What seemed charming the first day I passed the cluttered collection of oddball artifacts from before, on the third day turned unsettling. Its mouth never moved, but there was no one else up or down the street—no one else who could have whispered those words. Advice? And incantation? Something broken in my brain?

There was no address, only a whispered map. The name of this place—these people—suggested  something shadowy, if not downright criminal. But I had no choice, at least not the choice I might have had before the last gig fell apart. The car fetched enough to buy some time. The house would be next, but I had to find a way to pay. Anyway, what good would those things be if I couldn’t get my child back? Lifting the knocker brought a chilling squeal of old metal on metal…

Belief is one of those things—like parenting or caution—that sits atop a pile of notions about how the world works. So, when some of those notions fractured and fell away, Sister Grace had to reassess. Creation isn’t always adding things. Sometimes it’s taking things away. She was holding the artifact so tightly, when it left her hand--if it left her hand—it would leave a deep impression on her palm…

Duncan was first to notice the visitor. Not from the neighborhood, that much he knows...

They’re fucking with me. Leave the money here? Under a sign for The Drop? A little on-the-nose, don’t you think? Why not just sell it? Holding artwork for ransom seemed like just another trending crime, until it was mine—lifted right off my wall. Irreplaceable, like a spouse or a child might be, I suppose. I finger the envelope in my pocket and I think about my precious in the hands of some ingrate. Her grace and her depth. And her market value. I’m unaccustomed to having the lesser hand...

She wasn’t the only muse or angel or whatever, but when I walked the garden, she was the one who most often grabbed my attention. Trouble was, once she had it, she went quiet. Only by looking past her—listening past her, to the patter of rain or the sparrow calling—only then could I hear her. Humming or whispering a passage from her book or winging gently, anxious to lead me away, she did. Just need to play it cool…

Against his will, the water drew him. It was dangerous to go there—to be seen there. But there he was, hoping what he’d lost—or maybe cast away—would come back to him...

The old photo equipment was a gem—and a steal. Setting up an old-school darkroom for his granddaughter was just the thing to connect with her. “She’s not broken,” he’d tell his son (her father), “She’s an artist. Such an eye, she has.” The estate sale marked the end of the line for the family some said had been oligarchs in the old country. He didn’t know about that. But one of them, at least, must have photographed for a living, or as a hobby, and they’d kept the old equipment clean. So it was a surprise when setting up, the girl found a negative left behind in the enlarger. But the bigger surprise was the subject—an echo from a very dangerous time…

Some loved the anti-gravity machine, others, not so much. But when the boys’ ride was over and their launch seat settled to almost still, the utterly empty park caught them both by surprise…

The whole idea of a business meeting—in this city, after last night—seems preposterous. The toast, the proposal, the brawl they set off, all head-shakers in the light of day. Still, there are bills to pay, appearances to maintain...