I'll give it up for Rosh Hashanah."
    "Isn't that over already?"
    "That's okay. I'm not in a rush." The back door banged open and closed again, and Stacy sighed. Then she looked at Luther. The angel looked pale. "Didn't you know about the god?" she asked.
    "Which one was it?"
    "Forgotten...something...I think."
    "Zed?"
    "Yeah. Him. Oh dear. Did you work for him? You said you lost your job--no, you didn't know, so it wasn't him, was it? I mean, the god you worked for."
    Luther shook his head. "No, I didn't work for Zed. I'm...just surprised. Shocked. You don't expect that someone like Forgotten Zed would ever die."
    "Who killed him?" asked skinny.
    "News said they didn't know. It was murder, though. Bullet through the window."
    "Crazy. I thought only gods could kill other gods. Had to be wars, like Ragnarok and World War II."
    Luther nodded. "Usually. That's usually the case. I think I may have to skip my bagel this morning, Stacy. I'm not sure I'm hungry anymore."
    "No problem, Luther. Take care." The angel left and Stacy watched him go. "You know," she said, "I couldn't tell if he was joking or not."
    "About what?" asked skinny.
    "About losing his job."
    "Nope," said skinny. "He wasn't joking."
    "How can you tell?"
    Skinny pulled his hat off and scratched at his head. "You can tell. I'll take a multigrain."

A small correction

It was pointed out to me by Liz that there's a character already in play that I'd forgotten to mention. It was so clear in my head that, while Ninny and Damastes were talking, Hugh was in other room watching TV. See, Hugh is Ninny's partner. They do everything together. So imagine that at the end of Section 07, the story goes something like this:

"He heard Ninny's quiet footsteps and the sound of the door closing. She said something to Hugh, her partner, and Hugh laughed. It didn’t matter. Damastes sat without opening his eyes, just breathing. Death was not what Forgotten Zed deserved, but it would have to do."

And then, at our corrupt detective's home, it's Hugh and Ninny paying him a visit. Also, bonus points to anyone who figures out where the names 'Hugh' and 'Ninny' come from, but you probably won't. It's obscure, fits with my love of mythology, and honestly, you have no clues to work from yet. So...lots of bonus points.

I hear my watch ticking.

And the ticking of my watch indicates to me that I actually have one. It was a gift from my sister via my brother-in-law. It's a Mickey Mouse watch--classic, 'Steamboat Willie' Mickey--before he became the symbol of copyright law gone awry--which may be why I like him so much. My brother-in-law had it in his drawer for a year, unopened, so my sister asked if she could re-gift it to me. I'm not offended. I'm delighted.

I also have on contacts. This means that I blink almost as often as my watch ticks. It's my first time ever wearing contacts, and I dread the moment tonight when I have to grab my eyes and pull these lenses off of them. Perhaps I'll just lie backwards over a bucket and pour another bucket of water over my face. Then I'll carefully fish around in the first bucket until I find them...and I'll hope I get them back in the correct eyes in the morning. I think it's a pretty bad plan, but it sounds better than the alternative.

In the third bit of news, I just met two new characters. Only one of them is major, but yes, I just met another major character in this book. I like her. She is a voice to my ridiculous and optimistic observations. I have plenty of other characters to speak for my general depression and malaise, but Stacy is happy. It's nice to find her inside me.

So why am I telling you and not posting? Because I'm out of time to write today, and the section she's in has barely started. She has many bagels to sell and a few familiar characters to meet before I can put her on the blog. Sorry. If it's any consolation, I'll be weeping before the night is done. Trying desperately to pull these flimsy pieces of something out of my eyes.

While my watch ticks on.

Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 13

[It's something. Writing still isn't as fluid as I'd like it to be, but it's fun again. Problem is, there are so many pieces to this story, it's hard to keep them all together. Hint at this here, show a bit of that there, and--doh! I left something out!

[Ah, well. You get what you pay for.]

    Vera Mason woke up with dry lips. In fact, her whole body felt dry, and her chest was stuffed with quilt batting. She opened her eyes and the room was black. Then she realized her eyes were still closed. That was strange. She was sure she’d opened them. She tried again. Still dark. She blinked, and the room came into focus. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Something clear was hanging above her head, like a floating blister. Ah, an IV bag, or whatever it was called. Who was it hooked up to?
    The pieces fell into place: the Thai restaurant, the panicked feeling as breathing became harder and harder, and then impossible. That toothpick of a waiter, hadn’t she told him about peanuts? She was sure she had, and his face had been quick, intelligent. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe she’d misjudged him?
    She blinked again and tried to swallow. It ached, like her throat was bruised from the inside. What did they do to treat anaphylactic shock? Whatever they’d done, it had worked, apparently. So why didn’t she feel better? She should be feeling better. She’d inherited the power of a god.
    Where was it?
    “Are you awake, Senora Mason?”
    Vera rolled her head sideways. They were there together, the Spanish husband and wife, like they usually were. Jose was standing behind the chair, his posture gently erect under his white hair, and Maria Teresa sat, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. It was as if the elderly couple were posing for a portrait that would be hung at one of the several universities they’d sponsored over the years. The small table next to them was covered in a surprisingly large yet somehow tasteful floral arrangement.
    Vera licked her lips again. “What time is it?” she whispered.
    “Slightly after six in the morning,” said Jose.
    “Then how?” Vera had to stop to swallow.
    “How what, Senora?”
    “How did you get flowers?”
    Jose’s eyebrows came down--he found Vera’s sense of humor perplexing--but Maria Teresa smiled. “Money is good for very few things,” she said. “Flowers at six in the morning is one of those few. But I suspect that what you’re truly wondering is how we found you at the hospital.”
    Vera had been wondering exactly that, and she had come up with only one possible answer. “Followed,” she croaked, and realized that her heart rate was up. She took a breath and tried to slow her breathing.
    “Yes, treasure, we had you followed.” Maria Teresa’s voice was soothing, or at least it was intended to be. Vera wasn’t sure yet whether she’d let it be calming or not. The elderly woman went on. “We always said we would let you do this, but we would never leave you without support. We had you followed, but he stayed well away. We wouldn’t do anything to confuse the link between yourself and that unfortunate Mr. Baernson. The transfer of power to you was as complete as possible.”
    Vera felt herself deflate. “Not complete,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
    Jose sniffed. Vera knew him well enough by now to know that counted as an expression of deep concern--the man was practically shouting--but she didn’t have any better news to offer them. She didn’t know how it had happened, but the power that had poured into her, slowly at first, then in a rush as she waited for her food--all that was gone. She couldn’t feel that flood anymore. Absent. Empty. Nothing.
    “Are you certain?” asked Maria Teresa, her voice quiet. “I think it’s possible that the power might not have departed you entirely.”
    Vera took a quick assessment of her situation. Chest, aching like a small child was jumping on her. Head, aching like the first child had an older brother. Throat, dry; legs, stiff: nose, slightly clogged. She felt like an overused cloth handkerchief.
    “Pretty sure it’s gone,” she whispered, or tried to. Gone was the only word that came out clearly.
    “Perhaps not,” said Maria Teresa. “Consider for a moment what you’ve been through. According to your very pleasant nurse, who seemed to know his business, you were dead for nearly ten minutes. That means more than five minutes without oxygen reaching your brain, a condition that almost inevitably results in brain damage, comas, and other unpleasant things.” The elderly woman smiled. “And yet, here you are, awake and questioning not only our choice to have you followed, but our decisions on floral arrangements. These are not the normal reactions of a person who should be in a coma. So I ask you again, Vera, are you certain the power is gone?”
    Dead, thought Vera. She had been dead. Her mind had heard the rest of what Maria Teresa had said, but what caught in her mind was that one word: dead. So close. So close to being with Steven again--but they had brought her back. She took a deep breath--as deep as she could--and let it go. Not yet, she supposed. Still something to do, something to take care of.
    Vera forced herself to consider the rest of what Maria Teresa had said. Ten minutes without oxygen to her brain should have caused brain damage. How would a person tell if she were brain damaged? Not having any way to judge, Vera supposed that she’d have to go based on how she felt, and aside from feeling terrible, she felt fine. She knew who she was, where she was, and why she was there. And, practically speaking, if she were brain damaged, would it make any difference? She’d just have to go on with what she had and make do.
    But if she should be comatose, and she wasn’t--which she wasn’t--then it was a distinct possibility that Maria Teresa was right: the power wasn’t gone. But if she still had it, why was it so weak? With the power Forgotten Zed had stored up, she should be ready to run a marathon, lift a car, or both at the same time.
    Vera breathed in sharply and started coughing. She could see the elderly couple watching her, leaning forward in concern, but she had enough energy to wave them back with the hand not attached to an IV. I’m okay, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t. For the first time she was facing the possibility that she may have done everything right, but would still fail. What if this was all the power that Forgotten Zed had? What if he had squandered it, his violent inheritance from his father, daughters, sons, wife? She could imagine the old man, cut off from his faithful, from anyone to be faithful to, saving only enough power to keep himself past any use or usefulness. And then, in a final betrayal that the ancient god couldn’t even know he was committing, he would die and leave Vera with just enough power to fail, so close to her goal.
    She blinked at tears. She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t, because this was her only chance. The Three might not show themselves again for another ten, twenty, fifty years, and the odds that Jose and Maria Teresa could guess the next target accurately were impossibly slim. Maria Teresa had explained one night over a cup of tea, calmly discussing the millions they had spent, the years they had dedicated to finding these god-killers, finding who they were, what they wanted, what their weaknesses might be.
    Finally they had hit on two critical pieces of information: the leader of the Three hated Forgotten Zed, and, for the first time in centuries, Forgotten Zed was in the news again. It was a chance, and perhaps the only chance in any of their lifetimes. They would go to Northern Lights, Wisconsin, and they would do what they had to. The Three wouldn’t hurt any more innocents.
    So there was no stopping now. Vera left the tears to dry on her cheeks and turned back to the Spanish couple. “Water,” she said, and Jose stepped forward to give her a drink from the bottle waiting on her table. He leaned over her as she drank, helping her take a sip, then two, then gently pulled the bottle away. He was looking down at her, and Vera met his gaze. Jose grunted and smiled, turning back to Maria Teresa and saying something in Spanish. He pressed the bottle back into Vera’s hand and stepped back behind his wife.
    “What did he say?” asked Vera.
    “He said that you’re back.”
    Vera smiled. Jose was right. She was back, and it was time to get moving.
    “Do we know who got the rest of the power?” she asked.
    “We assume it was the waiter or the chef,” said Maria Teresa. “We’re having them both followed. When you’re ready, you can go have a talk with them.”
    When she was ready. That wasn’t soon enough for Vera, but it would have to be. Patience. With the power of a god in her--even just a fraction of that power--she should be mobile again quickly. And if the Three were as clever as she knew they were, going against them at less than one-hundred percent was suicide. Vera didn’t believe in suicide.
    She believed in revenge.

Accidental God 2.0 -- Our story so far.

At the request of Liz, here's a google doc of the entire story so far. I hope you enjoy it, and I can promise there's more on the way soon.

Accidental God 2.0 Google Doc

Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 12

[This wasn't the hardest thing I've ever written. (No, that's always the next section.) But it was hard figuring out that it had to be written. I was trying to bring over a scene from my first attempt at this novel, and it wasn't working. I finally figured out why: the scene no longer had a purpose in the story.

[So I'm setting that aside and moving on to something else, which, to my surprise, is a new character and an entirely new plot thread.

[Yay.]

    Sergeant Williston Mako of the Northern Lights Police Department had been shot twice while on duty, once when in uniform and once undercover. The first was a bank robbery gone bad, but at his wife’s insistence he’d had his vest on and he walked away with only bruising. The second time had involved a laundromat and a surprisingly valuable whites cycle--and had put him in the hospital for nearly a month. Will had always assumed that being shot would bother him, cause emotional trauma, make him seek out a new line of work.
    Instead, Will made a decision: he was going to get every penny he could from his job, even if that meant living in what his (now ex-) wife called ‘the twilight of moral ambiguity.’ Also, interestingly enough, being shot had cured Will of his insomnia. He slept the restful sleep of a man who knew he had gone too far and had no interest in coming back.
    So it wasn’t too surprising that the man had to almost shout at Will to wake him up.
    “Sergeant Mako,” said the man again. Will blinked at him in the light that slanted out through the bathroom door--he slept with it on, since he hated bumping into things in the dark and he hand’t cleaned too often since his wife left.
    “You’re in my house,” said Will.
    “We thought it would be the best place to find you,” said the woman. She sounded amused. They always came together, the man and the woman, and always in the dark. Will had never seen their faces clearly, though the woman sounded like she must be beautiful. He’d been tempted to turn on a light a time or two, but not after he opened the first bag they brought him. That bag had turned into a weekend in Vegas, and while he was never going there again (such a waste of his money!) he wasn’t about to risk interfering with any more bags coming his way. So Will left the lights out and smiled. He’d done what he’d promised, so the man and woman couldn’t have any complaints. What that meant was another job, and another bag, and Will liked bags.
    “What can I do for you good people?” he asked, blinking at the sand in his eyes. Clearly he hadn’t slept enough, but the man and woman were worth waking up for.
    “Things didn’t go as we expected,” said the man. His voice was calm and even, but that didn’t tell Will much. The man had been calm and even when he’d calmly and evenly said that they were going to kill a god. Will felt his heart rate pick up. He wasn’t scared of these two, or at least he didn’t have any reason to be scared, except that there was something about them, like a gun waiting to be fired or a knife hidden in the hand.
    “Did I miss something?” he asked. “We found the bodies and staked our claim. Like you said, we couldn’t keep the TCD away from Forgotten Zed’s place, but they didn’t even come after the other corpses. Maybe they’re not as good as you thought, since this is just a little branch out here. What do they have, five people?”
    The woman laughed. Then they stood in silence. Will swallowed.
    “Even if they do come around,” he said, “they won’t get anywhere. At least not very fast. I’ve made it clear that these are my cases, and I’m not letting go. Besides, the captain isn’t a fan of the TCD, so they’re going to have to go so far over my head, they’ll get a nosebleed before they get access to these bodies.”
    There was silence again.
    “Is that why you’re here?” asked Will.
    “No,” said the man. “You remember that we asked you to find the two bodies.”
    “Sure. The man and the woman.”
    “We heard there was a third.”
    Will sat up in his bed and nodded. “Sure, Baernson. We found the big guy, too--first, actually--and figured he was part of the mess, so I locked it all down. This case isn’t going to get me any promotions, but I can guarantee you that nobody’s finding out who killed all these people.”
    “That’s unfortunate,” said the man.
    Will blinked. “What?”
    “He said that it’s unfortunate,” said the woman.
    “That’s what I thought,” said Will. “Why?”
    “Because the last man wasn’t part of our plan. As I said, things didn’t go as we expected.”
    Will started to relax again. He really hadn’t done anything wrong, and it was looking more and more like these two actually did have another job for him. “I suppose there’s something you’d like me to do?”
    “Find out who killed the extra man.”
    The woman laughed again. “We want you to actually do your job, Sergeant Mako.”
    “But,” Will coughed, “I assume you want to be the first ones to know what I find.”
    “The only ones,” said the man.
    “Interesting,” said Will. “Thing is, I’ve already done what you paid me for, and I know that the city already gives me a salary to do what you’re asking, but still--”
    A brown paper bag landed on the blanket between Will’s knees.
    “There’s a phone in there as well,” said the man. “It only has one number in the memory. Call us when you have something useful.”
    Will looked at the bag and licked his lips. He felt stupid, licking his lips like that, but money did that to him. He liked having it. He liked spending it, even on the smallest things. A pack of mints on the way home. Even paying a library fine. He kept books out too long intentionally, just for the feeling of spending money. In fact, it never hurt to ask for more. The man and woman clearly had enough.
    “Will there be any kind of bonus if I find her quickly?” asked Will, looking up, but his room was empty. He hated it when they did that.

Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 11

[I ground every word of this section out of a chunk of solid granite, using nothing more than my fingernails and a grim determination.

[In other words, writing this section was unbelievably hard. I'm not sure why, but it was, and then some. Ah, well. Plan on more pain and suffering and writing joy tomorrow.]

When Bradley woke up, he felt good. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the dark ceiling. He never felt good when he woke up. He hadn't done any official sleep studies, but he was suspicious that he had some kind of skinny-guy sleep apnea, and that he'd stop breathing in the middle of the night. He was at least positive that he snored, and that he woke up every morning with a stuffy nose. No 'blissfully arising into the lovely morning' for him. Was that part of a poem? He was probably making it up. He supposed that was what people did when they felt good, waking up spouting poetry.
    What time was it, anyway? It was still dark out, which was unnerving enough. He'd certainly dabbled in waking up early, but it wasn't something he'd ever stuck with for very long. He glanced at his alarm clock, with its alarm that he had never set. He hadn't made the purchase--his mother had, more out of a sense that she ought to buy it for him and not with any genuine hope that Bradley would use the alarm portion.
    Five-thirty. Now it was five-thirty one. Bradley blinked at the clock through surprisingly un-bleary eyes. He distinctly remembered falling asleep not much more than five hours ago. How could he possibly feel this good? How could he be awake at all?
    Bradley closed his eyes out of a sense of duty. Then he opened them. Then he rolled out of bed and walked to the closet. Sleep was not happening. Was it stress? He didn't feel stressed. Worried, maybe, but not much. At least, not as worried as he'd been last night, and that was just worrying about the lady with the peanut allergy. It hadn't even occurred to him to worry about how he was going to pay rent on this shag carpeting. See? There was another thing he ought to be stressed about, and he simply wasn't feeling it. He felt great. He felt like thinking about some kind of physical exercise. Maybe he'd go look at an advertisement at the YMCA for some sport he'd never actually participate in.
    But what to do now? Even on days when he had a job, Bradley's plans for the day didn't start until at least nine in the morning. Three-and-a-half hours of limbo. He'd start with a shower.

    Bradley showered.

    Three hours and seventeen minutes of limbo. What could he do? Reading a book was always an option, but he found himself bouncing on his toes. Apparently his body wanted to go someplace. Did he need a jacket? He'd take one, and a hat, too. He considered something with ear flaps and discarded the idea. He'd just pull on a knitted cap and, if necessary, stretch it down. (You never knew who you might meet, especially at around six in the morning.)
    Bradley found himself at his door, his keys in his pocket, ready to go but with no idea where he was going. Breakfast? Why not? Losing his job was the perfect time to celebrate--but nothing too extravagant. Maybe the bagel place on the corner. He locked the door behind him and took the steps two at a time.
    And almost ran into Olivia.
    "Oh. Hey. Sorry." Bradley grimaced, then wiped that off and replaced it with a smile while trying to hide how distressed he was that, in one phrase, he'd summarized his life to this point: Oh. Hey. Sorry.
    "Bradley?" She looked shocked. Shocked and beautiful, in a curvy, well-fed way.
    "Yes. Present. What's up? Been jogging?" An incomprehensible activity, jogging. It was like playing ultimate frisbee, but without the frisbee. Or the fun.
    She smiled, still looking puzzled. "What was your first clue?" she asked.
    "Well, you know," Bradley gestured from her lightweight running jacket down to her running tights--nice legs, but don't stare, don't even linger--then back to her braided hair, "You look the part. Do it often? Jogging? And looking like you jog?"
    Olivia laughed. "Both, actually." Then she stopped talking and just looked at him. Bradley resisted the urge to check behind him to see if there were someone significantly better looking back there. He swallowed.
    Olivia finally broke the silence--that interminable, five second silence. "Bradley?"
    "Yes?"
    "Did something happen?"
    How could she know? Did he look different? He knew he felt different, but he didn't think Olivia had ever paid enough attention to him to notice any subtle changes. Was there something obvious? Did he cut himself shaving? No, he used an electric razor, and, come to think of it, hadn't actually shaved that morning.
    He stalled for time. "Why do you ask?"
    She raised her eyebrows and glanced at her watch. "It's not even six yet."
    "Does that matter?"
    "I've never heard you awake before eight, usually later."
    Was that a problem? Did she only like early risers? "I guess I usually have work late at night. And stuff. Or I'm just a night person. Night owl. That seems like a redundant phrase, doesn't it? Night owl, I mean. But, actually, some owls, like the burrowing owl, are diurnal. Which is the opposite of nocturnal." Bradley stopped talking. Then, in spite of himself, started again. "Do you like owls?"
    "Owls?"
    "Owls."
    Olivia looked amused and confused at the same time. "I guess."
    "There are even some pretty freaky ones," said Bradley. "Like the Southern White-faced Owl. It goes from cute to psychotic in a heartbeat. Pretty awesome, actually. It's on the internet. Also, not everyone knows this, but owls are creatures that are naturally sensitive to divine power. Like angels. Which is why owls live so long. And angels."
    "Fascinating," said Olivia.
    "I'm talking too much," said Bradley.
    Olivia shrugged. What did that mean? Was she agreeing that he talked too much? That was probably it. Or she didn't care. Either one was equally bad. Either one was equally expected.
    "I'm off then," said Bradley. "Getting breakfast."
    "Have fun," said Olivia, turning back to her door. Then she was gone and the door was closed and Bradley was alone in the stairwell.
    "I like your hair," whispered Bradley. "Also, you listen to cool music. Unless that's your roommate, but either way, it's still cool. And did I mention that you're probably perfect?"
    He turned and walked down the stairs and out into the chilly morning.