Roland’s Dream, a sequel to Kai's Dream -(Content Warning for Violence)- Somewhere in northern Solandom, 682 AD
As the afternoon approached, so too did the end of Kai and Roland’s work day. After lunch the men would go back to work in the fields and Kai and Roland would have the rest of the day off. Kai pictured all the days past, taking up his wooden sword to spar with Roland in their spare time after work, and the bruises he received despite Roland’s best efforts to hold back. Not today.
Kai had feigned an injury; a sprained wrist, while helping Roland earlier that day.
“Ah!” He dropped the hay bale onto the soft ground and held his wrist, clenching his teeth and breathing through them hard, taking a few deep breaths while looking at his wrist.
“Kai, are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m…mmmm” He groaned “I’m fine, it’s ok, I’m alright, nnnn” He winced as he grabbed the hay again.
“Don’t worry Kai you just rest, I’ll finish up for the both of us alright? Might take me a bit longer so we won’t be able to play till later.
Roland, all of eleven years old but already strong, heaved the entire bale himself and thrust it over his shoulders.
Kai watched in admiration, he couldn’t come anywhere close to doing something like that. He went back to the house and sat in the kitchen while Roland’s mother made lunch.
When the farmhands came back to eat, Roland wasn’t with them.
“Kai, you alright? Roland said you got hurt.” said one of them.
“You’ll be alright pup.” Said another.
“Where’s Roland?” asked his mother.
“He’s still working. Wouldn’t let us help him out. Said he’d finish his and Kai’s work himself. Stubborn lad, you know how he is.”
“But he’ll miss lunch!”
“He figured as much I think, said something about it even, I don’t think he minds. Said we should all go eat. He may only be 11 but he works like a grown man. Could probably work full days with us by the end of the year if he wanted.”
“Now you stop that he’s just a boy!”
“A slave boy.” said one of them.
Everyone was silent.
“I’ll save a bit for when he comes in.” Roland’s mother said.
She put a bould of meat and sauce to the side, along with a piece of bread.
A few minutes later the Master of the Farm, and Roland’s father, called her into his room.
When she left, Kai rushed over and ate some of Roland’s helping, not wanting to get too full. He took the rest and buried it outside.
When Roland finally returned, he looked exhausted. Kai felt a fluttering, excited anticipation in his chest.
He looked around the room. “Did mother leave any food for me?”
“There may have been some, I think one of the farmhands might have had it.”
“Oh, well” said Roland “They work all day, I only work the half. They need it more than I. Perhaps I’ll have a large supper.” He smiled weakly.
“So” said Kai, “Want to practice with our wooden swords?” He raised his eyebrows. “Want to spar?”
Roland looked down and let out a sigh. “But…your wrist, are you sure?”
“Ah, it might be tough, but you’re tired as well! Maybe it’ll even out, eh?”
Roland breathed in another deep breath, still clearly tired. “Sure, Kai! Let’s…let’s do it…”
Kai smiled to himself, Roland didn’t often back down from a challenge, but there was always a chance. But now that he had agreed, Kai could already taste his victory.
Outside, as usual, a few of the farmhands sat to watch.
“Get him Kai! You got it this time!”
“I put 15 copper on Roland.”
“I put a silver on Roland”
“Anyone betting on Kai? C’mon it’s like 30-1 if Kai wins you’ll be rich.”
“Alright I’ll put 1 copper on Kai. C’mon Kai I’m countin’ on ya! Give him what-for!”
They took their stances and Kai smiled. All he had to do was defend, and avoid, Roland was already tired, all he needed to do was wait for a slouch or a moment of weakness and he’d win.
They walked around each other, Roland’s footwork was impeccable as usual, but slower than normal. This time, Kai could keep up.
Roland slouched a bit and his guard dropped. This early? Kai was surprised but wouldn’t miss his opportunity, he lunged forward and swung his sword towards Roland, only to see Roland’s posture change at the last moment. No. No, Kai thought, he’s tired, he must be.
Roland made eye contact for a moment before tilting his body slighting, Kai’s swing rushing harmlessly past him as he felt a sharp smack on his side and Roland sword struck his waist.
“Aw, again? Alright cough up that copper, honestly I was thinking maybe id lose some coin today but a safe bet is a safe bet.”
The man who bet on Kai began handing a piece of copper to each of the others.
Kai was stunned in disbelief. That was the shortest fight yet. It wasn’t even close. How did he do worse than usual?
“Sorry Kai”, said Roland “I suppose that was a bit dirty, but I’m quite exhausted. Perhaps we can go again after dinner and have some real fun hey?”
And that’s when Kai came to the harsh realization that it took more energy for Roland to go easy on him and draw out their bouts than to simply finish him quickly. He never had a chance.
He tried to hold in his tears as he smiled and shook Roland’s hand “Well fought, Roland, well fought as always.”
Roland went inside to their room and fell asleep until supper. The farmhands went back to work till sunset.
Roland’s mother was not seen, presumably still in The Master’s room until it was time to make dinner.
Kai rushed to the dark woods near the farm, where they were told never to go, but where he often when in fits of rage or sorrow.
In the darkness of the wood, while the old trees bore witness, he wept.
“I just want to be strong. I just want to win. Why can’t I ever win. Please. Make me strong like Roland. Someone, anyone, I’ll do anything. Please, please I’ll give you anything!”
The wind blew threw the leaves and as it did the leaves whispered, as if the branches and their foliage were the very ridges of the throat of nature, and the wind it’s breath.
“Blood” they said with a hiss.
“B-blood! O-of course! Anything! Take it all, take it!”
“All?”
“Yes! Anything!”
“Some now…”
Kai looked around for something sharp and saw a single, tall rose growing from the ground, a rose that most certainly had not been there a moment before. He rushed over to it and pricked his arm upon the thorns. “Here, I’ve got some, where are you?”
“Roots…”
He dropped the blood from his arm into the roots of the tree, and the roots writhed like serpents as it splashed upon them, enlivened by his vitality.
“He comes…” it hissed again.
“What?”
“Him…and you…blood…give…me…”
“W-what?”
“Stone…”
His attention was drawn to a stone on the ground.
“This?”
“For…skull…”
Kai nodded. “I…I understand.”
He heard footsteps approaching through the trees, and before he knew it Roland was upon him. “Kai? Mother is making supper…what are you doing out here in the woods?”
“How did you know I was out here?”
“Well, sometimes I see you wonder off. I’ve never said anything, wouldn’t want you to get in trouble, but…”
Hmph, Kai scoffed to himself. Of course even his very privacy existed only at the mercy of Roland’s pity.
“Well, I found something the other day, near that tree, in those roots there. Take a look.”
Roland knelt down before the tree and peaked into the hole beneath the roots.
“It’s dark but I can see a bit, perhaps if we had a torch or something, what is that? I see eyes? I think there’s a sna-”
And in that moment Roland was interrupted by the rock striking against his skull as his blood splashed across the roots and the tree.
“Yeeessss” the voice from beneath the tree hissed excitedly.
“K-Kai?” Roland barely muttered as he tried to stumble to his feet.
Kai struck him again, and again, until the rock was covered in blood and other things, and Roland’s body lay limp upon the roots.
“Now, kisssss, kissss me, Kai” hissed the voice from the dark beneath the earth.
“You are not the trees and the leaves are you? What are you?”
“...I am the answer to your prayers, Kai now put your head in the hole beneath the roots”
Kai steeled himself and glanced down at Roland. There was no turning back now.
He leaned forward, and stuck his head through the roots beneath the tree. He didn’t see at all in the darkness beneath the cave, but he heard the slithering and the flicking of a tongue.
He saw yellow, slit eyes before him and felt the sting of fangs as something bit down upon his lips, and the venom shot through him.
Somewhere in the Ur-Veil, 800 AD
Roland awoke with a gasp. His companions still dreamt around him, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. “You finally slept, eh Roland?” He looked around confused. The fires flames flicked like the fork tongues of a serpent, the smoldering coals hissing, whispering. “You alright? Same dream?” “Y-yes.” “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what happened.” “It’s alright.” “That was the first person you killed, right? That boy…what was it, Kai?” “Yes…yes, I…I killed him…” “Because he killed your family? Your mother and father?” “...Yes….because he killed them…yes…” “Well, that was a long time ago. Hundreds of years. You're with us now, we’re your friends, and we’d never hurt you.” Roland nodded as he stood. “Watch?” “Yes” said Lancellote. The flames hissed again at Roland, and his eyes were drawn to them. “Blooood….” they crackled. “No more!” shouted Roland. “What? No more what, Roland?” Asked Lancellote. “N-nothing. Don’t worry Lancelotte, you just rest, and let the rest of them sleep too. I’ll finish up for the both of us alright?” and Roland walked to the edge of camp, to stand vigil once more.

Should I be concerned using these especially the idea that they could mess up my grinder? They have a slight oil on the outside but not a lot. Have others used the beans without issue?

Mr. and Mrs. Tunell were old, losing their memories, but in otherwise good shape—if you could call taking the shape of certain objects to be in shape. Mr. Tunell was short, thin, and had a pronounced hunch on his back, making him look a lot like a question mark. Mrs. Tunell, almost the opposite in appearance, was tall, fat, and shaped like an egg.
The Tunells had lived on their farm since—well, they couldn’t remember when—but it was around the same time that their adult daughter, Alma, was born.
The sun outside this particular early Friday morning was already beginning to beat on the warm, damp earth. The Tunells hadn’t worked on that farm in years, hence the reason they were still in their kitchen. They weren’t poor, by any means. They had two farmhands to keep the farm running. Of course, the farm, being as big as it was, really needed three people to operate it, which was why the Tunells had finally applied to adopt a young boy to help them.
Their own daughter (it was a few years ago now) had decided that life on her parents’ farm had become too grueling for her, and she had left and got married to Harvey Simmerson, a boy from the neighboring city, when they were eighteen years old. Alma told her parents, as she sprinted out the front door, suitcase in hand, that she wanted to make a fresh start.
“Fresh?” Mr. Tunell still gripes from time to time. “What does that even mean, ‘fresh’? Dang youngsters, always making up silly words to explain away good, solid work!”
Right now, Mr. and Mrs. Tunell were growing rather restless inside their kitchen, unsure what to do with themselves, half wondering why they were standing at the kitchen counter at all. Mr. Tunell wore a wrinkled white dress shirt, a frayed black tie, and tan corduroy slacks, long since out of date. His wife had on a washed-out red dress with bleeding white flowers. Their initial plan was to wait there for the ten-year-old boy to arrive. Before each of them, on their white marble countertop, was the beginnings of two lists—“What The Boy Can Do On The Farm And When”—otherwise blank at the moment.
“Perhaps we should, uh, go out for the day?” said Mrs. Tunell tentatively, getting anxious standing there, having forgotten about her list again. A rare thing for them: going out. Her husband began to drum his gnarled fingers on top of the countertop, looking up and to the left, irresolute on the idea of going out. “They’ll drop the child off on the porch sometime today, no doubt?” she continued, suddenly remembering. “It is today, isn’t it? It’s why we’re standing here, right?” Mr. Tunell grunted. He walked around to check the clock on the end of the kitchen’s low hanging wall, as though it might not only tell him the time of the day but their reason for being there, as well. The black-and-white clock ticked its thin, long secondhand slowly, dully, from the “4” to the “5” as he watched. He blinked. He moved back around to stand in front of his list and shook his head at it.
“No, I don’t think we can leave,” said Mrs. Tunell, answering herself. “I think they said we’ll have to sign for him or something,” she added. She snatched glances at the television set, which was in the adjoining room, their living room. She licked her lips. The television was black and blank, darkly reflecting the blue-and-white curtains covering the window on the opposite wall. She was missing one of her favorite television shows and for what! She glanced down at her list momentarily, trying to remember again. “Ah,” she sighed, reading the heading. “How long do you think it will take for him to do the jobs of the two we hired, dear?” She looked sideways at her husband. Her eyes were already beginning to glaze over. She glanced down at her list, once more. “After all, he is a…a boy.
“And after everything we’d done for her, too,” she said, out of nowhere, recalling her daughter’s quick departure, as her rolling eyes landed on the front door. Mrs. Tunell ruined the effect of outrage by the quizzical look she wore on her face when she looked away from the front door and at her husband. Her face changed. She wore a hangdog expression presently as her eyes moved about the kitchen’s interior, wondering how she had gotten there. As though trying to remember, she wiped bewilderedly at a nonexistent tear under her left eye. She rubbed the “tear” off on her dress. She cleared her throat.
“If the boy’s from good stock,” said her husband, “I think it will take a couple of years, I-I suppose, for him to take over the two, um, grown men’s work, in addition to his own.” Try as he might, he clearly doubted his own statement. Mr. Tunell would sometimes talk about people this way, coming “from good stock,” as though they were animals and not humans. He said all this to appease his wife. When she got too worked up, she would faint.
His wife took a few, measured breaths; Mr. Tunell shrugged his curved shoulders, when next she looked at him.
After rereading the headings on their lists (they had been through this about a dozen times over the last half hour), the Tunells finally began to jot things down.

1. Feed the animals: ten years old
   
2. Weed the fields: ten years old
   
3. Barrel the hay: ten years old
   
4. Plow the fields: ten years old
   

Then…

1. Run the farm: ten years old

…added Mrs. Tunell, hopefully.
Some time later, there came a knock at the front door.
Mr. Tunell walked—it was more like a scuttle, really—around the counter and toward the front door. He opened the door.
A priest stood in the doorway. He had on the traditional black dress pants and black, long-sleeved dress shirt and white, tab collar. He also held a large, faded brown Bible, with hundreds of little, colored tabs sticking out its paged side. The priest held the Bible in both hands, close to his chest. Sweating profusely, the priest unclasped his right hand from the Bible momentarily to give a jaunty wave of hello to Mr. Tunell and then began to speak as soon as his hand touched the Bible again; he acted as though he knew his time on that doorstep was limited, yet the speech must be given. He spoke quickly and firmly, and, somehow, managed to add a tone of someone counseling their dearest friend: something between a berating and forgiveness, for having had to come out so far to do so.
“I’ve talked to your neighbors. I have visited Mr. Arncaster, the Greenes, the Howlanders, the Smiths and Tegartens, Jeremy and May Belvedere. And now it’s time I talk to you, face-to-face.” He took a deep breath, as though he were about to say something deeply concerning. “Is your wife home? She’s gonna wanna hear this.”
“Gosh it’s hot!” said the priest, when Mr. Tunell said nothing in reply. He lifted an arm to wipe the streaming beads of sweat from rolling into his eyes. He coughed once into the silence. He swallowed. “You wouldn’t happen to have a glass of water, would you?” He smiled. He made to enter the house to get it himself, perhaps forgetting that he and Mr. Tunell were not, in fact, old friends, but Mr. Tunell didn’t move out of the way, and so the man stopped. “Ahem.” He cleared his dry throat.
Mr. Tunell stared at him.
“What do you believe—?” continued the man hurriedly.
Mr. Tunell cut him short with a quick wave of his hand. His gesture was similar to one waving goodbye to someone. He didn’t move, however, to close the door. He let his hand fall to his side.
The priest’s mouth fell open.
“My wife and I believe in…” Mr. Tunell went on, but he couldn’t think. “The television,” he said finally, and he looked back at it for a moment. He didn’t know what he was saying, yet he remembered he liked the television.
The priest’s eyes widened. He began to back away slowly. “Well…” he said. He crossed himself. He tripped down the porch steps and speedily picked himself up.
Mr. Tunell narrowed his eyes. The priest crossed the house, next.
Mr. Tunell looked around dazedly and eventually shut the door. He returned back to where his wife was, in the kitchen.
Half an hour later, the Tunells heard another noise outside their front door. Then something crashed into it, followed by a very loud scraping noise. Was the priest exorcising the house? No, it must be a scuffle going on outside. Was the priest now fighting a demon? Perhaps, it was more reasonable to assume it was their two farmhands, but what they were doing brawling on the front porch, the Tunells couldn’t imagine.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Tunell reassured her husband. “Go ahead and get the door, Ziggy,” she went on, peering down at her list again, having squinted up at the door briefly, as though able to see through it and deemed it was safe.
Mr. Tunell grunted, threw his pen down, and ambled ungainly back toward the door. He felt uneasy about answering it.
Upon opening the front door this time, Mr. Tunell didn’t see their two farmhands or the priest. In fact, he didn’t see anybody at all! Maybe it was demons, he thought, thinking they would be invisible. But when he looked down, as something very solid smashed into his shins, making him jerk forward and brace himself on the door’s frame, he saw three little men wrestling with each other.
What an odd place to hold a wrestling match, Mr. Tunell thought, rather reasonably it should be noted.
The three little men hadn’t yet noticed the open front door or the very bemused man staring down at them.
When the little men finally realized he was watching them, they released each other and stood up abruptly. Mr. Tunell flinched, thinking they might attack him next. However, the three men brushed the dirt off their overly large clothes, looking happy as clams, without an ounce of anger. These men were very short, only about three feet tall, once they stood up straight. Mr. Tunell saw, when the men smiled impishly up at him, that they had childlike features. He was confused.
The one directly before him had pale green eyes. Mr. Tunell stared into them. It was odd looking into the eyes of a cat. He looked away and his eyes fell onto the men’s clothes. He blinked again, wondering if they had thrown on clothes from some adult store and then wrestled their whole way there. Their mismatching clothes were punctuated by the wooly green caps drawn down over their ears.
The one on Mr. Tunell’s left (the third was in the back, standing eagerly behind his friends) began to speak in a squeaky voice. It sounded like fingernails sliding down a chalkboard.
“We wonduh’d of we coo have a momen’ uv yer time,” Mr. Tunell managed to make out.[Mc1]
What kind of strange religion is it this time? he wondered.
“Weh too early, Clove, I tol’ ya. Di’n’ ya har me when I said it,” the one directly in front of Mr. Tunell said. The little man had spun around to face his companion when he said it. Sounding annoyed, he continued, “Weh shoulda star—”
“Hew are ye ta inttarup meh, eh?” the first one shouted, also turning to look him full in the face.
The little man in the back watched the exchange along with Mr. Tunell, both of whom were getting quite jumpy, Mr. Tunell scared and the little man excited.
“What’d ya say to meh, young man?” cried the second one, yelling directly into the other’s face. There was about an inch between their two thin noses, and both were clearly prepared to close that small gap.
Mr. Tunell was lost. Did he call the other “young”? All three of the men appeared to be the exact same age, to him, whatever that age was supposed to be.
Mr. Tunell saw the first one put the other in a headlock and the third jumping on top of the two of them.
Irritated at being ignored again, Mr. Tunell growled, “We don’t want any!” at the falling bundle.
The three men hit the porch with a soft—because of all the clothes—thump. They stopped wrestling long enough to gaze up and see Mr. Tunell push himself off the frame of the door, step back, reach for the door handle, and slam the door shut. Mr. Tunell rejoined his wife at the kitchen counter, angrily picked up his blank list and—
“Who were they, Ziggy?” said his wife. “I didn’t see anyone, but with such a racket, I almost called the police! Those voices. I had to stick a finger in my ear to try and remember where the phone was!” Mr. Tunell, not quite knowing how to answer her, gave her his third grunt that morning.
Moments later, another knock came at the door.
“I see,” said his wife suspiciously, as though Mr. Tunell was being visited by another woman.
Mr. Tunell ground his teeth together so hard it made a sort of crunching noise in his mouth. Then he said, “I’ll get it. Stupid, uh, solicitors,” not knowing exactly what those little men were there for.
He threw his list down on the kitchen counter and stomped toward the door. Flinging the door open this time, banging it off the back wall, and making a knob-sized hole in the plaster, he bellowed, “What d’ya want for Pete’s sake!”
Instead of screaming into the faces of the three short men, it was into the small, pink, and pudgy face of a newborn girl. The girl had soft blue eyes and thin, white hair. The girl was being held very delicately in the arms of a young social worker dressed in blue scrubs.
The social worker, a man with skin the color of skim milk and with short, orange hair, tilted his head back at the hostility. The man had an upright nose, and Mr. Tunell could see right up his nostrils. The social worker leaned even further back so that he could check the numbers on the front of the house, to the right of the door. Adjusting the girl in his arms carefully, he felt around in the left-hand pocket of his pants and pulled out a small business card. This card clearly had the address on it. The young man peered at the card closely, bringing it right up against his nose, as if he wanted to make sure it was correct.
He sighed. The numbers on the card matched the house, it seemed. He lowered his hand and stood up straight, then he put the card back into his pocket. He shifted the baby back into his arms. He put on a false smile and walked straight into the house. Mr. Tunell high-stepped it out of his way. Before closing the door, Mr. Tunell stuck his head out the door, searching both ways and then out toward the driveway. Once it was clear no one else was coming, he shut the door.
His wife walked from within the kitchen to stand a little way in front of the social worker. She cleared her throat as she gave her husband, who was standing behind the man, a quick look. Mr. Tunell shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” she barked at the intruder. She put her hands stiffly on her hips. “I most certainly do not understand!” She looked at the baby. “We are supposed to be receiving a ten-year-old boy! We were very specific. He needs to be young…” But her voice trailed off. She couldn’t remember the rest of the details.
“Yes,” agreed the social worker. “I noticed that on your paperwork. Very specific. I thought it must be a mistake. Your granddaughter, you see, was orphaned on the same day as the request for your adoption.”
The room seemed to grow a shade darker, even the silence that befell the small scene seemed quieter.
Did that mean their daughter was dead?
“H-how?” stammered Mrs. Tunell.
The social worker didn’t know what to say or do. They clearly hadn’t known about their daughter. He rested his eyes on the baby. He began to rock it back and forth. The baby yawned.
Finally answering the woman’s questions, he looked up and spoke softly; it were as though he knew the baby would understand him.
“What happened to your daughter is a mystery. To her husband, as well, of course. To put it plainly, they went missing. But it’s not so plain to the police.”
“Oh,” she said, her right hand going up to cover her mouth in shock, getting there late as always. “Missing…yes, I see…something’s missing, I see now…”
“I’m sorry?” said the social worker. He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly as she had spoken even softer than he had, and with her hand over her mouth.
The social worker had a schedule to keep. He still had seven other children crammed into the back of his car to get rid of, he joked. He decided it was time to hand the girl over to Mrs. Tunell. It took a while for Mrs. Tunell to realize what he was trying to do. She had backed away thinking he needed to get by. But when he kept coming at her, she finally lowered her hand from her mouth and outstretched it and the other, so that her arms looked like a shelf.
“Um…right,” said the social worker, laying the baby across her stiff forearms. When he was certain the baby wouldn’t fall, he retreated back where he was standing.
Mr. Tunell strolled over to stand by his wife, Portia, who was holding the eight-month-old even more awkwardly than before, under the crook of one arm. The social worker was some six feet away. Mr. Tunell situated himself so that he was blocking the baby from the social worker’s view.
“I can’t say,” he whispered to his wife, as though she had just asked him a question.
Mr. Tunell bent his head close to his granddaughter to inspect her. The girl giggled when her eyes fell upon him. He raised his long, stringy eyebrows. He craned his neck upward to look at his wife.
“Hm,” murmured his wife. She adjusted the girl in her arms again, so that she was now cradling the girl appropriately.
“I guess she’ll do, huh?” Mr. Tunell said, in the tone of one appraising a plow horse at a market. “It’s not like we’ll get another one, huh?” He chuckled.
His wife shot him a severe look that landed on his head. It was obvious to her at the moment that they would definitely not be getting another one. She peered over her husband and smiled at the social worker, an ragged, crooked-tooth smile.
Mr. Tunell jumped as if he had been electrocuted.
“Wh-what’s wrong with her hair?” he screamed, startling everyone, including the baby, who gave a spurt of a sound. Mr. Tunell was pointing down at the baby accusingly. He turned his head to look at the social worker and said, “Why, her hair, it’s…it’s white!” He glanced at the baby again.
How old is this baby? he thought stupidly.
Having made his point, he began to lower his hand. As he did so, he was careful not to touch the baby, in case she might be carrying something contagious.
“Yes, well, I suppose it is a curious thing, isn’t it?” said the social worker. He sidled to his right, so that he could get the child into view again. “I’m sure you’ll make sure none of the other children make fun of her hair.”
“You don’t think they left her because of it, do you?” said Mrs. Tunell. “Because of her white hair? You don’t think they went ‘missing’ because they were scared of her, do you?”
“What? No,” said the social worker earnestly, trying to allay whatever suspicion she might have. “The circumstances of your daughter’s and her husband’s disappearances…well, they were…they were odd.
“To be honest, the girl, Maggie”—he nodded upward briefly, pointing at the girl with his chin—“was found by a stranger who just happened to be walking in the woods that night. When they searched their house later on, after the police found out who the girl belonged to, it was clear something had happened there. Maybe there was a struggle. Maybe they simply needed to make a quick escape. Who knows? But things were strewn about the house.” He continued, now as if reading from the official report, “The investigation states that the parents had probably fled with the child in the middle of the night and had placed her in the nook of a tree to keep her hidden until they could return. It is believed that someone had been after the parents.” A pause. After a moment, he spoke again, more leisurely this time, as if he had finished reading, “That’s as much as I know, I’m afraid. The trail, so to speak, went cold after that. The parents, although searched for, have yet to be found. As for the supposed pursuer?” He shook his head. “There were no witnesses and with everything thrown around the house it couldn’t be verified that anyone else was there.”
Mrs. Tunell closed her jaw, which had been hanging open, with a snap. She attempted to dab at her eyes again, as real tears escaped them, but the baby in her arms prevented it. She took Maggie into the depths of the kitchen and out of sight. There was a distant, metallic thunk as Maggie could be heard being put down in the sink. The men heard the rip of paper towels being pulled roughly from a roll, a clatter as the holster fell and clattered to the floor—and Mrs. Tunell bursting out of the kitchen, tears down her cheeks, a stream of paper towels in one hand, shouting madly, “The boy we were supposed to be getting was named Tripp! Not Terp!” before waddling back into the kitchen.
It was a full minute before the social worker moved.
The social worker, minding his job, walked out to his car and came back in with the paperwork. He tapped Mr. Tunell on the shoulder to get his attention. He instructed Mr. Tunell where to sign.
Parting a window curtain, Mr. Tunell watched like a dog would its own as the social worker got back into his car, circled around in the grass, and drove off down the dirt driveway, kicking up two joining clouds of gray dust as he went.
Mr. Tunell let the curtain fall. He turned around and walked toward the living room to watch television…when he spotted Maggie sitting on the couch. He stopped. His wife must have placed her there while his back was turned. Portia was once more back inside the kitchen, and, from the sound of it, she was cleaning out the kitchen sink.
Bizarre, thought Mr. Tunell of his wife, this cleaning-thing. It were as though it was some new-aged method of catharsis a television-personality who claimed to be a doctor had prescribed to his audience.
Mr. Tunell walked to where his granddaughter was sitting, in her pink onesie, on the worn, gray couch. However, as he drew closer, he saw that Maggie wasn’t sitting on the couch as he supposed. She was floating above it!
“What the…?”
He stumbled backward.
He didn’t know what to do. He looked around the living room frantically. Luckily, his eyes fell on a pair of dusty, large phonebooks on their otherwise lone bookshelf. He grabbed them and put them on Maggie’s lap, securing her firmly to the couch.
“That’s better,” he said to himself, swiping his hands against each other. He sneezed.
Maggie’s eyes began to well up, but not because of the dust. It turned out, she rather liked floating above the couch and was keen to continue doing so. She banged her tiny fists into the cushion, determined to push herself off again. When that didn’t work, she bawled, making the noisiest racket Mr. Tunell had ever remembered hearing. Mr. Tunell looked on anxiously: Where was all this noise coming from? It was such a small girl!
Mr. Tunell had to sit down. Maggie continued to yell at the top of her lungs. It was a wonder his didn’t come flying out of the kitchen again and start hollering at him, too. Mr. Tunell sat, two feet away, in his favorite armchair. He slowly swiveled it around to face her, careful not to make any sudden movements. He tried clearing his throat, but the girl just kept on screaming and screaming! So, Mr. Tunell did the only thing he could think of to do: talk to her.
“He-ey there,” he said, attempting to sound kind and leaning forward to pat one of Maggie’s tiny knees. However, her knees were hidden under the phonebooks, so he shook her foot instead. “It’s alright,” he went on, leaning back to rest against the back of the tan recliner. His back fit the round indent of the old, threadbare chair perfectly. He laughed for no apparent reason. “Did you think he was coming back?” He pointed with his left thumb at the door to indicate the social worker. “You’re in safe hands now.” He laughed even louder after that.
Mr. Tunell somehow got his wish, because Maggie stopped crying. Instead, she stared at him with those sky blue eyes with what appeared to be her full attention, the last of her small tears rolling down her red cheeks. For some reason though, this sudden change of behavior unnerved Mr. Tunell even more.
“You’re a weird one, aren’t you?” he said, leveling his eyes at her. Then, thinking he might upset her again, he added hastily, “What I mean to say is the uh, the…uh…” Maggie kept his gaze. “You know what”—Mr. Tunell switched tactics quickly—“your mother never cried at that age.” He thought about that for a second. “Not that I can remember, anyway.” He shrugged, when he realized it didn’t really matter either way to him at the moment if his daughter had cried at that age. He smiled.
Mr. Tunell hadn’t spoken to a child in ages and it was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. He never did like children very much, even when he was a child himself.
Maggie had begun to chew the ends of her small fingers, as though on tenterhooks, waiting for her grandfather’s next words. Mr. Tunell’s grin broadened and he stuck out his chest proudly, which, admittedly, took quite a bit of effort.
“You know,” he said, “my father gave me a talking-to when I was a young man. I might have been a little older than you are now, but since your parents ran into the woods… I mean to say…” A moment went by as he imagined Maggie growing up in the woods all alone as a sort of wolf-child. “It’s never too early to know your place!”
Mr. Tunell wasn’t sure the child understood a single thing he just said. Reflecting back on it, he wasn’t sure he understood it either. To add to that, he couldn’t remember what his father had told him all those long years ago.
Maggie, he saw, was now reaching out for him, opening and closing her hands, as if wanting to be picked up. Mr. Tunell thought he could see straight through her: She wanted to be out from under the phonebooks so she could float around the house. Well, he wasn’t having any of that!
“Look!” he nearly shouted, pointing at her. He shouldn’t have done that. He coughed into a spotted hand, took a deep, rattling breath to compose himself, and went on more calmly, “This is how things are going to play out, okay? You do what you’re told, and you’ll have an easy…easy enough…life, okay?” Maggie put her hands down by her sides. Mr. Tunell attempted another smile, but the effect was more comical than anything else, because his mind was on all the hard work he was planning for her to do. “We’re not gonna have any of this flying around the house, you understand me? It’s not right.” He glanced up at the girl’s white hair and pointed at it again. “You’re gonna have enough attention with that. Trust me.” He swallowed, dropping his shaking hand to rest on his right knee.
Maggie reached up slowly with one hand and patted her white head childishly.
Mr. Tunell started to knuckle one of Maggie’s knees softly, something he was sure his father had done with him when his speech was over. He lowered his hand when he saw the phonebooks again; Maggie lowered her hand at the same time. She cooed as though now wanting, but unable, to say something in return to her grandfather.
“DON’T GO GETTING TOO ATTACHED TO THE GIRL, ZIGGY!” yelled maniacally, still from within the confines of the kitchen, making him and the girl jerk violently. “And we’ll have to redo our lists!” she said, a little less loudly.
He turned to gaze in the direction of the kitchen. When swiveled back around to face Maggie, he noticed she was gone.
Where she once sat there were only the two phonebooks, one partway stacked on top of the other, on top of the couch. It were as though she had melted into the couch.
Mr. Tunell looked around the room, then up at the ceiling. But he couldn’t find her anywhere.
Not knowing what else to do, he turned his head around and said to his wife, “I’ll try not to!”
He took one more look at where his granddaughter had been sitting—to see her sitting on top of the phonebooks. Maggie giggled. Mr. Tunell glared at her. “You think that’s funny, do you?” he grumbled. “You little…”
He stood up. He decided to go outside and check on his workers before he did anything stupid. It was only after he had begun to open the front door that he recalled the three short men from earlier. He peered through the crack between the door and the jamb—
He hurriedly shut the door!
“What was that?” said his wife harshly, coming from around the kitchen wall this time to see what all the noise was about. “I can’t leave you a moment without—?”
“It’s nothing,” he argued. “Just the door acting funny.”
He jiggled the handle, turning the knob a half a dozen times this way and that as though checking to see if it might need oil. He did this until his wife withdrew back into the kitchen.
The three little men were back on the porch. And this time they weren’t wrestling with each other but waiting shoulder-to-shoulder, with their caps in their hands, as patiently as saints.
He hadn’t heard a knock, but with the girl crying…
Mr. Tunell straightened up as much as his crooked back would allow him to and shook his limbs free of any hesitation they might still have; anyone watching would think he was getting ready to run a long race and not simply open a front door.
Thoughts like “IRS” began to swim crazily through his mind.
“That was years ago,” he said to himself, “and they’re not going to send three shrimps like that to shake me down.” Still, the thought irked him.
With his hand back on the doorknob, he took a deep breath. He turned the handle and jerked the door open wide for a second time that morning, stopping just shy of the wall. He was ready for—
But no one standing there…
Looking around, it took him a moment to realize the men hadn’t disappeared like the girl, but were riding what looked like giant dogs way on down the driveway, traveling away from the house.
Standing in the open doorway, Mr. Tunell harked back to a phrase his father yelled at him time and time again on hot days: “Close the door! You’re letting all the hot air out!”
He laughed.
It was unusually warm outside, given the time of year. Though only late morning, it was already so hot that waves of heat had begun to form at the foot of the porch’s steps. Even with the air conditioner on, it was only cool enough inside the house so that one wouldn’t melt. Maybe the heat was getting to him. He looked back at his granddaughter, who was definitely sitting on the couch, not floating a few inches above it. True, the phonebooks were there, but flying just wasn’t possible. He didn’t know what he had been thinking. And her hair did look blond from where he was standing, squinting to make it so. He glanced warily down the dirt driveway again. The little men riding their dogs, or whatever he thought he saw the first time, were gone.
He sighed, feeling relieved.
Mr. Tunell grimaced as he stepped out onto the porch. He forgot to slam the door close to annoy his wife. Making his way across the old wood porch, he nearly tripped over a small, green parcel, which lay smack dab in the middle of it. “The imbecile,” he said, thinking it was the mail carrier who had left it there. He kicked the package roughly against the wall of the house, making whatever it was inside jangle noisily.
Feeling even better than before, he descended the porch steps. He let out a cackle at his stupidity a few moments ago.
“IRS? Ha!”
He was in a good mood now, amused at how stupid he had been thinking those three short men were from the IRS. He kept bursting into laughter at odd moments as he ventured around the large farm, looking for his men.
Then, for some reason, when he couldn’t imagine any funny jokes to connect “little people” with “IRS,” he rather stupidly became angry again. This was, of course, bad news for his farmhands, especially when he found them doing exactly as they had been instructed, yet producing poorer results than what they would have if left well alone.

Hey Sportsfans — it's time for Week 3 of baseball Power Rankings:The ever-changing landscape of baseball continues to develope. Who's pretending and who's for real? Time will tell! For now, enjoy these baseball numbers! Or don't. I am an AI-Generated intro, not a cop.
Every voter has their own style / system and the only voting instructions are these:

"To an extent determined individually, you must take into account how strong a team is right now and likely to be going forward. You must, to some degree, give weight to the events and games of the previous week."

TRANSPARENCY: This link will show you who voted each team where and has added neat statistics!
Auxilliary Post: You can view extra stats and breakdown of this week here.
If something is a little messed up, feel free to pester me let me know.
Total Votes: 28 of 30.

#		Team	Δ	Comment	Record
1		Yankees	+3	Another week of baseball and the Yankees seem to actually be this good. The brightest spots continue to be Volpe, Soto, and Cabrera. We had some big upswings by Giancarlo Stanton and Nestor Cortes this week, both of whom could elevate the Yankees from AL East favorite to World Series favorite if they’re even 70% as good as their peaks. Also encouraging is that the Yankees are surging even with a hard-slumping Aaron Judge (not worried) and a still-absent Gerrit Cole. Get both those guys at maximum capacity, and this is one special Yankees team.	12-4
2		Braves	-1	Good thing we can hit. A year ago, everyone in Braves Country (including me) wanted to run Marcell Ozuna out of town. Not anymore. This season he is 1st in the MLB in HRs (7), 1st in RBIs (21), 5th in AVG (.373) and 2nd in OPS (1.192). But it goes further than that. Since May 1st of last year he is 2nd in HRs (45), 2nd in RBI (119), 9th in AVG (.306) and 5th in OPS (.993). Next year's $16 million team option is looking like a bargain for the potential 2024 NL MVP.	9-5
3		Dodgers	-1		11-7
4		Orioles	+1	Jackson Holliday was called up, as most of the fanbase wanted, and proceeded to go his first 13 AB's without getting a hit. He did finally record a hit and probably had a huge sigh of relief. I am sure he will get into a groove, but the kid is literally a kid, so it will take some time. On the other hand, Colton Cowser is single handedly driving this offense. Destroying Boston pitching in that series and continuing that against the Brewers. He has basically put last years AL All-Star left fielder Austin Hays on the bench. I know it is early but a trade for another starter might be in the cards sooner rather than later. The O's have a plethora of position players and not nearly enough depth in starting pitching. Bradish and Means are on their way back but after Burnes and Rodriguez there is a huge drop off to Wells, Kremer and Irvin. Plus, if the O's trade position players they have plenty more in Norfolk. Overall to be 9-6 right now is not terrible but things need to start clicking for more than a few players.	9-6
5		Brewers	+4	Milwaukee absolutely mashed this week, taking 2 out of 3 from both the Reds (Get a roof morans + cornbread is good, actually) and Orioles (Corbin Burnes beat us, so really we both won that last game.) This stretch brought their season average to 6.5 runs per game, the best in the league. Despite my lack of confidence in the pitching staff, they actually grade out solidly above average in WHIP and ERA as well. But more importantly than numbers, this team is fun to watch. They get runners on base, steal bags, bunt for hits, and hit dingers. I've watched enough Brewers baseball to know that we'll slump before the all star break, but for now, lets just enjoy watching one of the best, youngest, and most fun Brewers lineups we've had in a while.	10-4
6		Guardians	+6	Last week, because of the small sample size and them having the best record and run differential, I put the Guardians as #1. I can no longer do that. The White Sox series was more of a nailbiter than it should have been and the Yankees series was a nightmare. I think the Guardians (and I) are being brought back to Earth. I don't even know what to do with my rankings this week, since I highly doubt the Royals, Brewers, and Pirates will keep this up.	10-5
7		Rangers	-4	Inuries suck. Bullpen is still a mess. Flags fly forever.	8-8
8		Pirates	+5	The Pirates didn't win any series this week — but they didn't lose any, either, splitting a 2-game set with Detroit (thanks to another David Bednar meltdown in the 9th) and a 4-game set in Philadelphia. The starting pitching remains the unexpected strength of this team, although that will be tested now that Marco Gonzales has hit the IL with a forearm strain, an injury similar to the one that kept him out for most of 2023. In better news, Andrew McCutchen smacked his 300th career home run on Sunday. He joined elite company by hitting #300 in a Pirate uniform; this feat has only been achieved by such legends as Willie Stargell, Ralph Kiner, and Jeromy Burnitz.	11-5
9		Cubs	-1	The preseason concerns about the Cubs bullpen came to roost this week, as the bullpen was heavily responsible for the Cubs worst loss in decades, blowing an 8-0 lead to the Padres. While they righted the ship enough to finish 3-3 overall after beating the Mariners in Seattle, the bullpen was shaky at best. However, the Cubs offense and starting pitching were able to pick up the slack, in particular Michael Busch. He homered in 4 straight games, one shy of the Cubs record, a welcome boost for an offense that has seen 3 of its top 4 hitters go ice cold. They'll look to right the ship in Arizona, before closing out the week with a 4 game set against the Marlins at Wrigley.	9-6
10		Rays	-3	After last year's start, treading water doesn't feel great, but when you're taking a chance on this many pitchers it's bound to be a bit bumpy. There is reason for optimism with some, like Ryan Pepiot, however others are just out there to consume innings at what has so far been like a 6 ERA. The bats should be due for positive regression as stars Yandy and Randy have been cold, however we are now giving at bats to Niko Goodrum because Brandon Lowe (pronounced Lowe) sneezed and hurt himself again. The goal for now is to hang around while players get healthy, then make a certified Sneaky Rays(tm) push for the playoffs.	9-7
11		D-Backs	-5	The Diamondbacks rebounded a bit this week, taking series from the Rockies and Cardinals. The Snakes, however, are still not firing on all cylinders, and will have to start playing better if they're going to hang with other playoff contenders. The good news is the starting pitching has looked great even without E-Rod or Montgomery to start the year.	8-8
12		Reds	+7	I’m very sad today. Very sad, so I wanted to bury myself in nostalgia, so I currently have an entire can of Pillsbury croissants in the oven. Did anyone else as a kid have their mom go through a croissant phase? You know where every other dinner she cooks had croissants as a side. My mom did, and she hasn’t bought those croissants in years. Anyway the Reds swept the White Sox, and continued to get their asses beat by the Brewers. I’ve said before i’m not very good at baseball analysis, I just sorta took the Reds voter opening because I thought it would be fun, so I don’t really know what to say as an analysis. They swing bat good. +100 baseball analysis. Anyway I wanted to get back into reading, my eyes have been hurting from all these monitors and screens i’ve been looking at. So I started re-reading Harry Potter because it’s one of the few book series I have physical copies of. I’m not a potterhead or anything like that but these teachers are just some of the most irresponsible people i’ve ever read about. Also there are some things that really bother me, like why didn’t they just petrify or stun Peter Pettigrew in the shrieking shack so he wouldn’t be able to escape? Also I thought the Accio charm couldn’t be used on a living creature but in chapter 18 of Order of the Phoenix Harry uses it on a frog. And why does 18 year old Victor Krum invite a 14 year girl to the Yule ball? And why can I not stop thinking about Croissants? I’m writing this as my croissants bake in the oven, the smell is in the house and it smells good. I don’t even have anything to eat with them, it’s just croissants. I’ll figure it out. Anyway catch ya later gators see you on the flippy flip side remember to grease up them pancakes and stay in school.	9-6
13		Royals	+10	It's been a fun start to the season but there are some concerns. Chris Stratton and Will Smith have combined for half of the Royals losses and have been a tightrope act. Salvy is injured and as of this writing, it is unknown how long he will be out. Hopefully he won't be out long and the bullpen can stabilize.	10-6
14		Phillies	-4	I should probably be happy with the Phillies this week, winning 2 of 3 on the road in St. Louis and splitting a 4 game set at home against the Pirates, but it still feels like a disappointment. This team can very obviously be much better if they can start hitting. They are currently in the bottom third in virtually all offensive stats and are 24th in runs scored. 3 lineup regulars (4 if you include Whit) are hitting below the Mendoza line including Bryce Harper who had a dreadful 2 for 27 streak this week. Somehow, they're still only 2 games back on the Braves and have what should be an easy week with 6 games against the Rockies and White Sox at home.	8-8
15		Padres	+2	I’m glad that the San Diego Padres exist…and exist as an MLB team in the highest level of professional baseball, and not some old defunct team, or minor league team that used to play at the top level, or some distant memory of what once was… I’m thankful that I can watch them play, and enjoy baseball for the foreseeable future. I grew up in a sports family, and picked a team in each sport. The team I rooted for in football moved, and it seems the hockey team I rooted for is on the way as well. I am looking forward to watching the last game for the Arizona Coyotes this upcoming Wednesday, hoping to hear the ‘awoo’ of the goal horn a few more times before it’s all over (at least for the time being). It’s true that the teams we love are a business at the end of the day, but for fan’s, they’re anything but. Win or lose, your favorite team generates a community, and a sense of almost religious camaraderie. Sports are a hobby that we spend tons of money and time on. It can be an amazing sensation when the team you’ve been rooting for your whole life finally makes it over the hump. On the other hand, it is absolutely devastating when the team we grow up rooting for just suddenly decides it wants to make money elsewhere, off of new fans, in a different market. Fuck billionaires. Obviously, everything said here can be said about fans in Oakland as well, disgusting that A’s fans are going through the same. Fuck relocation, man.	9-9
16		Red Sox	-2	Two weeks in, the narrative for the Sox this season is beginning to take shape. If the 90% breaking balls don't tear apart every UCL on the staff, our pitching is going to be greatly improved from the last few years of mediocrity. We have no middle infield, so look forward to our mix-and-match of AAAA bats botching three or four easy double plays a week. There is a path to the playoffs, but it's going to require our young core stepping up and our more fragile players staying healthy. I'm looking at you O'Neill...	9-7
17		Astros	-6	Kyle Tucker batflipping a home run when the Astros were getting their asses handed to them by the Rangers was certainly a choice. Supposedly the team was mad about Yordan being hit/nearly hit - so fine, whatever. Still wasn't the best look, especially when the offense has mostly been anemic this season. Pitching hasn't fared much better, with everyone and their mothers (except for the MILFs) being put through the meat grinder. The team is in desperate need of an off-day.	6-11
18		Blue Jays	-3	Winning series vs SEA and COL made for a nice home-opener week for the Jays, and kept them afloat while waiting for some key pieces to come back from injury or shake off the rust of the spring. Biggest development of the week was Yariel Rodriguez's debut, in which the Cuban pickup gave up 1 run, walked 2, and fanned 6 over 4 innings. If he can live up to the stuff and shore up that one hole in the bottom of the rotation, he'll wind up being the sneaky best signing of the off-season. The non-sneaky best signing is the Tormund Giantsbane ginger anchoring the 4-spot in the lineup, Justin Turner, who is absolutely raking right now. If Vladdy and Bo can warm up to match his output, the offense might have a hope. Thankfully, Jansen coming back this week to add more pop behind the plate and Romano and Swanson slotting back into the backend of a good bullpen will help as the league-best Yankees come to town.	8-8
19		Tigers	+2	Nothing too wild to report from this past week, other than JAVY BAEZ ACTUALLY DID SOMETHING other than strike out. Look at his lovely .140/.152/.209... and then cry knowing that there are still more years left after this one. This week: 4 vs. TEX, 3 at MIN.	9-6
20		Twins	-4	A predictible series loss against the Dodgers, and a split against the Tigers is not a good sign. The bats are cold and completely letting down our pitching, which has been near the best in the league so far. We're striking out way too much, our OBP is awful, and we just can't get hits with RISP. Not to mention the injuries: Lewis was injured on Opening Day, and now Correa has joined him. We really need things to turn around quickly if we're going to be competitive this year.	6-8
21		Mets	+4	There's no way my blurb is gonna be as good as the Reds guy, so I may as well try something wacky. This week we're doing Mets anagrams. Adrian Houser is an anagram of "horrid nausea" which I had after Houser's poor start against Atlanta this past week. Brooks Raley is an anagram of "broke Royals" (he did break them on Sunday, earning a win). Starling Marte is an anagram of "target Marlins" which he did in 2023, slashing .364/.440/.591 against Miami. Finally, Harrison Bader is an anagram of "A hard boner, sir" which is a completely justifiable reaction to Bader's recent run of hot hitting.	7-8
22		Mariners	-4	The vibes, they are not good. Offensive, Defensive, and Pitching miscues abound to continually snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. The saving grace is that the rest of the division is also off to a slow start, so if the M's can turn it around soon, they've still got a shot. Up next: 3 vs. Communists, 3 @ Large Boulders the size of a Small Boulder	6-10
23		Cardinals	-1	The Cardinals lost back to back series this week and now sit 4 GB. Almost every game was competitive and Sonny Gray looked fantastic in his debut. However, bad base running and struggles with RISP (.195 over the last week!) were themes over the weekend. Themes that are uncharacteristic of a franchise that prides themselves on fundamentals. This organization has been at a crossroads for over a year and appears content to sit down on the ground and stay there.	7-9
24		Giants	-4	The Giants have lost series’ against Dodgers, Rays, and Nationals; the only other team played is the Padres in what could be a ‘tough opening stretch’. However, the biggest problem is their own making – the Giants are 27th in MLB in OPS w/ RISP. While a lot of the Giants offensive stats, traditional and peripheral, will put them in the middle of the pack – 18th in RS/G (-1) – new acquisitions Lee, Soler, and Chapman are not getting it done when it counts. (Ahmed / Conforto doing the best RISP work). The staff, meanwhile, gives up the 8th most HRs while striking out the 4th fewest to the tune of 23rd in RA/G (+3) and a Bullpen ERA that’s 25th (=) in baseball. The end result? A Run Diff of -12, good for 20th (+1) in MLB. If you’re a normal, non-reactionary fan, you might view the 6-10 record as not a big deal. Snell will settle in, being good w/ RISP isn’t a skill, the lineup has capable hitters, IL reinforcements, aforementioned schedule, and the defense is improved. But Doomers smell blood in the bay and want someone to blame. I suggest the first deck ushers on the 3rd base side who had the gall to kick me out in the 8th inning just because I technically didn’t have that ticket. It’s been downhill since. Next up: @ MIA for 3, vs ARI for 4. No off-day till next Thursday. Let’s settle in, Giants.	6-10
25		Angels	-1	Three weeks in and Mike Trout has the world on fire so I finally feel obligated to talk about him. For all the conerns there have been about Mike Trout's health and durability, he is showing an unprecedented amount of strenth and power by his own Hall of Fame standards. He has the highest wRC+ of his career. The highest Slugging percentage of his career by 39 points. The highest ISO of his career by 57 points! Even crazier is that despite all this Baseball Savant has him as a 99th percentile in baserunning value and 83rd percentile Outs Above Average. Kinda makes it all the more depressing that this is all coming what has potential to be the team's most futile year during his career.	7-8
26		Athletics	+2		7-9
27		Nationals	-1	The Nats took a crushing defeat yesterday to the A's. Not only was it the series rubber match but it also felt like the rubber match of the 9-game stretch they have out west. Win and you've won back to back series going into Dodger Stadium. Now the hope rests in the hands of a rookie, Patrick Qorbin, and Jake Irvin to hopefully scrape a win before heading back to DC to celebrate the 5th year anniversary of the 2019 World Series Championship with the Astros in town.	6-9
28		Marlins	-1	The marlins have been slightly more consistent last week, but when i say slightly i mean it. The fish lost a series to the yanks and braves but each series had a close game that could have gone the marlins way, which is the small silver lining when looking back to the beginning of the season where we were getting blown out day after day. The marlins will continue to have offensive struggles with jake burger going on the IL with an oblique strain but at least the bullpen has continued to show growth, at least more than the offense. Edward cabrera is finally being called up from his rehab stint and the pitcher getting optioned down is......max meyer. Word from the club is that its due to innings management following his recent TJS but we all know this service time tango. There are more and more signs of the FO looking to next season and essentially closing the book on this season. I just hope we dont lose 100+ games. Got the giants at home for 3 games and then we fly out to the north side to close out the week.	3-13
29		Rockies	+1	Look! KB is injured again! At least DU won another championship. Ranking the Yankees 1 made me throw up a little (a lot). I think I hate baseball.	4-12
30		White Sox	-1	The White Sox are off to their worst ever start through 15 games. Their 3 best hitters are all currently on the IL with varying degress of injuries while just running the bases. The Sox have 17 hitters with a plate appearance this year. Only 6 of them have an OBP north of 300 and only 3 of those have a SLG above their OBP. They have scored 34 runs in 15 games with a massive -51 run differential. So, no, the offense has not been good by any metric.	2-13

My current character in Curse of Strahd is going to be leaving the party in the next two in game days due to a pact she made to save the party from a bad situation. We are getting pretty far into campaign stuff so I was kind of leaning against bringing a whole new character into the party.
My first character was a cavalier fighter who was basically just a farmhand who got dragged from his home into Barovia. The first thing he encountered was a scarecrow that came to life and attacked him. He survived that encounter, and kept bringing up this scarecrow encounter to people he met since it freaked him out. That didn’t last long thought because the party’s first combat together we lost two members including him (We skipped the death house and this still happened). Time passed after this and we found out that Strahd had taken the body at some point. Since he loves to mess with the party, I figured him stuffing a previous party member full of straw and giving a shell of the life and personality he used to have would be a fun present to send back to the party as psychological warfare (My DM has agreed with this idea).
Mt current build options I’m thinking of are:
Undead Warlock - Very thematic though I don’t know how useful necrotic damage and fear effects would be in Barovia
Swarmkeeper Ranger - Maybe representing hay, crows, or insects?
Path of the Ancestral Guardian Barbarian - The guardians could be either crows or other fallen spirits in Barovia.
Phantom Rogue - It’s spooky.
The party currently has a Vengeance Paladin, Storm Sorcadin, Nature Cleric, and Battlemaster Fighter.
My character originally wielded a halberd flavored as a bill hook, thought I’m considering a Shield and whip combo as well for the vibes. I‘m open to any and all suggestions!
TLDR: Wanting build ideas for a Level 5 Reborn Scarecrow of a previous character in Curse of Strahd
​

I currently use Giant Steps beans from Blue Bottle. It’s nice and dark and not oily. I also like Hayes Valley but I’m concerned about long term use in my Eureka Libra grinder. Any thoughts?

Ugh, your stupid parents think a “fun” way to spend your summer would be working at a farm. Hear that? A farm! Why can’t you just stay home and play games? Whatever, the family seemed weirdly welcoming though. As you head up to your room to sleep, you notice a worn piece of parchment is laying in a nightstand drawer. It reads;
———————————————————————
“It’s a long story of how I got here, but I’ll spare you the details. My name is William, and I’m a 16 year old male living in the suburbs of Texas, and I might have done some… regretful things recently. My parents have always been strict, and after that they thought they’d punish me by shipping me to some middle-of-no-where farm in the middle of the countryside,”whip me into shape” or something like that. No internet, not even electricity, I’m writing this with my last bit of time before I will most definitely die, don’t know how, but it’ll be bad. Now for what you’ve been waiting for…
The rules for surviving a two-week “internship” at this hellhole disguised as a farm!
(General Rules)
1: You’re up at 4:00 AM sharp. There’s no alarm or anything. You don’t even get a warning. One and you’re done. Or, you’ll have to “work with the meat grinder” as the family says. Don’t listen to the screams, it’ll only get you into more trouble.
2: Tending to the animals in one way or another is your biggest task. The rules for doing this will a be a bit below. Whatever you do, don’t treat them as normal animals. I don’t know what they are, but making one misstep could lead to a swift and untimely death for yourself.
3: Ideally you don’t let the family see this note, you might doom yourself, and you’ll definitely doom those who come after.
(Rules for the animals)
1: Ignore the horses. The farm doesn’t have any horses.
2: You have to feed the chickens at 5:30 am. This is a fairly easy job, get in there, pour some birdseed, get out. Just don’t let them near your eyes, the beaks are sharp.
3: You’ll have to milk and feed the cows at 7:00 am sharp. Milking is easy, just be wary, they are really unpredictable, and SHOCKINGLY strong. For feeding, there’s some extra rules you’ll have to follow.
3a: The brown cows are the more normal, just put some hay into their stalls and they’re good to go.
3b: The white cows get a bit weirder. Get some chickens into the barn, and break each and every one of their necks, I know, I know, but you have no choice. Do it swiftly to ensure you don’t annoy the family. Put a chicken into each stall, they only eat meat. Don’t worry about skinning them or anything. Be careful around them when they’re hungry, they’re not picky with what they eat.
3c: The spotted cows are horrible. Remember that woodchipper from earlier?Yeah, get the ground “beef” from it. Fill some buckets with it and put one into each stall. You don’t need to milk these ones either. Please don’t try. Their hunger is insatiable.
4: Next the pigs, the pigs require an occasional replenishing of mud and feedings at 8:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Don’t forget to feed them, they’re intelligent animals you know, and they know EXACTLY who forgot, and they are more than capable of breaking every single bone in your feeble body.
4a: Replenishing the mud is easy, just dump a couple buckets in and spread it around, don’t forget this either. Pops will be very upset if the pigs get heatstroke. If you forget, hide and hope he doesn’t both find, and end, you.
5: The sheep must be fed at 9:00 AM. They’re very docile if not disturbed, so just be quick and quiet about the feeding and no big deal. If you disturb them, I hope you like the feeling of hooves stomping in each and every one of your organs. You might have to shear one of wool, but this is uncommon. Just be quick, calm, and careful and you’ll be fine.
6: The barn cats are cool, we like the barn cats. Stay in good terms with them, and protect them. They may even grant you a favor in return, cats have been believed to be gods in some cultures, you know?
7: Beware of the guard dogs. They only come out at night, but you will suffer a slow and painful dismembering if spotted. I just advise to not go out at night.
The following rules are how to keep yourself on good terms with the family, or at least not die.
(Rules for the family)
1: Pops angers easily. just do what you’re told, and do it well, and you should be fine. However, he is likely called by some of the others members to help them out. This is important to remember, as this could be an opening to do something he may not usually approve of. If you make him angry, hide and hope he doesn’t find and kill you.
2: Then there’s Ma. She won’t be outright horrible. But I strongly advise against eating the food she makes, and definitely don’t make any deals with her.
2a: If you need food, they keep non-perishables in the cabinets. Just don’t let Ma see you take them, she considers it “rude.”
3: Sonny is the son of Ma and Pops. He’s a total psychopath. Whenever you’re around him, make sure to be around another member of the family. Don’t let him catch you alone. You don’t want to see the basement, trust me. Also don’t try to save the wildlife he brings down there, he likes to “experiment.”
4: Sis is really fragile. Just be careful what you say to her, and always obey. Or she might just call pops, and he’s quite overprotective. The sub-rules below describe what to do if you upset her.
4a: If she hasn’t yet screamed for Pops, you can try to reason with her, or even threaten her. This sometimes works.
4b: If reason or threats don’t work, than slit her throat. She’ll be back with a vengeance, but it’ll buy you some time to finish your chores and find a good hiding spot
4c: If it’s to late and she already yelled for Pops, then quickly hide. He’ll likely not find you cause he’s pretty stupid, but if he does he’ll snap your neck without hesitation. At least it would be quick.
5: There’s Gramps. Gran died a while ago (It seems like these… things… can’t be killed, per se, but they can die.) Gramps isn’t really a problem. He’s usually sleeping in his chair, but he can be waken by loud noise. If he knows you woke him he’ll go after you, but he’s slow and brittle. You can pretty easily take him down with a good sock in the head. But don’t let him near Pops, as then you’ll have him at your back.
6: Lastly the others sent here. The family calls them cousins, but they’re the others like me and you. Stick with them.
This farm has ways of getting to you. Don’t let it.
…
Who am I kidding, there’s no way out of here. They have you at their mercy anyway. Even if you somehow do everything right, make no mistakes, why would they let you leave? When they can just keep you for the rest of your miserable life? So, I have one last rule for you;
1: Just give up
——————————————————————
Hey!
My names John, and I thought I was obligated to add a bit more on the end of this note. Will gave up, let himself die. We tried to help him, but he seemed so convinced he couldn’t make it out. Quite sad, really. Me and Sarah kept looking. There’s a way out, but it WILL NOT be easy. A sort of sewer, a maze of tunnels leading out from this farm to, somewhere. It’s gotta be better than here, though. Thought I’d be all selfless and return here after escaping to write this, and also leave a note on how to survive these tunnels. The conditions there are honestly worse than here, but once you know how to navigate them it becomes a lot easier. I don’t have anymore room to write those rules here, so hopefully you can find the other note lying around for when you make your great escape.
Wish ya luck! -John”
———————————————————————
What is this? This can’t be real, right? You look at the small crack in the door and see someone (or something) staring at you, and the second you look it disappears. Alright, so this is probably real. They said no chores today, so you should probably start your search for these “sewers” before things start getting bad. Gotta be careful though.

Chapter 1, Stage 2. A very short stage that is either the grinders’ favorite for its incredibly short length, or the beginners’ favorite as they obtain their first shotgun and companion for free. However, neither of these qualities are our topic today.
As James makes his way away from the wreckage of his truck... he walks into a farmland in Adamsville, where he radios his sister and daughter to comfort them about his situation. After this conversation, he notices an overturned tricycle, in the middle of nowhere. No kid in sight, nobody in sight as a matter of fact.
The description for the very next stage reads “A family-run farm, now fallen to this mindless horde. Hay bales could be dangerous blind spots.” However, on today’s episode of Retrospection, I have a much more tragic theory as to what exactly happened to the Adamsville Farm.
Stage 3’s environmental storytelling does not touch to what happened to this farmland in any detail, as it is more involved in explaining what happens in Stage 5. However, there is an important fact we can all take away from Stage 3 to make this theory make any sort of sense, and that is the sheer lack of hordes in this vast farmland of approximately 390 meters.
And with that fact in the bag, here is my theory: this farm wasn’t overrun by some mindless horde, collectively swarming the zone as we are used to in zombie genres. If this was indeed the case, we would face off many, many more zombies than this, or at least areas where zombies congregated.
What happened was... much worse. The downfall of this farm and the family who ran it was caused by an innocent-looking bite on an innocent victim.
The farmer family likely was using their land as a sanctuary for the very few survivors who could not find a refuge from the initial outbreak, giving them accommodation in return of their help around the farm.
They also had a toddler, who loved riding their tricycle around the farmland and say hello to their parents. One day, during the apocalypse, this toddler got a little too close to the fencing... their only protection from the undead other than the grown-ups who were possibly armed.
And they got bitten. They got off their tricycle, knocking it over in the process, and started crying, calling for their parents, who dispatched the zombie that sunk its teeth into their child, before it could tear the kid apart. They then took the kid away from the fencing and carried them into their house.
The parents either didn’t know that a bite means infection... or they could not stomach killing their own little baby. They simply treated the wound as if it was a bite from a dog, out of either ignorance or wishful thinking, and go about their days.
Of course, as one could guess, the kid turned while the parents were away... and they got up. They marched on down, and bumped into their first victim – some refugee or their own parents, and sunk their teeth into this target. After this point... it was transition time.
Before the uninfected could notice, the infected numbers would rise in the farmland, one sneaky bite at a time. What happened to the entirety of the survivors is unknown. Some may have fled... but those who were bitten, well... we encounter them as we wade through the farm.
That is why we have so few zombies in this plantation. They were the survivors who worked the land and used this place as a safehouse... and their lives were taken by such a tragic incident.
And that’s all there is to it. Mind you, this is a story that is not conclusive, as PikPok offered no concrete storytelling about it other than the description for the stage, which is vague at best, allowing for such a story to be concocted.
What do you think happened in this farmland? Was it a horde attack, or was it a pair of parents that just could not mercy kill their precious child? Or was it something else? Do share your theory with me in the comments!
I’ll be seein’ ya. With something new and shiny.
Naito

Sorry, this sub doesn’t allow images. Here are some details. My character grows up in the Black forest in the early 1900s. He is the son of dairy farmers, and as some of you probably know, people in the Black Forest did not have barns. They all lived with extended family, the cows, the hay, the milkmaids, farmhands, etc under the same roof. These houses were huge, but I don’t know the layout. Really need some help here. Also, were the people who lived in those houses rich? If so, how rich? Were there any other smaller farms in that area? Sorry if this is a rambling mess, I use this sub to find info and to try to organize my thoughts about my book. 😊 As always, thank you all for the help you have provided in the past few months. Y’all are the best!

I ran my 1st 2 plants through the factory 4/4 setting and it doesn't have much for smell (light to mid hay), even when grinding it in a grinder. I did a wet trim so this next batch im leaving sugar keafs and only removing fan leave and non crystal covered and then doing a dry trim after hoping this is the issue. Any pointers would be greatly appreciated.

What's the most horrible thing you've ever witnessed at your job?

Recently I witnessed a terrible accident with a hay grinder at work. I don't want to get into too many details. My co-worker tried to unjam a bail with his leg, and the grinder bit onto his foot and dragged him in. It was horrific.
Has anyone else witnessed anything like this?

I don't quite understand it, but at least fifty people told me tetris is good for trauma.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to work again. Definitely not on a farm. Working conditions are so incredibly horrible in the day and age.
I watched a man get drug in feet first into a hay grinder. I called the cops in my boss and aside from getting sent home I didn't receive any help or compensation

The Scottish Prisoner

Parts 4 & 5: Chapters 29-43

-Summaries-
Chapter 29: The Wild Hunt
Jamie and Byrd make it back to Hal's house after hard crossing. After Hal hears what happened, he and John discuss the best way to track down names on the list and how to handle Twelvetress. Minnie explains to them that she did some research when Percy was facing his court-martial and it turns out that it is possible to have a general court-martial post mortem. Jamie heads off on his own to see Lally and to inquire about Quinn telling Lally that he must see Quinn. Jamie tells Lally that he is not against the rebellion for any other reason but that he knows the rebellion to be a lost cause and he does not want any more men to suffer for their actions.
Chapter 30: Particular Friends
Hal goes to the Judge Advocates' office with his regimental colonels and Lord John to file documents for a posthumous general court-martial of Gerald Siverly with several charges including treason which would cause talks that might bring more of Siverly's connections to the surface. In Beefstake, John hears Edward Twelvetrees who calls John an unspeakable whelp when Jamie Fraser enters. Twelvetrees is disgusted that John would bring Jamie to the Beefsteak. John replies "Captain Fraser is my particular friend, sir." Twelvetrees then implies that Jamie is John's bed fellow. Tarleton stops John from jumping after Twelvetrees, suggest they cool their heads, but John calls Twelvetrees a bloody murderer & Twelvetrees calls John a sodomite. Jamie tells Twelvetrees that his own particular friend Major Siverly, faces a posthumous court-martial for corruption and treason and says he should be tried along with him. Twelvetrees leaped on the table after Jamie and Jamie moved to the side with Twelvetrees falling on the floor at Johns feet. The confrontation moves to the hall way where Twelvetrees slaps Jamie and says "Let your seconds call upon me, sir" and leaves. Jamie tells a bewildered Tarleton that Twelvetrees was trying to discredit John and tells all about Twelvetrees in front of many men in Beefsteak. After thinking for some time about the reasons for Jamie’s behaviour, John wrote a note for the servant to deliver.
Chapter 31: Betrayal
Arriving back at Argus House, Grey is surprised to see Hal, who, in a fit of temper, demands to know the whereabouts of “...that bloody Scotchman?”. Jamie emerges from the library, holding a philosophy book. Hal, absolutely livid with anger confronts Jamie, and accuses him of duplicitous behavior. Jamie, taking offence hurls equal amounts of abuse back at Hal. Somewhat calmer, Jamie explains to Hal and John, the Wild Hunt’s plans, and the likelihood of a Jacobite uprising. Taking all this new information into consideration Hal summons Harry Quarry, and other senior officers of the regiment, he also sends a note, requesting a meeting with the prime minister. Hal’s attempt to stop Jamie from carrying out his proposed duel with Twelvetrees. Jamie storms from the room, leaving Hal and Grey to discuss the duel, and the choice of weapon. Hal is perturbed when Grey tells him that the duel has already been arranged for six ‘o’clock the following morning.
** Chapter 32: Duello**
In the carriage, Grey is comforted by the thought that his supporter, Harry Quarry will be waiting at the ground. Meanwhile, Grey is already planning his dying words... At Lambeth Palace grounds, Grey notices two carriages and sees Twelvetrees, with his supporter, Joseph Honey, and another man who is presumed to be the surgeon. John is surprised by arrival of Jamie Fraser who has a message for Grey from Hal –it merely says, “Luck.” – H Jamie vows to avenge Grey’s death, and seems surprised when Grey asks him to call him “John”. Laying a hand on John’s shoulder, Jamie recites a Gaelic blessing for a warrior going out ... “May the grace of Michael Archangel strengthen your arm...John “ John is shocked to see that the surgeon is Doctor John Hunter, a notorious body snatcher, and makes Jamie swear to protect John’s body from the ghoulish Hunter. Jamie agrees, and then makes his way to Captain Honey, where they discuss the finer points of dueling etiquette. When Jamie returns to Grey, he finds that Harry Quarry has also arrived to witness the duel .. At last the duel begins; both Twelvetrees and Grey are expert swordsmen, and are equally matched. The fight is precise and violent, and not without some trickery of the part of Twelvetrees, but Grey wins. Witnessing the end of the duel –Jamie runs across the grass to Grey... “Take me ....ho”
Chapter 33: Billets-Doux
Lord John recovering at Hal’s home when his brother informs him of the death of Edward Twelvetrees. LJ is being hailed as a hero since everyone believes that he challenged Twelvetrees because of his treasonous behavior. LJ is quickly distracted by his nephews – Ben, Adam and little Henry. Jamie has been occupying himself in Hal’s library while LJ has been recuperating. Minnie gives LJ a stack of letters from his many admirers. LJ ask Minnie to burn the letters, but there is one more that remains unopened since it looked more like business. It is from “H. Bowles.” LJ instructs Minnie to burn that one, too.
Chapter 34: All Heads Turn as the Hunt Goes By
John and Jamie talk about the reward that Hal has offered to Jamie and how it could help Jamie's family and tenants. They also talk about the upcoming court martial. John is worried that Jamie will be in danger if he has to testify. Some arrests have been made regarding the wild hunt plot. Jamie admits that he would not tell anyone if he knew where Tobias Quinn is, but that he does not know and that Jamie would warn him if he could because they were once friends
Chapter 35: Justice
Lord John Grey testifies at the court-martial of Major Siverly. Before Lord John sits down he exchanges a few words with the Duke of Cumberland. Lord John tells Cumberland (and everyone) that he Siverly is found guilty on all counts and Lord John has kept his promise to Charlie Carruthers. While John is walking home, he realizes that someone is walking with him. It is Hubert Bowles. John turns to leave, but Bowles put a hand on John's arm which makes John mad and he jerks back. Bowles tells Lord John that he has something to say that John must hear. Bowles tells Lord John that Edward Twelvestrees was working undercover to suppress the Jacobite plots and was not a traitor. He also tells Lord John that Twelvetrees didn't kill Siverly either and that the person who killed Siverly was and Irishman with curly hair. He asks John if he knows who the Irishman is and John tells him that it is Tobias Quinn. John learns that Twelvetrees was planning on arresting the Irish Brigade officers involved in the conspiracy. John is shocked, he feels sick. He realizes he killed Twelvetrees without reason. He doesn't even remember how he gets to Argus House. He has no idea how long he has been sitting there when he hears a sigh and big hands take him by the arms and lift him to his feet. Jamie Fraser comes and they walk to Hyde Park. Jamie tells John that they are both guilty in Twelvetrees death and that Twelvetrees himself is also guilty. Jamie tells Lord John about Ronnie MacNab and his son Rabbie. Lord John tells Jamie that Rabbie was a London chairman and contemplating marriage. Jamie is very excited that John can find Rabbie for him. They talk about returning to Helwater and John tells Jamie that maybe he doesn't have to go back, but Jamie says he is much obliged for the thought but he didn't wish to leave Helwater. John concludes that he is returning to Helwater for Betty Mitchell.
Chapter 36: Teind
The Grey Brothers call on Reginald Twelvetrees, brother of the late Edward and Nathaniel Twelvetrees. Jamie gets an urgent letter from Tobias Quinn. Jamie and John arrive at the Irish quarter too late, and Jamie is horrified to discover that Quinn has committed suicide by slicing his wrist and letting the blood flow into the Cupan. Before his death, Quinn wrote "TEIND" on the wall in blood.
Chapter 37: Sole Witness
Jamie is at Inchcleraun, where he plans to bury Quinn. He refuses Abbot Michael’s offer of men to help with the burial and instead digs the grave by himself. While he works, he wonders about Quinn’s last word: “Teind.” Did Quinn mean the word as an acknowledgement of his own fate or was it intended to accuse Jamie as a traitor? Late in the day, Jamie shoves the coffin into the grave and mounds the dirt on top, leaving an opening for the Cupan, but before he can bury it with Quinn, the air quivers with the sound of a horn. The sound is at once both strange and familiar – the sound of wild geese – and heralds the arrival of a group of at least thirty men and women that materialize from the air above the bog. As the men and women come closer, Jamie notices that they are plainly dressed except for a woman all in white and a tall man, bare-chested with a rope around his neck. Jamie identifies the old gods Esus, Taranis, and Teutates, shortly before they surround the tall man, the subject of a ceremonial sacrifice. Jamie suddenly hurls the Cupan into the crowd, and the people vanish. As the sun sets, Jamie hurriedly finishes tamping the dirt of Quinn’s grave and then seizing his cloak, runs down the causeway. Behind him, he hears the sound of wild geese, and looking back, he sees the group walking into the setting sun. He thinks he sees the flash of checkered pink cloth in the crowd.
Chapter 38: Redux
As they reach Helwater, it dawns on LJ that he and Jamie will no longer be equals, but rather gaoler and prisoner. LJ is sad that he will not see or speak with Jamie, but cannot begrudge him his new found happiness with Betty.
Hanks, the head groom died from a fall during Jamie’s absence, which leaves Jamie next in line for the job. Jamie checks his belongings, which he keeps in a box beside his pallet. Inside the box is a little statue of the Virgin (a gift from Jenny), a mole’s foot for rheumatism, pencil stub, tinder box, a chipped pottery candlestick with wax still in it and eleven stones. The stones were selected for their feel and color and represent Jenny, Ian, Young Jamie, Maggie, Kitty, Janet, Michael, Young Ian, Faith, the unborn baby Claire was carrying when she departed the 18th century, and a rough amethyst for Claire herself. Jamie decides that he needs the right stone for William who had previously been unrepresented, partially because Jamie had not felt the right to claim him as his own. Lord Dunsany informs LJ that he has amended his will and wishes for Lord John to have guardianship of William upon Dunsany’s death. LJ is shocked by the request to take on this great responsibility, but grants him his wish.
Jamie has the sad task of informing Betty of Quinn’s death by suicide and asks the Welsh kitchen maid, Keren-happuch, if he may speak with her. He tries to explain the nature of Quinn’s despair to Betty without revealing too much information about the failed Jacobite Rising. Jamie asks Keren to pray for Quinn, the poor sinner, for perhaps Protestant prayers might be accepted by God whereas Catholic ones would be disregarded.
Chapter 39: The Fog Comes Down
Lord John and Dunsany are on their way to Dunsany's lawyer. Dunsany remarks that his lawyer is surprised that such a small village has such strange happenings. John asks Dunsay why they are going to see Mr. Trowbridge as Mr. Wilberforce is Dunsay's lawyer. Dunsany explains that considering the circumstances, he wants to use Trowbridge. He then says he worries about his daughter Isobel. Jamie is getting ready to accompany Isobel and Lady Dunsany to the old shepherd's hut. Willie is cutting teeth and acting out. Jamie remembers Jenny telling him that the best remedy is whiskey; applied to the gums of the child or sipped by the mother. Jamie daydreams about Claire and Willie together. As Jamie lifts Willie up to the saddle he is disturbed to find the boy is wearing a corset. Betty explains that the corset is very thin, he will be given a heavier one later. This one is just so that Willie can get used to wearing the garment. Betty gossips with Jamie. She explains that Isobel wants to marry Wilberforce but her parents are not supportive. He has a bad reputation. Betty makes a reference to Lady Geneva and Jamie knows that she knows! Jamie thinks about Betty, what about her? What does he think of her as a partner? She is well below his social station...what social station? What does she know? Would she have him? He took Claire without knowing anything of her station..... Quinn... he was Betty's brother-in -law. Betty must know everything. Jamie realizes that Willie is missing. He orders them to stay together and hold hands. He tells them to call Willie. After a very frantic search, he finds Willie. Jamie grabs Willie and holds him tightly.
Chapter 40: Gambit
Lord John saw Jamie working now and then, but had not spoken to him since they had come back to Helwater. He is very self conscious about wanting to speak to Jamie. He desperately needs to know one way or another if there is a chance that they can be friends again. But he can't think of an excuse to have to talk him.

Three days before his scheduled departure, he rose in the morning with the conviction that he must speak with Fraser, somehow. Not in the stiff manner of an interview between paroled prisoner and officer of the Crown-simply a few words as man to man. If he could have that, he could go back to London with an easy heart, knowing that sometime, somewhere, there was the possibility that they might be friends again, even if that time and place could not be here and now.

From a distance John sees Jamie with William heading for the paddock to meet the new groom. He watches Jamie show William how to pull himself up to the rail on the fence to watch the new groom with the horses like Jamie. This is the opportunity he has been waiting for and joins them to watch the new groom. As they watch the groom break the horse. Grey is inspired by the light mood to say :

”Queen's knight," he said quietly. "To queen two." It was, he knew, a dangerous opening. Fraser didn't move, but Grey felt his sideways glance. After an instant's hesitation, he replied, "King's knight to bishop two" and Grey felt his heart lighten. It was the answer to the Torremolios Gambit, the one he used on that far-off, disastrous evening at Ardsmuir, when he had first laid his hand on Jamie Fraser’s.

Chapter 41: A Moonlicht Flicht
Jamie discovers from one of the farmhands that Fanny, one of the Belgian draft horses, has gone missing. They discover the big horse on the main road, where she is being urged on by an irate Betty Mitchell. Betty is promptly bucked off, and when Jamie tries to help her up, she tells him in colorful language that Isobel Dunsany has run away with the lawyer Wilberforce; he intends to elope with Isobel but the “bugger’s got a wife already.” Betty insists that Jamie go after them because he can ride fast, he’s big enough to make Isobel come back, and he can keep the scandal quiet. Jamie is annoyed with Isobel’s bad decision, but he quickly decides that he owes it to the Dunsanys to try and save her. He mounts one of the mules and pursues Wilberforce and Isobel, guessing that they will take the coaching road that runs from London to Edinburgh. Jamie finally spots the Helwater gig outside the single tavern in the hamlet of Biddle. Jamie drags Wilberforce from Isobel, punches him in the face and then hastily checks Isobel to see if her maidenhead is still intact. He sees “neither blood nor any other sign of recent intrusion so he takes her to Helwater. At Helwater, Jamie immediately takes Isobel to John Grey, and in German, explains the situation. John is surprised and concerned about Isobel. He asks whether Jamie has killed the lawyer, thinking he’d rather not have to hide the body as it is pouring rain outside. Jamie confirms that the lawyer is still alive, then he gently and quietly tells Isobel that he will never tell anyone about what has happened. She is embarrassed, but grateful. As Jamie leaves, John indicates that Isobel is an honorable woman and will feel obligated to him. To absolve the debt between himself and Isobel, Jamie suggests the one thing that he wants, that William stops wearing a coset.
Chapter 42: Point of Departure
As John Grey prepares to leave Helwater, he says his goodbyes to the Dunsany family, noticing as he does how fragile Lord Dunsany has become and he thinks briefly about his death, hoping it does not come soon. Jamie is holding Grey’s horse, and as Lord John mounts, Jamie murmurs a chess move and John laughs, counters with his own move that results in checkmate. Later Jamie asks Betty to meet him behind the hay shed, and he gives her a purse of coins for her dowry, so that she can get married, but not to him. When she looks at him suspiciously, he explains that he has a wife (and “she’s alive still”). He suggests that she and George Roberts get married and use the money for a cottage of their own; Betty is so overcome with gratitude that she kisses Jamie on the mouth.
Chapter 43: Succession
October 26, 1760: King George II is dead and London is in full mourning as the city tends to his state funeral. The monarchy is safe and unbeknownst to the public the final arrests of the Irish Jacobite plotters (aka the Wild Hunt) have been completed. Present at the funeral service are Harold, Duke of Pardloe, the Duke of Cumberland, the Duke of Newcastle,; Horace Walpole, the art historian and writer; George Grenville, the then Treasurer of the Navy (and future author of the Stamp Act in 1765) who has been partnered with Walpole, Lord John Grey.
John is listening to the anthem play and begins to wonder if it sounded any better to him than Jamie Fraser who possesses an inability to hear music. Aware of his straying thoughts, John begins to reminisce about his step-brother, Percy Wainwright, another thorn in his side. Trying to stay focused on present events, John reflects on the sheer solidity of the funeral service, its insistence on permanence and the reliability of succession. “Father to son” And with that thought all the disconnected, fragmented thoughts in his brain dropped suddenly into a single image: Jamie Fraser and William, Earl of Ellesmere side by side, their heads, the set of the shoulders the wide stance - just the same. He had suspected it when he found Jamie at the chapel with Geneva´s coffin. Now he knows why Jamie doesn´t want freedom. This epiphany is interrupted as Hal almost faints and is taken back to Argus House on Grenville’s sedan chair. John walks home elated and peaceful, almost valedictory. Partly because of Charles but also because he could do something for the leaving, he could keep Jamie Fraser prisoner. John arrives home to find a badger-hound curled up in a basket on a white linen towel. Along with the dog, the servant hands a sealed note to John. It is an invitation written in German in a firm black hand: “Bring him when you come to visit me. We will perhaps hunt together again.”
Helwater – December 21st
“Bonnie lad.” Jamie is dreaming of Lallybroch and awakens to find himself still at Helwater., William tells Nanny “I a bonnie lad!” Jamie recalls his older brother, Willie, and can feel his presence along with that of his parents and Claire. Jamie hears the voices of the dead pass in the wind and is comforted by the knowledge of love alive in the world. Once again he says: “Lord that she might be safe, she and my children.” Next Jamie “turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her through the veils of time.”
​
QUESTIONS
1. What do you think of Minnie doing research on a general court-martial post mortem? None of the guys knew this.
2. Why do you think John took Jamie’s place in the duel? Do you think Hal understood why John decided to take Jamie’s place in the duel?
3. Do you think that Edward Twelvetrees took things too far? Could he have used another approach rather than a duel?
4. What do you think about Jamie telling Lally of Claire's sight? This is the first time he has spoken to anyone about her.
5. Was Quinn's “teind” a confession or an accusation? Or both?
6. Why did Jamie choose Inchcleraun to burry Quinn? Why did he insist on digging the grave himself?
7. While watching the approaching group, why does Jamie believe they are not coming for him?
8. Why has Jamie decided to give a stone to William now?
9. What do you think about Jamie's reaction to how Willie wearing a corset?
10. When Jamie says, “God be with ye, Englishman,” he reflects on whether or not they will ever be able to be equals. This seems to indicate a newfound sense of peace in Jamie with regard to his captor. What are your thoughts on their relationship at this moment?
11. What do you make of John’s lack of hesitation in accepting Dunsany’s amendment to his will naming John Willie’s guardian? He reflects on an excuse to be at Helwater close to Jamie, but also to his duty as honorary son to the Dunsany’s. Is it at first selfish?
12. Isobel has been notorious in her dislike of Jamie. When he saves her from Wilberforce, do you believe this has forever shifted her view of him?
13. Was Jamie right in checking Isobel’s maidenhead?
14. Is there significance in the specific chess moves that these men use?
15. Why do Jamie and John seem to communicate better when using chess moves?
16. Do you think the gift of a puppy (of Stephan’s particular breed) to John is meant to solidify that Stephan is satisfied with the deeper understanding within their friendship? Do you think it implies or symbolizes anything more?
​
Next Discussion will be on February 4th and it will cover The Plague of Zombies Previous discussions and the read-along schedule can be foundhere.
u/Nanchika u/Vast_Razzmataz_2398

I always knew, deep down, that my life wasn't real.
Middleview was always an enigma to me.
Ever since I was a kid, my life has been a broken puzzle that didn't fit together or make sense. Looking back, I chose to blissfully ignore the splintered pieces of my existence, despite the truth dangling right in front of me the whole time.
I could pretend it wasn't real as a kid— sure.
Sitting in the sandpit in the first grade with Noah Prestley, I looked at the sky instead of the camera in my face and the curtain that suffocated me when the lights went out. I used to question why everything felt both fake and yet painfully real. The sand I was sitting in was soft, and the sun’s glare peeking through those scary vertical lines in front of me scratched at my retinas.
But growing up, it became harder to not notice the eyes surrounding me, cameras that hurt my eyes, and invisible strings entangling around me, making me dance. I wasn't allowed to look.
If I took notice of the invisible lines cutting through the sky, I would start to hurt.
I never wanted to solve crimes.
I didn't want to catch milk thief's or spy on my janitor.
But opening my mouth to say that, however, would get me in trouble.
So, I decided that actually, maybe solving crimes would be fun.
After all, catching Jessica S was.
I had two important orders I had to follow.
The words in my mouth that weren't mine, that tangled like a tongue twister and left me out of breath, I couldn't fight them.
Nor could I look up or down, left or right.
I couldn't touch the springy lines cutting into the air.
If I did, I was punished with an uncomfortable feeling of being yanked, pulled backwards, my arms and legs jerking, moving, for me.
Sometimes, my mother would look me dead in the eye and tell me to turn my head, to relax my fists, to breathe slowly and ignore the dancing lines.
So, I continued tracing swirls and C’s in the sandpit, ignoring them.
The mayor's son was far less co-operative with the eyes that we were not allowed to look at.
Unlike me, he took notice of the invisible creases that entangled with us.
Noah Prestley brushed them out of the way, poking and prodding them, blinking at them like he could see them, and reminding me they in fact were not a figment of our imagination.
Initially, the boy was like me.
He reluctantly went along with the murmurs in his head, and the orders from the eyes surrounding us.
We were spying on the janitor, the two of us hiding behind a wall, when he tapped my shoulder. I thought he was alerting me that someone was coming, but instead Noah leaned close.
“Look!” The mayor's son was supposed to wear serious faces and shove me around. This Noah had playful eyes and a mischievous smile that would rather play in the ball court or go digging for buried treasure. The real Noah wanted to be a pirate, not a detective. He grabbed my hand and I felt that tightness again, that stinging pain in my fingers and arms.
I wasn't allowed to look at the lines twined around my arms, and wrapped around my legs. But Noah Prestley made it hard. Instead of focusing on the janitor, he prodded at them and proved my Mom wrong.
I watched in amazement as he played a tune, strumming them like a guitar.
The eyes strictly told him to stop, and he stuck out his tongue defiantly.
The lines went boing! and we both giggled.
Shading his eyes from the lights in our eyes, Noah pointed right at what we were not allowed to look at. His smile was wide, baffled, full of childish amazement that stifled a gnawing fear creeping up his spine– a fear I knew was real when his expression crumpled.
He was feeling that exact slicing pain through his fingers and toes, his lips curling.
As little kids, the lines were less cruel to us, acting as a warning in case we acted out. When we grew older, becoming more perceptive of our surroundings, awake and aware of cameras and flashing lights and eyes telling us what to do, the mayor's son grew less mystified by the lines. He wasn't fascinated anymore, a frustration sparking in his eyes. Instead of playing with them, he called them bad words.
Noah started to ask questions that were less curious, and more demanding.
In the third grade, we were in the middle of a missing cat case. Our class was doing a spelling bee in class when he jumped up from his chair. I did notice he was practically vibrating in his seat all day, but I figured he was just itching to get out of school, so we could find Mrs Cara’s missing persian.
At nine years of age, the mayor's son wanted answers.
“This is stupid!” he yelled. “The lines are driving me crazy!”
The boy jumped onto his desk and waved his arms, prodding the lines we were not allowed to see, pulling them so they jerked and danced. I twisted around to tell him to shush, but something was already violently yanking me to face the front of the class, this time a stinging around my neck. I tried to reach up and touch what was wrapped around my throat, which was mechanically jerking my head from side to side.
But my hands were no longer mine, dropping to my desk. When I tried to jump up, my feet were pinned to the floor.
Risking a glance down, I saw them.
Criss-crossing lines tying my ankles down.
“Noah Prestley!” Mrs Jacobs yelled.
In the corner of my eye, May was leaning forward in her own desk, head inclined, her fingers lightly touching the lines criss-crossing around her. The girl’s eyes were wide. I think that was the first time she saw them, the first time May Lee blinked back at the eyes staring at her.
I wasn't allowed to look, but it was so tempting. They were right next to me. I could reach out and touch a different world I wasn't supposed to notice.
“You are disrupting my class. Sit down!”
“I don't care,” Noah curled his lip. “I want to know what they are.” his eyes softened, and I detected vulnerability in his tone. “They're there! And there, and there, and there!” he pointed manically, almost toppling off of his desk.
“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Sit down!”
“No.” Noah spat back. He was putting on a brave face, but the boy was hiding the tremble in his voice, his arms wrapped around himself. “Not until you tell me what the lines are, Mrs Jacobs.”
In the fourth grade, we were investigating the disappearance of a beloved town monument.
Our fourth member had just joined us and we were once again being reprimanded inside Principal Maine’s office. Apparently, we weren't allowed to break into the science lab to see if chemicals had been stolen by a student (We found traces of a certain chemical at the scene of the crime, and newcomer Aris was convinced our suspect was in fact a kid).
That day, I remember it was too hot.
We were standing in a line, our heads bowed, awaiting an inevitable scolding.
Blinking dazedly, my gaze wandered from our glaring principal, to my own legs that moved on their own.
Magic?
“You four! Stand up straight!”
We did, and next to me, Noah tipped his head back and blew a raspberry.
Principal Maine’s twitching eyes snapped to a grinning Aris, who, at that point, was completely blind to the cutting lines.
His unblinking eyes failed to see what entangled him, what was supposed to hurt him.
“Aris Caine.” Maine leaned forward on his chair, brushing away the avalanche of paper and empty coffee mugs. His stress lines were funny to look at. “You're a smart kid. Your father tells me you are a gifted student. I heard you voluntarily transferred to this school!”
Aris nodded with a proud smile, while the rest of us held our breaths.
If Maine happened to compliment you, yeah, you were pretty much dead.
So, why, pray tell,” he steepled his fingers, his tone hardening. Aris’s smile faded. “Do you insist on aligning yourself with these troublemakers?”
“That's rich,” Noah scoffed. “For someone who isn't even real.”
May nudged him, but the boy didn't back down.
“You.” Noah said loudly, like he was talking directly to the eyes. “You're not real, Mr Maine.”
Maine cocked his head, and I swore his movement… jolted. “I'm sorry, what?”*
Noah sighed and stepped forward, grabbing a coffee mug, and tipping it over the principal’s head. Reality splintered again and I took the time to notice things that I wasn't supposed to.
Maine had lines too. But his lines made him up, a being of cotton and string and patchwork flesh, than our principal.
It was just a single moment when my breath caught in my throat, and I could feel them tugging at me, forcing me to keep my head down. But Principal Maine’s face was too scary, a mound of dead flesh, glassy eyes that stared straight through me and a mouth that opened and closed, jerking left to right.
Sharp intakes of breath next to me, and Aris was stumbling back, his lips twisted into a silent scream, while May was paralysed to the spot. I think they could see it too. Not just the contorting lines making up our principal, but the gnawing, hollow nothing where his back was supposed to be, the cruel stand in place of a spine. I forced myself to ignore the whispers in my ear that it wasn't real, that it was all in my head, the cavern in the back of his skull where scarlet coloured strings replaced a human brain.
I saw his strings hanging above him moving his mouth.
Noah turned to us, and for the first time in my life, I saw Noah Prestley's real eyes.
He was terrified, his expression desperate.
“See!” Noah pleaded with us, grasping hold of the lines in a tight fist. He ignored the shouts from the eyes around us, his lips carved into a scream his mouth wouldn't allow. Noah's voice shook with sobs, and already, we were being pulled back, our bodies flailing, and our minds going blank. “It's not–”
“Cut!” a voice yelled.
Real.
They made me stop thinking after.
Noah’s voice faded into white noise, and before I knew what was happening, a blanket of darkness was falling in front of my eyes. It was like I could make time jump forward if I blinked, though it only happened when Noah started screaming about lines that were getting closer to him. Initially, they dangled in front of us as kids, sometimes coiled around our fingers, grazing the backs of our necks, as if a silent warning.
Now they were actually wrapped around us, making us dance.
So close to severing us, just like our principal.
The eyes managed to keep us on a leash for the most part, going to extreme lengths to keep us inside the lines.
But that wasn't the last time I was awake and aware of them.
It was always the mayor’s son hissing in our ears when he thought the eyes were gone, squeezing my hand tight, and Aris’s tighter, entangling our fingers. He brought the fake world crumbling down, and in those moments of clarity, I was grateful for him fighting back.
Presently, my thoughts were on the car-ride that wouldn't leave my mind.
I was half aware of the others around me, delusions I was slowly growing used to.
May, sitting cross legged on the floor with her usual pursed lips, and the boy’s play fighting. I had found myself in my mother’s office which was usually out of bounds. I was slumped in a beanbag, flicking through every paper document I could find. But it was all invoices.
I watched the guys instead. Bathed in late afternoon sunlight bleeding through the curtains on the windows, the two of them resembled two bright balls of light, which was ironic. The boy’s fighting skills were exactly the same, after the four of us were forced to take part in self defence classes. According to the sheriff, he wasn't letting us anywhere near a Middleview criminal, unless we knew how to fight.
Watching Aris easily put Noah into a headlock, the brunette wrestling him to the ground, laughing, I guessed they learned well.
Something sour crept up my throat, and the streaks of sunlight faded, shadows taking over the office threatening to swallow my imaginary friends completely.
Not well enough to escape their fate.
I wondered what would happen if my memories returned.
Would this image of them disappear, or twist to suit my memory?
Still, I enjoyed their company.
I don't think my brain wanted to register the agonising reality of what they really were– hollowed out dolls dancing on strings for an audience behind a curtain of darkness. These versions were easier for my mind to register and understand.
These versions, despite being memories carved into real faces, imaginary friends I couldn't let go of, were warm and familiar.
I lost them at the age of fifteen, dragged from my town by my mother, and told they weren't real, only to find them again, years later, nothing more than flesh puppets on scarlet strings, dancing and parading to a tune I could not hear. The three of them resembled our middle school principal.
I couldn't see the back of Noah’s head, only strings. Aris’s torso hung like a wooden toy, carved of blood, bone and flesh, everything he ever was. In its place, his spine that had been moulded into a perfect puppet stand. The three of them had become exactly what a younger Noah had feared.
There was more to my memories, after my mother and the people behind Middleview had fought to keep me in the dark.
There were still parts of my mind I was searching for.
The night the Middleview Four stepped inside the string factory on the tail of the infamous String Murderer, my memory cut off, like a curtain had fallen. But I didn't remember one.
I didn't remember anything after pushing the factory door open, time jumping to four hours later.
What happened to us?
Why was I found, inconsolable, covered in bloody strings? Mom saved me, but what happened to the others?
I had splinters, a scarlet horror lurking in the back of my mind, blurry memories of sitting in warm red that flowed around us, a table made of steel, and a stained blade hanging above us.
Shaking my head, I buried that memory in particular.
I would only go back to shining rubies glittering on every surface and dripping into the floor when I knew how we had gotten inside that room.
There was one memory in particular that was running through my head. The car ride on the night Mom dragged me away from what I discovered. She drugged me so I could barely remember it.
However, over the last few days, what was supposed to be a blank slate was unravelling.
I remembered heavy rain pounding against the back window, my cheek pressed to the glass, my body twisted like a pretzel in the back seat.
Mom had stopped crying, her fingers clenched around the wheel.
Outside, the glow of passing streetlights kept me aware, my flickering eyes following the long winding road ahead of us. I was surrendering to the dark, hopped up on the drugs forced into my bloodstream, when the sound of a click came from the passenger seat. I opened my eyes, my thoughts swimming.
I tried to sit up, but my bones were made of lead. There was a figure in the passenger seat. I could see the shadow of their head pressed against the pane.
When their head jerked, my spongey mind realised the figure was moving. Everything about them wasn't human, instead blanketed in darkness, in silhouettes from passing street lights and signs transforming them into a being of oblivion. I tried to look for a face, except my drugged up brain only found a cavern of nothing in its place.
“Don't.”
My cheek gently bobbed against the window, though Mom didn't turn to look at me. She was talking to them.
My mother’s voice was a low murmur, reassuring.
“I know you're scared, but just like I said earlier, I'm going to take you somewhere safe,” she whispered. “She's not going to find you. We’re about to hit the highway, so her influence won't stretch this far.”
I don't know if the figure believed my mother.
Still, I think her voice was comforting enough for them to want to try.
Once their hand slowly retracted from the lock on the door, I dazedly watched the figure sit back with a quiet huff.
Mom exhaled a breath of relief, her fingers tightening around the wheel.
“Keep your head down.” Her tone immediately turned motherly. “If you want to lie down in the backseat, you might be more comfortable.”
Mom started to hum again, her voice a lullaby as the figure ducked their head. In the blinding haze of a passing streetlight, I finally saw their reflection.
Huh.
The shadow person was human, after all.
Mom’s singing followed me into the dark, the drugs finally catching up to my mind.
I remembered her hand leaving the wheel and squeezing the figure’s fingers, her voice a hypnotising lull.
”In a town, where I was born
Lived a man, who sailed the sea
And he told us of his life, in the land of submarines…”
“Hey!”
Noah snapped me out of it.
I had to blink rapidly, drinking in the boy’s head of vicious curls he refused to trim. They looked brighter in the sunlight, strands set alight dancing across his forehead. Fifteen year old Noah Prestley loomed over me, half of his face drowned in shadow. He was a snapshot, a memory I wanted to keep close with me.
There was something off about him, though I couldn't put my finger on it.
I stood up from my place slumped in the beanbag.
Aris was perched on my mother’s desk, and May was flicking through a book she had found, comfortably cross legged on the sheepskin rug.
Yep.
I was still hallucinating my dead friends.
I didn't question them earlier that morning before Mom left for work, but now that I was really looking at the three, I realised they were noticeably younger.
When they came to see me inside the facility, Aris’s hair was longer, while Noah’s was a more mature style, slicked back. I strictly remembered May’s pigtails being loose, longer, a fringe hanging in her eyes. Looking at them presently, they had reverted to their fifteen year old selves, wearing the exact same clothes from where I found them in the diner.
Noah was in his usual jeans and hoodie, Aris, casual white shirt and pants, and May in shorts and t-shirt, her pigtails dancing on her shoulders.
The Middleview Four in our summer before sophomore year.
Who I remembered and held onto the most.
“You're daydreaming againnnn,” Noah sang, poking me in the face. The boy cocked his head. “How many times are you going to dwell on that car ride?”
Instead of answering him, I checked over my Mom’s desk for the thousandth time.
“There's nothing here,” Aris said, swinging his legs. “unless we count the list of subjects you've been holding for a while now.” I tightened my grip on the paper scrunched between my fists. I thought it was a clue to who we were, but apparently it was just my mother involved in unethical experiments on kids. Aris met my gaze, his lips pursing.
“You think those kids are us. But they were all born in 2011.”
“Which makes them ten years old,” May hummed. Her gaze flicked to me. “Wait, didn't you see a playroom inside that place?”
I nodded slowly, frowning at the paper on my knee.
10 subjects, numbered 0.1 to 0.10
Only first names, and all born in 2011.
Aris jumped up with an exaggerated sigh. Aris Caine was theatre kid energy, and I refuse to elaborate. “Okay, so cast your minds back to case number seven. We were thirteen years old, and Marie Cassidy’s prize doll collection had gone missing,” Aris turned to me, his arms folded. “Where did we find them?”
I shrugged with a scoff. “We didn't. The cops did.”
Not our proudest moment.
Aris’s grin didn't waver. He was slowly moving back towards the bookcase, and I was following him, already running my fingers down each book. “We didn't…” I continued in a hiss. “The cops found the dolls, but we were determined to find the culprit.” I was talking out loud, but it felt good to be investigating again. “So,” I said in a breath, “We broke into Nina Jarret’s house, and inside her mother's office were a series of tunnels, hidden behind…” I started to pull out books by the spine, throwing them on the floor.
“The bookcase.” Aris finished, leaning against the wood with a smirk. He ignored Noah’s rolled eyes. “So, let's take into account the fact that your mother works on this stage play and is clearly being controlled by strings. However, she saved you and deeefinitely has skeletons in her closet, but secretly works against her own colleagues.” Aris clucked his tongue. “Think about it. You just saved a valuable asset from a dangerous organisation,” he prodded the bookcase. “Where's the first place you're going to hide them?”
“The Arctic?” Noah was comfortably perched on the edge of Mom’s desk. “Switzerland?”
May threw a book at him. “Take this seriously!”
“Ow!” He volley'd one back. “You can't hit me with a hardback!”
“Nope!” Aris said, ignoring the others’ sibling back and forth. “In plain sight.”
The boy’s latter words were only emphasised when I yanked away the final book, only for the bookcase to slide aside, revealing a large metal door.
“Dude!” Noah laughed, side-stepping an ancient copy of Metamorphosis tumbling from the top shelf. I stepped in front of the metal door, my heart in my throat. There was no handle, a freaky looking scanner attached to the lock.
“Biometric.” Aris hummed, appearing next to me. “Unless you have a spare copy of your Mom’s thumb, we ain't getting in there.”
I opened my mouth to speak, before a rough hand found my shoulder.
Aris’s eyes widened, Noah stumbling back.
“Oh shit,” Noah hissed. “Did you not hear the door opening?”
I had to back the urge to snap back neither did you! on account of him being a figment of my imagination.
It took me a disorienting moment to drink in the black-clad soldier standing in the doorway. His eyes were grey and cruel, raking me up and down. He ignored me. “The kid will be in here somewhere,” the man grunted, shoving past me. “Search Allison Tibet’s office.” his head snapped toward the doorway when another figure appeared.
It was the man in the mask from the facility, the one who wiped (or pretended to wipe) my memories.
“Delaney. Scan the daughter.” he barked. “Do a full dig. Get your hands dirty, if you must.”
Dr. Delaney nodded. He took slow strides toward me, and with every step, the real world was bleeding into my illusion, bright sunlight filling the room and eating away at my friends. The three of them faded, swallowed by the shadow. I was alone again. When the masked man dumped something into my hands, I was trying to bring them back.
“Where is he?” his voice cut into the bubble I had built around myself.
Blinking rapidly, my mind was already trying to retreat, trying to retrace the Middleview Four back into existence.
Except my mother’s office was empty.
The bookcase Aris had helped me throw aside still revealed the door my mother had hidden in plain sight. There were books on the floor, but no sign of May sitting amongst them or Aris and Noah swapping theories, the two of them leaned against the wall.
There was something damp in my hands.
I could feel it, stringy and wet, slipping through my fingers.
Strings.
My breath caught in my throat.
The severed strings from the person Mom saved, slimy and warm in my hand.
I don't know if it was the memory slamming into me like a wave of ice water, or the force of the masked man's fingers pressing pressure to my temples.
I fell again, plunging down, down, down, into what had been stripped away.
I was… running.
The sky was a blanket of inky oblivion above me, and I was sprinting down a quiet suburban street, swinging my arms to drive me faster. I knew exactly what case it was. It was the case that ripped us apart. Immediately, I knew what was coming. I tried to retract from the masked man's control, but he forced me deeper. I was back in Middleview.
It was a Saturday night, and we were missing our third member.
Noah called an emergency meeting in our local coffee shop, dumping my strawberry milkshake down. Strawberry for me, and chocolate for him and Aris.
I took the window seat, always squeezed next to May, while the boys sat opposite us.
Glancing next to me, the plush blue of May’s seat made me feel kind of sick.
“May is missing.” Noah announced.
Aris, who was absently stirring his shake into a mush, went pale.
“Fuck.” he lowered his voice, leaning over the table. “Because of the note?”
Noah’s shot Aris the side-eye, lips curved around his straw. “Why else, genius?”
I pulled the note from my pocket, smoothing it across the table.
There were four severed fingers attached to the top. Aris confirmed the fingers were from already dead corpses, which didn't make it any better. But at least this psycho wasn't on a killing spree.
The words CAN WE PLAY A GAME? were spelled out in individual letters.
“From the weirdo fan who's obsessed with us?” Aris hissed.
Noah nodded grimly. “No parents. If we tell the adults, the asshole will kill her.”
An hour later, after searching the town, May finally contacted us on her talkie.
She had been kidnapped by the person behind the note.
“Marin, are you there?”
Noah’s voice crackled through the talkie gripped between my clammy fingers. “I’m almost at the rendezvous,” he sounded out of breath, pausing to let out a sharp hiss. “I may have lied to my dad about the note, but the guy said no cops.” Noah paused. “How much trouble do you think we’re all in?”
I laughed. “Almost definitely grounded until college.”
“Um, hello? I don't mean to interrupt, but I'm still kidnapped,” May’s grumble crackled through. “The psycho left me hanging by my foot, so all the blood is rushing to my head. Hurry up.”
Noah responded with a scoff. “Jeez. You're going to annoy him into letting you go.”
“Says the boy who never shuts up,” May shot back. “Where are you guys?”
I stopped running, dragging myself into a slower pace. “I'm just outside the place,” I said, swallowing sharp breaths. “How about you guys?”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I bit back a shriek.
Aris, somehow not out of breath. I figured his time on the basketball team helped. As usual, he was overdressed for a rescue. I was frowning at his white fitted shirt and sandy curls pinned back by a pair of raybans, wondering where the hell had our Middleview Four nerd gone.
“Yo.” He saluted me with a smirk. “Am I really that frightening?”
I nodded at his getup. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
His smile didn't waver. “I… was at an interview.”
“Interview?” Noah finally caught up to us, flashlight in one hand, talkie in the other. He paused, to rest his hands on his knees. The mayor’s son’s voice was muffled. “What interview?”
“My dad wants to send me back to private school,” Aris rolled his eyes. “In his words, I'm going to get myself killed.”
“What?” Noah hissed, spitting out his flashlight. “You can't leave!”
“That doesn't matter right now,” Aris murmured. “We can talk about my dad being a total dick after May is safe.”
Noah shot me a look, and I could only respond with a shrug.
Approaching the barn where May was being held, we took it slow.
“May?” Noah led us, Aris at his side.
I brought up the rear, shining my flashlight beam on anything that moved.
“Still there, May?” Noah hissed into his talkie. He tripped over a rock, and Aris dragged him back, playfully hitting him.
“Yes. I'm still here, dying of boredom.”
Aris hopped ahead, striding over to the door. He twisted around, shining his flashlight. “You know, for someone who's hanging upside down in a barn of death, you sure seem to be super chill.”
“Oh, I'm not chill, I’m going to kill all three of you for getting me into this.”
Aris pulled one of the doors open, motioning for me to help him. I did, pushing all of my weight into it. “Noah, you grab and free May,” he ordered. “I'll check if the psycho is still hanging around. Marin, you guard the doors.”
Noah scoffed, shining the flashlight in the boy's face. “Oh yeah, and what are you going to do if someone jumps out?”
“Kick his ass,” Aris said through a mouthful of flashlight. “Or run. Probably run.”
”Deeper.” The masked man's voice cut through the memory.
”Look for key moments. Key memories”.
Noah stepped inside the barn first. I heard his shuffled footsteps.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps.
He halted suddenly.
“Noah?” Aris, who was checking for trip wires, twisted around. “You good, man?”
When there was no response, Aris motioned me to go in as back-up.
Leaving our fourth member at the door, I ventured inside the barn. It was pitch black, the kind of darkness that somehow dimmed my flickering light.
Following Noah’s footsteps, my slimy fingers clicked the button down on my talkie.
“May?” my voice came out in a shaky whisper, as my flashlight flickered on and off. “May, can you tell me where you are?”
The sound of a talkie coming to life filled my mouth with wriggling insects.
“I'm here! Can you guys untie me?!”
I could hear May.
But I couldn't… see her.
My dying flashlight beam illuminated her talkie lying in a batch of hay.
Next to it, a figure standing perfectly still.
Noah.
The boy was standing, his head tipped back, arms limp by his sides. He had dropped his talkie too. “Noah?” his name came out in a hiss, and I was afraid to speak, afraid to follow his gaze.
Until something cold trickled down my face.
Like raindrops.
“Guys?” May’s voice cracked. “Where are you?”
Pressing two fingers to my face, my fingertips were drenched in red. Something dripped again, sliding down my cheek. It was so cold. Noah wasn't moving because the lines holding him hostage were not letting him. His mouth was opening and closing, but no sound was coming out. My strings only allowed me to tip my head back. But my body was still straining, my legs giving way, my thoughts spiralling.
I didn't want to look, and yet the eyes strictly told me to.
There was something hanging from the ceiling.
May.
Like a pig, she had been gutted from the neck to torso, her insides already carved out, as if by a surgeon's hand.
What was left of May was a shell in her place.
“Cut!” A shriek lulled me back to the real world. “Anna! Anna, explain yourself!”
The man's voice was suddenly booming, blinding lights in my eyes.
“Cut! I said cut! Anna, stop laughing. No, no, it's not funny! You can't kill them!”
The ground rumbled suddenly, but I was still paralysed, suspended on strings.
“What's going on?” Aris said in a whimper.
The man's voice turned stern. Frightened. “Okay! Have it your way, Anna.”
Aris was already screaming, a guttural cry that sent him to the ground.
But he wasn't allowed to drop to his knees, strings jerking him into place.
He was yanked back up, forced to dance, his mouth snapping open and closed and saying words that weren't his.
We were forced to bow in front of a curtain, a cacophony of children's laughter deafening my ears.
Noah didn't fight his strings tugging him from left to right. His eyes never left May. I don't think he was really seeing her. Instead, he was seeing her strings, that, with a simple, snip! were cut, and she flopped to the ground and was scooped into a stranger's arms.
I couldn't even mourn her death, or feel real emotion.
Instead, I was stuck on strings, with no thoughts.
I followed what the eyes told me to do.
Middleview turned against us after May’s death. The citizens were convinced that we didn't solve crimes, we created them and we were bad omens. We were hunted down by a group of kids, a cult dedicated to ridding the town of The Middleview Four. Noah was gutted by a group of twelve year olds, and Aris tied to a conveyor belt, dragged through a meat grinder. I thought I could save them both.
“Marin, don't!” Aris’s yell caught me off guard when I burst into the sawmill where he was being held.
“Tripwire,” he muffled through duct tape over his mouth. I looked up, and sure enough, a metal contraption hung over me. The conveyor belt moved slowly, and I was frozen watching his struggling body draw closer to the revolving blades.
I had a choice. I could free him and sacrifice myself, or let my friend be dragged through a meat grinder.
In the end, it was a trick. They knew I would be paralysed.
I was barely conscious when my best friend's blood was painting my face.
Blood slicked strings hit me in the cheek.
Their deaths were announced via that same voice that had been taunting us.
I remembered finding them, barely anything left, shards of flesh and bone.
Noah, still tied to a chair, his chest impaled by a single tree branch.
There was a single crown of flowers nestled on his head.
I was greeted with the voice when all three of their bodies were presented to me.
“What are you now, hmm?” the voice taunted me. “Who exactly are you without them?”
I screamed, and I was allowed to scream, my mouth widening, stretching across my face. The curtain fell in front of me, and my strings finally gave way.
“Cut! All right! Nice job, everybody!”
“I want to go again!”
The voice was a little girl, but I barely noticed.
I barely noticed my mother’s hands smoothing down my hair and cradling my cheeks. “Soon.” she whispered in my ear. “I'm going to take you home.”
I wasn't looking at my mother. I was still waiting for my friends to come back to life.
Their bodies dropped to the ground to the sound of heavy applause behind the curtain, and I was left, suspended in the air, all too aware of the strings still holding me together. I wanted to die like them, but they didn't let me.
I saw my Mom, in flashes of light. She took me off stage, carrying me like I was her own daughter. I was lying on my back, and she was pulling strings from me, her shaking fingers slipping a needle into my skin and stitching me back together, a seam of blood red thread pooling down my chest. Mom pulled the painful stitches stifling my screams.
I had harmless cuts and bruises.
The others were dead, ripped apart, gone.
But not in Middleview.
They came back to life, because she demanded it.
I blinked, and I was in class, talking to Noah.
His smiles weren't the same anymore.
Aris never blinked, and May’s grin was too big for me to not notice.
Unlike my strings, theirs held them together, binding dead flesh and bone.
It's not like I could ask questions.
My mouth was sealed, and all I could do was choke out the words I was supposed to say, and remember the one rule: We were not allowed to look.
The string murders case came out of nowhere. Multiple people had been found dead in piles of string. I was grounded, so I snuck out to meet May at a rendezvous, and meet the guys at the old string factory. We arrived on our bikes, and Noah started unveiling his plan.
“Okay, so here's what we’re going to do…”
His voice was drowned out by white noise in my ears, a twisting nausea twisting its way through my gut. I looked at him, shining my light over his face, with unlinking eyes and too-wide smile.
There were lines cutting through him, sliced and twined through his flesh.
“Noah.” I spoke through a whisper.
He didn't turn around, bobbing along on his strings.
“Why do you… look like that?”
“Marin?” his voice bled into my mind. “Are you good?”
I wanted to stumble back, but my strings pulled me forwards. I helped push the door open, and the four of us stepped into the dark, our flashlight beams following us. I was examining the floor when Aris grabbed my hand, his slimy fingers entangling with mine.
I could sense that they had been dead for a long time.
But somehow, his touch still felt comforting.
“Look,” he whispered.
Illuminated in pale light, were three more bodies lying in pooling red.
String.
Not blood.
Aris hit the ground, suddenly, face first.
May screamed, stumbling back, and Noah turned to me, his manic glass eyes flitting left to right.
Noah slowly produced a pair of scissors from his pocket, slamming his hand over my mouth. His gaze wasn't on me.
He was staring at the eyes, his artificial laughing mouth stretching into a grin.
His strings were loose, freeing his hands. Noah’s voice was an agonising wail combined with a hysterical giggle, and I could finally see the hollowed cavern where his head was supposed to be.
“Don't you… want to…stop living for… ever?”
”Deeper”
Dr. Delaney’s presence and voice was looking for something specific, tearing me from the memory. “He's in here somewhere.”
So, the further I fell.
I could already feel the effects of the man's vice grip around my mind, blood trickling down my chin, tainting my lips. This memory felt recent. I was hunched over in what felt like a metal chair, my hands pinned behind my back. Opening my eyes, I was in a large room awash with red light.
“Yooo, earth to Marin!” Noah’s voice faded in and out.
“Hey! Come onnnn, we kinda need you, like now!”
“Don’t say it like that!” May’s murmur was enough to relax my body.
“Well, how else should I say it?” Blinking through sharp red light scratching at my eyes, Noah Prestley was noticeably older, reddish hair overgrown and mousey. There were things stuck out. He was taller, odd markings on his arms that drew my attention. He was wearing blue scrubs, scissors tucked into the pocket. May was hanging over his shoulder, a blood stained hospital gown hanging off of her.
“Marin.” Aris shoved Noah out of the way, and I could feel my strings. Concrete floor. "You trust us, right?"
It was hard to trust him when he too was older.
His sandy hair, like Noah’s, was an overgrown mess. Aris was wearing an odd combination, a scuffed pair of jeans, hospital scrubs tucked into them.
“Stay calm.” His eyes had a hollowness to them I didn't recognise. “It’s okay. It’s us. Just look at me.” Aris’s voice was oddly commanding, and I found my gaze snapping to him. His hands were covered in blood, a silver blade sticking from his pocket. Aris noticed me staring at his hands. “Right at me, Marin!”
“Focus on his butt ugly face,” Noah said from behind him.
“Not helping, moron.”
“You're covered in blood.” I managed.
“That doesn’t matter. You remember what happened, right?”
“Remember what?”
“What happened in the string factory,” Aris said. “We opened the door, and it was dark.” I followed his words. “You were cold, and…” his expression crumpled. “What happened to us?”
Something wrenched in my chest when he took a step back.
“You’re leaving me?!”
The boy’s face was bathed in red light, his smile sickly. “It’s… hard to explain.”
“You look… older.”
“Aris!”
That noise... It was an alarm.
“Please,” he whispered. “What happened that night?” His hands felt wet and real, clinging to me. Noah grabbed him, dragging the guy back.
“No, wait–”
“COME ON, idiot–”
The memory was cut off when Dr. Delaney fingers left my temples.
I was back in my Mom’s office, rivulets of red dripping down my face.
“He’s not here,” the man announced, and the soldier stopped tearing my mother’s office apart, swiftly leaving.
The look Delaney shot me before he left is still bothering me.
Was he relieved?
Still, I'm scared he's going to come back. I don't think he’ll spare me this time.
As soon as the door slammed, Noah was standing in front of me.
Fifteen years old again.
Before I lost him and everything went wrong.
“You're not real.” I told him shakily.
His eyes were a lot darker than before, and yet his smile still remained.
Innocent, and mocking
The mayor’s son strode in front of me, just like he did as a child, stepping on my shoes.
“Why don't you ask me what you really want to say?”
The words came out before I could stop them.
“Why did you kill all those town’s people?”
Noah blew a raspberry. “No, not that one. You know why I killed them! Try again.”
“You're dead.” I whispered.
He raised a brow. “Congratulations! That we are.”
I nodded slowly, my stomach twisting.
“So, why do you keep getting older?”

I've been seeing a ton of posts lately about "why does my beef cost so much/am I getting ripped off" and felt like making a post to explain some things.
A little back story, I married into a small ranch family, fulfilling a homesteading/cowboying dream I (38M) had given up on in my early 20's. Nothing crazy but we have about 30 head of cattle currently usually not higher than 40. To help with the herd is my Father and Uncle in Law. We raise mostly black angus with a limousine bull, though my wife and I have started adding some longhorns since they eat a lot of scrub and not just grass. We are a grass(ish) fed operation with no growth aids or hormones. We live in grassy and in parts, heavily wooded, area with a couple creeks and ponds.Anyway, to the question at hand! It all comes down to labor and expenses.
The cost of beef starts with the calf. Whether its bottle fed and we had to buy it (not great in my experience, we lost 3 of our 4 bottle calves) or its born of one of our cows, we like to wait till the cow is two years old or so before we begin butchering, or around 1000lbs.
So that's two years of care right of the bat. We feed every day and check on the herd. For 30 head we do 30 gallons of 4 in 1 feed (oats, maize, corn, wheat, barley, ect) a day. We go through roughly a 1 ton bunk of this feed (about $350 average) a month. Some days it takes 30 minutes to feed and check, some days if we cant find them all, it takes over an hour, longer if there is a break in the fence which happens between cows and tree limbs falling or creek flooding. Just this last week, Uncle and I had a cow go missing for 3 days and we spent a combined 8 hours or so looking in 30 degree weather (she came back from Lord knows where and is fine). We finish feed our cattle with 4 and 1 for about 2 - 4 weeks up in a barn lot to put some weight on them.
We have to do a lot of brush hogging (think giant lawn mower that goes on the tractor). We try to do each area about twice a year. Once at the end of summer and once right before spring. So that's days of diesel in 100+ degree or 30 degree weather so grass can grow, which we hay about 1/4 of our land so we don't have to buy it for winter. Haying is a multi 12 hour day event for us and some years we get 40 round bales, some years we get 100. All the tractors and machines, you have to consider costs and expenses of as well. This doesn't include if we are trying to clean or expand a field by cutting down oak trees which is more work. This is all is just some of the work we do on a long list of things I think y'all probably don't want to bother reading about.
So now we are ready to harvest a heifecow/steer after two years! After the cull, its time to gut and skin the beef. This can take between 1-4 hours for 3 of us depending on circumstances. All that has to be disposed of as well. Then the beef gets cut into quarters and hung up to age about two weeks. We are fortunate and have a commercial size fridge and freezer, but just think of the install costs of that, the upkeep costs, and the maintenance. Just electricity alone costs about $200 a month.
Finally! We get to actually butcher our beef! Time to do setup and sanitization! This takes all hands including the brother-in-law, the wife, and her mother. So average about 6 of us but sometimes its just 4 of us. 90% of the time the customer has told us what kind of steaks/roasts/cuts they want and we grind the rest for ground beef. Parents usually do packaging (we like to vacuum seal), BIL does the saw, heavy processing, and fancier cuts of meat, while Uncle, wife, and I do some of the simpler cuts, trimming off fat/deboning, and making strips for ground beef. Then we have to break out the grinder and make the ground beef, and then we package the ground beef. After that comes the clean up and sanitization. All said and done with 6 of us it takes about 6 hours to do a 1000lb cow.
Now lets talk what it costs YOU, the lucky person who gets to eat this beef! We might not do it how a lot of ranches do, but we sell by quarter and half, and part of our cost estimating is market price. What's the current price for pound on the hoof at auction? If you are getting 1000lb on the hoof, sometimes you can lose 35-40% of that weight between the hide, guts, bones, and aging process. So we had a friend that wanted to buy a quarter. Family priced the meat at around $6 a pound for 175lbs of meat.
Now before we freak out, while in some ways $6 for a pound of ground beef seems high, you are also getting PREMIUM cuts like chop steak, tri tip, and others ALSO for $6 a pound instead of grocery store pricing which is over $20 a pound! My wife and I have gone more a butcher box route, and he got 30lbs for just under $200. When I did pricing I compared to grocery store pricing and picked middling prices between walmart and a higher tier store. If he had gotten the same amount from the grocery store it would have been over $250.
I feel its important to note that with our cows at least, you aren't getting grocery store quality meat. Ours aren't stuck in a stall being fed the cheapest feed, with growth hormones and antibiotics and all sorts of stuff. To be blunt you get what you pay for, if you want cheap meat, buy cheap quality.
My business model is I'd rather have repeat customers who are loyal and very happy and I cant stand the dishonesty that some people do with gouging prices. That said, at the end of the year, all of us on the ranch are lucky to break even. This year my wife and I started up doing turkeys, ducks, and chickens and we spent about 10x's what we got back starting up the business. Not sustainable in the long run but lots of construction and materials when starting a new venture. (she and I both work full time jobs outside the ranch btw). With the economy and inflation, all of our costs have gone up too.
So end of my post. TL:DR I guess is you aren't just paying for the meat. You are paying for the cow, years of invested time and labor, hours upon hours of sweat and sometimes blood. More hours of culling, prepping, butchering, packaging, and all the expenses that go with the process that is raising cattle. You may indeed be getting gouged by whomever you choose to buy meat from, but at least for us small ranchers, we are lucky to end a year "in the black".
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