The Wachowski's had rarely, if ever, taken an actual family vacation.

But Ellen's therapist had told Boris and Lorraine that taking a small trip may just be key in reigniting their daughters memories. They sat together in a cafe after meeting with that therapist, trying to think of where it was they could easily go for an afternoon, and it was, surprisingly, Lorraine who came up with the answer. She'd pick Ellen up from the hospital, and then she'd come and get Boris, and he could drive them up to the location, and Boris was perfectly fine with this. In fact, that's exactly what he was telling Carol that morning as he packed a day bag.

"I'm perfectly fine with this," he said, making Carol scoff as she leaned against his doorframe.

"Right, and I'm the queen of England," she replied, "Come on, you hate this woman. You can barely spend ten minutes in the same room with her, and now you're going to spend a whole day in a car together? You're gonna murder eachother."

"Well, if that's in fact what it comes to," Boris said, stopping his packing and turning to look at her, "then I want you to have my belongings."

"Great, old dusty books and a pair of tube socks. What a winner I am," Carol said, making him laugh; she hesitated for a moment, then asked, "...do you really think this'll work? Do you really think this may actually help Ellen get some of her memories back?"

"I don't know, but I'm willing to try. I wasn't willing to try and be a father when I had the chance, but I'm willing to try now," Boris said, "I've let that girl down enough already. It's time to do right."

Outside the apartment, a horn honked, and Boris and Carol walked to the window to see Lorraine sitting in the lot in the car, Ellen in the backseat. Carol turned towards Boris as he grabbed his day bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, and she smiled.

"Just be careful and have fun," Carol said.

"Yes mommy," Boris replied, before hugging her and heading out the door, Carol leaving the opposite direction down the hallway after he locked the door; she was heading back to the home.

As he strolled down the hallway towards the staircase, he bumped into Father Krickett, who was coming up the stairs.

"Oh, sorry, what're you doing here?" Boris asked.

"I came to see you, actually."

"Wow, aren't I Mr. Popularity today?" Boris asked, "I'm heading out for the day, so I hope it can wait, whatever it is. I have to do something with Lorraine and Ellen."

"It can wait," Father Krickett said, "I'll walk back down with you. No sense in staying here if you're not. I'll head back to the parish, get some paperwork done. Maybe take an early evening. What are you folks doing today?"

"Ellen's therapist says it might be best for her if we take a small trip somewhere to help rekindle her memories," Boris said, struggling to hold the bag up, so Father Krickett finally offered to take it; Boris rubbed his shoulder and continued after thanking him, adding, "So we're taking Ellen upstate somewhere, taking her to see something we took her to see as a kid. We're hoping maybe that'll be enough to trigger something at least. It's the simplest thing we can do on such short notice."

"You could plan a bigger trip," Father Krickett said, "Actually take some time, put some energy into it. You don't have to go for the simplest thing."

"It's a good place to start," Boris replied, "besides, if it doesn't work, then we'll try and take her somewhere else. The thing is, this is also one of the only things we ever did as a family. We never really took vacations but we did do a few things together, and this was just the simplest one, so we're starting there."

As they reached the landing and headed out the complex's front doors, the two men stood and looked at one another. Father Krickett smiled and handed Boris his bag back, which he happily took.

"Well then, I hope it works, and if it doesn't, I hope you at least have a nice day," Father Krickett said, patting Boris on the shoulder. He then stood back and watched as the old man, bag in hand once more, walked around to the other side of Lorraine's car and pulled the drivers side door open, climbing in. Lorraine had already shifted to the passenger seat in the time it took waiting for Boris to get downstairs. He then started the car and drove off, waving out the window to Father Krickett as he departed.

Father Krickett stood there, arms folded, watching and smiling, until they were out of sight. He then turned, and headed back inside and up the stairs. He waited a bit outside the apartment door, until Whittle arrived back home. She was certainly surprised to see him, upon her arrival. As she dug around in her purse for her keys, he took her grocery bags and waited patiently.

"We really need to get you your own key. You're here more than I am these days. Really, you should start paying rent," Whittle said, half laughing, Father Krickett laughing along with her as he waited patiently, holding her grocery bags; once the door was opened, she let him in first and then followed him in, adding, "what are you doing here anyway?"

"I'm waiting for Boris," Father Krickett said, setting her bags on the kitchen table and then seating himself at it, pulling out his rosary beads and thumbing them gently, "I hope it's okay that I stick around."

"Of course, John, you're always welcome here!" Whittle said as she began to unpack the bags and put things away, asking, "Why do you need to see him?"

"...because Leanne is about to die, and she asked to see him," Father Krickett said.

That certainly got Whittle's attention.

                                                                                            ***

The place in question was a small park, about two hours away.

The only time they'd taken Ellen there had been when she was 8 years old, but it was one of the few memories she held onto dearly, until the surgery, until she lost everything. It was a quiet park, surrounded by beautiful trees with a large fountain for making wishes, and an old, fairly big, wooden playground. Despite not having been there for years, Boris still knew exactly how to get there. Lorraine looked behind them at Ellen, who was asleep in the backseat, headphones over her ears. She then looked at Boris.

"How is she?" Boris asked.

"She's napping," Lorraine said, "She naps quite a lot. She's been through a number of ordeals for someone her age."

"Well, good. Keeps her strength up, I'm sure," Boris said, "...what made you think of this place, anyway?"

"Well I remember her talking about it a lot as a kid, but..." Lorraine stopped, sighed and looked out her window, before continuing with, "...I have always remembered it too. It was a good day. It was one of the only good days. We all had such a nice time. She deserves to have a nice time."

Boris glanced over and noticed Lorraine was starting to cry, but she quickly wiped her tears away on her sleeve and exhaled deeply, slowly, before turning the heater on her. The cool fall air had begun to leak in through the windows of the car, and she was getting chilly. Boris didn't say anything more. In that moment, he felt more for her than he had in decades.

The park, called Harvey Peaks, was completely empty by the time they got there. There was a small manmade lake nearby, which Boris did not remember, meaning he'd either forgotten it entirely or it had been built in the years since their visit, which was certainly a possibility. As Boris parked, he could almost smell the past in the area, and his own eyes started to water. Lorraine opened her door, letting herself out, before going around to the back and pulling the wheelchair out of the back, unfolding it and then wheeling it around to Ellen's side of the car. After they helped her into the chair, Boris stepped back again and looked around once more.

It was almost like she was still 8. Like he was still middle aged. Like they were still a family. Before the accident, before everything, it was as if this was the first time they'd visited, and Boris was suddenly struck with a surprising amount of emotion. Lorraine began to wheel Ellen away, but she noticed Boris leaning against the car, hiding his face. She told Ellen she'd be right back, then walked briskly back to the vehicle and put her hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" she asked softly, as he shook his head.

"I'm very much not alright, no," he replied.

"It's okay. It's okay to cry," Lorraine said quietly, and much to her surprise, he rested his face on her shoulder and she held him. These two hadn't had any kind of physical contact in ages, and rarely had she ever actually held her husband, but he didn't seem to worry about that anymore. He needed it. Lorraine looked back over her shoulder momentarily at Ellen, who was simply sitting in her wheelchair under a tree, looking up at the bright multicolored leaves. After a few minutes, Boris seemed to have regained his composure and zipped up his jacket.

"You ready?" Lorraine asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I'm ready."

Together they walked back to the tree where Ellen was sitting, and Boris took the handlebars of her wheelchair and began pushing her, Lorraine walking by his side, smiling at the sight. As they continued further into the park, Ellen began looking around in what could only be described as a mixture of awe and confusion. After a few minutes, they stopped at the fountain, and she reached forward, putting her hand in the cool, clean water.

"When we brought you here," Boris said, "you kept asking to make wishes in the fountain. I must've given you about 3 dollars worth of change so you could make so many wishes."

"Did any of them come true?" Ellen asked.

"I don't know, you never told us any of them," Boris said, making Ellen grimace.

"How am I supposed to remember things when you guys don't even remember things?" she asked, surprising them both; she added, "I mean, you two seemed to have blocked out your entire time together, so who am I supposed to turn to for help remembering our past if we don't have a past worth remembering?"

Boris looked at Lorraine, who just shrugged. He sighed, walked around to the fountain and sat on the lip of it, in front of Ellen's wheelchair, looking up at her.

"You're right. Your mother and I have kind of put up barriers between us and within ourselves even because our marriage was so fraught with bullshit, but the one thing we never gave up on was loving you. We remember coming here. We remember seeing you run and play, and how much fun you had. I'm sorry, Ellen, that I don't remember your wishes. I'm sorry that I...that we...screwed things up so badly. But we're trying to fix them now, for you."

Lorraine smiled. Boris really had changed in the last few years, and she was so proud of his growth. Ellen smiled too, as she held her fathers hands and rubbed the back of them with her thumbs.

"Thanks," she said, "I like the fountain, it's pretty."

"It really is," Lorraine said, as the three of them stood there and listened to the running water.

The day consisted of not much beyond strolling through the park, trying to see if anything came flooding back into Ellen's brain, but to no avail. After a handful of hours, the trio finally gathered themselves back into the car and Boris started driving again, heading back home. It was getting darker, the sun starting to set behind the trees, and all the streetlamps were coming to life. Boris turned on the radio, tuning it to soft classical music, and the three drove in silence. Halfway there, Ellen shifted in the seat, looking out the window, sighing.

"I remember," she said quietly.

"What? You remember what?" Lorraine asked, turning to look back at her.

"I remember one of my wishes," Ellen said softly, almost whispering, "I don't remember much else, but I do remember one of my wishes in the fountain."

"That's great!" Lorraine said happily, making Boris grin as she asked, "What was it?"

A moment passed.

"I wished you two would stop fighting," Ellen finally replied.

The smiles faded from Boris and Lorraine's faces, and nobody said a word the rest of the ride home.

                                                                                          ***

The door unlocked, Boris coming inside the apartment, when he startled Father Krickett asleep on the couch. Father Krickett sat up suddenly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he and Boris matched sights and Boris stopped in his tracks.

"You're home," he finally said.

"Yeah. I'm home," Boris said, tossing his keys onto the table near the door and beginning to pull off his jacket.

"How was it?" Father Krickett asked, standing up and yawning, stretching.

"She remembered something," Boris said, "...just not something we would've liked her to remember."

"I'm sorry Boris, but at least she's making progress, and bad memories are just as important as good ones," Father Krickett said.

"Yeah, I'm trying not to take it personally," Boris said, sitting on the couch and looking at his hands, his voice lowering as he said, "...how did we screw up so badly? How does everything go so wrong? You get married, you have a family, you think this is what you're supposed to be doing, and then, by the end of your life...you realize it all fell apart and none of it ever meant as much as it was supposed to."

"Things only mean as much as the meaning you put into them," Father Krickett said, "for example, someone who believes in God only has as much faith as their belief allows. It doesn't make their faith any less strong or any less valid than someone who, say, regularly goes to church and really leads a spiritual life, it's just a matter of how much you wanna put into it."

"So you're saying we didn't wanna put much effort of energy into being parents?" Boris asked.

"I don't think that's the case, no," Father Krickett said, "I think you guys wanted to be. I just think once the time came, you didn't know how difficult it'd be, not that that's any excuse for the shortcomings, I'm just...I don't know, Boris, I'm just trying to make you feel better."

Boris smirked and patted his arm.

"I appreciate it John, thanks," he said, "What're you still doing here anyway?"

"Actually, it's what I came by for earlier," Father Krickett said, "...Leanne is about to die, Boris, and she asked to see you."

Boris stared at him, his expression that of pure disbelief.

"...let me get my coat," he said, and together they headed off once more.

Seemed the only people Boris spent his time around anymore were sick people. Makes sense, when he thought about it, considering how sick he actually was inside. But he'd let Ellen down, he wasn't about to let Leanne down as well. On the ride to the hospital she was being held in, neither Boris nor John said a word, but John just looked absentmindedly out the window, chewing on his nails. He wondered how bad the fallout from this would be. He wondered how mad he'd make Boris by lying. But maybe it wouldn't be bad. Maybe he wouldn't be angry. Maybe things would turn out alright.

He had to have faith.

"You wanna tell me where you got these?" Father Krickett asked, shaking the little bottle of pills at Boris as he sat at the kitchen table, his arms folded, scowling.

"Why? You my dad or something?" Boris asked.

"We're just curious how long you've been using them," Whittle said, sitting across from Boris, "...I'm guessing you kept them from the incident you and Polly went through, but have you been taking them regularly?"

"...sort of," Boris said, "I've been having nightmares. I've been using them when I need them, which is what they tell you to do with any medication, right? Use only when necessary?"

"Yeah, when they're prescribed to you! She stole these out of the medicine hall of the home, Boris," Father Krickett said sternly, rubbing his forehead and beginning to pace around the table; after a moment he sighed and said, "I don't wanna be the straight edge priest here, but this isn't an acceptable situation. I cannot, in good conscience, allow this to continue."

"Then stop caring," Boris mumbled.

Father Krickett shook his head, surprised and saddened by Boris's attitude. He couldn't just 'stop caring', because he'd seen first hand what these sorts of things could develop into, spiral towards, and leave in the wake of peoples lives. He didn't like to talk about it, but yes, he'd seen it.

And he swore to never see it again.

                                                                                              ***

John Potter Krickett had been a young man when he'd been in the accident.

He was a young man in college, his second year in, when it happened. He hadn't been drinking, he hadn't been out late, he hadn't been speeding. He had done absolutely nothing to instigate the incident, it merely happened, as these things so often do. Someone else disobeyed a traffic law, and suddenly John Potter Krickett was scrunched between his steering wheel and a lamp post. They told him he was lucky to even be alive, but was he? No. His parents were lucky he was alive. After all, he'd watched them lose his brother, he didn't want to put them through that level of agony and anguish yet again. Once had been enough for a lifetime.

At the hospital, they gave him the pain medication. Once he got out, he still was being given it. He took it fairly regularly, partially because it helped with the pain but also, and he'd never admit this to anyone, because it made him feel less bad about having survived. He hadn't wanted to survive. Sitting there, drifting between states of consciousness, John Potter Krickett swore up and down that he'd seen the face of god, and that all he wanted was to join him in heaven. When he awoke in the hospital, he was devastated. Oh sure, most people - likely all people honestly - just took his sadness as a reaction to what happened, but no...he wasn't sad about the accident.

He was sad that he'd survived it.

Lying in bed one night, John couldn't sleep. Instead, he pulled himself out of bed, slipped his feet in his sandals and headed outside to the backyard of his parents house, where he found his father sitting on a chair, having a beer. John sat down in the chaise lounge, and after acknowledging one another with a brief smile, they both silently watched the stars together overhead. After a few minutes, John sighed.

"Why don't we ever go to church?" John asked.

"...I mean, your mother used to drag us there for holiday situations, but otherwise, neither of us just ever saw the need," his father replied, "why?"

"Just curious," John said, shrugging, before adding, "...so you guys don't believe in heaven? You don't think Jeff's up there or something?"

"...I think we each have our own personal viewpoint of the situation, frankly," his father said, "your mother is far more spiritual than I, but no, I don't think either of us believes in heaven, at least not the way the catholics define it."

John nodded, listening intently.

"What kind of proof would you need for you to suddenly believe in a concept like heaven?" John asked, and his father shrugged, shaking his head.

"I guess, you know, visual confirmation of the sort. I'm definitely a 'see it and it's real' kind of person. I know that doesn't exactly fly for everyone, but for me my eyes have never lied, and never would, so that's good enough evidence to convince me of anything. You hear it all the time from skeptics who never believed in ghosts until they saw one, or never believed in aliens until a UFO showed up over their yard. That's what I'd need. I'd need to see the face of God."

He didn't know it at the time, but that sentiment had begun John down a path that would eventually lead him to the church. John had seen the face of God, and nothing in the real world compared.

                                                                                     ***

"What are they for?" Steven asked, lying in bed as he watched John head to the bathroom and pull out his pain medication, taking one before shoving the bottle back into the cabinet.

"I was in an accident a few years ago," John said, "I still have pain from it now and then, so I've just had an ongoing prescription since then that they keep honoring."

"You sure you're not abusing that?" Steven asked as John came back and sat on the side of the bed.

"...I am, and I can admit it. My folks were so angry with me when I told them I was still using them, but they insisted on getting me help. I told them no, I have to get help myself, I can't depend on others. Except, being religious, that's what you do. You depend on others. You depend on the lord to guide you, you depend on your people to take to heart what you say in your sermons. You depend entirely on faith itself."

"What do you think God would find more blasphemous?" Steven asked, sitting up now, "Abusing medication or sleeping with a man?"

John smirked, chuckling.

"Frankly, I don't think God has any right to tell me how to live my life so long as my life is lived in service of him. So long as I spread his gospel, treat his word as truth, try and help others with the love Jesus gave to those around him, then God has no say in what I do outside of that. I've already given my life to God. He shouldn't get to dictate every single aspect of it."

Steven smiled and kissed John's shoulder, John reaching back and running his hands through Steven's fluffy hair. Their relationship had been going on a year now, and nobody knew. John wasn't exactly afraid of what would happen if his parents found out or anything, but he was afraid what the church itself might say. Between their relationship and his medication abuse, he was almost certain he'd be asked to leave.

But before anyone could find anything out, there was yet another accident.

This time, it was John's fault. This time he couldn't point blame at anyone else flagrantly disregarding traffic laws or simply chock it up to one of those things that happens in life. No. This time he was solely responsible. And it was something he'd never forgiven himself for. God might have, certainly. That's the idea, isn't it? God forgives your sins so long as you're willing to repent for them and make right. So okay, he had God's forgiveness. But he could never forgive himself.

                                                                                     ***

"This cannot continue," Father Krickett said, "We're going to put an end to this. I'm willing to hold onto it for you, give you some when you really genuinely need pain relief, but I cannot allow you to continue having it in your hands. I refuse to stand idly by and be responsible for something I could easily stopped."

"You told me I wasn't responsible for Polly's death, so what would make you responsible for anything that happens to me?" Boris asked, growing agitated.

"Because yours would've been avoidable!" Father Krickett said loudly, his anger surprising Whittle, who'd never seen him get mad before.

"Oh, and hers wasn't? At any goddamned point during that entire situation I could've stopped, I could've said to her 'hey, maybe this isn't such a great idea!' but I never did, did I? I never once did that. Ergo, I'm responsible for her death. Polly is dead because of me!" Boris shouted, standing up now, hands planted firmly on the table, staring Father Krickett down from the other side. Krickett wasted no time, matching Boris's stance, like a wild animal defending its pups from a predator. Whittle backed away and simply watched, fascinated.

"You don't get to decide after the fact what would've been better in the moment, that isn't how things work. You make the decisions you make and you live with the consequences thereof, be they positive or negative. The only thing you can do afterwards is move on and try to do better. By dwelling on things, you're only inviting more pain unto yourself that isn't exactly warranted nor necessary!" Father Krickett shouted back, "I know because I've been there! I killed someone because of pain medication!

This stopped Boris in his tracks. His face softened, his eyes widened. He saw the tears swelling in Father Krickett's eyes.

"what?" he asked softly.

"I was in an accident in college. They gave me pain medication to deal with it, pain medication I became extremely reliant upon. A year later, I met a man named Steven, and we fell absolutely in love with one another. A year after that, wouldn't you know it, I had yet another accident. Except this time it was my fault. This time I was to blame. Driving hopped up on pain medication, frustrated with the church for trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do outside its walls. He died because of me. He died because of my recklessness. I will not have that happen again. You may think you're the first person to go through this, but I assure you, you are not. You may, however, be the most goddamned stubborn."

Boris didn't respond. Instead he merely slunk back into his seat and bit his lip, looking at his old, wrinkled hands in front of him on the table.

"...then you know. You know what it's like to miss someone," he whispered, "I didn't love her, not romantically anyway. Besides, she was gay too. But I loved her as much as I've ever loved anyone platonically. I keep having dreams about her. It's like she's haunting me. Do you know how much that hurts? To see the face of someone you miss so badly, only to realize their face is not here anymore? You're seeing a memory of their face. I'm old. My memory ain't what it used to be and it's only going to get worse. What if I forget what she looks like? What if...what if at some point I have a dream about her, but it doesn't look like her? I may not be responsible for her death, but I'm sure as hell responsible for her memory."

Father Krickett slowed his breathing, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve before walking around the table and kneeling beside Boris, putting his hand on the old mans hands and squeezing them gently.

"Time...takes everything from us. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be fought, and it cannot be bargained against. It takes what it takes without compassion, but also without malice. It can't do it with either, because it isn't a living thing, it's a concept. The older we get, the more we lose, be it people we love, our health or simply parts of ourselves. The only way to fight time is to be timeless. Untethered from its restrictions and its indignant disregard for our personhood. To not think about time gives time no power over you. Sure, seasons will still change, people will still leave and we'll still grow old. But at least we do it on our own schedule instead of doing it on times schedule, or that's what we can tell ourselves anyway. Memory is the only thing we have in the fight against time, and so long as you remember Polly - even if she looks nothing like you remember - then you've won. You've won. Because the idea of her is what's important. The feeling she imparted on you. Not what she looked like. That's what photographs are for."

Boris looked at Father Krickett, his face running with tears, and he turned and put his arms around the priest, hugging him tightly.

"I miss her so much, John," he whispered.

"I know," Father Krickett said, hugging Boris, patting his back, adding, "and that's good. That means her life made a difference."

He didn't argue with Boris any further that day. He just let him cry, and he held him. He made Boris feel safe, understood and cared for, because so often, people never get that in their lives, especially our elderly. Boris let Father Krickett take the pills home that night, and agreed to see a doctor about his addiction, which made Father Krickett happy. After Father Krickett left that night, he drove home, and he made himself some dinner. Fish and rice and roasted carrots. He ate dinner, he took a shower, and then he got ready for bed.

John put his pajamas on, had dessert, then he brushed his teeth and he slipped the medication into his medicine cabinet. John then went to bed, pulling his quilt and sheets back, climbing under them and adjusting his pillows, laying his head back and sighing. He done the right thing, he knew this, and he was proud of himself. He picked up a book from the bedside table and opened it, then, just as quickly, set it in his lap face down so he wouldn't lose his spot and he pulled open the bedside table drawer and removed a framed photograph from it. He smiled at it, kissed the glass and then placed it on the pillow beside him. John picked his book back up and started reading again.

                                                                                    ***

"You look good," John said, adjusting the lens on the camera, "Your parents will love it."

"I hope so. I haven't had a haircut in a long time," Steven said, sitting on the steps outside John's apartment, continuing, "thanks for doing this, by the way. I really wanted to send them a Christmas card this year, and I can't take a decent photograph to save my life."

"Hey, it's no problem," John said, smiling, "Just make sure I get a copy."

"Of course," Steven said, blowing a kiss at him.

"Smile!" John said, before snapping the photo.

                                                                                        ***

John put a bookmark in his book, set it back down on the bedside table and turned the light off. He rolled onto his side, facing the framed photo on the pillow and smiled as he shut his eyes, one hand on top of the frame, patting it ever so gently.

"Good night, Steven," he whispered, before drifting off to sleep.

It was a gorgeous day, and Carol was determined to take advantage of it.

She took a bath, got dressed in her finest clothes and then headed outside to the garden, only to find Larry and Burt toiling away in the soil. They waved at her as she came out, and she smiled at them before heading to the gazebo, climbing the steps carefully to find Boris sitting on one of the benches inside.

"Good morning," she said happily.

"Is it?" Boris asked, looking up from his newspaper, "I can never tell anymore."

"Cataracts are a bitch," Carol said, making him chuckle as she seated herself beside him, "...so, got any plans for today?"

"You're lookin' at it," Boris said, "Nobody's at the apartment, so I didn't wanna be there. Came here just to relax, which is funny, because there's nothing very relaxing about this kind of place."

"Hey, I made a lot of renovations in order to make this home much more appealing and welcoming," Carol said, "I'll have you know that since renovations have finished, all I've gotten has been great feedback from people!"

Boris smirked and kept reading, letting Carol know he was merely pushing her buttons. She enjoyed having him around again more. Just then they heard the sound of an ambulance pull up to the front of the home. Carol and Boris stood up and walked to the edge of the gazebo interior, watching from the rail as a few paramedics entered the home and, a few minutes later, exited with someone covered in a sheet on a gurney. As they wheeled the metal slab onto the ambulance and started to drive away, everyone stood around somewhat slack jacked. Finally a woman approached Carol.

"Who was it?" Carol asked, leaning on the gazebo rail.

"It was Alice Holbrook," the woman said, "In her sleep, peacefully,"; the woman then turned to everyone else within earshot and, cupping her hands around her mouth shouted, "who had Holbrook?! Who had Alice Holbrook?!"

After a moment a man on a cane came forward, his hand raised.

"I did!" he replied, and Carol rubbed her forehead.

It was time for something to change.

                                                                                           ***

"A woman died at the home this morning," Boris said, sipping his coffee as he sat in a booth across from Father Krickett, who was spreading butter on toast from a little plastic butter container that was set on the table.

"Sort of an everyday occurrence at an old folks home, isn't it?" Krickett asked, smiling a little.

"Sure, nothing new, business as usual, but...I don't know. This felt different. Carol was very upset about it," Boris said, "I can't blame her, really. It's hard watching people around your age croak, it puts you right at the top of the list. Never know when your time is finally up."

"God does enjoy playing russian roulette," Krickett said, taking a bite out of his toast and chewing before responding again, "but perhaps it's not the proximity to her own mortality that's upset Carol, perhaps it's something else. Carol's never struck me as the kind to be worried about the end of her life, personally."

"You're not wrong, she never has seemed to fear death," Boris said, filling in another section of the papers crossword puzzle before looking up at Krickett, "...do you?"

"Do I what? Fear death?" Father Krickett asked, setting his toast down and clasping his hands together on the table, clearing his throat and adding, "...I think people like me, who are religious, don't often fear death because we believe in the idea of eternity with our father in heaven. That being said, I can't deny the idea of nonexistence skeeving me out of a bit, sure. But overall, I like to think I'm not as affected as most, certainly."

Boris nodded, then set his paper down and picked at crumbs on the table, his voice low when he finally spoke again.

"...I'm scared," he said, "I never was, but...watching Polly die. It changed me. It made me scared. The idea that this, all of this, who I am and what I do and the things I like, just ends...yeah, that's kind of terrifying to me now."

"I believe it," Krickett said, reaching across the table and patting the old mans hands, "That couldn't have been easy, and I'm sorry for that loss. I'm here if you ever want to talk about that whole ordeal."

Boris opened his mouth, then shut it again and shook his head. In the months since Polly's overdose, he hadn't talked about her, not to Whittle or Krickett or Carol or anyone. He kept that entire debacle to himself, and some nights he'd wake up in fits from nightmares where he was discovering her body over and over again. These nightmares were causing him ridiculous amounts of mental anguish, yet he didn't tell them to anyone. He didn't want anyone to worry about him. He just wanted them to stop. He'd kept the pills Polly had stashed, and took Valium fairly regularly to get through the days and nights, especially after the nightmares.

"What's your day look like?" Krickett asked, "Any plans?"

"Not really. Just...not really."

Boris didn't talk for the rest of the morning. He simply went back to his crossword puzzle, leaving Krickett to read the rest of the newspaper before heading to the church. Despite the lack of discussion, both enjoyed simply having the other for company. Sometimes presence, not interaction, was all that was necessary for friendship.

                                                                                               ***

"What do you mean you're closing the pool?" Burt asked, "That's the most exciting aspect of living in an old folks home!"

"I can't do it anymore," Carol said, "the death pool started as a fun way to compete with one another, but after renovating the home, after getting to know a lot of the people here, I cannot, in good conscience, allow it to stay open. It makes me sad to think of people the age of the deceased profiting from the deaths of their peers."

The door to Carol's office opened and Boris entered, shutting it behind him.

"Carol's closing down the death pool!" Burt said, turning in his chair to face Boris, almost like a child telling on another child to their parent, "I can't believe this, try and talk her out of it."

"I think she's right," Boris said, leaning against the wall, unwrapping then popping a hard candy into his mouth, "I mean, after getting to be friends with Polly, I was devastated by her loss, not ecstatic by what I gained from it. It was a fun idea, but it's time to grow up."

"Grow up? We're in an old folks home, how much more grown up could we get?!" Burt asked, making Carol chuckle.

"Burt, I'd like you to go gather everyone's sheets please, and inform them that we won't be doing the death pool anymore," Carol said, "I'll join you in a minute."

Burt sighed, nodded, then stood and exited as Carol looked up at Boris from her desk.

"Something on your mind?" she asked.

"...I'm gonna see Ellen and Lorraine today," Boris said, "though, truth be told, I don't necessarily feel as if I want to see either one of them. Most of the time we simply help Ellen with her physical therapy, and when we aren't doing that, Lorraine and I just bicker under our breath so she can't hear it."

"Well," Carol said, standing up and smoothing out her outfit as she approached Boris, "I think it's good for you to have things to do. Take your mind off other things, you know? Take advantage of your family, Boris. Polly wasn't able to. She lost everything before losing herself. Do it for her."

She patted him on the chest, then headed out of the room to catch up with Burt. Boris stayed and looked around the office. When had things changed so dramatically? It seemed like it'd happened so quickly, almost overnight, and he hadn't even noticed. He was beginning to wish for the days when everyone just sat around, complaining, as old folks like to do, instead of whatever it was they had embroiled themselves into these days. The good ol' days were gone, he knew. Time marched ever onward, stopping for no man, woman or child, and he was lucky enough if he was able to just keep up.

                                                                                               ***

Sitting in the therapy room, watching Ellen do basic leg exercises best she could with her nurse, Boris couldn't help but feel sick. He felt like he'd put Ellen in this position. He was responsible for the accident that had crippled her in the first place, and then he felt like perhaps the shame she attained from it was secondhand because she thought her parents thought less of her, and thus the surgery that then put her into a coma, was even worse. Now Ellen couldn't still couldn't walk well - though they insisted that would change over time with the therapy - and she couldn't remember her family.

"You know," Lorraine said, leaning towards Boris and whispering, "I knew a girl in grade school who had leg braces, and that's all this therapy reminds me of is that girl. Now everytime I watch Ellen try and regain strength in her legs, all I see is that girl and hear everyone laughing at her."

Boris rolled his head towards her and smiled.

"That's a nice story," he said.

"You know what I mean," Lorraine said, half laughing and hitting his arm playfully, "These associations make themselves. I'm not happy about it and I know they're not the same, but because that's the closest I've ever been to something like this before it happened to her, that's what I'm reminded of."

"I guess I know what you mean," Boris said, "...do you think she's getting better?"

"I do, yes. Slowly, but yes. In a few months, maybe a year, she'll be literally on her own feet," Lorraine said, sighing, "...whether or not she ever remembers us is another matter entirely."

"She would be so lucky," Boris muttered, making Lorraine grimace.

As her therapist took leave for a few minutes, Ellen rolled herself in her wheelchair over to her parents and smiled at them.

"I'm sorry you guys have to come for this," Ellen said, "It's probably awkward, considering I don't really remember you."

"No, it's fine," Boris said, waving his hand thusly dismissing the thought, "it's absolutely fine. Whether you remember us or not, we're still your parents, and we should be here to support you."

Lorraine was rather surprised by this statement. Boris had, since the accident, remained somewhat aloof and distant, because he felt like he'd failed as a father. What had changed? Why was he so suddenly being so welcoming and comforting? Lorraine looked back to Ellen and smiled.

"You're doing great, sweetheart," she said, "Absolutely great. We're very proud of your efforts, and we're seeing real progress."

"For what it's worth, even though I don't really remember much, it is nice to have people here to support me," Ellen said, "it...it helps me not feel so alone while dealing with something so challenging."

"And there's no shame if nothing changes," Boris said, leaning forward, "remember that. If you don't regain strength in your legs or don't remember us, that's perfectly fine. We'll be here to help, no matter what, okay?"

Boris reached out and stroked her hair, pushing her bangs out of her face, making Ellen blush.

After the session, once Ellen was back in her hospital room, Lorraine and Boris headed to the parking lot, a flurry of questions swirling in Lorraine's head. As they approached Boris's car - the Gremlin Polly had left him - he spun the keyring around his index finger before unlocking the door.

"What the hell was that all about?" she asked, "All that togetherness crap? Who are you and what have you done with my husband?"

"Very cute," Boris said, "I think these days I'm just...trying to be more open, more with those I care about."

"I know that losing your friend hurt," Lorraine said, "and I can't begin to imagine what that kind of loss must've been like, to find her like that, to feel responsible maybe, but-"

"I don't feel responsible. I know she was the reason she did. Sure, I've debated endlessly whether or not I could've, or even should've, tried to stop her, but in the end Polly was going to do what she wanted, and no matter how much we might've mattered to one another that wasn't going to change. She was ready to go. Some people just don't wanna be here for the end, and frankly, I can't blame them."

Boris opened the door and climbed inside, shutting the door before rolling the window down as Lorraine bent down and looked into the car.

"Boris, I'm...I'm here, if you wanna talk about it," she said.

"Why does everyone assume I wanna talk about it? What does talking about it really do besides making me relive something I'd rather move past already? Don't you think I've talked about it enough? Don't you think, if anything, that I'm sick of talking about it? I appreciate the offer, Lorraine, I really do, but I don't wanna talk about the death of my best friend, thanks. I'm trying to move on, not stay stuck."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Lorraine said, pulling herself out of the window and patting the roof of his car as he pulled out of his parking spot and drove away, leaving his wife standing there, more confused about who Boris actually was than she'd ever been before.

                                                                                             ***

That night, Boris was asleep in bed when he woke to the sound of someone walking down the hall. He assumed it was Chrissy, or Whittle, but he climbed out of the bed nonetheless, pulling his robe on over his pajamas and heading out of his room towards the kitchen. He flicked on the light switch but the lights didn't come on, and then he saw her, sitting at the table. Polly. She looked at him, and he froze on the spot. She smiled at him, and he felt his chest tighten. He grasped at his chest, before suddenly waking up, back in his bed.

Another nightmare. This was getting old. Boris sat up and scooted towards the bedside table, where he opened the drawer and pulled out a small box. Inside were the Valiums he'd pocketed off Polly before he called anyone, and he took one with a sip from the glass of water he kept on the bedside table. He sighed, ran his hand over his face and coughed. He wanted this to end. Why wouldn't this stop?

Boris finally got up and, pulling his robe over his pajamas, he grabbed his car keys.

Father Krickett was surprised when he opened his front door, only to find Boris standing on his porch.

"What are you doing here?" Krickett asked.

"...I hope I'm not disturbing you," Boris said.

"No, I wasn't asleep," Krickett said, "I was reading. Please, come in, it's cold out."

Krickett moved aside, allowing Boris to enter. Boris walked in circles once inside, looking exasperated and fed up. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying, and his hands trembled. Krickett folded his arms, watching his friend, waiting for him to speak.

"There's...there's something wrong with me," Boris whispered, his voice straining not to crack, "I'm scared, and I don't know what's happening. I keep seeing her. I have these extremely vivid nightmares and I keep seeing her, and then I wake up and she's not there, and it's like...it's like I'm living it all over again."

"I think what you're experiencing is likely due to PTSD from what happened," Krickett said, "Granted I'm no psychiatrist, but...it would make perfect sense. And there's nothing wrong with that, many people have PTSD and they lead perfectly normal lives. What you went through, Boris, was traumatic. Even for someone like yourself, who acts so strong and sturdy, it-"

"That's...that's just the thing, I'm not those, Krickett, I'm not. I would love to be, but I'm not, and I...I need your help, please," Boris said in a hushed voice, approaching the priest and pushing his face against him, crying against his pajamas, squeezing him tight.

Krickett, surprised at first, then smiled warmly and held the old man in his arms.

"You're fine, Boris, I'm here. I'll help you," he whispered, "I'll help you."

That was the thing about Father Krickett. Once he made a promise, he kept that promise, and Boris knew this all too well. He knew Krickett wouldn't let him down, which was what he needed most right now. Boris might not have been religious...

...but he did find some comfort in the arms of the church that night.

Boris stood in front of his mirror, staring at himself in his suit, his hands fidgeting with the neck of his tie.

He sighed, pulled his cap off and rested it on the table, trying to keep himself from crying. The door opened, and Father Krickett entered, shutting the door behind him. He turned and walked to Boris, putting his hands on the old mans shoulders, massaging him gently as he sighed.

"Everyone is seated," he said quietly, "You're doing a good thing you know. You were the only one here who ever really got close to her, you're the only one really capable of giving her a proper send off. You're gonna score big points with the man upstairs for this one."

"That's what matters, isn't it," Boris said, chuckling. Father Krickett turned and walked away into the room, looking around nonchalantly as Boris turned and leaned against the table the mirror was sitting on. He watched Father Krickett pace around, looking at general furnishings and what have you. Boris sucked his bottom lip for a moment, and then whistled. Father Krickett looked back at him, his attention gotten.

"Yes?" he asked.

"What's your first name? You've never told me your first name," Boris said, "If we're going to be friends, I think we should probably be on a first name basis by this point, don't you?"

"Makes sense to me My name is John," Father Krickett said, "anything else you'd like to know?"

"You always a priest?"

"Yeah I came out of the womb in this getup, actually," Father Krickett said, making Boris genuinely throw his head back with laughter; Krickett laughed a bit before adding, "Um, not always, I mean we've talked about this a bit, but, yeah. I just feel like it's the right path to be on right now."

"How do you not lose your faith, seeing all these horrible things in the world day in and day out? I mean surely you can't say murders or rapes 'happen for a reason' or are 'all parts of gods plan'. That's...that insinuates god enjoys us suffering, and that'd be real fuckin' sick," Boris said.

"Um, I mean you're not wrong, no, I think anyone who falls back on either of those sentiments needs to take a step back and reexamine their own worldview first and foremost, because we can't know how god feels about something. We can't just go ask him. We can assume he thinks the things we think are terrible are terrible, but there's no way to be certain. I guess in order to have faith you need to accept that most of life is completely incomprehensible to understanding to begin with. We laugh at absurdity, we fear things that make no sense and music has the ability to make us cry. Life appears to be nothing more than simply a series of unconnected events that eventually lead to a cohesive whole at the end of ones life, a whole that, hopefully, was worth experiencing. Keeping my faith is not so much in god as it is in the idea that the life I've been given was worth being given. That's what I'm faithful for. The hope that life is worth it, not that there's an afterlife."

Boris nodded, surprised by this incredibly complex and deeply profound answer from a man of the cloth. Usually, in his experiences, priests just gave nonsensical jargon that only further confused the issue, but John Krickett seemed to be the exact opposite; someone who could, and would, give you a down to earth answer for pie in the sky questions.

"...I miss her, John, I really...it hurts so much inside, like she filled a hole I didn't know need to be filled, and a hole that is now only grander in her absence," Boris said, rubbing at his chest.

"Grief is...the most powerful pain there is," Krickett said, shrugging as he approached Boris, hands clasped in front of him, "It's a way for us to hopefully process things that seem impossible to process and move forward in a way that makes some sort of sense. I can't tell you what you should do in order to work through this grief, that's your journey alone to make. But! I can tell you that it's something you absolutely are capable of working through. I'm not saying it'll be easy, or that the pain will ever completely subside, but it can be manageable, if nothing else, and I think that's worth looking forward to and making the effort for."

"...thanks John," Boris said, "I think I'm ready now."

Father Krickett nodded, and exited the room. Boris took one last look in the mirror, and then followed him out. As the two men headed down the hallway, towards the back door and out to the cemetery, Boris could see the crowd already looming. It looked like the entire home had turned out for the ceremony. Had Polly really known all these people all along, and just never said anything? Boris walked through the chairs, making his way to the podium, when he felt a hand grab his and he looked down to see Carol sitting there in her black dress, a large black sunhat sitting on her head.

"Hey there," he said, kneeling best he could for her, "How are you?"

"I wanted to ask you that question, you're the one who knew her after all," Carol said.

Boris glanced at the coffin and smirked, "I don't think anyone really knew her, and I think that's what made her interesting."

He stood up again and continued to the podium. Standing behind it, he adjusted his tie, cleared his throat and looked at his index cards, on which he'd written a speech.

"Looking out at the many faces that I recognize every day, I know now that I don't know almost any of you. How many years have we all lived together? Too many, honestly. Too many to not know one another better. What's the point of living in a communal space if we aren't interested in being a community? These past few months, hell almost the whole last year, Carol was renovating the home for us, because she thought we deserved something better, and I think she's right, and I think we shouldn't feel ashamed for admitting that. And you know who never felt ashamed? Polly Hawkins. This woman right here in this box, a box that frankly is too good even for her and that's something she herself would admit, was not ashamed for admitting who she was and thinking she deserved more."

A light bit of laughter spread through the crowd, as Boris looked at his cards and then looked back at the coffin and sighed. He set his cards down, and picked up the microphone, removing it from the stand it sat on, and began walking across the lawn with it, back and forth in front of the coffin.

"Fuck formality. We're old. We don't need to be formal anymore. Polly was...amazing. She was a pain in the ass, granted, and she herself would cop to that, but lord was that woman incredible. She made me feel more connected to a person in the short time I knew her than anyone else ever has. I used to feel like I didn't deserve friendship, like I didn't deserve...anything. But Polly, the mess she was, thought she deserved it all. She was our age, and yet unburdened by the fact that she was as old as we are. She never thought of herself as old. This allowed her to truly continue to live life. She..."

He stopped and choked back some tears, running his hand on the white casket with black trim, before squeezing the mic tightly, his knuckles whitening, and continued.

"...she should be an inspiration, if nothing else, to how to approach your senior years. To approach them no differently than any other decade of your life. Who the fuck decided that by the time you were 70 you were supposed to slow down, chill out and be wise? Why can't old people be fucking messes? Why can't old people continue to wreck themselves the way those in their 20s do? And I don't just mean with drugs and alcohol, though Polly can attest that that's also worth it, even if it's what killed her-"

More laughter, this time louder.

"-no, I mean emotional messes, people who don't have their shit together emotionally. Why are our lives supposed to be clean at the end? Who said that life was only for the young? Polly drove a fucking Gremlin. She stole pills from the nurses station and she gambled like there was no tomorrow. But she wasn't stupid. A tad reckless, perhaps, but not stupid. And wiser than any of us combined. That's why I think it's so unfair that she went before we did. This woman, this woman who had...still had so much....so much life to live, and so much advice to give, even if it was advice she herself would stupidly never follow, was cut short in honestly the prime of her life. That doesn't seem fair. And I think we owe it to Polly to stick the course, honor her memory and just fuck things up as much as we can. There's no statute of limitations on living, except perhaps the inevitable expiration date. I'm not telling you to abuse medication or drink when your doctor has recommended that you don't, no, but I am telling you that there's no time like today, right fucking now, to do something you always wanted to do. Just because you're old doesn't mean you can't accomplish it. We've had a lifetime to accomplish things, and we still have more time to spare."

Boris stopped and leaned against the coffin, patting it with his hand. He sighed heavily and shook his head.

"I'm glad I got to spend Polly's last moments with her. I wouldn't change that for anything in the world, except perhaps having her back, obviously."

More laughter, this time with real genuine love in it.

"Polly fought with me from the first day we met, and she never let up, even after we became friends. She was, if nothing else, a fucking nuisance."

Some clapping and true guffawing occurred.

"But she was OUR fucking nuisance," Boris said, "And I am sure as shit gonna miss having her prod me to do more, and be more, than I think I am capable of. She lit a fire in me that I won't ever allow to extinguish. Maybe I can do the same to all of you. But I'm going to need your cooperation. So, who's interested in making the most of the time they have left? Show of hands."

A flurry of hands went up, and cheering ensued. Boris grinned as he looked back at the coffin, and, raising the mic to his lips, quietly said

"See, you were liked by everyone after all."

                                                                                            ***

Sitting in a pizzeria long after the funeral had finished, Boris - biting into the third slice he'd pulled from the pie as Father Krickett sipped his soda across the table from him - couldn't help but feel like more should've been done today. Despite doing the eulogy, which then turned into somewhat of a roast, and successfully at that, Boris felt like there was something else he should've tackled.

"You know," Krickett said, wiping his mouth, "I think what you said today really struck a chord with everyone. Experts say that the worst thing that a person can do is retire, because once you have nothing to drive you, you slip away easier."

"Are these experts other old people? Because frankly I'd only trust people who've experienced it firsthand to be experts at it," Boris said, making Krickett smirk.

"I'm just saying that people who have a thing to work towards tend to live longer," Father Krickett said, "and I think you easily might've pushed everyone today, via the advice of Polly, to get something that helps them live longer. A goal of kind or another, something to work on. You know what I mean?"

"Did I ever tell you I write poetry?"

"I think you may have mentioned it, yes."

"I think...I think I'd like to look into doing it again, with more regularity, more...sincere publishing attempts," Boris said, surprising Krickett, who cocked an eyebrow at this admittance; Boris continued, "It's one of if not the only real way I can truly express internally how I feel externally."

"I'm all for that, and I'll read whatever you give me if you want feedback of any kind," Krickett said, stealing a slice from the pie for himself, licking the grease from his fingers as he plopped it down onto his paper plate and adding, "...Boris, I have to ask...you're going to be okay, right?"

"I'll manage," Boris said, wiping his mouth on his napkin, "It'll be hard, but like you said, the grief is my own to work through, and perhaps poetry is the way to work through it."

So the two men sat in the pizzeria and ate and laughed and talked about all the plans for the upcoming years. About the things they both wanted to accomplish, and about the people they wanted to become as they grew. Afterwards, Father Krickett drove Boris back to the apartment and said goodnight to him. As Boris entered, he removed his coat and cap and hung them on the rack by the door before heading into the kitchen, where he found a note on the table. He picked it up and unfolded it, it appeared to be from Whittle.

"Boris, someone came by this afternoon, said they were an attorney for Polly. She didn't have much to her name, but there's something for you downstairs."

Boris walked briskly to the door, opened it and headed back downstairs. Upon exiting the apartment building, he spotted Carol and Burt standing next to Polly's Gremlin, as Carol spun the keys around on her finger. Boris slid his hands into his pants pockets and strolled over to them, Burt sliding off the hood and into the car as Carol grinned.

"Get in, loser," she said, "I saw how you drank at the funeral, so I won't be letting you drive tonight."

"That's fine," Boris said, chuckling as Carol walked around to the drivers side and Boris opened the passenger door. He stopped, put his hand on the top of the car and exhaled. He shut his eyes, patted the roof of the car, and then got in.

No matter what, he knew now, Polly would always be in his life.

When was the last time Polly had sat down at the nickel slots?

God, it must've been the first week after losing Jean. She drove to a nearby casino and spent hours sitting in front of the nickel slots and drinking herself into a stupor, pushing coin after coin after coin into the little machine, trying not to cry and thinking about how utterly alone she felt. Eventually she realized that throwing money away wasn't the best way to cope with her grief, which lead her down the path to living in the nursing home. But now, sitting here again, the sound of the machines ringing in her ears while vodka slipped down her throat, Polly couldn't imagine a better place to be...

...or a better person to be there with.

She grinned as she turned and glanced at Boris, who was also pulling his lever for another spin and finished his drink, setting it down nimbly on the tray between them.

"This is my idea of a good time," Polly said, "You know what pain is. You know what loss is. You of all people know how much it hurts to lose something you so desperately want-"

"It's all my life has ever been," Boris said, interrupting her.

"Exactly! So you're the one I'm glad to be doing this with," Polly said, "Those other guys, Carol and Burt and Larry, don't get me wrong they're great company, but they don't know the feeling the same way we do. When you lose someone you love so much that it feels as though a part of yourself has just been torn from you, how do you move on? You spend the remainder of your life feeling like half a person. It's a gut wrenching feeling."

"Can I have another Valium?" Boris asked, holding out his hand as he waited for Polly to fish her pill case from her coat pocket and plop one into his palm. He swallowed it instantly and refocused back on the machine as she took one herself.

"There's no aspect of life that cannot be improved by throwing money away," Polly said, "People are far too financially cautious these days. Stock options, investments, bull pucky. Take a chance, have some fun, just throw some cash away at a machine for a few hours. You only live once, you may as well enjoy the money you have instead of the money you'll likely never receive!"

"Hear hear!" Boris said, raising another glass with drink in it, taking a long sip. Afterwards he belched and adjusted the cap on his head before adding, "What good is life if you can't even enjoy it? Continuing to lose the ones you care about, and then being told to just make new connections, new friends. Why? You're just gonna lose them too! It's all garbage. Eventually we all rot and none of it matters, so you may as well, as you said, make the most of it while you have the chance to do so."

Polly nodded, popped another quarter in the machine and pulled again. The lights around her machine lit up and it started blaring music at her. Her eyes widened and she almost hopped off her stool, much as a woman her age could hop, throwing her arms up in the air.

"I won! I hit a jackpot!" she screeched, "I mean, only a few hundred dollars, but hell yes!"

Boris stood up and throw his arms around her, the two of them laughing and dancing in front of their machines, as other casino goes surrounding them cheered them on. Yes. It had been a very good day for boris and Polly, which was great, because by the following morning, it would be the worst day of their lives.

                                                                                                  ***

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Father Krickett asked, standing in Boris's room as he watched the old man sink into his rocking chair, his face stained with tears. Boris didn't respond. Krickett approached, knelt and placed his hand on Boris's knee. Boris finally looked at him somewhat.

"You know what happened," he said weakly, his voice hoarse.

"I want to hear it from you," Father Krickett replied, "Coming from you makes it real. You need to say it, for closure."

"...it wasn't my fault," Boris whimpered, his eyes swelling up with more tears as he chewed on his lip.

"Nothing that's happened has been your fault, Boris," Father Krickett said, "Hey, buddy, nobody is going to blame you, okay? We all just want a clear picture of the situation and what lead you two to that moment, alright? We need information. I trust you, Boris, you're my friend, and I want to help you. Those officers out there? They aren't your friend. They aren't anybody's friend but their own. But even they recognize what happened isn't your fault, and they just want the truth. Tell me the truth. I'm your friend."

A long pause entered the conversation, as Boris inhaled through his gritted teeth and he blinked a few times.

"...Carol had caught her months ago, taking medication from the nurses station," Boris said, "I didn't think twice about taking it. We didn't even stop to consider whether or not we should be taking it with alcohol. We were just so...so fucking angry at everything."

"I understand that," Krickett said, "Anger can make people do terrible things. Many things done in the name of God have been under the sentiment of anger. You don't have to tell me twice about what being angry can make a man do."

"She was the angry one. I just wanted to be numb," Boris said, "...when can I see her?"

"She's just down the hall, man. Just in another room, we'll go see her after this, okay?" Krickett asked, and Boris nodded.

"I need to apologize," he said, "I need her to hear that I'm sorry."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that," Krickett remarked, smiling sweetly at the old man.

                                                                                                  ***

Sitting in an upscale restaurant, having a fancy dinner with her winnings, Polly couldn't help but feel out of place. This was never the sort of place she and Jean frequented, and she certainly fit in even less now being the age she was. Boris, seated across from her, was cleaning his teeth with a toothpick as they waited for their main courses to arrive. Polly looked up from her menu across to his face, and she shook her head slightly.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she whispered, and he nodded.

"Please, do," he replied.

"I fucking hate places like this," she said, smirking, "These fancy high class restaurants where everyone acts so high and mighty, like they're the cream of the crop when really they're the bottom of the barrel. The absolute lowest scum of the earth. All their personality is wrapped up in money and fancy belongings and cocktail parties where they compare their childrens academic achievements the same way one compares a sports teams stats. It's sickening. Give me a dank old bar any day."

"Well then what are we doing here if you hate this environment so much?" Boris asked, and Polly chuckled.

"I guess every now and then you need to insert a bit of class into your life, even if it isn't entirely who you are. Plus, they're supposed to make an excellent steak. One of the bartenders at the casino recommended it for their grilling," Polly replied as she stirred the tiny plastic sword in her drink round in circles, making the ice clink against the glass; she rested her cheek on her other fist, elbow posted up on the table, and sighed, continuing, "I used to think the best thing in life was sharing it with other people. I don't know that I think that anymore. Now I think the best thing in life is sharing it with the right people. Not just anyone, but someone in particular. Someone who really understands you and gets what you're all about. Not just someone who happens to be in the same vicinity as you. That's why so many marriages of our generation failed, because people married for the sake of not being lonely."

"Amen," Boris said, "I'm not saying I hate Lorraine, but I do think we got married primarily because it was what was expected of us. I can only say I'm so happy for Chrissy's generation, that that expectation has been not just shattered but laughed out of the room even. I'm not saying I don't believe in marriage, but I don't believe in it for the sake of marriage because it's what society thinks you're supposed to do at a certain age. You don't have to get married to prove your love, but if you want to, then by all means, go ahead. I think it can be a beautiful thing when done properly."

He stuffed a small garlic stick in his mouth and then heard sniffling. He looked up, still mid chew, to see Polly trying not to cry.

"I never got to get married. We called one another 'wife' but it was never official. I'm so simultaneously angry and overjoyed for queer kids these days who get to grow up in a world where their love is more recognized than it is shunned. Certainly wasn't that way for me. I'm proud to be part of the generation that broke the barrier, but I'm also so mad that I don't have what they get. My whole life, all because I was born at just the wrong moment in time, has been nothing more than a blueprint for everyone who comes after, and that feels unjust," she said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and then setting her hand on the table as Boris leaned across and held it gently; she smiled and said, "After all, what good even is a life if you didn't actually live it?"

Boris nodded, understanding. He sighed and looked at the ring on her hand, a ring he'd seen time and time again but had never put together before that it might've meant something more than just a ring. It must've been a band between her and Jean.

"You know," Boris said, his voice somewhat slurred from the combination of alcohol and pills, "...I'm sorry I was so mean to you all these years at the home. I never really even took the time to learn about you, and I'm glad I got that chance now. Everyone has a story to tell."

"Some people's aren't worth hearing," Polly mumbled, pulling her hand away and taking the ring off her finger before reaching back, opening his palm up and placing it in there, shutting his fingers around it as she added, "Pawn this for me. Keep the money for yourself, I just want it gone. I can't continue to live with a daily reminder of my grief, even if it's disguised as love."

Boris put his hand in his coat pocket and nodded solemnly. Thankfully, the waiter showed up with their meals seconds later, and the two didn't have to speak much throughout eating.

                                                                                                ***

"You never stopped her though," Krickett said, "You never told her that maybe doing what you guys were doing, what she was doing in particular with pills, might be a bad idea."

"No, I didn't, you're right," Boris said as the two strolled down the long white hallway, his hands dug deep in his pants pockets, "But even if I had, I doubt she would've listened."

"She listens to you," Krickett said, "You're probably the closest she's ever come to listening to anyone in her time at the home."

"She was going to do what she was going to do," Boris said, "I just...got dragged along with her, encouraging it, much to my future embarrassment. I just hope she'll forgive me. I need her to forgive me. It's the only thing that will allow me to move past what we did."

"I'm sure she will," Krickett said, smiling as they approached the room. The two men stopped and turned to look at one another. Boris exhaled and looked at the door, then back at the young priest.

"I need to do this alone," he said, "You understand."

"I get it. Do what you need to. I'll be here when you're done," he said, "I'm sure she'll be glad to see you after this whole ordeal."

With that, Boris opened the door, entered, and shut the door behind him.

                                                                                               ***

The hotel room was fancy.

Spacious, well decorated and, because of these reasons, it felt like the very sort of place both would hate for differing reasons. As Boris raided the minibar, Polly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing her hair and taking stock of how their bender had thusfar affected her. She was feeling dizzy and lightheaded, but she was at least enjoying herself, even if she now felt somewhat sick. She reached into her purse, pulled out her pill case and removed three more serious painkillers, setting them on the bathroom counter in front of her. She knew she'd have to split them with Boris, but she didn't want to watch him damage himself any more than he already had. After all, he had Whittle, he had Chrissy, he had Father Krickett, and now his daughter - even with her memory problems - was awake once again.

What did she have?

She had a fucking hot tub.

Polly took one of the plastic wrapped cups from off the top of the stack on the counter, released it from its prison and filled it with water from the sink before swallowing all three pills herself, and then shaking her head, looking at herself in the mirror once again. She looked down at the bathroom counter, at her chipped nail polish, and she shut her eyes, exhaling deeply. When she looked back up at the mirror, she spotted Boris standing in the doorframe behind her, and she yelped.

"Don't do that, it's extremely creepy!" she said loudly, almost laughing, a hand to her chest as he chuckled and shook a bottle at her.

"Want some?" he asked, "It's Peach flavored."

"I hate peaches," Polly said.

"Pffft, what kind of lesbian are you?" Boris asked, the both of them laughing as Polly sat on the side of the bathtub and held her plastic cup in her hand, twirling it momentarily before extending it out, asking to be filled. Boris gladly filled her cup, and then seated himself beside her as she lifted the cup to her lips and drank.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" Boris asked after taking a swig himself straight from the bottle, "Any idea?"

"I never plan for tomorrow," Polly said, "I'm always surprised I make it through today. Why plan for something that isn't a sure thing."

"How very zen of you," Boris said as she drank more from the cup, and then slipped back into the dry bathtub, laughing hysterically. He scooted himself into the tub and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her head to his shoulder.

"...you don't know how lucky you are," she whispered, "To have something to go back to. I know it isn't perfect, but you have things that could improve your life. What do I got? I got a big ol' bucket of hot water. Really something worth sticking around for."

"You got me," Boris said.

"I guess," Polly said, "But you can't base your entire life around a friend. Not when you have so much fuller things to base your life around. I think that's what I've discovered about myself throughout my life. I'm just...a passerby. I'm not meant to stick around too long in peoples lives."

"That's not-" Boris started, before burping and covering his mouth with his arm, "-that's not true at all! Why would you think that?"

"Everyone leaves sooner or later. That's the thing being at that home has taught me more than anything else. Nothing is eternal except the ending," Polly said, "...when I was young, I could never foresee myself being old, and once I got older, I couldn't believe how quickly it happened, almost overnight in an instant. It made no sense. Yet, here we are, at the end of our lives, a moment we all must face, a moment that really - no matter how vastly different we may be in life - brings us all together and makes us all the same in death."

Boris sighed and leaned his head back, exhaling loudly.

"Damn," he said quietly, "What a bummer."

Polly rested her head on his shoulder again and shut her eyes.

"Boris?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Don't let them make fun of me," she whispered, and he nodded.

"It won't be for a long time, but sure, I won't let them make fun of you."

"Only you get to do that."

Boris smirked and drifted off to sleep. When he awoke hours later, his back was killing him, the room was somewhat spinning, and he had a pounding headache. He groaned as he shifted in the bathtub and tried to climb out, only to steady himself on Polly's shoulder to do so, and once he'd gotten out of the tub he reached back in and grabbed her hand.

"Hey," he said, "Wake up. Wake up, it's really..."

She was cold.

"...late."

A darkness washed over the room. Boris squeezed her hand, and knelt on the bathroom floormat, leaning over the side of the tub and putting his fingers to her neck. There was no pulse. He quickly stood up, best as he could, and rushed to call an ambulance. Sitting there in the ambulance with her, as they raced her to a nearby hospital, Boris couldn't help but kiss her hands and cry, begging her to stay with him. It wasn't until he called Father Krickett at the hospital that the cops showed up as well, and Boris had to relay the whole tale to Father Krickett, who was the only one he knew wouldn't judge him.

God bless that man, he thought.

                                                                                              ***

Boris shut the door behind him and looked around the room, sighing.

He started to walk across the room, towards where Polly was laying, and he smiled.

"Hey," he said, "It's good to see you. Um, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I encouraged us to do what we did, and that...and that I didn't stop it sooner. I just felt like we both needed to let loose a bit. Didn't know how loose we'd gotten until that morning. You were right, you know. I mean, about having things to live for. But...you were one of those things too. I think the friendship we had was maybe the most real friendship I've ever had, and I...I'll never be able to thank you enough for putting me through it."

He felt himself choking up as his fingertips played around with something in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it.

"I still have your ring, you know," he said, trying to smile, though the pain was making it difficult, "I uh...I don't think I'll pawn it. I think I'll hold onto it. That way I...I'll always have you around."

He looked at Polly's lifeless body on the metal slab, still fully clothed, and he sighed heavily, his chest shaking. He slipped the ring on his own finger, and then he picked up her cold hand and put it to his cheek, shutting his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, "I'm so...so sorry, Polly. You were the best of us all. I just....I'm glad you got to go with me and not alone."

It was then, in that very small, cold lifeless room, that he finally knew, from that moment on, nothing would ever go back to how it had been.

                                                                                                  ***

"You know what's awful about this pudding?" Boris asked as he sat at the cafeteria table with Carol and Burt the first week he was there, "other than it's just plain terrible? It doesn't have that skin. Pudding that doesn't have skin is the worst pudding."

"You like your pudding to be as aged as you, huh?" Polly shouted, a few tables down, getting his attention.

"Shut up, Polly!" he replied, the both of them quietly laughing to themselves.

The best kind of friendship, after all, is the one where you never have to acknowledge you were friends to begin with.

Standing outside in the hall, staring at the door he'd passed through a million times before, Boris couldn't help but feel...odd. Father Krickett stood right beside him, hand on his shoulder, grind on his face. Boris turned and looked at the priest - his diamond blue eyes and his ruffly blonde hair - and wanted to feel something, but he couldn't. He didn't know what to feel. All this time he'd waited for this moment, for his daughter to wake back up, and yet here that very moment was and he wasn't sure how to broach it.

"Just go in," Krickett said, "I'm sure she'll be glad to see you."

"I just...I feel so awkward," Boris replied, "It's been so long. She's been in a coma for...for so long now."

"I know, but think of it as a new beginning," Krickett said, "Everything will be fresh and-"

The door opened, and a nurse walked out. She stopped and looked at the two men as she held the bedpan in her hands. After a moment she cleared her throat and spoke.

"Are you the father?" she asked.

"Yes," they both replied.

"No, the father of the girl, not a...nevermind," the nurse said, making them chuckle as she continued, "Um, she's awake, but...well, you should walk with me a ways and let me explain the situation."

Boris and Krickett followed the nurse, whose nametag read 'Jenny', down the hall as she took the bedpan to the bathroom.

"She's fine, right?" Boris asked, "I mean, there weren't any other complications were there?"

"No, she's perfectly fine, physically. She's going to require a few months of physical therapy to relearn how to walk, but otherwise she'll good as new. The issue isn't her body. The issue is her mind," Nurse Jenny said.

"How so?" Krickett asked, putting his hands in his coat pockets.

"Well, the coma has left her rather...scattered. This is normal, it happens to many people who awaken from comas. They don't really remember things from before. A lot of times they get their memory back, but...sometimes they don't ever regain it. Right now she's very coherent, she's very with it, and that's a good sign, it means her brain activity is normal. But she doesn't seem to remember her family," Nurse Jenny said, dumping the bedpan in a toilet and then turning to the men as she leaned against the stall wall.

"What...what do you mean she doesn't...you mean she doesn't know who her mother and I are?" Boris asked, "Is that...is that what you're telling me?"

"Again, sir, it's common," Nurse Jenny replied, waving a hand and trying to quell his upset, "And a lot of times, hell likely most of the time, their memory returns over time. So you have nothing really to worry about, because she'll probably be okay, but you should prepare just for the off chance that she doesn't. Trying to form a family with someone who doesn't know they're family with you is tough for most people, and often times they rarely get back to the state of family they'd once had."

"So, what...what do I do?" Boris asked as they began to exit the bathroom.

"Honestly, my professional medical advice? Just listen. Be there. That's all you really can do," Nurse Jenny said, "I have to get back and empty more bedpans. You fellas need any help, there's other nurses around."

With that she turned and headed down the hall, leaving Boris and Krickett standing there together, surprised. Boris looked at Krickett, who scratched his forehead and exhaled, pushing up his glasses with his other hand.

"So..." Krickett said, "Should we go in?"

                                                                                             ***

Polly was lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, when her door opened and Carol was standing there. Carol glanced in and looked around, and - upon noticing the completed hot tub - smiled as she looked back at Polly.

"It looks good, she did a good job!" Carol said, "Have you seen Boris?"

"Not since yesterday," Polly said, "...why did you send her here?"

"What?"

"That woman, the one who installed my hot tub, why did you send her here?" Polly asked, not looking at Carol, still not even sitting up from the bed. Carol tapped her nails on the side of the door and sucked on her tongue, thinking.

"I guess because I wanted you to feel like you mattered too," Carol said, "That you were our friend, and I figured it'd make you feel better to be around a pretty young woman. Make you not feel so...old."

"...do you ever think you might fall in love again, Carol?" Polly asked, her genuineness catching Carol by surprise.

"I...I mean, anything is possible, I suppose, but-"

"You and Boris seem friendly enough."

"Boris?! Please, hah, that's a riot, dear. No, Boris is nothing but a curmudgeonly amusement," Carol said, "He's a nice guy, he's entertaining, but he's not my type in the slightest. I won't lie and say I don't feel anything for him, because I do, but it's...familial, you know what I mean? Boris makes me feel like I haven't lost everyone in my family, in my life, because he makes me feel like a family member."

Polly nodded and smirked a bit.

"Yeah, I guess I understand that," she said.

"Well, if you happen to see that sack of family garbage, point him my way," Carol said, as she exited, pulling Polly's door shut behind her. Polly finally sat up and looked at the hot tub. Had having that young woman around made Polly feel better about herself? That she wasn't sure of, but what she was sure of was that Carol was right, and she felt like she finally belonged to their group, and that Boris especially felt comforting, like a family member you just liked to be around.

Still...she couldn't help but feel like something else was missing in her life, something she'd once had and now longed for yet again. Something like love. And here she was, at the end of her life - presumably - with so much love to give.

And no woman to give it to.

The thought just made her want to drink.

                                                                                                 ***

Boris and Father Krickett entered the room and Ellen smiled at them as they strolled inside. As Boris sat in a chair by the bed, and Krickett stood by the window, Ellen watched them closely, as if she didn't trust them, let alone know them. Boris ran his hands down his tweed coat and adjusted the cap on his head.

"Um, it's been a while," Boris said.

"That's what they tell me," Ellen replied, making Boris chuckle as she added, "I'm...I'm sorry, I don't know you. They say you're my father, but I just...I don't really remember much of anything."

"That's perfectly normal. Your memory will likely return the longer you're awake, especially with the aide of therapy," Father Krickett said, "Your mother should be along shortly, she was stopping by the restroom when we entered, so."

"And you are?" Ellen asked, turning to Krickett, "A priest?"

"I am indeed a priest, yes, but I am also a friend of your fathers," Krickett replied, "Do you remember why you wound up in a coma? Have they at least informed you of anything in regards to that?"

"I remember I was having a surgery, but...otherwise, not really, sorry," Ellen said, looking ashamed.

"Sweetheart, don't be glum about it, it's...these things happen, it'll take time but you'll come back to it," Boris said, making her smile. The door opened and Lorraine entered, pushing something into her purse and apologizing for taking so long before putting her arms around Ellen and squeezing her tight. As the hug ended, Boris found himself getting up and ushering Lorraine out of the room, back into the hospital hallway.

"What is it?" Lorraine asked, as he shut the door behind them.

"She doesn't remember us," Boris said, "The coma has given her amnesia. Now, they tell me that if we just work with her, get her into therapy, then perhaps we can help her restore it, but for the time being, she doesn't really know who we are."

"I bet you're happy about that, aren't you?" Lorraine asked, surprising him.

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Boris asked, his voice growling.

"Oh please, come off it, you've always wanted a second chance. After all, isn't that what the whole business with that school girl you're housing all about? Aren't you just really substituting her for your own failures and shortcomings as a father?"

"How dare you!" Boris replied, snarling now, "I'm doing that because that girl deserves a better home life than the one she had! Every child does!"

"Please, you're simply alleviating yourself of any guilt or responsibility," Lorraine said, "And I understand, Boris, I really do, because, god knows...it isn't easy to live with the things that have happened to us as a family unit. But at least don't try and pretend that isn't what you're doing, that's more shameful than doing it to begin with."

"You don't know anything about me," Boris said, his voice growing quieter, but angrier, "You live in your fancy condo and I subjected myself to living in a nursing home so I could maybe learn to understand how to be friends with people. But you just...you stayed the same while I adapted and grew. You stayed stagnant, and now you're saying I'm the one being selfish?"

"Not selfish, no," Lorraine said, "God, no, um...I don't know what the word is, but I understand why you're doing this. You want to rebuild your relationship with Ellen, but an Ellen who doesn't remember the accident, who doesn't remember you caused it, who doesn't hold any grudge against you for the loss of her legs. And I understand why you'd do that, I really truly do, but-"

"You're unbelievable," Boris said, as the door opened and Krickett stepped out.

"Are we okay out here?" he asked.

"Ask Miss High & Mighty," Boris said, waving his hand at his wife.

"Mrs. High & Mighty, is it?" Krickett said, turning to face her, "Mr. High & Mighty here seems to think there's a problem."

Lorraine smirked at Krickett's attempt at humor and sighed.

"He's completely impossible to talk to, always has been, always states nobody understands who he is or how he really feels or thinks," Lorraine said, "All I was saying was I understand if he's happy about Ellen's memory being wiped, because he gets a fresh start now, a clean slate, to build something new with her. Something not so tainted by her anger towards him for her disability."

"I didn't cause the accident because I was mad at her about Soccer practice," Boris said, turning and pointing at Lorraine, "I was never mad at her, I understood why she felt the way she did, hell, I was never big into team sports myself and it wasn't until living in the home that I finally learned how to cooperate with others and be friends with people! No, I was never mad at her. I was mad at YOU. You pushed her into playing team sports when she so clearly didn't want to, and I was distracted because she...she sounded so much like you that it...it threw me, and I snapped, and I wasn't paying attention to the road."

Lorraine stared at him.

"What...what are you saying?" Lorraine asked.

"I'm saying you are a bad person, and a bad mother, and a bad wife," Boris snarled, "That you pushed her to be interested in things she was never interested in, and then punished her when she wouldn't comply, and you pushed me to be just like you even though I'm nothing like you. She didn't have parents, she had hostage negotiators, and frankly, maybe you're right...maybe I am glad she doesn't remember us, but certainly not for my sake. For hers. She shouldn't have to remember people who made her youth so painful."

Boris turned and started to storm off down the hall, as Krickett started after him.

"Boris, maybe just come back and-"

"Leave me alone!" he shouted, tearing away from the priest and heading through the doors into the stairwell. Only one person could understand how he felt, and he had to see her.

                                                                                                 ***

Polly was seated in her hot tub, in an old one piece swimsuit she'd had for years. As she leaned against the bubble jets and felt them relieve tension in her lower back, she lifted the cigar to her lips and inhaled. She blew the smoke out and then lifted the small cup of scotch to her lips and sipped, just as the door opened and Boris stumbled inside.

"Hello there," she said.

"...let's get drunk," Boris said.

"Waaaay ahead of you, pal," Polly said, lifting her glass.

Boris snatched the bottle from the side of the hot tub and drank some, then wiped his lips on his arm and looked at her.

"People are...shit," Boris said, "Just utter shit. You think you're on the right path, you think you're becoming a better more understanding person, and what do they do to you? They hit you so hard that you fall off said path and go back to the bad person you used to be. The bad person you worked so hard to stop being. People are garbage."

"Amen to that," Polly said, taking another puff, "It just seems like being the worst version of yourself is so much more fun, and easy, considering that's what everyone wants us to be."

"Then let's be the worst versions of ourselves," Boris said.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we get in your car," Boris said, climbing into the hot tub still in his clothes and looking down at her, "And we drive to a casino, and we gamble until we're flat broke, and we take all sorts of pills. You still got pills, right?"

"Got all kinds, pal," Polly said.

"Good," Boris said, "Let's get fucked up."

Boris had a horrible nightmare that night, one so bad that it woke him up and sent him to the kitchen for a glass of whiskey to calm his nerves. As he yanked the bottle out from the cabinet and poured himself a small glass, he sat down at the table and sipped from the glass gingerly, savoring the ease it brought him in this moment of pain. He groaned and rubbed his back, which was having a rather nasty habit of hurting more and more lately. After he finished the drink, he put everything back and laid back down in bed, thinking about the dream.

A dream which would soon be a reality.

                                                                                              ***

"What do you mean?" Boris asked, sitting at the table as Chrissy ate breakfast.

"My grandpa is in town and he's coming to see me," Chrissy repeated, scooping up some cereal and eating it, continuing after she'd finished chewing, "he's going to come here and get me and take me somewhere to get something to eat."

"Well that sounds nice," Whittle said, standing behind Boris and stirring sugar into her coffee with a small spoon, adding after taking a sip, "Why are you okay with seeing him and not your parents?"

"Because grandpa was always nice to me," Chrissy said, "Grandma's been dead for a long time, so I was always the focus of his attention, and he, unlike my parents, wasn't dealing with something stupid like a relationship."

"Fair enough," Whittle said, stepping away and getting a carton of eggs from the fridge. Boris pulled his cap off and scratched the small bald spot on his head before putting his cap back on and readjusting it to fit correctly. He took a sip of his coffee and then took a bite of his toast before he looked back at Chrissy and sighed.

"Well," he said, "If anything comes up, you know you can call us and we'll come get you."

"I know, thank you. We're just going to the park across from the school," Chrissy said, "But I think it'll be okay. I have to get ready for school."

Chrissy took her dishes to the sink, washed them and then headed to her bedroom, leaving Boris and Whittle alone. Whittle sat down across from Boris and sipped her coffee as her stove heated up so she could cook them eggs. She smiled at him and raised an eyebrow.

"You okay, man?" she asked.

"I just...I'm surprised is all," Boris said, "She always made it like she didn't have anyone in her family, and that we were her family, and now-"

"What're you scared of being replaced? Boris, we're not blood related to her but we give her a stable home, and in the long term, that's what she'll really remember and truly appreciate is having had a safe place to grow up in. She has every right to see her grandfather. I'm happy she has someone from her family," Whittle said, "I hate that I'm not close to anyone in my family."

"You're not?"

"You see my mom coming around?" she asked, and Boris grunted. She had a point. Just then there was a knock at the door and Whittle groaned as she got back up and went to answer it. She opened the door to Polly, who eagerly invited herself inside and plopped a small white paper bag down on the kitchen table as she went to pour herself a cup of coffee from the pot.

"Donuts?" Boris asked, pulling the bag towards himself and opening it.

"Yep," Polly said, "I got a bear claw specifically for you since last time I brought you donuts that was the only thing you complained about was that I didn't have bear claws, so to save myself from bullshit I brought one."

"Gee, how totally generous of you," Boris said, pulling the bear claw from the bag and biting into it as Polly stood at the table drinking her coffee.

"So what's going on?" she asked.

"Chrissy is seeing her grandfather," Boris said.

"Like, her actual grandfather? And you guys are okay with this?" Polly asked, looking between Boris and Whittle.

"We're not her parents," Whittle reiterated, almost laughing, "We...we don't have much say in who she sees, especially if it's someone from her actual family. She's just our ward, not our child. We're just trying to give her a safe space to grow in while her parents figure some shit out."

"They actually signed off on this weird little love in?" Polly asked.

"They had to, otherwise we were harboring a minor, and that's, like, really illegal," Whittle said, finishing her coffee and standing up, "I have to get dressed. I have a second interview today and I have to be there in an hour. You two behave yourselves."

"Yes mom," they both said as she walked off. As soon as Whittle was down the hall and out of immediate earshot, Polly looked at Boris.

"So...spying on the meet up?" Polly asked.

"You can read my mind," Boris said, standing up to get his coat, "Grab the donuts."

                                                                                                 ***

Sitting in Polly's gremlin, Boris's hand in a bag of chips while Polly watched across the street with binoculars, she couldn't help but feel sleazy about the whole thing. She sighed, set the binoculars on her lap and turned to him, pushing her arm into the chip bag and grabbing a handful herself, shoveling them into her mouth.

"This feels...wrong," Polly said, making Boris shrug.

"I'm just looking out for her," he replied, "We don't need this man. He's her grandfather, but...anything can happen. She deserves to have adults looking out for her best interests. I'm just..."

Boris trailed off and looked out the window. Polly raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, looking at him.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"I'm trying to be a better father figure than the father I actually was," Boris said quietly, making Polly's heart break just a little bit. She leaned back in her chair and raised the binoculars to her eyes, looking out the window again. They'd shown up here around the time school got out, so they knew anytime now Chrissy would show up. After another few minutes of no sightings, Polly lowered the binoculars again and looked at Boris, who was sipping from the straw lodged in the cup of a Big Gulp they'd stopped to get and share.

"Don't you think this is an invasion of privacy?" Polly asked.

"Who are you, Carol?" Boris asked, "She's the one who's interested in morally correct ways of going about things. I like you because you're so morally ambiguous. Don't go gettin' all goody two shoes on me now, okay?"

"Yeah, but, I mean think of it, this is her alone time with the grandfather she actually has, the one member of her family she says really cares about her, and here we are just whole heartedly intruding on that space. That seems...I don't know, wrong somehow."

"Do I look like a man who cares about what's right or wrong?" Boris asked, turning to face her, making her laugh.

"Okay, Bruce Willis, calm down," she said, "I was just raising an observation was all," she replied, just as a knock came at the window, surprising them both. They turned to see Chrissy standing outside the car, glaring at them. Polly started to sink into her seat.

"Don't move, she might not be able to see us," she whispered.

"Oh please, she's not the one old enough to have cataracts," Boris said, leaning across her and rolling the window down; he tipped his hat at her once it was down and asked, "Afternoon, ma'am."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Just seemed like a pleasant day to sit in the car and look at the park," Polly said, "Is there a law against that?"

"You knew this was my private time with my grandfather. What, you don't trust him? You don't trust me to make sound decisions about who I associate with from my own family?" Chrissy asked, making Boris's heart begin to sink at the sound of the anger in her voice. She furrowed her brow at him, adding, "This is really rude. I know you guys care about me, but this is not very cool."

"Chrissy, we just-"

Chrissy turned and began to storm away from the car, as Boris struggled to get free from his seatbelt and get out of the car, heading across the street after her, leaving Polly to try and follow them. As he approached her from the back, he reached out and grabbed her shoulder gently, making her turn back to face him.

"I just want you to be safe, that's all," Boris said, "I know what it's like to come from a broken family-"

"Yeah, but you're the one who broke it," Chrissy snapped at him, surprising him as she continued, "You weren't the child in it, like me."

"I...I mean, that's true, but I..." Boris stuttered, trailing off.

He had no comeback, she was right. She was completely right and he had absolutely no defense for his actions. They'd been well intentioned, but that rarely went over right. Now here he was, standing in the street, upsetting the one person in the world he'd tried so hard to protect. He'd yet again let another young girl down, and he felt a crushing pain in his gut. Chrissy sighed and looked back towards the park, at another old man sitting on a bench in a suit, licking an ice cream cone and waving at them.

"I'll see you at home," Chrissy said, before heading off.

Boris stood there and watched her walk away, like time itself had stopped. After a few moments, he heard a car horn honking at him, and someone shouting at him to get out of the street. He suddenly felt Polly's hands on his arm, tugging him off to the side, back towards the Gremlin.

"Okay," she said, "Maybe we shouldn't stand in the street, god forbid people think we're senile."

"...take me home," Boris said.

"You got it," Polly said, as they both got back into the car and she started it back up, backing out and driving down the street. She didn't say anything, but she stole a few glances at him and noticed he had tears swelling up in his eyes.

"Hey," she started, "Buddy, for what it's worth, I bet you're twice the grandpa that guy is."

"I just keep doing it," Boris said, "I just keep fucking up and hurting people."

"You were just doing what you thought was noble. Your heart was in the right place," Polly said.

"How come my moral compass is so askew when presented to other people?" Boris asked, and Polly shrugged.

"No idea pal," she said, "But trust me, I think what you tried to do was sweet. Trying to make sure she wouldn't get hurt in any way, even emotionally."

"And then I hurt her emotionally."

Polly didn't respond, and the two sat in silence the rest of the drive. Instead of going straight home, however, Polly took him to a small bar and grill and treated him to lunch and a few drinks. This seemed to lighten his mood a bit, and she was happy about that. She didn't like seeing her best friend unhappy. Afterwards she dropped him off at the apartment, stayed for a bit, played cards and eventually headed back to the home. After parking and heading inside, she headed for her bedroom, where she found Megan hard at work finishing the hot tub installation. As she entered, Megan looked up and didn't say a thing but did smile, and then she refocused on her work.

"Boy what a day," Polly said, "Men are so emotional."

Megan snickered a bit, and kept drilling.

"...do you have a man in your life?" Polly asked, and Megan shook her head.

"Nah," Megan said, "I'm bisexual but I don't really have anyone in my life right now."

"Looking?" Polly asked.

"Look," Megan stood up, changing her drill bit, "Um, I'm flattered, I really am. You seem super cool and really nice, but clearly there's reasons this would never work. Age, for one thing. I'm 24 and you're...?"

"It's not nice to ask a woman's age," Polly said, making Megan laugh.

"Polly, you're really great, and hell, if I were older or you were younger or something was different, then perhaps but, you know, people might think I'm a golddigger or something."

"A golddigger? Do I look like I have money?" Polly asked, laughing, "Megan, you don't have to explain. It's just nice to feel like you can still like someone at my age and to not have it be so rudely rejected. So, thank you for that."

"Of course," Megan said, "I should be done with this any day now by the way."

"You wanna drop by when it's finished? Have a glass of champagne and relax? Mi casa su casa."

Megan smiled and nodded as she pulled off her work gloves and let her hair back down.

"I'd like that," she said.

As Megan packed her things and left for the night, Polly waited until she heard the truck pull away and then, sitting on the side of the bed, started quietly crying to herself. She opened up a drawer on her bedside table, pulled out a bottle of painkillers and took a few, and then exhaled. She laid down and stared at the ceiling. Megan had made Polly feel pretty again. But her absence also made Polly remember just how alone she truly felt. Maybe the high of the painkillers would help a bit.

                                                                                            ***

Boris sat on the couch, reading a book when Whittle came in the door with Chrissy. Chrissy walked right past Boris and into her bedroom, where she quickly closed and locked the door. Whittle glanced at Boris, who didn't respond. She sighed and walked around the couch, sat on the corner of the coffee table and looked at him.

"Look," she said, "I don't blame you. I think you thought you were doing the right thing. I just...I'm sorry she reacted that way, even if she had every right to."

"Mmm," Boris said, nodding, turning a page.

Whittle exhaled, stood up and began to walk down the hallway when she turned back and looked at him.

"Boris?" she asked, making him turn his head to face her; she continued, "someday you're going to have to accept that you can't save everyone."

As Whittle headed into the bathroom, Boris looked back at his book until a knock came at the front door. Boris sighed as anther knock came and he stood up, heading to the door. He opened it firmly, surprised, but happy, to see Father Krickett there.

"Oh," Boris said, "What're you doing here?"

"Lorraine is in the car," Krickett said, "She made me climb the stairs to come get you."

"Get me for what?" Boris asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Boris, it's...it's Ellen," Krickett said, making Boris's breath catch in his chest as Krickett smiled and said, "she's awake."

The key clicked in the lock and the door swung open. Carol stood there, holding the door open, as Boris, Polly and Burt walked inside. Polly put her hands on her hips and surveyed the place, nodding as she did, as if going down a mental checklist. Finally she turned and looked at Boris, now standing beside her, and she sighed.

"Yep, you can tell someone died in here," she said.

"How can you tell something like that?" Burt asked, making his way more inside.

"There's a sort of change in the tone of a room, it's hard to explain, but it happens when someone dies in a place," Polly said, "That room becomes, in a way, haunted just by the mere act of the death itself, even if no ghost is present."

"Spooky," Boris said, turning back to Carol, "Who's room was this?"

"Clarence Morrow's," Carol said, struggling to get the key free from the lock and shutting the door behind them, "You guys didn't know him, hell I didn't even really know him. But, seeing as I'm essentially the one in charge, it's up to me to clean out his room and prepare it for whoever is supposed to be in it next."

"If it's your job, then why are we here?" Polly asked.

"Because I'm making you guys do it. That's the benefit to being the boss," Carol said, making Polly laugh.

Boris, during all this, had begun to wander around the room, looking at all the little trinkets on the tables; framed photographs, books, little glass figurines. He could hear the others in the back laughing and talking, but none of it registered as he walked over to an enormous cabinet and, sliding the doors open, stood completely stunned at what he saw.

"You guys," he said, "Look at this."

The others joined him, standing in hushed silence around the cabinet, a cabinet which was absolutely packed to the brim with records upon records upon records. The gang stood there momentarily in awe, until finally Polly stepped forward, slipped an album off the shelf and looked at the cover. It was a compilation of Golden Oldies hits from 'better days'.

"So where's the record player?" she asked, and followed Burt's index finger as it pointed at a small, newer model record player sitting on a tiny table by the wall. Polly approached it, sliding the record out of its sleeve, dropping it on the player, turning the player on and plopping the needle down in a specific spot. She shut her eyes as the music began to pour from the built in speaker, letting the music wash over her like a cleansing wave of joy.

She could always remember where she'd been the first time she heard this song.

                                                                                             ***

"Downtown" by Petunia Clark was playing over the speaker of the grocery store as Polly rolled her cart along the bread aisle. Her list sticking out the top of her purse, she would glance down occasionally to make sure she was picking up the right items before reaching out to the shelf and grabbing the package and plopping it down into her cart. Just as she had set a thing of bread in her cart and started pushing forward she realized she'd tapped another cart, and immediately looked horrified.

"I am so sorry!" she said, "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"That's alright," the woman in front of her said, a woman she instantly recognized as her mothers friend Anita, "Oh, Polly. How are you doing?"

"I'm doing okay," Polly said, fidgeting nervously with her fingernails on the cart handle, "Just picking up a few things. How have you been?"

"Busy as always. How's your mother?" Anita asked, and Polly shrugged.

"Haven't spoken to her much lately," she replied.

"That's what I figured," Anita said, as the women started rolling their carts down the aisle together.

"What's that mean?" Polly asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well goodness, it can't be easy for the poor woman," Anita said, "Having a...a queer for a daughter. I can only imagine the shame she feels knowing she won't ever get grandchildren or a real anniversary dinner to cook."

"For your information," Polly said, "not that it's any of your business you old shrew, but that is hardly the biggest issue my mother and I have with one another, lord knows. There's plenty of things I resent her for, and that's surprisingly low on the list."

Polly's venom had taken Anita by surprise, who stood there looking aghast at the way Polly was speaking to her.

"In fact, one of the things I have the biggest issue with is her absolutely terrible choice in companionship," Polly said, "Maybe one day she'll come to her senses and decide to be friends with better people, not that I'm holding my breath."

It was the first time Polly had stood up for hers and Jeans relationship, and to someone her own mother knew, no less. It was a pretty proud day, and for the years to come, anytime "Downtown" came on the radio, it was a song that filled her with pride.

                                                                                                ***

"Look at these photos," Boris said, sliding the album in his lap towards Carol, who leaned over to look at them as he continued, adding, "The man had a real knack for photography. Wonder if he ever did it professionally or if it was just a hobby."

"We should hang some of these up around the home, as a sort of makeshift memorial," Carol said, "Maybe do that in general from now on, just, whenever someone dies, we take something of theirs and put it somewhere in the home so they're not really gone. Make the home a living museum of the dearly departed."

"Creepy," Polly said, "Be like a haunted house."

The record finished and moved on over to the next song, which was "Let's Get Away From It All" by Frank Sinatra, and immediately caught Burt's attention. He glanced over at the record player and smirked, thinking about where he could remember the song from, a memory he still held dear, his wedding night. He shut his eyes and listened to the song, letting it take him back to that most wonderful night.

                                                                                                   ***

The band was small, but professional, and the cake was hand made by his wifes sister, but it was overall a happy occasion. Burt and his wife, Martha, had planned this for months, only for the whole thing to go off without a hitch. Dancing in the middle of the floor, surrounded by everyone else dancing with them, in the dining hall they had rented out, Burt and Martha couldn't help but feel as if their life was about to be perfect.

"You know," Martha said, putting her lips to Burt's ear, "There's a wedding night tradition that we simply can't ignore. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Burt smirked and nodded, "I was looking forward to it."

During the reception, Burt and Martha snuck away and went down the street a bit, into a small old style Italian pizzeria and, sitting there in the booth - he in his tux and she in her wedding gown - ordered an enormous anchovi and pepperoni pizza. She didn't wait a second once it was set on the table, and instantly began chowing down, as Burt watched her, smiling.

"Don't you want any?" she asked, cheese dangling from her lips as she pushed an anchovi into her mouth, "It's delicious."

"How'd this tradition get started anyway?" he asked.

"My mom," she said, "My mother was always fighting against the grain growing up, never letting herself be pigeonholed just for being a woman. She came up with this tradition, because she thought the idea of a bride offering herself up to the groom was somewhat sexist, and that pizza was just a lot more fun. I promised her when I got married that I'd do the same."

"That's really cute," Burt said, chuckling and picking up a piece of pizza, as the radio changed overheard and the song came on. Together they sat there, eating pizza and listening to Sinatra, and since that night, every anniversary they had was getting the same pizza and dancing to that very same song. It was a memory painted by the crooning of Sinatra, and he never once let that be tainted, even when Martha was killed in her 60s by food poisoning. Burt still, every year on their anniversary, ate the same kind of pizza and listened to the song, just by himself now.

But he never really felt alone. And he owed a lot of that to the song. As long as he had the song, she would always be there with him. It's just another way a simple piece of music can save a life.

                                                                                                ***

Carol opened the closet and looked inside, noticing - of all things - a series of dresses. Taken aback, she raised her eyebrows in surprise, as Polly came and stood beside her, looking inside with her.

"His wife's?" Carol asked, and Polly scoffed.

"You see any wedding photos in this room?" Polly asked, "Please, this man was clearly not straight. A shame he couldn't have come of age these days. He could've had the life he really wanted, the life he deserved to have. But we all have to take what we get, I suppose."

"These are beautiful," Carol said, running her hands down one of the dresses, "They certainly had taste, that's for sure. You think they were a cross dresser, or-"

"I have no idea, and with them gone there's no real way to know. I never saw them in a dress, so I can't really say," Polly said, "Either way, you should take their wardrobe. It shouldn't go to waste."

"I'll split it with you," Carol said, surprising Polly, and making her smile sweetly.

"Deal."

Carol began thumbing through the clothes as the record ticked over to yet another new track, this time "Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison, and she smiled to herself as she thought back to the memory she held most dear when it came to this song, and that was the day she finally sold some of her designs. A memory she could never forget, that's for sure.

                                                                                                   ***

Carol was sitting in her apartments kitchen, waiting desperately for the mail to arrive. Her roommate, a longtime friend by the name of Celia, was downstairs waiting to pick up the mail the second it was arrived, simply to alleviate anymore stress on Carol. Carol couldn't stop fidgeting, and chewing her bottom lip. She'd been so worried that it would be bad news that she had barely slept for the past week. Finally the door swung open and Celia rushed in, holding the mail and tossing it onto the table, as she searched through the pile and picked out one letter in particular.

"Well?" Carol asked.

"You sound like you're about to explode," Celia said, laughing, opening the letter, "Let's see, cross your fingers!"

Carol did as she was told as Celia got the envelope opened, pulled the letter out and unfolded it. She stood there reading for a moment, then cleared her throat and read aloud.

"We're pleased to tell you that we love your designs and would love for you to show us more. We have decided to go ahead and purchase a few of them already, and have enclosed with this letter a check for the sum of what we bought. Let's keep the lines of communication open, and try to have a meeting sometime within the next week so we can discuss more certain long term employment. We think you have what it takes to make great clothes. Thank you again, The Boyyd Clothing Line!" Celia said, as Carol looked surprised when she was handed the check.

"That's more than I ever made working any summer job!" Carol said loudly, then hopping from her chair and started jumping up and down screaming as Celia ran to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of champagne. Carol raced to the small portable radio they kept by the sink for when they did dishes and tuned it to a random station, as "Pretty Woman" played over the tinny speakers. Celia poured her friend some champagne and together they drank and danced, overjoyed about her success.

And though the job never really panned out, and though Celia moved out a few months later, Carol could never bring herself to hate that memory, nor that song. It always brought a smile to her lips when it played, and she always appreciated that one moment of pure, unadulterated happiness.

A feeling she wouldn't feel very often otherwise throughout her life.

                                                                                                ***

The day had begun to wane and give into early evening. The others were starting to get hungry, and eventually Carol, Burt and Polly were ready to go eat dinner. Boris was still looking through some papers, sorting stuff for the garbage and what to keep. As the others left, Carol stood in front of Boris - who had seated himself on the bed - and touched his shoulder.

"You want to join us?" she asked.

"I'm not very hungry right now," Boris said, "You guys go ahead, I'll catch up in a bit."

Carol smiled, nodded and patted his shoulder as she followed the others out the door and into the hall.

"Let's order a pizza," he could hear Burt say as they began to drift down the hallway, "My treat."

Boris put some more papers into a trash bag and then found some related to an old automobile Clarence had apparently owned. He thumbed through a few of them, reading the details of the car, and figured this sort of thing was best to be shredded so no information, not that it'd be useful to anyone these days, would be gleamed from it. As he set these papers aside, the record player ticked onto a new track, and "My Girl" by The Temptations started playing. Boris looked up and stopped what he was doing. He set the papers down, stood up and walked over to the record player. He could remember the last time he'd heard this song...god the memories it brought back.

                                                                                                ***

Boris stood at the window, palms against it, peering inside, when a nurse came out and looked at him.

"Got a little one in there?" she asked, approaching him.

"Yes, she was born a few hours ago," Boris said, "I'm so nervous. I don't think I'm going to be a very good father."

"Don't worry, every father thinks that at first," the nurse said, "Just be there for her, give her the love she needs and protect her the best you can and you'll do just fine. I guarantee it."

Boris smiled. The nurse walked away, and Boris, listening to the clicking of her heels on the linoleum, almost made him miss the radio that had changed songs overhead. "My Girl" began playing, and for the rest of their time together, it was the song he dedicated to his daughter. It was the lullaby he sang to her to get her to sleep, it was the song he played at her fifth birthday party when he taught himself to poorly play the guitar for her, and it was the song on the radio the day of the car accident.

And easy as it would be to remember it as the song that played the day his world ended, instead he chose to remember it as the song that played when his world began, because when life was full of pain, you had to pick and choose certain moments to resonate love instead.

Boris waited for the song to finish, and after it did, he pulled the needle up, slid the record back into its sleeve and put it back on the shelf where they had pulled it from. He then finished cleaning up, and started to exit the room. An entire life, boiled down to leftovers from a life now extinguished, and yet...yet the record had brought to them each a memory they cherished. Music was always surprisingly there when we needed it most, for the good times and the bad, like a real friend who only wanted to help us mark certain moments in life.

Boris never realized just how much of life was dictated by a soundtrack.

He shut the door, and locked it.

Maybe he'd listen to more music when he got home.

"It's never going to get you anywhere, you know that right?" her mother asked, sitting on the bed behind Carol, as she feverishly worked at her sewing machine, desperately trying to finish a new dress in time for a school dance. Her mother lit a cigarette and then crossed her arms as she smoked, filling Carol's bedroom up with the smell of nicotine, which made her eyes burn, but wouldn't stop her nonetheless.

"You're chasing after something that's long since been commercialized, dear. They have sweatshops for this now, and nobody is buying from independent designers unless they have big big money backing them," her mother continued, "I suggest you look to a new line of potential work for the future."

"Mother!" Carol said, finally snapping and turning to face her, "This is what I enjoy doing, okay?"

"Well I hate to be the one to tell you this, Caroline, but work is rarely what you enjoy doing."

With that she stood up and exited the room, as Carol turned back and tried once again to refocus her attention on her stitchwork. Fighting back tears, she swore then and there that she'd prove her mom wrong, and that one day she would be a successful seamstress and clothing designer.

Unfortunately, what had once been her dream had now become a recurring nightmare.

                                                                                               ***

Carol was sitting in her office at the home, going over some numbers as she chewed on the end of a pen, when the door opened. She looked up and saw Boris enter. She smiled, set her pen and papers down, and instead picked up her mug of coffee and sipped it.

"I guess I haven't exactly congratulated you on your current job," he said, "Good work, these are some nice digs."

"Well they certainly aren't a corner office with a window, but, I'm making do," Carol replied, making Boris smirk.

"It's cool to have one of us in charge for a change, especially after the place had become so sad," Boris said, "Only we know what's best for us, so it only makes sense to have someone of our age group making the decisions around here. Proud of you, I guess is what I'm trying to say."

"Awww, I don't think you've ever told me you were proud of me," Carol replied.

"Well, to be fair, you've never done anything to be proud of, so," Boris remarked, making Carol chuckle loudly.

"...can I ask you something, and I hope you don't think it's too weird, but-"

"Please, at this point in my life weird is what I live for," Boris said, interrupting her.

"Anyway," Carol continued, "You had recurring dreams didn't you? You told me you did, about the accident and stuff. What did you do about them? Because lately I have been having this one about my mother and it is just bringing me down every time I wake up for a fresh new day. I can hardly focus on the things I need to get done around here because of it."

"Well," Boris said, sitting on the desk and twiddling his thumbs, "I suppose I could say just try not to let it bother you, but we both know how stupid that is as far as advice goes, because if it actually were that easy, everyone would do it. Honestly, I'm not really sure there's much of anything that can be done. You just need to let it run its course. What's the dream about exactly?"

Carol sighed and leaned back in her chair, looking at the visuals on her mug as she chewed her lip, considering how to word it before the explanation left her mouth. Finally she shut her eyes, took one long deep breath and spoke.

"My mother is in my bedroom, I'm in high school, and I'm trying to make a new dress for a dance," Carol said, "My mother is berating me verbally, telling me that I should give up, that people aren't interested in individual clothing designers anymore, that everything is becoming mass produced and unless you're someone with a lot of money that you'll never make it."

"Jeez."

"There's nothing scary about the dream, and maybe that's what's scariest about it, but...I just can't help but feel so empty and unnerved when it's over. It drains me," Carol said, "...my mother, she never really understood why I liked making clothes."

"Why did you enjoy making clothes?" Boris asked.

"Because you can't change the way you look, but you can change the way you're dressed. That's the one thing that you're really given proper ownership over, body wise, in being perceived. At least that's how it was back when we were younger. Now what with all the plastic surgery and whatnot, hell even just coloring your hair, anyone can make themselves into who they feel they are, and it's great, I'm happy for them. But back then? Back then all you had was your wardrobe. That's why everyone used to dress so dapper."

"Mmm," Boris said, nodding, "You're not wrong. So, did you let her ignorance towards your profession stop you from achieving your goals, or?"

"In some ways, but I can't exactly blame her entirely for my failings. It had a lot to do with other aspects too, because the business world - even if that business is clothing - is a harsh mistress. All I want at this point is for someone to appreciate the things I made. I would love to get back to doing it but I have so much work to do now running this place that I simply don't have the time."

"Well, can't help you there," Boris said, as he hoisted himself off the desk and headed for the door. He stopped at the door, hand on the knob, and turned back to face her, adding, "You know, I write poetry. I used to do it professionally. Nothing big, nothing flashy; a few small compilation publications here and there and greeting cards a lot, but nothing that ever would've made me a household name by any means. But you have talent. Actual, real talent. Talent that deserves to be hanging in someone's closet somewhere. I hope you find a way to use it."

And with that he opened the door, exited the office and shut the door behind him, leaving Carol to her thoughts.

                                                                                                  ***

"We spent all day looking but we couldn't find anything she liked," Whittle said as she sauteed something on the stove while Boris sat at the table and opened a beer. He took a few sips, then pulled his hat off and set it on the table in front of him, running his hand through his greying hair.

"When's the dance?" he asked.

"This Saturday," Whittle replied, "You'll have to take her, because I'm meeting someone for dinner about a job interview."

"Alright," Boris said.

"Chaperoning a school dance," Polly said from across the table as she spread cream cheese on her bagel, "Boy, you sure do have an exciting life. I'm so glad I decided to force my way into it."

"You don't have to be here," Boris said, "Anyway, I'll be happy to take her. Better than sitting around here doing nothing all night. It's good to occasionally mingle with the youth."

"I believe that's exactly what Jeffrey Dahmer said," Polly remarked quietly, making Boris smirk as she finished spreading her cream cheese and bit into her bagel.

Whittle left the kitchen, heading to her bedroom in the back, leaving Boris and Polly alone.

"I went to a few school dances back in my day, or as we called them, sockhops," Polly said.

"You are not that old," Boris interjected, but she ignored him.

"Was never much of a dancer, looked more like I was having a stroke than doing anything remotely similar to dancing, but it was fun either way. Though I never with the dress code. They tried to make all the girls wear dresses, but I just wasn't a dress kind of lady."

"What kind of lady are you?"

"More of a slacks and button down shirt kind," Polly said, "Chic but casual."

"Wow, I'm learning so much," Boris said, "Either way, I suppose it'll be up to us to find her a dress, and-"

He suddenly stopped, and had a brilliant idea.

                                                                                                 ***

Carol woke up suddenly, and reached to her night stand to turn on the light.

She glanced at the clock, which read 11:49 pm, and groaned. These dreams were stealing her sleep from her, and she was feeling it the following day. Something had to be done about this. Carol slowly climbed out of bed and lumbered over to her desk, where she turned on her sewing machine. She then opened up one of the drawers on her desk and pulled out a few pieces of fabric and began working on something. Perhaps, she figured, if she completed something, it'd shut her dream mom up for a bit. She had to try, anyway, she wasn't getting the rest she needed as it was.

About 45 minutes later, she'd finished the start of a skirt, and then decided to take a break and get a snack from the vending machine. As she sauntered out into the darkened hallway of the home, she knew she was the only one awake, so she walked briskly over to the snack machine just a little ways down the hall from her room and fished some change from her nightgown that she'd stuffed in her pockets before leaving the room.

Plopping the coins into the machine and making her selection, she stood there momentarily waiting for her snack to drop, and as she waited, she started to think back to a moment she and her mother had spent together when she was in her twenties.

They'd gone out to lunch.

It was the first time she'd seen her mother in months, after being extremely busy with work and trying to sell her own designs. Sitting there at the table of a little bistro near her mothers apartment, she couldn't help but feel as though she were being silently judged. Watching her mother over the top of the menu in her hands as she sipped her iced tea and smoked her cigarette, Carol couldn't help but feel as though she were still a little girl, despite being a grown woman now.

"Tell me," her mother said, "Anything you'd recommend here?"

"I don't know, I've only been here maybe twice," Carol said, "I like the BLT a bit, but I understand if you think it's too much food for you."

"Mmm, yes, but I could always just take the leftovers home for later," her mother said, "How's work?"

"It's going okay," Carol said, "I've been working my fingers to the bone trying to put together what essentially amounts to a clothing portfolio. Just create as many patterns, samples and a few full complete dresses and blouses to show to potential buyers."

"Well that sounds promising," her mother said, "You know, if you need extra work, a friend of mine in an office downtown needs-"

"I don't need extra work, mother," Carol said, "I'm perfectly happy and capable of getting by on what I'm currently doing. I wish you'd respect that."

"How do you expect me to respect something that I know won't yield any results? I just want you to have the life you deserve, not the one that's out of reach," her mother said.

Carol's blood began to boil, and she chewed on her lip to try and ignore it. She wanted to go off on her, but neither she nor her mother appreciated public displays of any kind, whether they were love or anger. Carol instead held her tongue and waited for their waiter to come and take their orders. Throughout the whole meal, though, Carol couldn't help but feel sick to her stomach because all she really wanted was for her mother to believe in her talent, and see it was worth it.

And now, even as an old woman, she still wanted that approval, despite her mother being dead for ages now.

She heard her snack mix bag drop into the receptacle below and knelt down to pick it up. She sighed, opened it up and dug in as she headed back to her room to work more on her skirt. Maybe tomorrow night she'd sleep better again.

                                                                                                 ***

"What about this one?" Polly asked, holding up a very sleek black dress covered in small rose prints, showing it to Chrissy.

"I don't particularly like floral print," Chrissy said, shaking her head and continuing to look through the sales rack, "I know that's weird for a girl to say, I guess, but I just don't."

"Sweetheart, it isn't weird in the slightest, trust me, you're talking to the least feminine woman there is," Polly said, "When I was your age I mostly wore jeans and button down shirts. I was never big into the dress myself, so you're not alone in that."

"I mean, I like dresses," Chrissy said, stopping and looking at Polly, "I just...don't really like floral print. My mom likes floral print. I don't like my mom very much right now."

"Again, I understand," Polly said, smiling to comfort her.

Polly had never expected to fulfill the role of 'grandmother' for anyone, and yet here she was, helping a young girl dress shop for a school dance. God, if only Jean could see her now, fulfilling the matronly role with such ease. Polly sighed and pulled out a shirt, looking at its cut and ran her fingertips over the fabric to feel its texture.

"I like this," she said, "I think I may get this for myself."

"I guess I never think about old people buying new clothes. I guess I just always assumed that as soon as you reached a certain age, you just stick with the wardrobe you've had for the last few decades," Chrissy said, making Polly laugh.

"Jesus kid, we're still alive," Polly said, just as Boris approached them.

"I think I have the answer to your problem," Boris said, looking at Chrissy, "Come with me."

                                                                                                 ***

Standing at the snack table at the dance that Saturday night, watching Chrissy enjoy herself as she danced with Polly and seeing people compliment her outfit, Boris couldn't help but smile to himself. He turned to Carol, who was sipping some juice, standing beside him. She looked at him and smiled back.

"Thank you," he said, "She looks very happy. You did a very nice thing."

"My pleasure. Happy to have someone enjoy what I'm capable of."

"You're capable of a lot, you know," Boris said, making Carol blush.

"Would you like to dance, Boris?" Carol asked, and he nodded.

He took her by the hand and led her to the dance floor, slow dancing with her to a soft pop ballad. As she rested her head on his shoulder, feeling safer than she had in ages, and shut her eyes, she could almost let herself slip away into another time. Another time where, had things been different, had they been younger...but no reason to fantasize. Better to live in reality, she knew. She'd simply appreciate what it was they did have, and be happy with that.

"You're extremely talented, I hope you know that," Boris said, "Your stitchwork is tremendous, and you know all about patterns and color coordinating. I'm so impressed to know someone as smart as you. I'm proud of you."

Carol smiled.

Her mother had never said those words to herself, but she knew now that as long as someone was proud of her - be it a parent, a little girl or an old man her age that she was unusually close to - then she was happy. All it took was at least one person.

And that was a lesson she'd never forget.

"Well let's just hope you don't have a stroke or something," Carol said, sitting in her makeshift office with Burt as he paced back and forth, groaning; Carol shifted in her seat and, flipping through some papers, added, "Look, it's not that big a deal, we'll find another provider, okay? People get dropped from their health insurance all the time. They don't want to take accidents into accounts for payouts, and I guess technically your pacemaker up and dying on you would be considered an accident. They only want to pay out for sudden unexpected deaths, or tragically unavoidable accidents like car wrecks."

"That's what they're there for though!" Burt shouted, "They're supposed to be giving me coverage in case I die, who cares how I die?!"

"Well, they do because they're the ones with the money," Carol said, "Burt sit down, you're making me anxious."

Burt slumped into the lucite chair across from her desk and put his heads in his hands, groaning some more as Carol continued to flip through papers. After a few moments, she tapped on the desk, getting his attention, making him glance up.

"See, there's plenty of full proof providers in your price range," Carol said.

"You know, shit didn't used to be this expensive," Burt said.

"Tell me about it," Polly said from the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and watching them as she chewed a candy bar, "I used to be able to get this candy bar for a nickel, now it's almost a dollar, and that's in a vending machine, not even an actual shop front."

"Polly, do you mind?" Carol asked.

"Depends, what are we actually talking about?"

"I've been kicked off my health insurance because of my pacemaker malfunction," Burt muttered, just as the door opened more and Boris pushed his way in past Polly.

"Hey, haven't you ever heard of personal space?" Polly asked.

"Haven't you ever heard of shutting the hell up?" Boris replied.

"Will everyone except Burt get out of my office, please?!" Carol shouted, now standing up and pointing at the door, "This doesn't concern any of you!"

"Counter point, it concerns all of us," Polly said, biting off another hunk of her candy bar and chewing it as she continued, "because if this could happen to him, it could happen to anyone here, and that's something we all should discuss and be concerned about. I tell you, I miss two things most; my health, and the cheap cost of living."

"God, I know," Boris said, breaking a piece of the candy bar off as Polly swatted at him for doing so; Boris popped it into his mouth, wiped his hands on his slacks and said, "I never thought about the fact that money might be an issue to me at this late stage in my life, you know? You just assume you'll have money by this point. You think you'll make good investments or just save up enough, but they kept raising the cost of everything and suddenly inflation eats away bit by bit at your funds. Before you know it, you're 72 and still needing to work."

"It's fucked up," Polly said, "Money is simultaneously the best and the worst thing that has ever happened to humanity."

"Guys, you're kind of bumming me out even more than I already was," Burt said, leaning his head on his fist, propped up by his elbow posted on Carol's desk. Carol walked around the side of the desk and ushered them both out of the office and into the hallway, shutting the door and locking it behind them. Polly took another bite of her candy bar and glanced at Boris.

"Bureaucrats," she said flatly.

                                                                                             ***

Boris opened the front door to the apartment, only to find Chrissy sitting at the coffee table on the floor with Whittle nowhere in sight. After letting Polly into the apartment with him, he shut the door behind them and pulled his coat off, hanging it over the top of the couch. Chrissy looked up from her homework and waved at Boris, who smiled and waved back.

"Hey kid," Polly said, leaning on the backside of the couch and looking at Chrissy, she asked, "What are you working on?"

"Math homework," Chrissy said, "But it's my absolute worst subject. I'm terrible with numbers."

"But I bet you're good at english, right?" Polly asked, and Chrissy nodded, making Polly chuckle, adding, "Yeah, that's how it usually goes. Great at one, terrible at the other."

Polly came around the couch and sat down behind Chrissy, looking at her homework over her shoulder.

"This is all about economics, money," Polly said, "I knew they took balancing a checkbook out of the curriculum, but they at least kept money management in the form of arithmetic. You know, when I was your age, things were affordable, even to kids to most extents. Now they've raised the prices of everything while simultaneously not raising the amount they pay you, meaning you can never be financially independent. The bigwigs in charge of everything really pulled a fast one on you kids."

"It's okay," Chrissy said, "We're going to rise up and burn them."

"Atta girl," Polly said, laughing, patting the top of Chrissy's head.

Meanwhile, Boris went in search of Whittle in the apartment, only to find her in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror over the sink in her jeans and bra, applying makeup. Boris stopped in the doorway and looked at her, waiting for her to acknowledge him. After a moment she smiled at him and nodded, before returning to applying her eyeliner.

"Where you been?" she asked.

"Down at the home," Boris said, "Burt lost his health insurance because of his pacemaker trouble. Being a former nurse, I figured you might know something about maybe getting them to pick him back up, or perhaps finding an affordable alternative company to pick him up?"

"First of all, I'm technically still kind of a nurse, just in the private sector," Whittle said, putting her eyeliner stick down on the sink and turning to Boris, putting a hand on her hip and continuing, "Secondly, I'm fairly certain they can't drop you for something related to necessary medical equipment being faulty."

"Is that something we should maybe take up with someone?" Boris asked, "You think we have a case? Maybe get a senior citizens advocate or something?"

"Boris, please don't take this the wrong way, but unless you know you have a guaranteed win, it isn't going to change a thing," Whittle said, "Honestly, these companies are so powerful and so rarely challenged because they're so powerful that you're simply better off accepting this as a loss."

Boris hated to hear this sort of thing, but he knew Whittle was right. He sighed and scratched his forehead.

"You going somewhere?" he asked.

"I have a date," Whittle said, "Could you stay home and watch Chrissy?"

"Yeah, of course," Boris said.

Honestly, after such a letdown, maybe being home with Chrissy would be just the thing to take his mind off the fact that he, and other seniors, were so often slipping through the cracks. Maybe he'd order a pizza, and they could watch something funny, whatever it took to be able to enjoy himself. As Boris exited the hallway and found himself back in the living room, he watched Polly talk to Chrissy about her homework, and smiled to himself. She seemed to do well around children...maybe he'd ask her to stay and babysit with him.

"What are you talking about?" Boris asked.

"The high cost of living," Polly said, "She can't believe that things used to be so cheap. I'm trying to explain that it isn't just old people grousing about the changes society has made, and it's more about the lack of changes society has made in the best interest of its citizens, how they've screwed over the new generations while giving the previous generations everything they wanted, thusly creating the very rift we have now between said generations."

"Listen to this woman, Chrissy," Boris said, "She knows what she's talking about."

Boris came around to the couch and sat down beside Polly, watching as Chrissy turned around on the floor between the couch and the coffee table and looked up at them as she sat crossed legged.

"So everything used to be cheaper?" Chrissy asked, "Like, even cars?"

"Everything," Boris said, "Even things you wouldn't imagine, things like homes were affordable, things like cars were easily attainable, and the middle class was an actual ideal and potential possibility for anyone who was willing to put in the time and effort, because the time and effort required wasn't much and actually gave you what you needed to acquire it. Not anymore. Now, even with 3 jobs concurrently you're guaranteed to not only never pay off your car or your student loans, but rarely even pay your rent regularly."

"That's ridiculous," Chrissy said, "Why doesn't someone do something?"

"People have tried, and still are trying," Polly said, "But the people in charge, the corporations who own all the judges and have the government in their back pocket, aren't interested in making things easier for the people if it doesn't continue to line their pockets with cold hard cash."

"You know," Chrissy said, "Whenever my parents talk about money and my generation, all they say is that we want things too easy, and that nobody's student debt should just be forgiven because theirs never was and that you just need to work harder. But here you guys are, older than my folks, talking about the same things but in the opposite manner. You think my generation should have it easier."

"Nobody should have to go through the bullshit the generation before them went through, just because they went through it. That's like telling someone who's cancer went into remission while you're still in chemo that they need to tough it out," Boris said, "Times are different, things are different, it's a totally different world with totally different sets of circumstances and, yes, I think that means the generation coming up in that new world should be treated differently, and given opportunities to flourish, not pushed down until they suffocate."

Chrissy smiled and looked back at her homework, as Polly looked at Boris and, surprising even herself, finding herself to be extremely impressed at his compassion, something she rarely got to see before they begun hanging out regularly. She'd always found him stand offish and somewhat cold, but now here, seeing him with this young girl and telling her how much he believed that she deserved better, she could see why Carol liked him so much. She understood it now. Polly knew Boris had a daughter in a coma, it was fairly common knowledge around the home, so perhaps his attitude towards a girl like Chrissy whom could so easily be considered a substitute for his own child wasn't all that surprising in reality, but never the less she decided to appreciate him for his warm heart.

"Okay," Whittle said, coming out into the living room, sticking her earrings on and closing them before pulling her coat on over the long beautiful dress she was wearing; "I'll be back sometime around 11 or so. Make sure Chrissy finishes her homework, not that I don't trust her to, and get yourselves something to eat. Order a pizza, I don't care, but make sure you do eat."

"You got it," Boris said, saluting her as she came around the couch and kissed the top of Chrissy's head before heading out the door. Polly looked at Boris and shrugged.

"Pizza sound good to you?" she asked.

"What, you staying?"

"Well what do you want me to do, go back to the home and eat gruel?" Polly replied, making him laugh.

                                                                                                  ***

Burt was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, when the door to his room opened and Carol came in. She pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down in it, sighing as she did, and for a few moments not even speaking. Eventually he looked at her and she was rubbing her face, apparently either extremely tired, extremely irritated or both.

"I think I found a replacement insurance company for you," she said, "But we need to have some meetings first. You're not wrong to be so frustrated at this, it's...bullshit, quite honestly. This country hates its citizens as soon as they become people they can't as easily exploit without being called out on it."

"You know," Burt said, "I never thought I'd honestly live long enough to encounter things that would try to end my life. The sad irrefutable fact that that thing is my very own body is even more or a swift kick to the junk, if you'll excuse my language."

"Heh, it's fine," Carol said.

"You do right by your body, you know? You try to eat well, you try to exercise, you don't smoke, you don't drink, you live to be 65, 70 years old and how's your own body repay you? By doing everything in its power to kill you anyway, simply because it's now tired of working so damn hard to keep you alive, despite you working so hard to keep it healthy lo these many years. My body does not have my own best interests at heart, and that's the biggest betrayal I think I've ever felt."

"I understand what you mean," Carol said, "And you're not wrong, sadly. But thankfully you have people who care about you who are more than willing to go to bat for you against your body's callous behavior. Friends, like me...and to a lesser extent I suppose Boris."

This made them both laugh as Carol stood up and, after pulling the chair back to its original position, headed for the door. Hand on the knob, she stopped and turned back to look at Burt.

"Get some rest," she said, "We have our first meeting with this new insurance company tomorrow. They're sending someone over early."

"Alright. Goodnight Carol, and thank you."

"No problem," she said, exiting the room, letting Burt relax for the first time in what felt like weeks.

                                                                                              ***

After Chrissy had fallen asleep on the body pillow on the floor, leaving Boris and Polly alone to clean up before Whittle got home, things felt a little bit more normal. As Boris washed and dried the dishes they'd eaten off of while Polly broke down the pizza box and crushed their soda cans and tossed them into the recycling can Whittle kept in the kitchen, she couldn't help but feel like an actual part of a household...of someones life again, and it was nice.

"You know," Polly said, turning a crushed can over in her hand, "You can get money for these. Teach Chrissy more about economics and environmentalism all in one fell swoop."

"I think today was a good starting point. Perhaps in a while I'll advance to that course," Boris said, drying his hands on his pants as he turned to see Polly drop the crushed can into the receptacle. She put her hands on her hips and admired their cleaning efforts in the kitchen, as Boris walked past her and watched Chrissy shift on the floor, snoring a little as she pulled her stuff tiger closer to her chest. Polly walked to his side and stopped, watching with him, and occasionally watching him as well.

"You really care about her," Polly said quietly.

"Someone has to give a shit about the kids," Boris said, "Guess that someone will be me. Gives me a purpose to stay alive I guess."

"Oh please, if you were to die, who would I rib good naturedly?" she asked, nudging him in the side with her elbow and winking. He chuckled, but he didn't let his line of sight break of Chrissy.

"I'm thinking I'll leave everything to her," Boris said, "You know, when I go."

"Everything which is what exactly? You're not really made of money," Polly said.

Boris went quiet, which got Polly's attention.

"Boris? You're not made of money...are you?"

"I have quite a bit stocked away in an account my wife doesn't know about, nor does my daughter, all from the insurance company from the car accident and my short time spent writing poetry for a living," Boris said, "I never told this to Carol or Burt or anyone else. In fact, you're the only one who knows about it now, which obviously means I have to kill you now."

Polly laughed heartily and patted his back as she went and pulled her coat on but struggled. Boris helped her finish and watched as she buttoned it up.

"Guess I'll go down and wait for my cab," she said, "...thanks for including me today. And for telling me about your secret stash of cash. Now I have all the more reason to somehow find a way to con you out of it and make it look like an accident."

They stood there for a moment, and just as she was about to leave, Boris walked forward and hugged her tightly.

"I'm so sorry I was so rude to you all these years," he said softly, surprising her.

"Uh...it...it's okay, Boris, really it's fine. We both know it was all in good fun," Polly said, patting his back, but eventually shutting her eyes and hugging him back, "...after all, who needs enemies when you've got money in the bank and a like me?"

"I'd rather have the friendship than the money."

"And that's why you're a goddamned fool," she replied, making them laugh.