The sound of the dial clicking as she rolled through the channels, flipping past each one until finally landing on the one she was searching for, that was a sound she carried with her throughout the rest of her life. Even after getting home from the hospital, she tuned into the new episodes of Beatrice Beagle every Saturday morning, like clockwork. She'd hold her stuffed Beatrice that she'd gotten at the pizzeria gift shop, and she'd laugh and smile and sing along with the characters who had kept her company lo those many lonesome months in her hospital room as she struggled to breath properly. Her oxygen tank beside her, her tubes in her nose, Michelle couldn't be happier every Saturday morning than she was, and it was good too, because the brightness and the songs distracted from the screaming that went on behind her.

God, when had things gotten to be this way? When had things gotten to be that television was the only form of escape for little Michelle? All she knew was she was grateful for it. Beatrice was the doting mother she wished she could have, even if she only knew her and could feel her love emanating from the screen of a television once a week (or daily in reruns). Beatrice's warms words of wisdom became pieces of advice to live by, things that Michelle followed to a hilt in her day to day life, even as a little girl. She didn't have much choice, it wasn't as if her parents were going to give her anything like that. Sometimes Michelle would throw a big blanket over the television and herself, to try and keep the sounds of screaming and crying from creeping into the perfected puppet world she was immersed in. It only worked to a certain extent, and Beatrice's show only lasted a finite amount of time for each episode, after which the credits rolled and Michelle was once again thrust back into the world of familial misery.

But Beatrice...god how Beatrice saved her life, even moreso than the oxygen tank.

                                                                                                  ***

The closest Michelle ever got to meeting Beatrice was the animatronics at the pizzeria.

Oh sure, they had people in full character costumes walking around, but they weren't Beatrice, even Michelle knew this, because despite looking like her, they didn't sound like her. Beatrice was nothing without her soft wilting voice, and this was the key difference. But on the stage? During the showtimes? That was Beatrice, visually and audio wise. The thing about the people from Beatrice Beagle is they never did shows. They never ever did live performances. They never even did public appearances, so this was the only way Michelle could ever manage to get even remotely close to meeting her hero, and she took it in stride.

One night, while the pizzeria was preparing to close down and her parents were, likely, arguing in another part of the restaurant, Michelle snuck backstage during the downtime for the animatronics, and as she stood gazing up at this enormous robotic Beatrice, she couldn't help but feel safer than she ever had in her entire life. Michelle threw her arms around it and squeezed it tight, crying against its fur, wishing she could just stay here.

The plush doll she took home was a nice substitute, but nothing ever matched the animatronics, and that's why, ever since those days, Michelle had spent countless hours scouring the internet for any information on them. Often times things like these come up at auction, but she never once ran across any of them, and it broke her heart. All she wanted was a Beatrice all her own, a guard dog for her heart.

                                                                                                    ***

Sitting on her couch, her mask tightly on her face, Michelle continued searching for the animatronics online. This was her day off, and she'd spent most of it right there on the couch since it was raining outside. She didn't feel good enough to go downstairs into the basement and work on her project, so instead she was taking it kind of easy. As she clicked through to yet another site selling off pieces from now defunct business - be they theme parks, restaurants or schools - her landline rang. She glanced over her shoulder at it and sighed. She knew exactly who it was, even before the machine picked up.

"Michelle, it's your mother. Call me back when you get this, I'd like to talk to you about something regarding your father, thank you."

The message lasted a measly 15 seconds, and Michelle had absolutely no intention of calling her back tonight, or anytime soon really. The way she saw it, her parents could deal with one another themselves, because she'd already put up with more than enough. She turned her attention back to the webpage loading in front of her and sighed, typing into the search field "Beatrice Beagle".

Nothing, as always, came up.

                                                                                                  ***

The banging had started again.

Curling up under her blanket in her closet, squeezing her plush Beatrice to her chest tightly, Michelle knew that they'd never hit one another or break anything. It was always slamming doors and foot stomping. She hated it, though, the context didn't make it any less horrible to be around. She shut her eyes and cried against Beatrices head, wishing she could be anywhere else, especially at the pizzeria right then. When her father finally left that night, he didn't come back, and from that point on it was only Michelle and her mom. Not that this made things any better, her mother didn't become anymore open with her than she had been before, but at least the fighting stopped. No more screaming was worth the change, and Michelle took it for what it was.

She only saw her father a few times a year after that, and one of those times was for her 11th birthday, when he insisted he take her to the last remaining pizzeria that was about to shut down that coming week, for, as he put it, "old times sake". The way Michelle saw it, though, was that in order to do something for old times sake, you had to have enjoyed the old times enough to want to relive them, and aside from being at and loving the pizzeria, she didn't. Sitting at the table, eating greasy pizza that was nowhere near as good as childhood her had once thought it was, her father loosened his tie and leaned across the table, cupping his hands in an almost prayer like act of forgiveness.

"You know it wasn't about you, right?" he asked her, "I mean, your health issues didn't make things any better, but...but it was never about you."

"I know," Michelle said, picking pepperoni out of her braces, "I know that."

She knew it, sure, but she barely believed it. He and mom only seemed to fight when it came to the fact of her health. That always appeared to be the catalyst for their fights, even if he didn't want to openly cop to it. Michelle set her pizza down and looked around the restaurant, at its aging and poorly maintained technology, and realized that once this place shut down, the only place she'd ever really felt safe at as a child would be gone, and this made her want to hide and cry. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and sighed.

"Dad?" she asked, and he finished chewing, wiping his mouth with his napking.

"Yeah?" he asked, mouth still half full of pizza.

"...what happens to all this stuff when they shut down?"

"I don't really know, honestly," her dad said, "I guess they probably sell it at discount prices to whoever is the highest bidder, or maybe break it down and repurpose it all."

"So they're going to tear the animatronics apart?" Michelle asked, the fear of what was about to befall her beloved icons evident in her voice. He shrugged and scratched his forehead, clearly unsure if whether what he said was even remotely true or not. That had just been what he figured, that everything got recycled in the tech world because it was so expensive to rebuild it from scratch.

"I don't know, Shell, I really don't," he replied, "I'm not in this business, I have no idea what they do with all this stuff."

Seemed like no matter where she was, something was always tearing down the things she wanted to stick around, and she was completely incapable of stopping it from happening.

                                                                                                 ***

"You know," Michelle said, on the phone with her mother the following morning as she poured cereal into her bowl, "I don't really care whether dad wants to see me or not. I'm busy, I'm working now, so he'll have to see me when I have time."

"And where are you working?" her mother asked, always needing to know each and every detail.

"I'm an assistant," Michelle said, sitting down and eating her cereal dry, "I have to go. I'm going to be late for work."

With that, she hung up, but she was also lying. She wasn't going to be late for work, she'd called in sick. She was sick too, it wasn't a lie, she was having trouble breathing that day, and really needed to take it easy. Thankfully David understood her medical condition, and didn't make any issue of it. She was beginning to appreciate David more and more, and was growing grateful that she'd lucked out being told to meet him. As she scooped up a bunch of cereal into her mouth, her doorbell rang, and she rolled her eyes as she stood up to answer it, only to find - much to her surprise - Delores standing there.

"Hello!" Delores said, pushing her way in, cheerful as always.

"What...what are you doing here?" Michelle attempted to mumble, trying to keep cereal from following out from between her lips. Delores strolled inside, set her purse and coat down on the couch and turned around, looking at Michelle.

"I hope you don't think of this as an invasion of your privacy," she said, "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"It's...fine," Michelle said, even though it was so very clearly not fine, "Um...can I get you anything?"

"Oh goodness no, I'm only stopping by on my way to work, I just wanted to check in on you and make sure you were doing well. David told me you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd drop in and see how you were doing."

"Oh, um, I mean, yeah...my...my breathing isn't super great right now and my chest has felt tight," Michelle said, "But, you know, I have my tanks and stuff, and as long as I take it easy I should be okay."

Delores leaned against the couch and sighed, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, maybe me coming here was inappropriate," she said, "I just...I worry about you because of your health. I know I shouldn't, I know we barely know one another and that I just help you find employment, but, I can't help it. Nobody should have to feel scared when they're sick."

Something inside of Michelle warmed at hearing this. It had been a long time since someone had been so unashamedly kind towards her, especially in regards to her health. She knew Delores was nice, she'd always been nice, but this was a whole other level. Delores sighed and looked at Michelle.

"Well, I guess I should get going. I'm glad you're doing okay," she said, gathering up her coat and her purse.

"Um, do you...want to go get something to eat?" Michelle asked as she approached the door, making Delores stop and turn to face her.

"That would be delightful, yes," she said happily.

There was something about Delores that Michelle had never been able to grasp exactly, but she was beginning to think it was the same warmth that she felt coming from Beatrice. That same comfort and safety she had radiating off of her that made Michelle feel like she was actually okay around her, and that Delores - like Beatrice - would never do anything to hurt her. Sitting in a pancake house a few miles away shortly after, Delores told Michelle all about herself, and they shared a lot of laughs. It was the first Saturday morning Michelle had spent in ages not watching Beatrice Beagle reruns, and she didn't regret it for a second.

                                                                                                ***

Michelle could remember when the final episode aired, and she cried all the way through it. She was never going to see Beatrice again, and she knew this. Her parents, fighting as usual in the kitchen, were confused when they saw her run to her room, sobbing, clutching her Beatrice doll to her chest, and thought she was crying because of their argument. They would never have, in a million years, guessed it was because her favorite show, her only comfort in this world among all the pain and anger and sickness, had just been taken away from her.

It's amazing sometimes, Michelle would later think, how very little parents can actually know about their children.

Liam Grearson was sitting at a table by the window, sipping his coffee, bundled up against the oncoming storm when he heard the bell over the door ring. He glanced in that direction and spotted a young black woman enter, a scarf dangling around her neck, a backpack on her shoulders. She seemed to scan the cafe momentarily until her eyes met Liam's, and he nodded. She smiled and began approaching his table, seating herself.

"It's freezing out there," Keagan said, "It's the middle of March but it's still like it's winter."

"Winters are getting longer and colder everywhere," Liam said, taking another sip of his coffee, letting the flavor rest on his tongue, savoring it, before he opened his eyes again and noticed Keagan had pulled out a tape recorder.

"You don't...mind, do you?" she asked, motioning to the device, "I'd like to put it up on the site."

"...no, not at all, it's fine," Liam said, "So what exactly do you want me to say?"

"I have no idea, honestly," Keagan said, "Anything, really, would be appreciated. I'd love to hear some stuff about the production, your relationship to Marvin - I mean, if you're, you know, comfortable going into all that - or even, like...Beatrice herself? Because nobody knows anything about her."

"Believe me," Liam said, leaning back in his chair, "That's exactly how she wants it."

This caught Keagan's attention, and she settled in, prepared to hear a story.

"So," Liam continued, "I guess I should tell you about how I met Beatrice."

                                                                                               ***

Liam Grearson was 19 years old, and attempting to live his dream of acting. He'd loved the theatre ever since he'd been a little boy, and the only thing he'd ever really wanted was to perform for people. He didn't care what the material was (so long as it wasn't absolute trash) and he wasn't picky, he merely did anything he could get his hands on, but lately things hadn't been going so well. Offers had all dried up, going to people much more handsome than he was, theatre boys willing to do the things that Liam wasn't willing to do in order to land the parts he so desired. So he began searching for work elsewhere, only to find it in the most unexpected place.

"You have to see this to believe it," his roommate at the time, a young woman named Hazel, told him, "It's this totally surreal thing, it's unlike anything you've seen on stage, I guarantee it."

"I still don't really understand what it is," Liam said as she dragged him up the street in the frigid fall weather to the small unknown theatre.

"I've been back like eight times already, just trust me," Hazel said, and Liam did.

They seated themselves, a small but thoroughly packed crowd surrounding them, and only after a bit did the lights finally dim and the curtain rose. A dog house was sitting on the stage, and next to it, in a full body dog suit, like a theme park mascot, was a adult sized Beagle. Instantly, Liam was hooked. Quiet music, not somber but uplifting, played in the background (clearly something that was on a loop on a CD player nearby, not being performed live), and Beatrice turned to face the crowd.

"We only live so long," she said, "And yet we feel so much more than you do. We know so much more than you do. We experience life on a grander more intense scale in a shorter amount of time. When you collapse seven years into one year, it's guaranteed to assume that life speeds up. Everything comes faster, everything feels stronger, and everything's over quicker."

Beatrice leaned against the doghouse and looked down at her bowl. She sighed and folded her arms.

"And then, we're replaced. You don't replace other members of your family. You don't get new grandparents when the old ones die. And while so many might claim that dogs aren't replaceable, that all you're doing is bringing another new friend home, we know that's bullshit. You miss the companionship, not the dog. You replace us for selfish reasons, not out of grief. We know this, and yet...we love you still the same. With the same ferocity that we always would've, because we're forgiving, loyal and understanding creatures."

Liam's jaw had dropped. Hazel wasn't wrong, this was unlike anything he'd ever seen before on the stage, and he was so thankful he had allowed her to drag him down here. After the show ended, Liam waited as Hazel went to the coffee house a few blocks down to wait for him. Liam wanted to meet the woman who had created this character, this magnificently deep and human like dog. When she finally exited out the back, she was surprised to find him waiting there. He almost didn't recognize her, until he noticed the dog head under her arm.

"Hey," Liam said, "I'm...I wanted to congratulate you."

"...oh," she replied, her voice low, her eyes flighty.

She had light skin and strawberry blonde hair, not exactly curly but bouncy; her face was adorned with freckles, and her eyes were home to the longest pair of natural lashes Liam had ever seen. She was so very the opposite of what he expected. He expected theatre girls, especially weird ones, to be quirky and boisterous, loud and obnoxious, but Beatrice...she was intensely reserved.

"Well, thank...thank you," she said, shaking his hand, "um...thank you for coming, I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"You just...you speak so eloquently, and with such depth, it was really something else," Liam said, walking alongside her now down the street, presumably to her car.

"I'm always surprised to find people on the other side of the curtain every time it parts. I always expect it to be empty, even after the sold out shows for the last few weeks," Bea said, "Can you hold this?"

She handed the head off to Liam, who looked at it. It was so expertly crafted, so intricately detailed. He was surprised, he'd never seen anything like this this well done before. He watched as she opened up a junky old beaten up car and began loading her things into the trunk. After a bit she turned and he gave the head back to her.

"Um, listen, would you like to meet sometime again, and, I don't know, discuss ideas for projects?" he asked.

"You're not an agent are you?" she asked, sounding cautious.

"Hah! No, thank god no. No, I'm just another theatre dork, looking to do what you're doing, honestly," Liam said, and this made her smile. She agreed to meet him again, and they exchanged phone numbers. Liam was so excited for whatever the future might hold that night that he barely slept, and he'd barely sleep for the rest of the time he knew her.

                                                                                                     ***

"The thing about Beatrice that you need to understand," Liam said, now leaning forward and cupping his mug tightly with his hands, "is that she doesn't...god, how do I put this...Beatrice isn't just a woman who created this thing that was bastardized. She really IS the Beagle. It's...it's not a character to her."

"What does that mean?" Keagan asked, probing a bit further, licking her coffee off her lips.

"Phew, um," Liam scratched his forehead with his pinky, "Beatrice was the most intense person I ever knew, which doesn't make sense because she was so quiet and collected. Intensity, when you think of it in a person as a trait, you think they're explosive and adventurous, but Beatrice wasn't like that. Everything was calculated to her. She didn't act on something without it being planned to perfection, beat by beat. That's what I admired most about her, was the fact that she...she was so dedicated to what she did. That's why I hate myself for meeting her, because...I ruined her life."

"What?" Keagan asked, surprised by this admission, "How could you have-"

"Because I'm the one who told her to take it wider," Liam said.

                                                                                                        ***

The last day Liam Grearson saw Beatrice was a week after the show wrapped indefinitely. The set still hadn't been broken down, and Bea was sitting on the reinforced foam wall next to the doghouse. She was in full costume, and the lights were low in the studio. Liam opened the door, coming back to pick up a few things he'd left the night before when he had been here with a few cast members partying when he noticed Bea sitting by herself. He shoved his pockets into his coat pockets and walked across the room, plopping himself down on the wall beside her.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Liam said.

"Do you know what it's like to watch something you love die twice?" Beatrice asked, pulling the dog head off her own and looking into its eyes, her hair still up in a messy bun, her glasses sliding off her face, "...something you...you never wanted to lose in the first place, but now you've lost it twice?"

"I'm not sure I understand," Liam said softly.

"...nobody would," Bea said, "...why did this happen?"

"The place went bankrupt, chains aren't bringing in money anymore, and so-"

"No, not that. Why did I allow you to trick me into selling it all to hawk some food?" she asked, sounding angry, an emotion he rarely heard her display, "...you turned something personal into...into a mascot. She wasn't a mascot, she was Beatrice. You bastardized her for the money."

"For you!" Liam said, "I did it for you! So you could go on and do something else! So you...you wouldn't be stuck doing this for years in the same dingy little unknown downtown theatre holes! You have so much talent, Bea! You just need to-"

"I liked what I was doing!" Beatrice said, standing up, her eyes emptier than they'd ever been before, "I was happy doing what I was doing! Then you showed up and ruined all of it!"

He didn't know how to react to that. Bea got out of the costume, now standing in just her leotard on the set, and slung the whole thing over her shoulder, the head under her arm as it had always been when not on her shoulders, and then she turned and walked out. Liam didn't follow her. He waited a bit, but she never came back. And they never spoke again.

                                                                                                  ***

"She wouldn't take my calls," Liam said, "She wouldn't talk to me, no matter what I did, so I just...I gave her her space."

"You loved her," Keagan said quietly.

"In a way, like a child, yeah. Even though we were about the same age, she...she was so much younger than me in so many ways. She has the brain of a six year old, she never grew up, really, and she's able to connect to children. I betrayed what she held most dear, and the only right thing to do was let her go. She was my best friend for a long time, but she wasn't wrong, I'd sold the whole thing under so we could hopefully make something more out of our lives afterwards, but that's the thing about Beatrice that I never once considered...she never needed more. She was fine playing that dog for as long as she lived."

"Jeez," Keagan said, her tape stopping. She took it out of the recorder and flipped it over, sliding it back in and starting again, "So...where is she now?"

"Far as I know, she could be anywhere. But, and I hesitate to show you this but I feel like I should, she did send me this after Marvin died," Liam said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket and, opening up his e-mail, pulled up an unlisted Youtube video. It was only a mere 45 seconds long, but it loaded instantly. It was her, Beatrice, in the suit, sitting in what looked like a childs room.

"Hello Liam," she said, "I know we haven't spoken in ages, and this likely isn't the most direct method of communication, but it's what I feel most comfortable with. I want you to know I am thinking of you in these hard times. Marvin was a good friend to all of us. I miss you, and I hope you are well. I hope you don't take this too hard."

And with that, the video cut to black. Keagan was beside herself, she couldn't believe what she'd just seen. She handed the phone back to Liam and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"I know," Liam said, commenting on her reaction, "She has that effect on people."

"I need you to help me find her," Keagan said.

"I don't even know how," Liam said.

"This woman needs to be spoken to," Keagan said, "She needs to understand the impact she had that she might be unaware of."

"I'm not disagreeing, I just have no idea where she could be," Liam said.

"Well," Keagan stated, "Everyone leaves a paper trail. We just need to find it."

                                                                                                ***

Keagan got home late that night, and then went to work. When she got off of work, she had only one thing on her mind. She stayed up late into the early morning, working on Liam's audio and cutting their conversation into something worthy listening to, but she didn't post it to the site like she'd claimed. Instead Keagan opened an e-mail and addressed it to Michelle, then added the audio as an attachment. She knew only one other person would truly appreciate what this was, and she was happy to have that person to share it with.

When she woke up the following afternoon, she had a one sentence e-mail response from Michelle, which read: "This is so sad. I wish I knew what happened to her."

Keagan responded back with a similarly simplistic message: "I'm working on it. Maybe we should meet."

That little red flashing light on her answering machine, something she rarely took pleasure in seeing, made Keagan nervous. It was usually reserved for bad news of one form or another from her parents, or yet another IT job turning her down after numerous interviews, likely because of her skin color. These were the breaks being a young, black woman in a predominantly white world (in general, but even of technology). She braced herself for whatever was about to play over the speakers as her finger hovered on the button and finally pressed "play", but nothing could've prepared her for what actually came out of her machine.

"You knew nothing about Marvin, or his life, and yet here you are proudly proclaiming his death like news instead of a personal loss for those who knew him," the voice said, clearly furious, "This wasn't an event for that should've been used for click throughs, he wasn't even famous enough for that sort of thing, and your immediate publication is abhorrent, quite frankly. Maybe think twice before you do this again."

Keagan sat on the arm of the couch in her apartments tiny living room, rubbing her face in frustration. She'd always tried to be so careful when doing her work, but occasionally it was bound to happen that she'd upset someone one way or another. Seemed no matter what she did, work or just existing, being a black woman made her irritate others, and this was so very unfair. But there was not much she could do but soldier on, and know she was better.

She didn't erase the message.

                                                                                                   ***

"Excuse me?" a voice asked, making Delores look up from her desk, stopping mid sentence scrawl.

"Yes?"

"There's someone here without an appointment," the man said, before stepping aside and allowing Michelle to present herself, looking timid as ever. Delores smiled and nodded, letting the intern know he could be on his way. Michelle pulled up a chair and seated herself, her hands wringing themselves.

"What are you doing here? We just met the other week," Delores said, then added, while checking her watch, "Hell, likely hasn't even been a week. Is everything okay?"

"I...I want to work in entertainment," Michelle said, "Do you have, like, any jobs in entertainment?"

"Well, do you have any skills that would help you in that field?" Delores asked.

"Um, I mean, I do a lot of work around my house, painting and hammering and stuff, I...I could build sets, maybe," Michelle said, embarrassed that, once again, she'd forgotten that, in fact, no, she didn't have any skills. None that would benefit her in gaining employment, anyway. Delores cupped her hands and sighed, smiling.

"Michelle, sweetheart, you know I'd love to help you find something, so maybe meet me halfway and do me a favor. Maybe take a course in media, something that could then help you access that field of work. I'll even help you, I'll pay for it."

This surprised Michelle, and this surprise apparently wasn't noticed by Delores, who couldn't help but laugh as she started to flip through her roladex and find an address, name and number she could copy down onto an index card for Michelle.

"I'm a helpful person, Michelle, otherwise I wouldn't work in a business dedicated to helping people help themselves," Delores said, "Take this information and meet this friend of mine, he runs a creative writing workshop, but he also has his hands in many other things. He'll be able to help you find your place, and, as I said, don't worry about payment, he'll charge me if he has to."

"...th...thank you," Michelle said, stuttering as she leaned across the desk and took the index card, slipping it into her bookbag. She looked back at Delores, who was watching her ever closely, her eyes wide and brimming with an emotion that Michelle somehow knew but couldn't recognize. After a few seconds, Delores smiled and told Michelle to let her know how it turned out, and that was that. Soon Michelle was back out the door and into the world, ready to try something new.

                                                                                               ***

"I'm so sick of it," Keagan said, eating from a leftover carton of misordered fries as she and her co-worker, Lexi, sat at a table together during their break; she wiped her salt and grease covered hands on her pants and continued, "like, I apply, I get nothing, and I can totally tell it's my race that's factoring in because when they call me to schedule an interview, they don't know I'm black, so they sound pretty interested in having a woman on their team, likely as a model example of 'progressiveness', but then when they see I'm black, all that enthusiasm is just gone, man."

"That's bullshit," Lexi said, parting her gorgeous blonde hair from her eyes and taking a handful of fries, shoveling them into her mouth, "I really shouldn't be eating this, this job is the worst, it's going to make me gain so much weight."

"Please, like you'd look bad even if you did," Keagan said, making Lexi smirk. She had a point, after all, Lexi was stunning, and wasn't the kind of woman you'd normally see working in what most of society considered 'low wage slave work', but because her father had been arrested on tax evasion and they'd lost all their money, it had befallen Lexi to help now earn money for her mother and little sister, while still trying to attend college for her physics degree. She was tall and lithe, had a jaw structure that mirrored any woman on a fashion show catwalk, and had piercing green eyes. Keagen was quite the opposite; not short, but shorter than Lexi certainly, with her frizzy black hair and large brown eyes.

"Well, at least you know there'll always be a place for you, among the fry lords," Lexi said, making Keagan laugh. Certainly, she had to admit that being a part of the late night shift team had its upsides, like all the excess food and, of course, the company of Lexi, who Keagan felt a little bad about liking more than she probably should.

"What are you doing this weekend?" Keagan asked, licking the hot salt from her fingertips.

"I'm actually going to spend most of this weekend holed up in what my mom calls my bedroom but I call a hovel, and try and catch up on some of the coursework I've been neglecting lately," Lexi said, "You're free to come by if you want, but it won't be very fun, I assure you."

"I think I'll pass, thanks," Keagan said, sighing as she glanced out the window at the darkness outside. She couldn't get the phone message off her mind. She knew exactly who it was too, thanks to her recently brief but spectacular obsession with Beatrice Beagle. It was Liam Grearson, the man who played Beatrice's Cactus. In fact, she recognized his voice instantly thanks to the few clips she'd managed to scrounge up in her search. But she'd never heard him be that mad at anyone on the show, despite playing a fairly cantankerous character.

So his tone had certainly unnerved her.

                                                                                                ***

Liam Grearson had only gotten more bitter over the years, since the show had gone off the air.

He'd never been this way during its production, so this change of attitude made even himself confused, let alone the few people from the cast he was still in steady contact with, like Marvin. The last time he'd seen Marvin Burgis had been a whole month before he'd unceremoniously shot himself in the head, at a deli between their respective houses where they often met for lunch. They were the only two who were in regular contact with one another these days, most of the rest of the cast had splintered off, and Beatrice herself? Nobody had heard from her in years. It was almost like she'd been a figment of their imagination, the way she so easily vanished into thin air. But Marvin and Liam paid no mind to that, they didn't even discuss the show when they had lunch together. To the two of them, that was a period of their life that they'd been hostage for, and now were meeting as POW's after being rescued by the gracious hand of cancellation.

Now, sitting alone at this deli, Liam couldn't help but feel like everyone who saw him here regularly could tell something was missing from the picture, that thing being Marvin. The two had been such a mainstay in the deli, together, that seeing only one of them almost made anyone who'd ever noticed them, and now noticed this change, immediately aware something had changed. It wasn't like Liam was going to stand up and give them all an explanation for why Marvin wasn't here anymore, or where he'd gone to (it was, after all, nobodies business but his and Marvin's alone, as he saw it), but he also didn't like being judged by their eyes and the sad looks on their faces. Liam set his menu down and folded his hands together, waiting for his waitress to bring his sandwich. The same thing he'd always ordered with Marvin, and it wasn't like Marvin wasn't here. He was. He was just in a jar across from him now, and ashes don't need to eat.

The gall of that girl, the audacity to think she had any right to print about Marvin's death as if anyone but a few random weirdos on the internet would even understand who he was, or why he did what he did. It wasn't like Beatrice Beagle had been a show that had widespread critical acclaim, a heavily well regarded darling of the Thursday night lineup. It had been a kids show, generally used to sell the viewing children on insisting their parents take them to the pizza place it was so shamelessly made for.

Yet...he couldn't help but feel a tad thankful that those few 'weirdos', as he so kindly put it, did in fact remember Marvin, and took a moment to mourn his life. His waitress set his plate with his sandwich down in front of him, and looked at him.

"Need anything else, Liam?" she asked.

"I'm okay, thanks," Liam replied, reminding himself to tip her generously before he left, before picking up his sandwich and preparing to take a bite before stopping, cutting it in half, putting the other half on a napkin and sliding it across the table, where it sat in front of Marvin's urn. He knew it couldn't be eaten. It was just a habit, and habits are the hardest thing to break.

                                                                                                   ***

"Delores sent you?" the man asked, sitting on his desk as Michelle sat in front of him, nodding almost apologetically, as if she were somehow stealing his time by doing what Delores had told her to do.

"Yes, I...I'm not sure why, because what you do, what you teach, that...that isn't something I'm looking into doing. I was more interested in set building, set dressing, that sort of thing," Michelle said, "I like working with my hands."

"And people who write things don't?" the man, whom Michelle had learned since showing up at his office unannounced, was named David, asked, definitely with a tone suggesting that he was joking with her; he continued, "I can see what I have for you to do around here, if you'd like, but I can't guarantee it'll be anything worthwhile or even enough to be considered employment. I suppose, in the meantime, you can work for me directly, be my assistant."

"Do you need an assistant?" Michelle asked.

"Not really, but I'm trying to do you a favor via Delores doing one for you," David said, "So if you want to stop going to her office and being sent to interviews for jobs you don't really even want that you can't even really do, then why not take the offer? I can pay you fairly well for doing next to nothing."

Michelle considered this. It would make her mother, on the rare occasion they spoke once a month, stop asking her about her employment, and it would also give Michelle something to do besides sit around and mope. Besides, David had a point, she was tired of winding up in jobs where she was forced to stand for hours at a kiosk in a mall trying to hawk shoddy electronics only seen on late night television infomercials. She smiled at David and agreed to take the job, which seemed to make him happy. Michelle figured she should call Delores and thank her for the suggestion and the help, but she also figured she might just know because David might tell her, they seemed to be close enough friends after all.

Michelle left the office that evening and headed home, thinking about her project in the basement. She would need to work on it for longer periods of time in her off hours now that she had employment, and she should likely stock up on materials too. She'd been running out of nails for a while now, but only hadn't bought more because she preferred to use the money she had for more "important" things, like groceries. So, Michelle stopped by the local hardware on the way home and bought a few boxes of nails, along with treating herself to a new hammer that felt better in her hands, thanks to its softer handle grip.

When she got home, she immediately checked her e-mail and noticed a response from Keagan, something she hadn't really expected. So opened the e-mail to find it had a file attached to it, and all Keagan had written with it was, "you aren't going to believe this".

Why she was sending this to Michelle, when they'd never even met, didn't make much sense, but perhaps Keagan simply enjoyed - much like Michelle did - the fact that they both knew about Beatrice Beagle. So Michelle pulled out her headphones, attached them to her laptop and downloaded the file, then opened it and listened. It was a re-recording of the message Liam had left for Keagan, and, much like Keagan had herself, Michelle too instantly recognized his voice, along with the ire in it. After the message ended, she didn't really know what to think, until a moment later when a new e-mail flew into her inbox, again from Keagan, again with a file attachment and a single sentence that read, "you aren't going to believe this either."

It was another voicemail from Liam, but much different.

                                                                                                     ***

when Keagan got off work that night, she drove Lexi home and then went home to make dinner. While she waited for her water to boil, she checked her cell phone and saw no response to her earlier e-mail to Michelle, so she walked into the living room to plug her phone in to charge when she spotted yet another blinking light on her answering machine. She pressed play, only to hear Liam's voice once again flood the room over her speakers, but this time...this was different. This was almost...jovial.

"I'd like to apologize for the message I left the other day," Liam said, in a voice far closer to his role on the show than his previous message, "I'd actually like to talk to you, if you're interested. I think I could help maybe give you more insight into Marvin, and the show. I looked into what you do, with lost media, and I think we could help one another out if you're interested. Give me a call please."

He left his number and Keagan jotted it down on her palm, then leaned against her couch.

What a weird few days it had been, she thought.

That's when she heard her water boiling over, swore loudly, and raced to the kitchen to save her dinner.

                                                                                                ***

That night, lying in bed with her tubes in her nose, breathing in best she could, Michelle replayed the second message Liam had left Keagan repeatedly. She listened to his voice, a voice she hadn't heard anything new in for years, and shut her eyes. Michelle smiled to herself and let Liam's voice carry her off to sleep.

When she was finally taken home from the hospital, she asked her mother if she could get a cactus, something her mother didn't understand but reluctantly agreed to nonetheless. She and Michelle visited the garden section of their local superstore, and Michelle picked out a cactus that most closely resembled Liam's character on the show, and named it after him. She kept it on her desk in her bedroom for years, and even now, it was seated in its pot on her current desk by her bed.

Now with this new voice, it was almost as if Liam had never left, unlike Beatrice.

And she was so grateful for it.

Michelle Helm, arguably, didn't have much to look forward to each day in the hospital.

Aside from the treatments that often took her out of her room and into a different, yet vaguely identical room, she didn't have much that lifted her spirits. She never had visitors, and she often was alone for long stretches of time, doing what little homework she could stomach to do on her own. But every day at exactly noon, she knew she could flip the television that was bolted to the ceiling at the end of her bed to Channel 3, and she'd be greeted by the familiar face of her only real friend...Beatrice Beagle.

Despite Michelle being almost ten now, and Beatrice Beagle having always been skewered towards a younger demographic, she still tuned in because it was the only thing that managed to continually brighten her spirits in these sad times. Beatrice Beagle was a kids show full of songs, puppetry and the lead herself, a large anthropomorphic beagle, who was always eager to help others and was kind to a fault. This was the sort of person Michelle wanted not only to be, but also to have around her. In a world so seemingly fraught with endless cruelty, Michelle craved kindness and niceties.

Perhaps that's why the news of Marvin Burgis's suicide hit Michelle so hard when she came upon it one afternoon.

"Star of forgotten childrens television show 'Beatrice Beagle' dies in apparent suicide" was all the headline read, and it had a picture of Marvin Burgis, the man who had played the ever friendly neighbor to Beatrice. Sitting there, staring at this photo - the only photo she'd ever seen of him - Michelle couldn't help but feel like someone close to her had died. Which was an odd thing to feel, she had to admit, considering she never felt that way when her father had keeled over months prior.

                                                                                          ***

"Miss Helm?" the voice asked, bringing her back to the moment. The voice belonged to the woman sitting across the table from her, an older woman with big hair and a lot of jewelry on who was smiling at her; she continued, "I was going to ask if you'd been looking for work since we last spoke."

"Uh, y-yes," Michelle said, handing her a handful of papers clipped together, which the woman happily took and quickly thumbed through.

"Lots of applications here," the woman said, "Seems you've been busy. Anyone called back or e-mailed you yet?"

"No, not yet," Michelle said, looking down at her hands in her lap, playing with her press on nails.

"Well, don't get discouraged. Somebody will, it just takes time," the woman said, filing the applications into a manila folder and sliding it into her desk drawer before cupping her hands on the tabletop and leaning on it, lowering her voice, "...is everything else okay with you right now Miss Helm? You seem distracted. How's your health been?"

"It's been, you know...okayish," Michelle said, embarrassed to discuss this with someone in the unemployment office. She never could understand why this woman seemed so interested in her personal life.

"Well, just monitor your health and keep on trying, I'm sure something will turn around eventually," the woman said, smiling at her as she began wrapping their meeting up. Afterwards, Michelle walked down the stairs of the unemployment office and headed across the street to the pharmacy, needing a refill on her medications. She stood in the dental hygiene aisle as she waited for them to be filled, closely examining every type of new toothpaste she had never seen. Once her medications were filled and bagged, she headed back to where she'd parked her electric bike, climbed aboard and started the motor, heading home.

By the time Michelle Helm got home, it had just started pouring, and she was grateful for having avoided getting soaked. She hung her coat and trapper hat up on the coatrack by the door and then headed to the kitchenette. She made a cup of coco and took out a small piece of cheesecake she'd kept in the freezer before sitting in front of a long vertical mirror leaned against the wall in the living room and watched herself eat and drink, never once saying a word. Afterwards she sat and continued to stare at herself, almost as if waiting for her reflection to do something.

After a while, she finally stood up and went to take a shower. Once out of the shower, she sat on her bed and played the same record she'd had since she was a little girl - one which featured original songs by the cast of Beatrice Beagle that was only given away as promotional item at the pizzeria - while she painted her nails and ate from a large tub of black licorice she kept by her bedside. For all intents and purposes, Michelle Helms was not a well woman, but she was trying at least.

                                                                                            ***

The last job Michelle had held was selling high powered juicers at a small booth in the mall.

It hadn't paid a lot, and it wasn't all that glamorous, but it was a job and she had always been told to be "appreciative of those who would hire a cripple", even if she wasn't outwardly physically disabled.

Standing behind this little booth, Michelle would people watch; stare down the couples sitting at the food court enjoying lunch, or watch the groups of pre-teen girls huddled around the fountain gabbing with all their friends. She liked people when they weren't involved with her. She enjoyed studying them from afar, like she was a biologist deep in the jungle, taking notes on a species she didn't understand.

During her lunch breaks, she would sit out back by the dumpsters and eat soft pretzels while watching her digitally transferred episodes of Beatrice Beagle on her phone, until one day when a few other employees came out for a smoking break and found her doing this, and thusly made so much fun of her that she quit that very day.

She kept a juicer for collateral.

These days, when she wasn't sitting at home with tubes in her nose so she could breath, Michelle was often working on her project in her basement, or rather, the basement that was in the house she (or her mother, actually, but she tried to forget that as often as possible) was renting for her. It took a lot of time, a lot of power tools and materials, but she was going to see it through to the end. Sometimes she'd get so tired and overworked by her own project she'd almost faint and would wind up crashing on the couch for a few hours, breathing apparatus hooked up while she made smoothies in her stolen juicer and watched kids shows on PBS.

Michelle still had the occasional doctors appointment to check in on her health, make sure her oxygen levels were adequate, and get refills for things, but for the most part, she didn't go to the doctor often. Not like she had as a child, anyway. It was just another way to pass the time, or at the very least that's how she saw it, and while she acted cordial during these routine and extremely mundane visits, she couldn't help but be thinking how unfair it was that she had to be doing this at all. So many other people didn't have to do this, and that frustrated her. The audacity of those people, with their 'clean bill of health'. Made her want to wretch.

And then came the day she turned on her laptop and saw the headline on the top of a news aggregator.

""Star of forgotten childrens television show 'Beatrice Beagle' dies in apparent suicide". Marvin Burgis's face front and center. Sitting there, staring at the photo of a man she'd never met yet somehow felt she knew deeply was...unsettling. Michelle wanted to cry. Instead, she began to furiously do research into Marvin Burgis, but - as always was the case when researching anything Beatrice Beagle related - she came up with virtually nothing. Nothing except the same old things that always cropped up; old ratty commercials that were barely viewable through the television fuzz and an occasional mention when the pizzeria inevitably popped up on another list article about "10 unknown defunct chain restaurants". Nobody ever mentioned the show, nobody ever mentioned the mascot, nobody ever mentioned Beatrice. It was always only the pizzeria, and for a long time this complete lack of utter acknowledgement began to make Michelle question from time to time whether or not she'd simply imagined the whole thing.

Until the day Marvin Burgis died, and that article finally, after all this time, finally mentioned something of note:

"He was most known for playing the role of the kind neighbor Mr. Buckler on the Saturday morning kids show Beatrice Beagle. Nobody from the show has commented as of yet on this."

Nobody from the show may have commented yet on what had happened, but someone had written this article, and someone had remembered the show. Michelle scrolled back up to see the name of the person who wrote this piece up was, and was granted her wish.

The name read simply "Keagan Stills".

                                                                                               ***

Keagan Stills was a 22 year old black woman who, during the night, worked at a local fast food place.

But in her spare time, she dedicated her waking hours to drudging up whatever she could about lost media. Keagan had always been fascinated with media, but especially the concept of lost media. How could anything recorded go missing? It just seemed impossible to comprehend. Isn't the whole concept of recording something for the sake of posterity? So that we, collectively, remember it? Didn't seem right that something of that nature would up and vanish. But a few years ago, Keagan ran across some information in regards to a virtually unknown Saturday morning kids show called Beatrice Beagle, and was hooked instantly.

Sadly, as Keagan knew full well by this point, becoming obsessed with something that was virtually unknown and universally forgotten, it made it hard to find anything in regards to it. She scoured the internet, occasionally finding clips and whatnot, until she finally came across an interview with a local theatre in Chicago where Marvin Burgis was performing in a play, and the interviewer had asked him about his role in Beatrice Beagle. He laughed it off, talked briefly about it, and that's when Keagan knew she had an opportunity to find out more. So she tracked down Marvin Burgis and they spoke on the phone a few times. But that had been years ago. She hadn't heard from him since by the time he'd took his own life, and still...having to write that report hurt deep inside.

But when she read through the comments posted to her article, she saw one that caught her eye.

Who was this Michelle Helm? Why did she seem to know exactly what Keagan knew about the show? And how could they work together to track down more? Turns out Marvins suicide would be a rather warped blessing in disguise.

                                                                                                ***

"How's your breathing?" her doctor asked, sitting in front of her, looking over her chart.

"It's okay. Sometimes it's labored, like if I exercise or do something physical, but it's mostly okay. Though I've started using the tank more in general," Michelle replied, "Is that bad? To rely that heavily on it?"

"No, not at all, whatever makes you feel better," her doctor replied, setting the chart down and looking at her, smiling, he added; "What are you doing that's so physically demanding, if you're not working, might I ask?"

"I'm...building something," Michelle said, almost smiling, "um, it's a personal project. But yeah, it takes a lot of effort to saw wood and hammer stuff, so. But I make sure to take breaks, and I make sure to get my tanks refilled and stuff."

"Good, good, that's good to know that you're taking it seriously," her doctor replied.

As Michelle exited the doctors office and back out onto the street, where her electric bike was parked, she received an e-mail from malarky@lostandfound.net and opened it only to discover it was from Keagan. She hadn't expected the person who wrote the article to actually reach out to her and make contact, but she did, and as Michelle's eyes hovered over the text, skimming it carefully, she couldn't believe what she was reading.

"My name is Keagan Stills. I'm contacting you because of a comment you left on an article I posted. We should talk. I've also been looking for people who know about Beatrice Beagle, and if you'd like to, I think we could work together to find out more, possibly. Here's my phone number, and here's my work schedule. I'd like to meet you, Michelle. I think we could find Beatrice."

All that time people watching, Michelle thought, and it finally paid off.