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.

Nobody had seen Burt all morning.

Sitting in the cafeteria eating breakfast, Boris and Carol couldn't help but wonder what had happened to their friend. Neither one spoke as they ate, instead choosing to sit in silence and ponder the whereabouts of their buddy as they silently chewed their omlettes and drank their coffee. After a while, Boris exhaled and, sitting back in his chair and sipping from his mug, shook his head and finally spoke.

"What if he's...you know?" Boris asked.

"Don't say things like that," Carol snapped.

Technically I didn't say it," Boris replied.

"Well then don't insinuate things like that," Carol said, setting her fork down, "Burt is our friend, I don't want to imagine the possibility of him being gone. He's probably got a checkup he didn't tell us about or an early visitor or something."

They heard a chair squeak beside them and glanced over to see Polly seating herself, setting her tray on the table and scooting herself inwards to the table. She picked up her fork and started cutting up her waffles as she looked at them.

"What're we talking about?" she asked.

"Burt," Carol and Boris said in unison.

"Oh, you didn't hear?" Polly asked, setting her fork down, dabbing her face with a napkin and sipping her coffee, "His pacemaker acted up early this morning, he was rushed into emergency care."

Carol and Boris exchanged a somehow simultaneously nervous and confused look before directing their attention back to Polly.

"How...how did you know that?" Carol asked.

"Burt has a pacemaker?" Boris asked.

"Yeah," Polly said, blowing on her coffee a little, "And I know because he came to me for help with it because I used to know someone who had one, so I was familiar with the situation. He should be fine though, it's rarely something serious. Unless his heart literally exploded, but that doesn't happen...often."

"Who did you know that used to have a pacemaker?" Boris asked, and Polly smirked, but in the saddest way someone could smirk.

                                                                                                ***

"Where do you want me to put this?" Jean asked, "And didn't we just buy a box of frosted flakes?"

"I'm a grown woman, I can buy as many boxes as I want," Polly said as Jean shook the box at her and finally put it in the upper cabinet in the kitchen. As she shut the door, she turned and leaned against the counter, watching Polly calculate things at the old dark oak table they had. Jean smiled and walked up to her, rubbing her shoulder with a hand.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Exhausting," Polly said, removing her reading glasses and rubbing her eyes, "Absolutely exhausting. Numbers are a curse from the devil, I swear."

Jean laughed and walked into the living room as Polly pulled her glasses back down and continued doing their taxes. Polly had rarely been trustworthy of anyone else handling her finances, ever since the lawyer she'd hired to settle her parents affairs when she was a young woman had stolen almost everything and gotten away with it. Now she refused to let anyone else touch her money again, even if doing it herself was a pain in the neck.

"You know, I think, if you get to a certain age, you shouldn't have to do taxes anymore," Polly said, "Like, they've taken enough money from you your whole life, and now you're 60 or so, they should let you keep what you have left to survive on. Have to give my own government, which theoretically is there to protect and care for me, money because it can't handle its own bullshit finances. We're constantly bailing out our own country."

She heard something fall in the living room and waited a moment, setting her pen down and looking towards the doorway as Jean came back in, rubbing her chest.

"What happened?" Polly asked.

"I just...I had a sharp pain in my chest, I'm out of breath, I feel like...like I just touched a live wire," Jean said, as Polly stood up, walked to her and helped her sit down at the table. She stroked Jean's hair and kissed the top of her head.

"You'll be fine," Polly said, "I'm right here."

                                                                                                ***

Walking down the hall with Carol and Polly, Boris couldn't help but feel bad for not knowing more about Burt. They were his friends, after all, and yet Polly was the only one who apparently knew of his pacemaker. Didn't seem right. Could they really be just that bad of friends? Polly pulled out a pack of gum from her dress pocket and popped a piece in her mouth, offering some to the others, but only Carol accepted.

"Minty," Carol said as she chewed.

"Yeah, it helps cleanse the breakfast taste," Polly remarked.

"So how long's Burt gonna be out of commission?" Boris asked, and Polly shrugged.

"Beats me. I just knew someone with one, I didn't work on them myself personally," Polly said, "But he's in good hands, so I'm sure he'll be back in action any time now."

"Well," Carol said, "I guess I should get to work, I'll see you guys later."

Carol turned and headed to the small office she'd assigned herself for the renovation work, leaving Boris and Polly alone. They continued walking down the hall and stopping at the recreational room, where people played card games and other type activities. Boris walked to the pool table and looked down at the felt, while Polly picked up a cue and started setting up the balls.

"You know," Polly said, "I used to be a pretty good pool player."

"Really now?"

"Yep," Polly said, "Thought about going professional, but never really went for it. Still, for a good while it was the hobby I did more than anything else."

And with that, she hit the ball and sent the rest flying across the table, smiling.

"So why'd you stop?" Boris asked, picking up the other cue, taking her on.

"Because sometimes other things take the place of your vices," Polly said, "More important things."

                                                                                                 ***

The crack of the balls echoing in the bar, the balls rolling across the table as she headed around for a better, cleaner shot, was like music to Polly's ears. She looked across to the end of the table at a large man in leather with greasy hair and a beard, holding his own cue, clutching it so tightly his knuckles were white, and she smirked.

"What do you say we up it?" she asked, putting her hand on her hip and looking at him, "How about we make it worth just a little bit more?"

"You ain't got nothin' else I'm interested in," the man said, "Aside from that gold watch and the earrings, which are only worth shit cause I could easily hawk 'em, you don't have anything else I want."

"You don't want a Gremlin?"

"You drive a Gremlin?"

"I drive a Gremlin," Polly said, running a hand through her bouncy dirty blonde hair, "I miss this, you get the title to the car and everything."

"You're a loon," the man said as Polly set up for her shot again; she slowly licked her lips, shut one eye and took the shot, sinking the ball in the pocket and standing back up as the man took his pool cue and snapped it over his leg, approaching her.

"You're a loon and a goddamned cheater!" he shouted, as Polly backed up, but before she could even attempt to defend herself, a woman in a bomber jacket and jeans pushed her way in front of her and placed herself in between Polly and the enraged man.

"Hey pal, you wanna fuck right off?" she shouted loudly, "Get the fuck out of her face! I watched the whole goddamned thing, and she kicked your ass, so how about you go find a woman who won't emasculate you since you can't fuckin' handle it!?"

The man gritted his teeth, turned and stormed off as the woman turned around and looked at Polly, who - in a mixture of shock and awe - was leaning against the bar, her hand clutching to her chest as if she were about to drop dead right there on the spot. The woman had short black hair and big hoop earrings.

"You okay?" she asked, and Polly nodded.

"Y-yeah, thanks," Polly said, brushing herself off, setting the pool cue against the bar stool beside her and holding her hand out, "I didn't think he'd react like that, but I guess I should've expected it. I'm Polly Hawkins."

"Jean," the woman said, shaking her hand, her bright teeth gleaming at her as she smiled, "Jean Thurgood. It's nice to meet you Polly."

Things were different back then. Polly was younger, capable of handling herself more than most women it seemed to her, but even so she rarely expected anyone to stand up for it, especially another woman. Meeting other women, especially other women like her, who wanted the same things she did, was even more rare, but somehow she managed to. So Polly and Jean spent the next 25 years together, and it was only on that rainy autumn day, when they were going to go and walk to the bakery downtown and buy some pastries, that Polly truly realized how lucky she'd been to have Jean by her side all this time.

Because when it gave out, when her pacemaker suddenly stopped working - something Jean had had for most of the last decade because of a lifelong heart defect - and she tried to grab the dresser on the way to the floor to steady herself, Polly saw for the first time this strong capable woman who have given her life meaning finally need help herself, and she was there to do it. She called 911, she rode with her in the ambulance, and she almost had to be restrained when they wouldn't let her go in with her to emergency surgery. Sitting on the bench of the hospital hallway, staring at the candy bar machine across from her as she chewed a Snickers, Polly couldn't imagine what life would be like now. Would this thing make Jean even more careful than she'd already been? Would it push her to instead try and be more vital and active? She didn't know, all she did know was that when they were home, she'd do her best to take care of Jean the way Jean had always taken care of her.

But when the doctor told her Jean wasn't coming home, and in fact wasn't even there anymore, Polly's entire world shattered. She gave up on everything, she stopped going out and, eventually, once she tired of taking care of the home, she sold it and put herself in the home, much like Boris had. And it was only when she met Boris that she felt the same sort of affinity that she had with Jean, just not on a romantic level obviously. Boris's attitude, his witticisms and genuine heartfelt personality all reminded Polly of Jean, and Polly was grateful to have that back in her life, even if in a non romantic manner.

                                                                                                ***

Opening the door to her room, she found Megan hard at work making the space for her tub; Megan looked behind her and smiled, wiping her forehead off with her sleeve before nodding at Polly as she entered and nodded back at her before heading to the closet. Megan exhaled and sat on her knees, putting her drill down.

"This is coming along nicely," Megan said, "I think I should be totally done in a few weeks at most, and then it's soak city, baby."

"I'm excited," Polly said, "Never had a really nice tub I could lay down in like this. It's gonna be like having a spa in my bedroom."

"You're gonna be the life of the home, trust me," Megan said, "I'll put in some mega speakers, maybe a minibar, some trippy neon lighting, it's gonna be like a drug den in here."

Polly cracked up as she dug in her closet for something. Megan stood up and wiped her pants off, took the bit from her drill and put the whole thing back in its case before picking it up and looking towards the door.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Wait, before you go," Polly said, pulling out a large flat box and sitting on the bed, setting it on her knees, "This is for you. It belonged to someone I really loved, and I just want to give it to you because I really appreciate the work you're doing here, and the company you've brought me."

"That's so nice," Megan said, seating herself on the bed beside Polly, "What is it?"

"It's a bomber jacket," Polly said, "Vintage, belonged to their brother when he served in the army. After he died in combat, they sent the jacket back home, and eventually, when they died, I kept it as something to remember them by."

"It's beautifully preserved, the leather is still so supple," Megan said, running her perfectly french tipped pink nails over the jacket, making Polly blush.

"Stand up," Polly said, and Megan did as she was told.

Megan put her cases down, put her arms out and let Polly pull the jacket on over her. It fit like a glove, and after she turned around to show it off, Polly had to sit back down and put her hand to her mouth, trying not to openly cry. She looked so much like Jean. Megan ran her hands down the jacket and beamed at her, before reaching back and letting her hair down.

"Thank you so much, this is so kind of you," Megan said, "People I do work for never do this sort of thing for me."

"You're welcome," Polly said, "Someone deserves to enjoy it now."

With that, Megan hugged Polly, said goodbye, and left the room. Polly laid down on the bed and sighed, thinking about how nice it felt to once again have the company of a woman she was attracted to, regardless of whether or not they were decades younger than her. Just proved that, even as old as you get, love is something you never lose the capacity for if you choose not to, and she was thankful for that.

                                                                                                ***

"So you can't go near microwaves, right?" Boris asked, as Burt tried to eat his breakfast the following morning.

"Jesus, you know, I really actually liked it better when you weren't here," Burt said, making Boris and Carol laugh.

The chair beside Boris squeaked as Polly seated herself, just with a mug of coffee and a poppyseed muffin. Boris smiled at this simplistic breakfast, turning his attention to her now instead.

"Just a muffin?" he asked, "Not very filling."

"Poppyseed muffin," Polly said, "Someone I loved, this was their favorite muffin. Just been in a real nostalgic mood lately I guess. So Burt, hey-"

"Yeah?" Burt asked, leaning forward to see her on the other side of Boris.

"-so you're like fully a robot now, right? I mean I knew you were a robot already, you have no feelings, but now you're fully cybernetic, right?" Polly asked, making them all laugh again.

"I hate all of you," Burt said, chuckling to himself.

She had to be quiet if she were going to continue to get away with this, but her nerves still weren't as calm as she'd liked them to be. As her hand turned the knob and the door slowly opened, she let out a breath of relief, like a criminal quietly slipping away into the night with a priceless gem. Polly slipped inside the room and - just as quietly - shut the door behind her with a gentle click. She then proceeded to pull a small flashlight from her dress pocket, as any light brighter than that ran the risk of being noticed under the door, and thusly questioned, and after turning it on popped it into her mouth and started searching the shelves.

She picked a few bottles, uncapped them and rolled about 5 pills each into her hand from each bottle; the way Sylar had explained it to her was that even when people counted them, everyone expects there to be at least a 5 pill shortage from the manufacturer, so it's rarely if ever questioned, and thus this was the perfect amount to take without raising suspicion. They'd gotten away with it for this long as it were, and what with the ongoing construction, it made it even easier to get away with because people were paying even less attention right now. Polly stuffed each selection into its own baggy, and then using a sharpie labeled the baggies by copying the name of the medication onto a sticker label placed on the baggy. As she finished and capped the pen, slipping everything back into her pockets, she turned and saw a singular bottle on a top shelf that read "Xanax".

This was something she herself would like to have to quell her anxious nature, and she rarely took anything for herself, so she figured she was overdue for a little skimming off the top. Polly used her cane to pull the bottle down, but it slipped by her hand and clattered to the floor, making noise she feared would be noticed. She squinted, gritted her teeth and waited for the other shoe to drop, but nothing came, so - figuring she was in the clear - she bent down to pick them up scooped them back in the bottle, leaving five pills out of course. As she stood up, she then realized she had an issue...how was she going to get the bottle back up to the shelf? There wasn't a step ladder in here, and she'd had to use her cane to get it down, meaning she wasn't tall enough to put it back herself.

She groaned, slipped a pill into her mouth and dry swallowed it before grabbing the shelving unit and, putting her shoes on the one below it, tried to boost herself a little, before realizing it was shifting and bottles started falling all around her. And then, as if on cue, the door opened, and two men were standing there with Caroline.

"...fuck," Polly muttered to herself.

                                                                                               ***

"I was nice to you, and you stole from us?!" Carol shouted, pacing back and forth in front of Polly's rocking chair in her room as Polly sulked in the chair, arms folded, like a child being scolded. Carol continued, "Polly, we're both old, you could've just come to me and I would've understood, but now I have to be aware you're a thief, meaning I have to do something about it, and that puts me in an uncomfortable position. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"For what it's worth," Polly said, "You never crossed my mind, likely because I try not to think about you too often. Your anal retentiveness makes me uncomfortable."

"Oh, cute, so I finally take charge and now I'm anal retentive? I'm trying to make this home better for all of us, not just my ego, okay?" Carol said, sounding genuinely offended; she sighed and rub her temples, sitting on the end of the bed, adding, "...why were you taking them?"

"Because there are people who need them who aren't here, who can't afford them, who don't get any help medically, and yet here we are, hoarding them like a dragon hoards treasure. It's selfish, it's cruel," Polly said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs, "but when people have it easy, they rarely think of those who don't, so it doesn't surprise me that those kinds of people never once crossed your mind."

Carol was getting infuriated, but did her best not to show it. Instead of further arguing with Polly, she decided to leave the whole thing be and revisit it at a time when her blood wasn't boiling and the wounds weren't as fresh. Carol stood up, smoothed out her dress and headed to the door, but once she opened it, she looked back at Polly, who was still not looking at her.

"You know," Carol said, "I always knew you were grouchy, crotchety, whatever term you want to use for being old and antisocial, but I don't think it ever once occurred to me that you really didn't consider yourself a part of our community. That you somehow thought you were better than anyone else here. Guess now I know better."

Polly tried to ignore this, she tried to let it roll off her back like it didn't bother her, she tried to remind herself that she didn't care what others thought about her.

But it didn't work.

                                                                                              ***

Sitting alone in the cafeteria, stabbing at some potatoes with her fork, not even eating as much as she was just toying with her food, Polly heard someone seat themselves beside her. She glanced over at noticed Boris was now sitting there, taking his cap off and running his hands through his somewhat thinning hair. He smiled at her and she just went right back to her potatoes.

"Heard you got busted," he said, "Heard you were stealing pills."

"Was trying to help people who can't get what they need, that's all," Polly said.

"So you're like Robin Hood," Boris said, cupping his hands on the table and chuckling, "Was, uh, you know who paying you for it?"

"Yep," Polly said, "Everyone was doing well until Carol showed up and wrecked it. Now I don't have extra income, Sylar has to get her fix somewhere else and the people we wanted to help don't have what they need to adequately curb their pain. Everyone wins."

Boris grimaced and shook his head, glancing back at Carol who was directing some construction guys around the cafeteria. He looked back at Polly and shifted closer to her on the bench, lowering his voice just a tad.

"Carol thinks she's doing the right thing, but to Carol the right thing is what she thinks she's doing, not what other people are doing. Lord knows I love her like a sister, but she's got control issues, and she thinks she's always right, especially when it comes to everyone around here," Boris said, before clearing his throat and adding, even quieter, "You want to know a secret?"

"Do I have a choice?" Polly replied, scooping potatoes up and shoveling them into her mouth.

"I once had an addiction to pain medication," Boris said, "So I understand where you're coming from."

"How'd you get addicted to anything? You're like the most straight edge person I can imagine," Polly said, making Boris chuckle first, and then cough a bit into his elbow crease.

"Happened after my car accident," Boris said, "I didn't go too deep down the rabbit hole, needless to say, but I certainly did some damage. After the accident I stayed out of the house for a while, got my own little apartment, and because I felt so guilty about everything I just absolutely abused my prescription. Which I was able to do easily, since I didn't have anyone around trying to stop me."

"Jeez," Polly mumbled, "How'd you stop?"

"Honestly, lost its luster after a while. I got sick of not being capable of accomplishing anything since I was messed up all the time. My shame of being useless overwhelmed my shame of being sick, so I decided to get help. But that isn't the point. The point is that, like you, I've been there. I know what it's like. Carol? She's not the same. That - coupled the fact that this could've gone a lot worse had someone else found you - are why she's so upset. People get angry when they don't understand things."

Polly smiled, even just a little bit, but wasn't about to give in so easily.

"Why's it noble what she's doing and not noble what I'm trying to do? I'm trying to help people too, you know," she said.

"She might not think so, but I consider what you're doing pretty darn noble," Boris said, "You're absolutely right in your argument that far too many people our age simply can't get the help they so desperately require, and are in unfathomable pain day in, day out, and that isn't fair, you're right. I think Carol's more mad that you're trying to help people who aren't in the home instead of the people you live with."

"Why should I care about the people I live with. All anyone's ever treated me like is a nuisance, an annoyance, an irritant, some other synonym for those words. I recognize that I never made myself out to be very likeable, but...but people could've tried to at least be my friend, you know? Why's the burden of trying on the ignored, not the one ignoring?"

"I'm not ignoring you," Boris said, and she realized he had a point.

After all the bickering the two had done, they'd certainly become closer friends than either could've ever imagined having been previously. Polly sighed and started eating regularly, as Boris sat and told her about his time with pill addiction.

"It's funny," Polly said at one point, "I would've believed writers were alcoholics. You always gotta be different."

                                                                                              ***

Carol was sitting in her bedroom, talking to an electrician, when the door opened and Boris entered. She looked up and waved at him before licking the tip of her finger and, grabbing a stack of papers, handed them to the electrician, who then thanked her and exited the room. Carol sighed and set her work done, leaning back on her bed, breathing hard as Boris paced in front of her, looking at the things on her dresser.

"It's exhausting," Carol said, "I shouldn't be doing this, I'm old, but you just can't trust this sort of thing to people who've never had to actually take care of things the old fashioned way."

"Boy, you gonna start yelling at kids to get off your lawn, grandma?" Boris asked, making her laugh as she pulled a lighter out of her pocket and lit a cigarette, taking a few puffs and folded her legs.

"I'm just saying. You and I, man, we're from before all that fancy high tech shit that did everything for you, that's why we're the ones for this sort of job. I'll probably put someone in charge once construction is done, of course, but only in a puppet sort of way."

"Ah, going the Bush administration way, I see," Boris said, "Look, we need to talk. Polly feels terrible."

"What else is new, she's always miserable," Carol said, taking another drag.

"Carol, how can you of all people be so judgmental, after the things you've told me about yourself? She was just trying to help people who can't get help for their pain in any other manner," Boris said, "How can you-"

"Let me tell you a story," Carol said, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on her bedside table, "A while back, a young woman in high school died, a woman who visited me often, remember that? Remember how she killed herself because her father was abusive? Remember how - until I discovered her suicide note to me - I thought I'd killed her because I had been giving her pills?"

"...fuck, I'd forgotten about that," Boris said, pushing his hands into his coat pockets, "Yeah, yeah I DO remember that, now that you mention it. But, remember, it wasn't your fault?"

"Doesn't matter. Imagine had it been my fault, how awful I would've felt," Carol said, "I felt awful until I found her note. I...I can't in good conscience approve of what Polly is doing, noble or not, because I've been down the road of what happens when it goes wrong, and what it does to a person. We're all old, Boris, and some of us are going to outlive one another, and is it fair? Of course not. Is it right that some of us get well taken care of and others get left on the sidelines? Of course not. In a fair and equal world we'd all have the same elder care, we'd all have the same level of treatment, we'd all get to live as long as one another, but we don't, because this isn't a fair and equal world."

"But, but you're gatekeeping, making it an unfair and less equal world," Boris said, "Look, I've been addicted to pills, you thought you killed that girl with the pills you sold her, but why should we hold Polly to standards we set for ourselves just because we've been in similar situations? She's..."

He hesitated and sucked on his teeth, almost unable to believe he was about to say what he was about to say after the years of his and Polly's modest rivalry.

"She's smart," Boris said, "She's smarter than me, likely smarter than you, and she's...she knows what she's doing."

"I never thought I'd hear you speak kindly of her," Carol said, "That's surprising."

"Yeah, well, sometimes you get to know a person and you realize your earlier judgments weren't actually as accurate as you assumed they would be," Boris said, sitting on the bed beside Carol as she handed him her cigarette and he took a drag himself; he exhaled and sighed, "Listen, I'll deal with Polly, okay? You don't have to worry about it anymore, how about that? How about we split the overhead on this whole nursing home thing and I take some of the problems off your back?"

"That'd be a start," Carol said, smirking, asking with her hand for her cigarette back, "But don't come crying to me when she makes your life hell."

"Believe me, nobody can make my life hellish for me more than myself," Boris said, the both of them laughing heartily now.

                                                                                                ***

Polly was sitting outside, looking at Larry's garden near the gazebo, when she heard gravel crunching nearby and spotted Boris coming to sit by her. He groaned as he sat himself down on the stone bench and plopped his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

"I'm sick of people having to bail me out of my own problems," Polly said, "Been this way ever since I was married."

"You were married?" Boris asked, and Polly shrugged.

"I mean, I say that because it's easier than saying the truth, that it was simply a domestic partnership, but either way doesn't change the fact that ever since then - hell, probably before that as well - I've been getting bailed out of problems I started for myself."

"Well, it's good to have people who care enough about you to do that, isn't it?" Boris asked, making Polly genuinely smile.

"Since you did this for me, I'll stop signing you up to magazine mailing lists," Polly said.

"Please, seriously, I'm sick of getting catalogues for kitschy new electronics I can't afford and don't understand," Boris said, "Except the lingerie ones, those are fine. Keep those coming."

"You're so predictable," Polly said, scoffing as Boris reached into his pocket and pulled out a candy bar, unwrapping it and breaking it in half and handing her half.

"And you're so not, that's what makes this work," he said.

"You know," Polly said, biting into her half of the candy bar, "I could just sign you up for every single lingerie catalogue. Just piles of them showing up at all times, nonstop, forever."

"No, the two we have is enough, people will think I have a problem," Boris said, making her laugh.

"My guy, you do have a problem, it's me," Polly said, them both of them laughing now.

Boris wouldn't say this, but he did admit it to himself, that if he had to have a problem, he was happy that problem was Polly. He wouldn't want it any other way.

It was Michelle Helm's birthday.

A day she dreaded, quite frankly, and rarely celebrated these days. As she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, she couldn't help but not want to get out of bed today of all days, but she knew she had to call her mother. Even with that bugging her in the back of her head all morning, Michelle tried to go as long as possible to postpone the inevitable. She took a while to figure out her outfit, to make breakfast, to do her breathing exercises and much more before finally exhaling and picking up the phone to dial her number.It rang a few times before she finally heard her mother pick up the other end.

"Hello?" she asked.

"Mom, it's me," Michelle said.

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you. It's almost 3pm you know," her mother said, and Michelle groaned internally. She knew that would be the first thing her mother said to her. Michelle rubbed her forehead with her fingers and shut her eyes tight, already annoyed.

"I know," she said, "I didn't wake up until late, and took a slow start to the morning. Sorry I didn't call you back the other night, I was very tired."

"That's okay," her mother said, "Can I come over and take you out for lunch?"

"Okay," Michelle said, "A little late for lunch, but okay."

"Well, whose fault is that?" her mother asked, laughing so it didn't come off as accusatory, a tactic she'd always used to sneakily judge Michelle without being called on her questionably behavior. After they discussed where to go to eat, the conversation ended, and Michelle mentally prepared herself for the fact that she'd soon be dealing with her mother in person, something that usually left her with a migraine, and this year, sadly, she'd discover it'd be no different.

                                                                                                ***

The door opened, and Lia - understandably - raised an eyebrow and stepped cautiously back as he looked at Beatrice standing in her regular clothes but with the dog head on her shoulders. He hesitated before smirking as she pulled the head off and held it under her arm.

"That's unsettling," he said, "Do you answer the door like that all the time?"

"Only for you," she said, "It's still in excellent shape."

"I can see that," Liam said, as Bea stepped aside so he could, cane in one hand, hobble his way into her loft. He glanced around, taking it all in, as he'd never seen this particular living situation before and was obviously curious how she was living these days. Bea shut the door behind him and followed him into the living room.

"So," he said, turning and looked back at her, "You look nice."

"Thank you, I'm seeing someone later," she said, "That's actually partly why I was hoping you'd meet with me this afternoon. Would you mind helping me do something?"

"You do realize I'm not in top physical condition right now, right?" Liam asked, somewhat shaking his cane at her, and she laughed.

"You don't need to move anything," she said, "I hired people for that. No. I want you to do something else for me. Something very important; this cannot be done without you, in fact."

This piqued Liam's interest, as he cocked his head to the side and raised a brow.

"Okay..." he said, "What are we doing, Bea?"

"We're giving someone a gift."

                                                                                          ***

Celia Helms, a woman who looked like she hadn't aged a day past her college self, as an "artist", and one that neither Michelle nor her father ever particularly understood. This was, honestly, a big reason why they fought a lot, to hear Celia tell it anyway, though Michelle knew she could never trust what came out of her mouth to be the absolute truth. She'd learned that the hard way unfortunately, over the years. Celia looked a lot like her daughter, except was shorter than her, and had a semi unearthly quality about her, almost like a wood elf from some fantasy novel. She dressed in a white lacey top and soft black jeans, her bangs clipped to the side behind her ear so as to keep them out of the way of her giant spectacle clad eyes as she perused the menu.

"I've always wished I could've taken you to Paris," Celia lamented, "But after the hospital bills nearly wiped out our savings, not to mention the payments on tanks and miscellaneous equipment, it just was never financially viable. Sadly, you've had to make due with faux French food from the city."

"Yeah," Michelle said blandly, "A real shame."

"I hope this is okay," Celia said, in a tone that Michelle had come to learn meant 'I'm going to pretend to ask your permission, but I don't want you to tell me I did wrong'; she added, "After all, I chose this place because this is something I've always wanted to give you. Food from another culture."

"It's fine, mom," Michelle said, her own eyes glued to the menu, trying to find something - anything - that wouldn't make her sick later as she said, "How have you been?"

"Exhausted," Celia said, "You wouldn't believe the amount of work I've had to do lately. I've been trying to open a new exhibition hall, but everywhere wants too much, especially in the downtown district. Rest assured, I won't stop until I achieve my goal. You know I'm no quitter."

"Lord do I know," Michelle said.

Celia put her menu down, seemingly having decided on her order, and as they waited for someone to come ask what they wanted, she looked across the table at Michelle. Celia cupped her hands on the table and smiled. Michelle noticed her nails were light pink, manicured, and french tipped. She was jealous her mother got the chance to do nice things like that for herself, when she so often could barely go out for a single day without feeling winded or exhausted.

"Michelle," Celia said, "I'm afraid I have to admit that I found myself struggling to figure out what to get you for your birthday until I stumbled upon something I thought you might like."

With that said, Celia reached to the side of her booth seat and pulled up a box, well wrapped with ribbons, and passed it across the table to Michelle, who graciously took it, a smile on her face, never one to rock the boat when it came to her mother. She just did as she was told, because - as her father had once said - it's just easier. Michelle pulled the bow and the whole thing unraveled, then she carefully undid the tape on the sides and finally unleashed the lid from the top of the box. Staring down inside the box, lid still in her hands, she couldn't feel herself breathing.

"The fuck is this?" Michelle finally blurted out.

"Language! This is a nice restaurant," Celia said, sounding genuinely shocked at her own daughters supposedly 'abhorrent' vocabulary.

"Mom, is this...is this a...fucking ONSIE?" Michelle asked, refusing to even touch it as she glared up from the box to her mother, "Is this a onsie for a baby?? Does this imply what I think it implies?"

"Has to happen eventually," Celia said, "I was just hoping maybe I could jumpstart you into-"

"How dare you," Michelle said under her breath, her ire burning a hole through her heart, "how dare you even suggest that I, someone who can barely manage to keep her own life together on a day to day basis, take care of a fucking baby."

"Okay, I'm sorry, calm down, I just-"

"Do you even understand how hard it is to take care of myself?" Michelle asked, "Not just disability wise, either. I'm an incredibly capable person, but no, just in general. All the little things it takes to make it through a single 24 hour period intact? And now you want me to give you grandchildren? Are you senile?!"

This abrupt change in behavior surprised Celia, and she stopped talking, the look of a scolded child now dancing across her face. Michelle knew this tactic well enough; it was to make her, and any onlookers, think that Celia was in fact the victim, but Michelle knew not to fall for it and she was old enough to not give a shit what onlookers might think anymore.

"God you are so incredibly selfish!" Michelle said, standing up and tugging her tank behind her, "I should've known better than to trust you to, just once, just one time in my entire life, get me a normal birthday present! I don't think, in all the years I've had a birthday, that I've ever been given something meant for me that I enjoyed. You're never going to change."

Michelle stormed out, best as she could, leaving her mother to sit and stew by her lonesome, surely approached by nearby mothers who told her she was in fact in the right and that children 'just never appreciate what we do for them'. Bullshit. Michelle knew it was all bullshit, and yet...and yet she couldn't help but feel the tears stinging in her eyes as she tried to escape and ignore the pain that was breaking through her heart. Every single time she thought that maybe, finally, her mother would know her she would always be wildly disappointed and underwhelmed. It wasn't even worth trying anymore, she had to remember that. She needed to afford a place on her own, because she could no longer risk being financially independent on her mother. It just wasn't worth it.

And she knew just who she could ask.

                                                                                             ***

"I like the taste of squid," Lexi said, popping a piece of butter baked and breaded Calamari in her mouth,"I know it's chewy, but I love the taste, I can't get enough of it."

"It's not bad," Keagan said, "I'm glad you suggested this."

"It's the best Italian place I know of, and they make the best Calamari," Lexi said, sitting on the counter of Keagan's apartment and licking the butter taste from her fingers as Keagan smile, watching her.

Since their evening together, the two had been fairly inseparable, and neither one questioned it. Keagan was, if nothing else, a bit surprised, but happy to have the company and the newfound love. She picked up a piece and walked across the small kitchen and, leaning on her toes, pushed the piece to Lexi's mouth, which she happily ate. After she swallowed it, she put her hands on Keagan's face and, pulling her closer, leaned down and kissed her. As the kiss broke, and their smiles widened to a giggling fit, they heard a knock on the door. Keagan wasn't expecting guests, so she cautiously headed to the door and waited.

"Who is it?" she asked, but no response. Finally she just shrugged and pulled the door open to see Michelle standing there, in the pouring rain, her hair ratty and her clothes soaked to the bone. Keagan stood there, surprised by her appearance, and unsure what to say, and just when she thought she'd found the words, Michelle surprised her yet again by simply hugging her.

After Michelle had showered and was sitting in a fluffy robe on the floor by the heater, eating some of their take out, she relayed the whole situation to them, and both girls were also disgusted by Celia's behavior.

"I just...I keep thinking maybe she'll finally decide to learn about me, but she refuses to do that," Michelle said, "She's like a stubborn child. It's so frustrating."

"Sounds like it," Keagan said.

"You know," Lexi said, crossing her legs on the couch and pushed her hair back into a messy bun, "I know how you feel. My parents are so caught up in their own drama they don't have any time to appreciate me and all the things I do for them, for myself. It's like, after a certain age they just stop learning new things about you, even obvious things, and just decide that how you were at eleven years old? That's how you'll always be."

"Exactly!" Michelle said, putting her mask over her face and breathing in, "I'm so tired of dealing with her. I was kind of hoping, maybe...I could stay with you until I could save money to afford my own new place? Otherwise I'll have to put up with her shit since she pays for my rental home."

"Oh, uh, yeah, I mean, okay," Keagan said, "That shouldn't be a problem. I...I don't have much room, but you could totally-"

"We could all get a place together," Lexi said, surprising both of them.

"What?" Keagan and Michelle both replied, in differing tones.

"I mean, if we all pooled our money together, we could just afford our own place. I know I don't like living with my mom or sister, I would certainly appreciate having a quieter place to study, and Keagan you could totally try and do your web work fulltime, and you probably get disability, right?" she asked, looking at Michelle, who nodded; she continued, "Exactly. Between that, part time jobs, odds and ends sales online, we could totally make it work."

"I...I don't, uh, know how viable that is," Keagan said, "I mean, you and Michelle basically don't know one another, would you even be comfortable with that?" she asked, glancing at Michelle, who merely shrugged.

"Better than living under my mothers thumb," she said softly, and Keagan understood.

But, and Keagan wouldn't admit this, it wasn't Michelle she was worried about. She was just surprised at quickly Lexi had jumped in to suggest the idea of living together. They'd only spent one evening together, and now suddenly the discussion of living together was coming up? And, sure, it was probably more to help Michelle out of a jam, but Keagan was unsure whether or not she was ready for this level of commitment. It frightened her, she couldn't deny.

"Okay," Keagan finally said quietly, continuing to eat dinner.

Lexi made the plans; the three of them would start looking the coming week, and until then Michelle could room with Keagan, she'd just have to go home and get some things first. But that could wait until the next day. Tonight? It was all about destressing, and celebrating what was left of Michelle's birthday, which she greatly appreciated. And it was funny...as soon as her mother was removed from the situation, she felt as though she could breath just a little bit easier.

                                                                                             ***

As Michelle packed her bags the following day, she couldn't help but feel lighter than she had in ages.

She'd need some shirts, jeans, dresses, and of course her medical supplies, but none of that mattered. All that mattered was that things were finally going to be better, and that alone made it easy to deal with. Change was usually frightening, but this change? This was glorious, unabashed joy. As she stuffed a few of her favorite books into a bag, she heard a knock at the front door and thought it was either her mother coming to harass her more, or it was Keagan, early to pick her up. Michelle stood up and, heading down the hall, heard the knock on the door again. She opened the door to her surprise...Leslie.

"Oh," Michelle said, "...what are you doing here? How did you even know my address?"

"You know, there's a lot of information that can be easily accessed if you just know the right people," Leslie said, "I need you to come with me. Something's come up."

"What's happened?" Michelle asked.

"Just get in my car," Leslie said, clearly suppressing a smirk.

Michelle did as she was told, and got into the car. Leslie got into the drivers seat, pulled away and started driving down the road. Michelle looked behind them to make sure they weren't being followed or something else strange, and then, lowering her voice and chewing on her lip said, "I have to be back shortly, I'm moving in with a friend and they're coming to-"

"This shouldn't take long, don't worry," Leslie said, taking a few turns. After a good twenty minutes driving, what Michelle assumed, was rather aimlessly, she began to get irritated but didn't say anything. She knew Leslie wouldn't just screw with her, she barely knew her. So Michelle kept her mouth shut, until suddenly, Leslie pulled over and pulled out a bandana and looked at Michelle.

"You need to wear this," she said, and Michelle scoffed.

"I do?" she asked.

"You really do, trust me," Leslie said, and Michelle - against all better judgement - took the bandana and wrapped it around her eyes, tying it in the back to blind herself. She huffed, crossed her arms and felt the car lurch forward again as Leslie continued toward the still obscured destination. After another few minutes, she felt the car park again and, as she reached up to pull the bandana off, felt Leslie lightly slap her fingers.

"Ow!"

"Do you want to spoil the surprise?" Leslie asked, "Just open the door, I'll come around and guide you."

Michelle opened the car door and waited for Leslie to take her hand, leading her out of the car and across what sounded like a parking lot full of gravel.

"This is ridiculous," Michelle said, half laughing out of nervousness, "Do you work for the mob or something?"

"Public television can certainly feel that way sometimes," Leslie murmured, making them both chuckle.

Michelle heard a door open, and they stepped inside what felt like somewhere air conditioned. Michelle could hear the sound of electronics buzzing around her, and generic upbeat music playing over speakers. Michelle sighed and felt a hand on the back of the blindfold, tugging it off. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust, and when she had blinked a few times, the first thing she saw in front of her was a woman wearing a postal uniform and carrying a mailbag.

"Uh," Michelle said, as she approached Michelle and handed her a letter.

"Telegram!" she said, "You've been invited to a birthday party!"

"...you're...Postal Patty," Michelle said, suddenly recognizing her from the show.

"Well, kind of a mean thing to call me these days, given the level of my many medications, but yes,"Postal Patty said, "Come with me, you don't want to be late, you're the guest of honor!"

So Michelle, buying into the rouse, followed Postal Patty throughout the venue, until they reached a back room, completely black, with only a singular table with red silk tablecloth over it for her to sit at. Michelle, Leslie and Postal Patty all took their seats and and waited. Michelle wanted to ask what this was all about, but she decided against it; after all, Leslie was right...why ruin the surprise? After what felt like an eternity, the stage lights blasted on, and suddenly Michelle knew exactly where she was.

One of the defunct pizzerias.

And on stage was a doghouse, and Beatrice, in full costume. Sitting atop the doghouse was a small potted plush cactus, with blackness surrounding them, obscuring Liam who was obviously performing as the cactus.

"You know, it's been a while since we've celebrated anything, hasn't it, Liam?" Bea asked, and the cactus nodded.

"It feels like it's been decades!" he said, eliciting quiet laughter from the three women watching.

"But today is different, today we're celebrating! It's a birthday, did you know that? The birthday of a very important, very special young woman," Bea said, "Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"My mom?" Liam asked, and Bea chuckled.

"No! Our friend Michelle!" Bea said, and then, turning and walking off the stage as the room lit up more, the old animatronics now working on stage, Beatrice strolled up to Michelle and looked down at her, asking, "Today IS your birthday isn't it?"

"Actually, it was yesterday," Michelle said, and Bea shook her head.

"A dog never knows what day it is! After all, we think one year is seven years!" Beatrice said, making them laugh again as she added, "You just can't trust us to gauge time correctly! So, Michelle, what's the one thing you want this birthday more than anything else?"

Everyone looked at Michelle, who had tears rolling down her face, and smiled.

"I already have it now," she said, half laughing.

"Good answer!" Beatrice said, "Friendship IS the best gift!"

And so Michelle spent her birthday with the cast and crew of Beatrice Beagle - which ones they could easily track down on such short notice anyway - and played arcade games with them, and ate cake with them, and it was like, if for just a single day, she was a little girl again. A little girl who's best friend was the woman in the dog costume who didn't even know she was making a difference in her life, only now she did know, and was thrilled to have a purpose again. And after all that had happened, Michelle knew none of it would've been possible if not for the single actions of one man, one person, who couldn't be there that day, and as Michelle shoveled pizza in her mouth and laughed at Beatrice and Liam's tales from the set, she could think only one thing...

"Thank you Marvin Burgis."

Thus proving that even suicide isn't in vain.

Polly groaned as she pulled her pillow over her head and rolled onto her other side. The noise. God damn the noise had been ongoing for months now, and she was absolutely sick of it. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she couldn't take it anymore and instead of lying their grousing, she got up and threw her window open to see the construction workers outside. She glared at them as they stopped and looked at her momentarily before continuing, deciding instead to ignore her daily glare and do their work. After a few minutes Polly gave in, and decided to get dressed and head to the dining hall for breakfast.

Polly pulled on a pair of slacks, a button down shirt and combed her wavy faded blonde hair. She picked up the cane from her beside and then headed out of the room and towards the dining hall. Once there she saw what breakfast was, and felt a bit better. She always enjoyed breakfast. Polly grabbed one of the orange fiberglass trays from the rack and headed to the line, where she piled up on hashbrowns, bacon and scrambled eggs. She poured herself a cup of coffee and then took her tray to the empty table where she always sat alone. Polly set her tray of food down and then, reaching into her black windbreaker pocket, pulled out a small bottle of bills and popped two before washing them down with a sip of her coffee.

Polly grabbed her fork and stabbed a mouthful of scrambled eggs, lifting it to her mouth as she watched everyone going about their business around her. Seemed now, even as an old woman, she didn't have friends.

                                                                                                ***

"Where do you want these?" Burt asked, holding a few potted plants under his arms as Carol turned from up on her stepladder and looked down at him. She hesitated, putting a hand on her hip and sucked on her teeth momentarily before finally replying.

"I think those would best be suited in the front hallway, they'd get the most light there," Carol said, and Burt nodded, heading off with them as Polly walked up, still sipping her coffee.

"Decorating?" Polly asked.

"It's been a mad house," Carol said, sighing and wiping her forehead as she turned back to hanging the decorations over the hall entrances, "but, it's all for the best, you know? I'm trying to make this place cheerier, better for the ones who have to actually call it home."

"Yeah that's great, you're a real saint, listen...how much longer do you think this is going to go on?" Polly asked.

"...why?" Carol asked, turning her attention back to Polly now.

"Because your admirable home renovation is killing me," Polly said, "Every single morning I have to wake up to hunky shirtless men doing construction outside my window. I'm not used to being an early bird."

"Any other woman would be thanking me, but you have to find fault with a gift from god," Carol said.

"First of all, that isn't a gift, and secondly, you're not god," Polly replied, making Carol chuckle as she stepped down the ladder and put her hands on her knees, catching her breath before looking up at Polly, who was shaking her head.

"It shouldn't be too much longer, honestly. We've been putting in new plumbing and that's what most of the construction outside your room in particular has been about," Carol said, "Sorry about the intrusion, sincerely. It should only be another week. There was a lot to fix. It's kind of disheartening just how poorly run and underfunded old folks homes are."

Polly sighed and folded her arms, as they watched a few female nurses walk by laughing. Polly looked back at Carol and furrowed her brow.

"Where's Boris?" she finally asked.

"No idea, he didn't spent the night here," Carol said.

                                                                                                ***

Boris was, in fact, standing in the bathroom of Whittle's apartment as he straightened his tie and brushed down his hair as Whittle zipped up her dress behind him. Neither one really wanted to talk about what they were about to head into, but they both knew that not addressing it would be even less smart than ignoring it. Finally, Whittle finished and came to the sink, pulling out her makeup kit and beginning to apply it.

"We're doing the right thing, right?" Whittle finally asked quietly.

"Of course," Boris said, "This is what she wants, so we're doing the right thing."

"I, just...we aren't her family, no matter how things feel right now," Whittle said as Boris exited the bathroom into her bedroom and pulled on his sports coat.

"We're more of a family than the one she left, or that's how she feels, otherwise we wouldn't be housing her right now," Boris said as he turned back to face Whittle as she finished her makeup and came to the doorway, pinning her earrings into her ears.

"I'm just so nervous," Whittle said.

"The social worker told us we have custody of her at the moment," Boris said, "They checked out her home, they know what it's like, and she has no other relatives to go to. We're a foster family. Didn't you ever want different parents growing up?"

"I mean, sometimes I'd get mad at my mom and say 'I wish you weren't my mom!' but it was always in jest, in the heat of the moment, nothing sincere about it," Whittle said, "...why, did you?"

"Of course not," Boris said, "but Ellen did."

With that, he exited the room, leaving Whittle in her sleek black dress and high heels, sighing as she ran her hands through her hair one last time to get any tangles out. She never wanted to be a mother, even a foster mother, so she tried to think of herself more as an 'older sister'. But...she felt like a bad person for not wanting to help Chrissy adjust to her new reality, because it was a reality they all shared, and the more she tried to fight it, the less real it must've seemed to Chrissy, and that wasn't fair, she knew that much. Whittle finally exited the room and saw Chrissy sitting on the couch in her nice dressy outfit, reading a book and sucking on a popsicle as Boris poured himself a bowl of cereal.

"Shouldn't she eat real breakfast?" Whittle asked, and Boris shrugged.

"She obviously knows what's best for her," Boris said.

This sort of thinking frustrated Whittle, but she'd bring it up later. Now wasn't the time to upset the balance.

After all, they had a school portrait to take.

Some of the money Carol had inherited she generously gave to a nearby private school so Chrissy could have a better education and a fresh start. Boris hadn't even asked, this was just something that Carol - upon learning of the situation - had decided would be a generous thing to do. But as they drove to the new private school to take a family portrait for Chrissy's file, Whittle couldn't help but feel as if they were somehow crossing a boundary they shouldn't be crossing. Then again, Whittle had never really felt like a part of a family, so maybe she was just scared.

Yeah. It had to be that...right?

The headmaster of the school was a young man named Kevin Arnold, who looked like he was the lead singer in a rock band, but dressed in a suit and cleaned up. He was extremely polite, had a radiant smile and was more than welcoming to Boris, Whittle and Chrissy. He led them down a long, clean, well lit hallway as they headed to the room designated for taking these portraits, explaining to them the process. His sparkling blue eyes had wholly entranced Whittle, and she couldn't take her eyes off his sandy blonde hair and his well manicured nails.

"I looked over her transcripts and Chrissy seems to be a well educated young lady, and I think she'll fit in perfectly here at Middleton," Kevin said, "Do you have any hobbies? Any interests? We have many after school extracurriculars that you could join."

"I always kind of wanted to play an instrument," Chrissy said, shrugging.

"We have an excellent music teacher and a four time award winning band that would love to have a new member!" Kevin said, clasping his hands together in excitement before slipping his hands into his coat pockets and walking along side her, asking, "Any instrument in particular?"

"The clarinet seemed cool," Chrissy said, smiling, bouncy, clearly enjoying herself.

Boris nudged Whittle as they walked a few feet behind the headmaster and new student, and Whittle stopped picking at her nails and looked at him.

"So?" Boris asked, "Any thoughts?"

"I don't know," Whittle said, "I guess I just...I don't understand what it is we're doing. My family wasn't...I mean, my parents weren't bad parents, we just weren't a very tight knit family, so being this close and involved is...it feels weird to me, is all."

"Well, this isn't your family, it's her family, so try to think of it like that," Boris said, before heading off to catch up with the headmaster and Chrissy, leaving Whittle to wonder...if it's not her family too, then what was the point of being a part of it?

                                                                                            ***

"I can't take it anymore," Polly groaned as she leaned against the wall, waiting for Burt to figure out what he wanted from the vending machine. She exhaled the smoke from her cigarette and sighed, shaking her head, adding, "She's doing this on purpose, she has never liked me."

"Jeezum baloo, Polly, she's just trying to make the place a better home," Burt said, finally making his decision and keying in B8, waiting for it to register and drop; he continued, "it's not personal. She didn't make a deal with James so he'd leave her all his money so she could enact some sort of construction practical joke on you. You're paranoid."

"I'm not...well, okay, I am paranoid, but not about this. She deliberately is making this go on as long as she can in order to irritate me," Polly said, taking another drag.

"And why would she do that?" Burt asked, bending down to fish out his snack from the bottom of the machine, "She honestly rarely ever even thinks about you, let alone enough to want to bother you."

"She says she's making this place better for everyone, but she never thinks about me? Sounds like she's doing it more for her own ego then," Polly said, making Burt stop and look at her, his hand crammed into a bag of overly salty chips. He swallowed, cleared his throat and furrowed his brow at her.

"Is there something specific you want from this renovation?" he asked.

"...can you ask, so she doesn't say no to me?" Polly asked, sounding sad.

This was, Burt had to admit, the most human Polly had ever come across, and it honestly made him see her in a different light. He smiled after a moment and nodded, asking what it was she wanted.

                                                                                             ***

Chrissy was sitting on her bed when there was a knock on the door. She said they could come in, and saw Whittle open the door, enter, and then shut it behind her. Chrissy put her new schoolbacks into her bookbag and then scooted back up towards the pillows, pulling her legs to her chest as Regina stood in the center of the room and looked around.

"I think today went well, right?" she asked.

"I liked it there, the headmaster was really nice," Chrissy said, "You seemed to like him a bit too much."

Whittle couldn't help but chuckle at this.

"Yeah, I definitely did, I won't deny it," she said, "I need to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me, okay?"

Chrissy nodded as Whittle sat on the end of the bed and looked at her.

"Um...you consider us a family, right?" Whittle asked, and Chrissy nodded again; Regina continued, saying, "but...we're not like your parents, are we? I mean, you don't see me as your...like...a surrogate mother, right?"

"God no," Chrissy said, making Whittle break and begin laughing hard.

"Wow!" Whittle said, "That was incredibly rude and yet I can't be mad because it was the exact answer I wanted."

"Boris is like my grandpa," Whittle said, "I don't see my grandpa a lot anymore, and I really liked him, so it's nice to have another wise old man to look up to. Boris is probably cooler than my grandpa, in all honesty. But you? You're more like..."

A moment of hesitation, as she clearly thought about it, and then said

"...the cool older cousin," Chrissy said, which surprised Whittle as even she hadn't considered this one; Chrissy continued, "Like...the cool cousin who's the black sheep of the family; the cousin who sneaks you into R rated movies and lets you use swear words around her."

"...I totally am that cousin," Whittle said, "...Boris told me that it didn't matter how I felt because this was your family, but-"

"Well that's a dumb thing to say for someone as smart as him," Chrissy said, interrupting her, "It's not my family, it's our family."

Whittle smiled. A family didn't have to be made up of people related to one another, just as a community didn't have to be made up of people who regularly got along. Everyone was going to have skirmishes, issues to resolve, things to argue about, but in the end what made the difference was that you all tried to fix it and work together to make the living situation worth it for everyone.

As Whittle left the bedroom and stood in the hallway, she couldn't help but smile to herself. She really was the cool older cousin, and that was something she didn't mind being one iota.

                                                                                              ***

Polly woke up and opened her eyes, still somewhat blurry. She reached around for her bifocals on the bedside table and pulled them onto her face with urgency, as she saw a woman - youngish woman with auburn hair in a messy bun, jeans and a flannel overshirt - measuring her wall. Polly waited to say anything, and then finally broke the silence by clearing her throat nonchalantly. The woman turned on her heel, thumbs in her tool belt, and smiled.

"Hi, I hope I didn't wake you up," she said, "I'm Megan. I'm...I've been asked to renovate your room specifically, so I was just taking some measurements."

"...no, it's...it's no problem at all," Polly said, smiling.

After she got dressed and left Megan to head to the dining hall to get them both some coffee and donuts, she found Carol sitting at a table by herself, eating a few sausages. Polly took a seat beside her before she headed back and didn't speak for a moment, until Carol finished chewing.

"Um...thanks," Polly said, "I know I haven't been the nicest person to you, or anyone, but...thank you."

"Don't thank me, thank Burt, he's the one who made the request," Carol said, "I just paid the money and told them what to do. You'll have a nice bathroom with a walk in tub in no time. Didn't know your hip was that bad."

"Been bad for a while, accident from a long time ago," Polly said, "I have to take her this coffee."

"Though I suppose you could thank me if you wanted," Carol said, wiping her mouth on her napkin before turning to Polly, who was now standing out of her chair, holding the coffee and donuts.

"Wh...what for?"

"Well, I saw the way you looked at those nurses, the way you described the guys working outside your room. Sure, Burt made the suggestion for the renovation, but I'm the one who sent her there for you."

Polly blushed, nodded, and then turned and headed back to her room. Carol watched her leave the dining hall, then turned her focus back to her breakfast plate. She sipped her orange juice, and chuckled to herself as she took a sip.

"Lesbians are so easy to please," Carol said to herself, biting into her second sausage.

These images that flashed before her in the dark on the small television screen were things she hadn't seen in years. Sitting there on the end of her bed, looking into this television screen - the television that had the built in VCR, the only one capable of playing these tapes anymore, lest they be forever locked away - Beatrice couldn't help but feel a pang of remorse for those days gone by. Those days with the people she'd once considered her friends and coworkers, her co-conspirators in creativity. And what should've made her feel better, only made her feel more uneasy, because now, a young woman - a young woman she didn't know except via the osmosis of the television screen from years prior - had rebuilt her shows entire set in her basement, and for some reason...this made Beatrice Burden extremely sad.

                                                                                               ***

"I really wish you'd reconsider," Leslie said as she sat back down at her desk, handing an envelope to Bea, who was seated across from her as she continued, "we'd love to have you back. We'd give you a budget you'd be comfortable with and you would have complete creative control. Corporate sponsorship is the way of the past, gone like the dinosaurs, and even publicly funded groups like ours that provide free entertainment to the lowest of income families can manage to make productions of grandeur out of seemingly very little."

"I appreciate the sentiment, you've always been extremely kind to me," Bea said, smiling as she used one of her nails to undo the envelope, "But I'm fairly comfortable in semi self imposed exile."

She opened the envelope and slid out a card, which she smiled at briefly before opening it to wide eyed surprise.

"Happy?" Leslie asked, smirking as she leaned back in her comfy leather desk chair, arms behind her head.

"Uh...this is extremely generous," Bea said, "I...I don't know that I can accept this."

"Think of it as back payment, for all the money stolen from you in years prior," Leslie said, "I'm doing my best to make things right between you and this station. Now that Nassar is no longer in charge, and we're all doing things my way, I've been doing my best to make amends between everyone he wronged. Turns out it was a lot of people."

"You say that as if it's uncommon for a businessman," Bea said, making Leslie chuckle.

"Well, be that as it may, I hope you like what I've tried to do for you," Leslie said, "And, like I said, if you ever want to come back, you have my number and the station would welcome you with open arms. Most people here thought you get a bad rap. You're a childhood icon, please don't forget that."

Much as she'd like to, even if she wouldn't admit it, she couldn't forget it even if she tried.

                                                                                              ***

Beatrice paced her lofts living room, chewing nervously on her nails.

She had been waiting for a phone call for a few weeks from an event organizer getting together people from public access kids shows, and they'd been trying to get Beatrice on the phone for ages. Eventually she realized she couldn't just ignore them, and so she promised to speak to them tonight. This organizer, her name was Diana, was attempting to make a small convention of sorts, but needless to say, Beatrice wanted nothing to do with it, and ignoring someone was considered rude so she decided she'd just politely decline.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the phone rang and Bea quickly answered it, hoping to get this awkward conversation over with as quickly as possible.

"Hello?" Diana asked, "Miss Beagle?"

"This is Bea," Beatrice said, "How can I help you?"

"I'm so glad we finally get to talk! I've been dying to speak with you for weeks now, and you just seem so unavailable! My name is Diana Riggs, and I am-"

"Miss Riggs, I don't mean to be rude, but I am not interested in whatever it is you're trying to do. I'm sure your intentions are good and that you mean well, but honestly, I just want to be left alone. I hope you understand" Beatrice said, blurting it out, not even letting her finish. When she finally spoke again, the disappointment in her voice was clear as day, even as she tried to hide it.

"I...I understand," Diana said, "I just had to ask, you know how it is. Thank you for at least speaking to me."

"Of course, and thank you for the invitation," Bea said.

"If you change your mind you have my number, and the convention is a week from tomorrow," Diana said, "Everyone would love to see you there, we're all big admirers of you. You're such an icon."

After Bea had hung up, she stood there staring at the phone, tapping her foot on the floor as she chewed on her lip. How could she be an icon, especially when compared to so many others that were still so fondly remembered? It just didn't make sense to her, and the label never really sat well.

                                                                                            ***

Why? Why was Michelle the one who had remembered it as well as she had, and why had she clung to it so desperately for so many years? It just didn't make sense. But after seeing the set remade in the basement, Beatrice couldn't help but feel grateful for her lifelong admiration, because there was one thing Michelle never called her...and that was an 'icon'. Oh sure, she'd said the character of Beatrice had been inspirational, but the word 'icon' had never left her lips, near as she could remember.

But what was she honestly supposed to make of the basement set? Was it just the strange project of a strange lonely young woman with a breathing disorder? Or was there something deeper here that she was missing? Something Michelle had intended to jump out at her? Sure, she appreciated the effort to hell and back, but for some reason, other than Michelle's general love for her work, it didn't make sense to Beatrice why she'd done this.

Maybe the best course of action would be to simply ask her.

After all, time and time again Bea had found that had she just talked to someone things would've turned out a lot better. Communication is kind of strange like that.

                                                                                                    ***

"Am I an icon?"

This sudden question surprised Liam, who jumped a little and dropped his magazine on his lap in the hospital bed. He looked at Beatrice standing in the doorway, before she stepped into the room and took a seat on the chair beside the bed reserved for 'guests', of which she'd been the only one. Liam shook his head and shrugged.

"A simple 'hello' would've sufficed," he said, "Maybe a 'how are you doing? any better?', but I guess not."

"Hello, how are you doing? Any better? Also am I an icon?" Beatrice asked, making Liam laugh and, thusly, wheeze a little. She set her purse on her lap and watched him as he set his magazine down completely now and looked at her, cupping his hands in his lap.

"Yes, but not to the kids like the other shows...Those shows are icons because the kids grow up to remember them fondly, and thus they retain some semblance of relevancy in todays world. But you're not that kind if icon, Bea...you're an icon to the people in the industry," Liam said, shifting and sitting up better, "You're an icon to the creative people who want to do their things on their terms, and damn what 'the suits' might say, or anyone for that matter."

"That's...definitely an answer I didn't expect," Beatrice said, fingering her jangling charm bracelet on her wrist, "but...but what kind of legacy is that to leave?"

"You goin' somewhere?" Liam asked, making her chuckle.

"No," Beatrice replied, shaking her head, "Just thinking about the future. Is that really what I want to go down as? A creative person who inspired other creative people but became a self imposed hermit and burnt her only true venture to the ground for the sake of fighting back against a rabid capitalistic consumer driven culture that only demanded new content as soon as the old got boring?"

"Beatrice," Liam said, grunting a bit as he struggled to sit up straight and glanced at her, "Listen to me, okay? You accomplished something that most people in the entertainment industry never do, no matter how long they work for or how much success they achieve. You created something that people, especially other creative people, really connected with, and then - as if that wasn't enough - you ended it on your own terms because you weren't happy with the outcomes. You publicly fought against the way it was viewed and mishandled, and a lot of that was my fault and I have been so sorry you have no idea, but do you know how many other creative people would kill for the kind of guts you just seem to brazenly have?"

Beatrice smiled and pulled her hair back, tying it up in a messy bun as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, folding her arms.

"I want you to know that I'll forgive you one of these days," she said, "And that I'm very happy you didn't die."

"Which will come first? Your forgiveness or my untimely demise?"

"That remains to be seen," Bea said, making them both laugh.

An icon? Yes. This was something she might be able to work with after all, and she knew just the person to work on it with.

                                                                                              ***

Michelle was standing in her kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal as she stared at the calendar tacked to the fridge. She couldn't help but notice a particular day coming up, one circled in red, October 17th. A day that she hated had to happen yearly. As she groaned and chewed, she heard a knock at the front door. Michelle set her cereal bowl down and pulled her mask back on over her face, tugging her oxygen tank along behind her as she headed to answer whoever it was knocking.

She pulled the front door open to reveal Beatrice, standing on her porch. This, she had to admit, was a surprise. Michelle stepped aside to let Bea enter, which she did, almost happily so. As she got into the living room, she turned quick on her heel and looked at Michelle.

"Having trouble today?" she asked, motioning towards the tank.

"Yeah, some days it's really bad," Michelle said, sounding out of breath.

"Well, that's good because now what I have to say can't take your breath away," Beatrice said, and then after realizing Michelle wasn't laughing, shrugged and added, "Sorry, that was likely in bad taste."

"What are you doing here?" Michelle asked, still somewhat starstruck by her sudden appearance.

"I realized the other day that...the thing I was running from all along wasn't my shame or my fear or my anger, but was my appreciation. I was mad that people appreciated me and what I'd done because I couldn't, so I figured if I wasn't capable of it, then nobody else should be allowed to either. I know it's ridiculous and unfair, and I put myself under my own scrutiny more than anyone else ever put me under, but it's the gods honest truth. Ever since the show went off the air and the whole thing went kaput, I've been told, repeatedly, that I am an icon. I hate that label."

"That must be frustrating, yeah, especially if you don't hold yourself in high esteem," Michelle said, making Bea snap her fingers and point at her.

"Bingo, see, you get it. You...you seem capable of appreciating the Beagle the same way I did," Beatrice said, "...she was my best friend in the whole world, and I simply wanted to share the love and comfort that she gave me with everyone else who never got to experience it, because I didn't want them missing out on her gifts."

Michelle couldn't believe this, Beatrice was spilling her guts to her. This was like a dream come true.

"Then what are you doing here?" Michelle asked.

"You're the only one who didn't call me an icon. I appreciate that. It made your admiration more...real, more believable. Like...like you didn't like what I had done, you liked me specifically. Aside from my parents, maybe Liam, I've rarely felt liked in the world."

"I know what that feels like."

"I'm sure you do, that's why we understand one another," Beatrice said, "Michelle, I want to do something for you. Something I've never thought about asking another person to do. I want to give you all my tapes, and I want you to digitize them so we can release them online for free. I want you to help me create an archive for something we both love. Will you help me?"

Michelle was speechless. She never in a million years could've expected this.

"Can I have a drink of water?" Bea asked, "I'm so thirsty."

"Yeah, there's a dispenser built into the fridge," Michelle said.

Beatrice excused herself and stood up, heading to the kitchen. She found the glasses in the cabinet, pulled a mug and filled it up. As she drank, she tapped at the calendar and looked back into the living room over the couch at Michelle.

"Why's this circled?"

"...it's my birthday," Michelle said.

"Not too happy about it?" Bea asked, walking back to the living room now.

"How...how would this work?" Michelle asked, as Beatrice once again seated herself.

"Well, I'd bring them over to you and we could sit together and watch them, take notes on things I'd like cut out, make some small edits here and there. But you're the only person I'd trust with this kind of project, despite barely knowing you. I just...I can sense you appreciate me, and because of that, I appreciate you. I'd happily pay you, of course, if that's what you're asking."

"That...that wasn't what I was asking, but I can't really turn it down. I am in need of employment..." Michelle said, sounding embarrassed.

"You know, when I was your age, I couldn't see myself doing anything else other than what I wound up doing. Can you honestly say you don't feel the same? Can you see yourself wasting away in some dreadful little office for the next 30 years, toiling away for someone who doesn't give a shit about you while your actual talents go to waste?"

Michelle chewed her lip and shook her head.

"Every job I've tried just...doesn't feel right. I've...I've never really known where it is I should be or what it is I should be doing, but I know it isn't any of the things I've tried, that's for sure," Michelle said, and Bea smiled, leaning forward.

"Because guess what, knowing what you don't want to do is more important than knowing what you want to do, and it's not an insight everyone gets, unfortunately," Bea said, "Help me help you. I know this is weird, I know it's out of the blue, I know we barely know one another but I see potential in you that I saw in myself, and I would never forgive myself if I didn't try and bring it out of you."

Michelle smiled, and tried not to cry. Her idol, a woman she'd long admired her entire life, was sitting in her living room and telling her she believed in her. How things had come to this she couldn't really understand, but they had, and she never felt more thankful.

"I have to go, I have some other errands to run," Beatrice said, standing up and pulling her purse back up over her shoulder as she headed for the door, "But please think about my offer. Interviewers, convention organizers, even Leslie herself - god love her - wanted to heap praise onto me for the things I made, not for the person I was so I can't help but appreciate that you tracked me down for a very personal reason. You liked the things I was saying, not the things I was selling. That means a lot to me."

As she stood in the door, about to exit to the porch, she pulled something out of her purse, along with a pen. She flipped open the little booklet and began scribbling in it before finishing with a flourish and tearing the paper out, handing it to Michelle.

"...this...this is three thousand dollars," Michelle said, staring at the paper, her eyes wide.

"Yes it is," Beatrice said, stuffing her things back into her purse, "Get yourself some new equipment, a new apparatus, something to make life easier. The people who've been abandoned by everyone have to look out for one another."

And then, without even asking, Beatrice leaned in and hugged her. Michelle couldn't breath - even more than she already couldn't - because these were things she never in a million years could've imagined happening. After the hug broke, Michelle watched Beatrice walk to her car, a tiny little hatchback, got in and honked goodbye as she pulled away. Michelle walked back around to her couch and plopped back down, her eyes glued to the check in her hands.

After everything in her life, it wasn't her parents that came through for her.

It was a long forgotten childrens public television host.

And she could appreciate the humor in that.

Everything hurt, his limbs felt heavy and his eyesight was blurred, but Liam knew he was alive. He could tell from the pain that he wasn't dead, because if he were dead, he wouldn't be in pain. He couldn't really move much, but he was able to look to his side and see, sitting in a chair by his bed, a woman reading a book. He coughed a little, and she lowered the book, revealing herself to be Beatrice, who then smiled at him.

"What...are you doing here?" he asked.

"I'm your emergency contact," Bea said, "I guess you never changed that."

"I...I guess not. Sorry to drag you out of your lair," Liam said, groaning as he adjusted himself and felt his body ache.

"Try not to move much, you really did yourself some damage," Bea said, touching his arm and then bringing the blanket up over him more, tucking him in a bit before sitting back and sighing, asking, "...why did you do this? I mean, I figured you missed him, but-"

"This doesn't have much to do with him, as it has to do with you," Liam said, surprising her as he added, "I broke you as a person, and I don't deserve to live if I'm going through life damaging others."

"Liam that's ridiculous," Bea said, "Don't believe-"

"Just...don't," Liam said, "I'll make sure to take you off my emergency contact."

And with that, Liam rolled over and went to sleep, leaving Beatrice there to watch and wait. She couldn't help but feel like maybe she wasn't the only one who'd gotten hurt by the fallout of the shows end, and perhaps she'd been focusing on herself a bit too much. Sure, Liam had been the thing that brought it all crashing down in a way, but it also never would've been without him, and she often forgot that.

                                                                                             ***

Michelle set her hammer down and stood up, stretching, taking a puff from her inhaler as she stepped back and admired her work. She smiled, feeling good about her progress, and knew that she was, for the most part, done at this point. As she headed up the stairs and into the bathroom to wash her hands and face off, brushing the sawdust off her clothes, she heard a knock at her front door, and went to answer. As she pulled the door open, she saw Delores standing there.

"Oh, hi," Michelle said, "What are you doing here?"

"Can I come in? I have some things to run by you," Delores asked, and Michelle stepped aside, letting Delores in. Delores set her coat and briefcase down before turning around and adjusting her rings on her hand, smiling the whole time.

"What's up?" Michelle asked, grinning  nervously.

"So," Delores started, "how has working for David been going?"

"It's been, not very challenging, thankfully," Michelle said, "I mostly copy things for him, or do course work correction. He's been very accommodating."

"He's been a friend for many years, so I'm glad to hear he hasn't become a worse person," Delores said, "His cousin was very ill for a long time, so I figured he'd know how to work with someone who was also somewhat disabled."

"Thank you, Delores, I really appreciate it," Michelle said.

"Are you taking any courses outside of that, like we talked about?"

"Um, not currently, no, I've...I've been kind of busy with a personal project," Michelle said, rubbing her arm nervously as she walked around the couch and sat down in the loveseat. Delores shrugged and sat down on the couch, setting her briefcase on her lap and popping the lid open.

"Well, I'm here for a very specific reason," Delores said, "I want you to know that I've found something a bit more interesting than just being David's gofer. There's a startup company interested in original streaming content for families and children. You said you wanted to work in entertainment, didn't you?"

"I...did, yes," Michelle said, surprised Delores remembered this.

"Well," Delores said, pulling a manila folder out and unclasping it, sliding out some papers and handing them across to Michelle, adding, "these are their applications, and with my help, they'll absolutely take you. All we have to do is make sure we get it in before they open up to a more public crowd."

"How did you find out about this?" Michelle asked, taking the papers and flipping through them.

"A friend I know who works in entertainment is part of it, her mother is anyway, and she's helping her mother get it off the ground seeing as she's the more tech savvy of the two. When she told me about it, I immediately knew it'd be perfect for you."

Michelle was surprised at Delores's kindness. She'd always been helpful, but between David's part time assistant gig and now this, she was going somewhat above and beyond as an unemployment social worked, for some reason Michelle couldn't even begin to fathom. Sitting there flipping through the papers, she couldn't help but take note of the letterhead at the top, noting the company name: CLEAN. This name struck her as somewhat...straight forward, but Delores had said they were invested in bringing family entertainment and content to children, so it did make some sense.

"Delores, this is...this is a bit overwhelming, but I'm definitely interested," Michelle said, "Could we maybe meet at your office this-"

"Forget my office, meet me at Gayle's, you know that small coffee shop near the office, and we'll plow through these together this weekend, okay? But no later, because as soon as this offer opens up to a more public job searching group, you're not going to have time."

"I understand," Michelle said, smiling, "Thanks, Delores."

"You feeling okay, sweetheart?" Delores asked as she packed her things back up and, clicking the locks back shut on her briefcase, looked at Michelle concernedly, adding, "How's your breathing?"

"I'm okay, Delores, it's just been a...a very strange week, hah. I just need some time to recuperate and relax," Michelle said, "My breathing's been fine. I've just been finishing a personal project and it's taken a lot out of me, physically. I just...I'm not mentally there enough right now to focus on this."

"Completely understandable," Delores said, standing up and heading to the door, putting her hand on Michelle's shoulder, smiling as she said, "...you take care of yourself Puffin, we'll get this done this weekend."

Michelle rose from the couch and followed Delores to the front door, an eyebrow arched, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Puffin?" she asked, "That's an odd term of endearment."

"It's because your hair is so black but the rest of you is so pale, except your eyes. So vibrant, so full of life. You really smash the ridiculous idea that sick people aren't capable of anything," Delores said, standing on the porch and looking at her address plates, picking at them, "These should be replaced, you really shouldn't let them get so worn out."

"Okay, I'll make sure to put it on the list," Michelle said.

The women hugged, and Michelle watched Delores head to her car. As she watched her drive away, Michelle couldn't help but feel like she had an adult in her life who really genuinely cared about her, and now it was time to show an adult she really cared about them. It was time to show Beatrice the basement.

                                                                                              ***

"You sure you don't want to do something?" Lexi asked, pulling her backpack straps up around her shoulders as she and Keagan stood out in the back of the restaurant while Keagan smoked a joint, but Keagan just shook her head.

"Nah, I'll be okay, I have to run some errands anyway," Keagan said, walking Lexi to her car. Lexi pushed her long, perfectly bleach blonde hair back behind her ear and smiling as she looked at the ground in front of them as they walked.

"You know," Lexi said, "You could come over after your errands. Lord knows I got nothing but time."

"Shouldn't you be studying?" Keagan asked, and Lexi shrugged.

"Eh, I'll do it on the weekend," Lexi said, stopping at her car, hand on the roof, her piercing green eyes looking at Keagan, "Come over. I'll order something totally awful in to eat and we'll just hang out. It'll be nice."

"Aren't your mom and sister-"

"She took my sister to another town for the weekend for a Lacrosse game, she's going to root from the stands, which will surely embarrass my sister which is great, because frankly she could stand being taken down a peg," Lexi said, making Keagan laugh.

"So I see, you're all alone and you're creeped out, so you don't want to be alone?" Keagan asked, squeezing the tip of the joint to save it for later before stuffing it in her back pocket of her jeans.

"Puh-lease, I don't get scared. I watch horror movies for fun," Lexi said, "I just thought it'd be cool to do something."

Keagan was rarely invited places by other girls she had been friends with, and to be friends with Lexi often surprised others when they found out that the rather perfect aryan girl with her beautiful alabaster skin and her perfect bright eyes and her perfect blonde hair was friends with the frizzy haired black girl, but Lexi was nothing if not racist. Lexi opened her car door and tossed her backpack on the passenger seat, then leaned on the door, her arms crossed on the top as she rested her chin on her arms and smiled.

"I guess I could come over," Keagan said, "I just need to run a few errands first."

"Great!" Lexi said, "I'll see you soon!"

Lexi got in her car and backed out of the lot, pulling away and honking at Keagan, who headed back inside to clear out her timecard, lock the place up and head to do her errands before going to Lexi's. Keagan first stopped at a drug store and picked up some toothpaste and mouthwash, along with a few packs of tooth whitening gum before heading to a bookstore to return something. She then finally headed to Lexi's. Having never seen the place before, she was humbled by the quaint apartment complex Lexi and her family had been made to move into after losing all their assets, and she parked in the guest parking before heading to the apartment she knew was Lexi's. As she knocked, she could hear Lexi tell her to come in, so she did, only to find the place completely dimmed and only lit by candles.

Keagan stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind her, confused. Was the power out? Nah, couldn't be, because she'd seen the lights on in neighboring apartments. Could they not afford their power bill? As she put her bookbag down and looked around, she couldn't help but feel confused, until she noticed a fire was lit in the faux fireplace, and then Lexi stepped out from the kitchen in a silk bathrobe. Keagan stopped and looked at her, still confused.

"What's going on?" Keagan asked, "Are we gonna hold a satanic ritual?"

"God, if only," Lexi said, approaching Keagan, "No, I just wanted things to be perfect."

"What?" Keagan asked, backing up until Lexi had her pinned against a wall, smiling at her.

Lexi reached up and touched Keagan's face, then ran her soft fingers down to her chin and lifted her face gently, before pressing her own lips against Keagan's, taking her completely by surprise. Keagan didn't fight it, she was much too shocked to fight it, but after the kiss ended, she was still standing there in complete shock.

"Uh..." Keagan said, "Um, what...what is this?"

"What does it seem like?" Lexi asked.

"Seriously?" Keagan asked.

"Are you not-"

"No, I mean, I don't know," Keagan said, "I never...I never really thought about it, I guess, but I...uh..."

"I'm sorry, I just assumed that..."

An awkward quiet fell over the room, and both girls looked at the floor, avoiding shame. Lexi finally walked around to the couch and buried her face in her hands, crying. Keagan finally stirred enough to follow her and sit beside her.

"God, I always do this," Lexi said, "I always meet someone, and then I just...I assume they're like me, and they never are and then I never hear from them again. I've had to change jobs so many times since dad went under because of making this mistake. Heterosexual people, they never have to assume, they just usually ARE correct in their assumptions. But me? God forbid I think someone might be like me."

"I...I didn't even know you were-"

"What? A lesbian?" Lexi asked.

"I just...you're so...perfect, I just assumed you were straight."

"Yeah, you'd be surprised how many guys say the same thing. That's the problem with being a femme queer; they think to be a woman who likes women you have to be this...this weird butch woman who wears combat boots and looks like she lost a fight to a pair of scissors."

Keagan chuckled, which made Lexi smile a little, as she sniffled and wiped her nose on the arm of her silk robe.

"Please don't cry," Keagan said, "I don't want your eye makeup to run, it's not a great look."

"How can I not cry? Look at my life, Keagan, look at the mess that it is," Lexi said.

"I...I know, but I just...your life isn't the only one that's a mess. You should see this friend of mine I'm working on something with," Keagan said, "She's not much better. Nobody our age is doing much better, to be quite honest. Besides, I never said...I wasn't..."

Lexi looked at Keagan, who looked at her hands in her lap.

"I just...I guess I never really thought about it, honestly," Keagan said, "And, like, especially with you, because you're so pretty, how could you like me of all people."

"Don't say that about yourself," Lexi said, "You're the one who's beautiful."

Keagan smiled and looked at Lexi, who reached forward and pushed some of Keagan's hair back, running her hands through it. Keagan shut her eyes and enjoyed this feeling, sighing softly. Lexi edged closer and took Keagan's hand in her free hand, gripping it softly before pressing her lips against Keagan's neck, making Keagan gasp a little.

"Stay here," Lexi whispered, "Just stay with me."

"Well how can I say no really," Keagan said, falling back on the couch as Lexi crawled over her and pinned her wrists over her head to the arms of the couch, chuckling, "Just...don't take it personally if I freeze up, I'm kind of new to this."

"I understand," Lexi said, "Just let me take care of you."

And she did, and she didn't regret it.

                                                                                             ***

Beatrice was exiting her apartment complex, heading out to her car when she heard a car door shut and looked up to see Michelle crossing the street, dragging her wheeling oxygen tank behind her, the tubes from it attached to a mask around her face. Bea stopped and looked at her as she struggled to pull the oxygen tank up onto the curb.

"Miss Burden," Michelle said, "I hope this isn't weird."

"Not any weirder than showing up before," Bea said, smiling slightly, "What can I do for your Miss Helm?"

"I really need to show you something," Michelle said, "Please come with me to see my basement."

"Hah! Uh, forgive me if I'm a tad hesitant to take a near total stranger up on that offer," Bea said, opening her car door before turning back to look at Michelle again, "...Miss Helm, I have some things to do today, would this take long?"

"No, I promise it'll only take a few minutes, but I've spent the last year working on it, and I need to show you," Michelle said.

This piqued Bea's interest.

A half hour drive later they were heading inside Michelle's rented house, with Bea helping her get her oxygen tank up over the porch and over the door threshold, back into the house. From there she followed Michelle to the basement door, which Michelle opened and, after disconnecting the tank and taking a few puffs from her inhaler, began heading down. Beatrice exhaled, shook her head and followed her, unsure what it was exactly she was walking into. As she descended into the dark basement, she could hear Michelle moving, but she couldn't see a blessed thing. Only after Michelle turned the lights on, and her eyes finally adjusted, did Bea raise her hands to her face in shock at what she was looking at.

"Oh my...god," Beatrice said, stepping off the last few steps and further into the basement, "You...built this?"

Michelle nodded, grinning from ear to ear. Beatrice was staring at what boiled down to essentially the main set of her show, recreated in perfect replication down to the very last detail. She walked past all the things Michelle had built, like the small gazebo and the fake plants she'd bought and installed, running her hands over the wooden textures.

"This is..." Beatrice started, then finished, "...insane."

"Wh...what?" Michelle asked, her smile faltering.

"This is insane," Beatrice said, turning back to face her, "Why would you do this?"

"Be...because, because growing up this was the place that felt the most like home to me," Michelle said, "Aside from the hospital, which no child should feel is a home, and my home certainly wasn't a home, but your show...your world, your home...that's the place that gave me that feeling of warmth that a home should give a child. I know it was just a set, but it...it felt real to me."

"...I just...I can't..." Bea said, struggling to find words as her head whipped around at this fever dream of a creation, "...why did you bring me here?"

"Because...because people took it away from you, and I wanted to give it back," Michelle said, "because you, of all people, didn't deserve to have your home ripped from you the way it was. I know it isn't exact, I know it isn't the same, but I did my best to make it like it was, and...and after finding you, I just wanted to show you what you really meant to the world."

Bea looked around again, her breath caught in her chest until she finally looked back at Michelle and started weeping, falling to her knees. This surprised Michelle, who knelt and put her arms around Bea, who pushed her head against Michelle and sobbed.

"Thank you," Bea said, "Thank you, thank you."

"Of course," Michelle replied, "Thank you for giving it to us in the first place. I see now what kind of beauty can come from a place built by multiple people. That's what a real home should be. Nobody should ever feel they don't have a home. Especially a dog."

She wasn't sure how long they stayed there like that, but Michelle was willing to give Beatrice all the time she needed to accept this act of kindness. After all she'd given Michelle - even without knowing it - Michelle had finally repaid the debt.

And she was right, after all.

No dog should be homeless.

The doorbell rang, and Bea sighed, pulling her soaped up arms out of her sink. She wiped them off on the hand towel hanging off the stove and then walked across the loft to the door to answer it. As she tugged the door open, time seemed to slow down, but not for Beatrice, only for the people on the other side of it. This was a moment they'd been dreaming of, and now here it was. Bea smiled at them politely and looked between the two young women.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice high, feminine and somewhat nasally.

"My name is Michelle," Michelle said, "and this is Keagan. We're your biggest fans."

This was not the way Beatrice wanted to end her day.

                                                                                             ***

"Hello, please, do come in!" Leslie said, ushering Michelle and Keagan into her office before heading around to the back of her desk and seating herself again. She waited for the girls to sit down before speaking again, polite as she'd always been in her career. She had to be, this was public access after all, and she needed the community to like her, and thusly, like her network. After they'd sat down, she smiled and pushed a bowl on her desk towards them, asking, "Candy?"

"No thank you, I'm diabetic," Keagan said, and Michelle looked at her.

"You never told me that," she said.

"It never came up," Keagan replied, shrugging.

"No bother, just an offer," Leslie said, pulling the bowl back, "So...I guess I should state the obvious right away...you're looking for Beatrice, right?"

"Yes," Michelle said, "I've been searching for her, or anything related to her for years. She has virtually no web presence."

"Not surprising. She paid some people to wipe most of everything they could from the internet about her," Leslie said, surprising them; she leaned back and propped her feet up on the desk, feeling comfortable with these young women before continuing, adding, "You're not the first ones to come looking for her, obviously. A few stragglers have come in over the years, but once they hit so many dead ends, they knew to give it up. It isn't even that she would've been hard to find, it's more that she didn't want to be found, and actively worked towards erasing any trace of herself - and thusly the show - from every plane of existence."

"Why did she-" Keagan started, but Leslie shook her head.

"I really have no concrete reason. I know the business with the pizzeria didn't make her happy, and I know that she really disliked the man who ran the place when that deal was put into place. She blamed Liam for all of that, and the two drifted apart as he took over the more business aspect of the whole thing. She saw him as grifting her creativity, shilling out her pain for cash."

"That had to hurt," Michelle said.

"It hurt her tremendously," Leslie said, "and once the whole shebang fell apart, Bea did her best to erase the entirety of it. She pulled all the tapes so it couldn't be rerun, she bought out all remaining merchandise - including the stuff from the pizzeria - so it couldn't circulate and she packed everything away in a storage unit. She cut ties with everyone, except me, which she sends me holiday cards and came to my baby shower."

"That's nice of her to stay in touch," Michelle said and Leslie nodded, smiling sweetly.

"I think she saw how much I respected her love of the work itself, far more than her love of the money it brought her," Leslie said, "I admired her morals on the capitalistic bullshit that came with selling your art, especially when your art is so deeply entwined with your personal feelings and isn't just something you're trying to deliberately make money off of. She appreciated that."

"She sounds so...very disciplined," Keagan said.

"She is, which is why it isn't unusual for people to come in searching for her," Leslie said, "She inspired a lot of young artists with her beliefs once they found out about them, and that's why they want to seek her out. I just assumed that's why you two are here."

"We're not artists," Keagan said, "I'm just interested in lost media."

"Ah, and you?" Leslie asked, turning to Michelle.

A hush fell over the room as Michelle debated opening up, and really explaining her complex emotions tied to Beatrice, a woman she's never met, and the beagle she represented. She took a few deep breaths, batted her eyes a few times, pulled her inhaler out and took a few puffs before exhaling again and began speaking, her nails tapping on the old oak arm of the chair.

"I almost died as a little girl," Michelle said, "I was in and out of the hospital a lot, and my parents...they fought a lot, and I fell by the wayside. They just...they didn't have the time or energy to expend on me when they could barely deal with their own problems. Because of this, I spent most of my time awake in the hospital, attached to various breathing apparatuses, watching TV, and mostly Beatrice Beagle. She gave me hope, she was always so sunny and bright and...and she made me not feel alone. She made me feel like I was cared for, even if it was by a stranger in a dog costume."

Nobody spoke, but Leslie opened her desk drawer and pulled out a small packet of kleenex, tearing it open and dabbing at her eyes.

"When the show ended, I felt like I lost my only friend in the world. I was so alone. But...but she inspired me to not give up and to always have hope and to always keep going no matter how bad things got. I'm not looking for her for any other reason than to thank her for what she gave me. A will to live."

"I'm going to write something down on this piece of paper," Leslie said, after wiping the tears from her face and composing herself once again, "you aren't going to say how you got it, and you aren't to ask me for anything else. I have never, in all my years of meeting people trying to find her, given anybody this information, but after what you've told me, I don't know how I can't help you."

She finished writing, capped her pen, folded the paper neatly and slid it across the desk. Keagan picked it up and looked at without unfolding it, her lip quivering.

"What...is it?" she asked.

"It's Beatrices address," Leslie said, "and if you see her, if you actually speak to her, please be as candid with her as you were with me. It'll benefit you."

"Why are you giving us this? Doesn't this invade her privacy?" Keagan asked and Leslie leaned back in her chair and smiled, pushing some hair from her eyes.

"Because someone has to tell that woman how wonderful she is," Leslie said, "So maybe she'll finally start believing it."

                                                                                               ***

"...how...how did you find me?" Beatrice asked, still standing tucked halfway behind the opened door, as if she expected them to hurt her in some way for some reason.

"Got lucky," Michelle said, not at all eager to sell Leslie up the creak, "can we come in?"

"...I...I'm not interested in visitors. If you're seeking autographs or something of that nature, I don't-"

"Miss Beagle, please, just let me speak to you," Michelle said as Bea started to shut the door, "You saved my life."

The door stopped closing, and she opened it back up cautiously, peering at the two young, clearly trustworthy women, and then sighed, shook her head and opened the door.

"Come in," she said, "But don't expect much."

The inside of her apartment loft surprised them. Elegant, chic, and yet somehow stuck in the 40s. Soft jazz played from the old record players horn and the artwork on the walls were mostly paintings, though none they recognized whatsoever. She had bookshelves filled to the brim with books on any and everything you could imagine, and her lampshades were beautiful and looked hand crafted. As the girls took a seat on the couch, Bea looked at them, hands on her hips and chewed her lip.

"I suppose I should offer you something to drink," she said.

"You don't have to," Keagan said, "We're okay."

"You have to excuse me, I...I rarely have visitors, especially ones I'm not expecting," Bea said, "In fact I spent a good few years ensuring that would never happen, and yet every once in a while someone still manages to find me. Seems, in this day and age, one can't disappear completely. Anonymity is dead, long live omnipresence."

"Miss..." Michelle started, and Bea smiled as she seated herself across from them on an old stool.

"Burden," she said, "My last name is Burden, but call me Beagle if you so wish."

This made the girls giggle.

"Miss Burden, you're...you're what kept me going. When I was a little girl, I was in the hospital, I suffer from severe bronchitis and COPD, or Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. I spent a lot of time attached to breathing apparatuses of one kind or another, and today I still use inhalers and oxygen tanks regularly. But the one thing I did like having in the hospital was you. You were on the TV almost every day, reruns, and then your regular new shows when those aired. My parents didn't visit a lot, and I didn't really have any friends, so you were pretty much all I had, and you kept my spirits up and made me not as scared as I probably would've been."

They watched for any sign in Beatrice's face of how she felt, but nothing came. She was stone faced. This made them feel somewhat uncomfortable, and Keagan and Michelle exchanged a brief nervous glance before Michelle started again.

"When the show ended, I...I felt like I'd lost the only person to ever guide me and teach me anything. I've spent my life following your ideals, your beliefs, or I guess, those of Beatrice Beagles, I guess I should say, because-"

"No, they're my ideals and beliefs. I am Beatrice. We are one. Please do not separate us," Bea said, surprising them as she crossed her legs, "Please, go on."

"I...I mean there's not much else to tell. That was it. I have some old episodes still taped that I've digitized, but I didn't know you worked so hard to erase it all. If I'd known that, I would've done the same, if that's what you wanted," Michelle said, "I didn't know how badly you wanted to vanish."

"I didn't want to vanish," Bea said, surprising them yet again, "The world wanted me to vanish, because I refused to play their game. Liam and his...his stunt with the pizzeria chain, that was a hump we never got over. As time wore on, I didn't feel as much like a person as I did a mascot. I knew, deep down, that to the network, I was there to get kids to ask their parents to take them to the pizzeria, not because I was imparting wisdom to young children who needed to be guided. They robbed me of my integrity by co-opting the most important personality I had and bastardizing it to be nothing more than another corporate excuse for creativity."

"I'm so sorry that happened," Michelle said quietly, pulling her handkerchief from her coat pocket and putting it to her mouth, coughing violently into it.

"So I figured if the world didn't want me the way I was, then I didn't want them to have any part of me," Bea said, continuing, looking her nails, her voice wavering a little, "they don't deserve people who care about their work if they don't respect the work itself. If they didn't want Beatrice Beagle for who she was, she didn't want them either. I try to refrain from using bad language, but really, what the fuck does a dog have to do with pizza anyway? Nobody was ever capable of explaining that to me."

The girls laughed and nodded, which made Beatrice smirk as she continued.

"I have to say, I'm not happy to have visitors, but it is refreshing for it to be for a good reason for once, because it means at least I made it through to one person for what I said, not what I sold," Bea said, "that almost makes it all worthwhile."

Just then she heard the oven beep and excused herself to get up and head into the kitchenette. As they waited, Michelle using her inhaler again, Keagan looked to the side table by the couch they were seated on and noticed the picture of Bea as a young girl and her dog, sharing an ice cream cone. She picked it up tenderly, her mouth slightly agape.

"Look at this," she whispered, pushing it into Michelle's lap, adding, "The dog. That's her. That's the beagle. She made the character after her dog. No wonder it was so personal to her."

"Would you care for some food?" Beatrice asked, coming back in with an oven mitt on one hand, "I made some chicken, if you're interested."

"Was this your dog?" Keagan asked, and Bea didn't respond, but she took the photo and looked at it for a few moments before exhaling and sitting back down.

"That was Beatrice," she said, "Beatrice wasn't my real name. I adopted it as a moniker once she was gone. A testament to the long lasting love a friend such as a dog can give you. I molded and crafted the suit after her, with the help of a friend. It was in memory of her, to keep her spirit alive. That's all I wanted. I'd known her, nobody else had, but everyone deserved to have the same happiness she gave me. That's why I brought her to the world, only to have the world not appreciate her for anything other than her child friendly appearance and ability to market to the young audience."

"I bet there's others out there who appreciated her the way we did," Keagan said.

"Perhaps," Bea said, "But I don't do it anymore. The costume is put away for good. Beatrice is retired. Put down a second time. Do you have any idea what it's like to lose your best friend twice in a lifetime? It destroys a person."

Michelle started crying, not even afraid of what Bea would think.

"...thank you for proving to me that what I did had a purpose, made a difference," Bea said, "because by the end, it really felt like it hadn't."

The girls stayed and had a bite to eat, discussed the legacy of the show a bit more and, when the time to leave came, Beatrice was seemingly enjoying their company and somewhat sad to see them off. As Keagan stood in the hall, pulling her jacket on and Michelle wheezed her way through her handkerchief, Beatrice excused herself momentarily. When she came back to the door, she had a tape in her hand.

"I want you to have this," Bea said, "You need it more than me."

She pushed the tape into Michelle's hands and smiled at them, before saying goodbye and shutting her door. Despite her kindness, and surprising openness, they couldn't help but notice she locked the door once it was shut. Likely force of habit more than anything else, but they couldn't ignore it either way. Keagan dropped Michelle off and then headed to work, leaving Michelle to watch the tape by herself. As she settled into her living room, she popped the tape into the VCR and sat back to see what she'd been given. After a bit of static, and then a title screen with production codes - clearly cut from broadcast but used for the networks cataloguing - passed by, the title screen for the show came on and the intro jingle started.

She watched throughout the entire show, a rather mundane episode about not much in particular, but come the end of the episode, Beatrice did her usual farewell before saying she had some birthdays to read off from children who'd written in. As she read the names and gave sweet little birthday wishes to each and every one, Michelle finally realized why she'd given her this tape in particular.

"And this letter comes from Michelle Helm, and it's her 9th birthday," Beatrice said, "She's written in to say that it would mean the world to her if I would visit her for her birthday, but seeing as I cannot do that, I figure the best I can do is say Happy Birthday, Michelle. You are a beautiful, intelligent young lady and I am happy you exist. I hope you have the best birthday you can have, and realize that every day you're here is a special day."

This finally broke Michelle, and she started crying, but for the first time in a long time, they were tears of joy. Michelle stood up, clutching her Bea doll to her chest, and walked over to the basement door. She opened it, headed down the stairs and pulled the light string, brightening the room. She smiled at her work and knew she was on the right path.

It was a good day.

She'd have to remember to send Leslie Swann a gift basket.