Manuel hears music playing from upstairs and he stands on his tiptoes to shut the window, surprised to see that the sun has not yet begun to rise. Closing the window he sees first his own distorted reflection – an unshaven and balding man in his mid-twenties – then, movement behind him. He jerks his head round; a woman lie on her back in his bed. She has a thin cotton sheet wrapped around her tiny buttocks. It does not cover her completely.

Uncomfortably she turns her unclothed body from side to side. Manuel turns his head horizontally, parallel to hers, waiting at five-second intervals as she turns, revealing herself more each time. He does not remember how they ended up alone in his basement, but is reminded when he sees a used Trojan Condom, limp and used, hanging on the rim of the packed garbage can. He looks up at her face.

She appears peaceful despite jostling about. She wears a faint but loving smile as she stretches, opens her blue eyes and takes in the setting. Still light-headed and now groggy from the nap, she sits up, smiles at Manuel.

The motion detector is triggered and Manuel must go.

“Julie,” he says, recognizing who it is, “It’s time. I have to leave. They’ve found me. Somebody talked. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again? Won’t you come with me now? They’ll be here in a few minutes.

Manuel doused the light bulbs with the rest of his beer, the glass exploding and leaving them in darkness. She stumbled forward and into Manuel’s arms, hugging him tightly and pushing the air from him. He returned some pressure and they stepped back, held hands for a moment. Manuel pointed her finger up the peri-window, and she felt the signal.

Manuel lead the way and they shimmied up the peri-window. He had done this before, and he bypassed each imperfection, each convection of metal for fear the FBL would hear their escape. Julie was still in great shape and her rock-climbing experience from last summer was paying off. Manuel communicated the way to Crystal, turning on the light in his watch and signaling with his hands. They make it to the top and begin to run.

Running through yards, jumping over fences, Manuel and Julie take the shortcut he had taken to Crystal’s house as a child, his untied shoes clicking on the pavement and his stubby legs a blur to the onlookers. Unlike in his childhood, he does not hear the neighbors’ yells of protest, only sees their opened mouths and hands on hips. One woman throws her hands up in the air, yells something. A retired firefighter, whose belly sags to his knees, breaks away from his scanner, waddles to his backyard, and sees a flash of movement that is Manuel.

In jeopardy of being caught at any moment, Manuel finds comfort reminiscing of his past. The heart of his childhood lies in Chestnut Ridge Park – a spacious park with an endless number of routes to run. “Running is good for the heart,” says Mr. Allen Caputo, Manuel’s high school cross-country coach since seventh grade. Decades ago he had been given the nickname Cap because it is unfitting to address a friend with so formal a title.

Manuel is reminded of the time when he was a cross-country runner for Frontier High School. He and his teammates set their watches for forty-five minutes, and they are off to a rarely ran route. Growing bored of the pre-made paths set out before them, they chose their own. Pushing away brittle branches, trudging through puddles, caked with mud, they moved forward, made progress.

It was the beginning of autumn, the start of a new cross-country season. The trees had already begun to change colors – yellow, maroon, lime and orange gather together to form an inspiring setting. The air is pure and unpolluted. Manuel’s good friend Brian is alive and well, is at his side wearing white nylon shorts. Their new neon sneakers glow as they grip the ground; they begin to sprint, stride for stride, gasping for breath, pounding their feet upon the moist soil.

Manuel recalls the previous summer. The relaxation and expectations Brian and he shared. They remained friends when the school year was out – Manuel walking on his hands, Brian throwing rocks at trees, not always hitting, but trying until he did, and the two of them sauntering through a short cut on the way to their shanty.

Their shanty, built from the dead logs Mother Nature so generously passed on, stood in the woods equidistant between their homes. They based the design of their summer hang out on the method of Lincoln logs, cutting little grooves in each log so the top logs fit securely into the ones on the bottom. Inside their wooden walls, protected from the scorching sun, they quenched cold beers, amused one another with their feeble impressions of Coach Cap, and talked about the upcoming cross-country season. Sensing to come back from his revere, his mind, Manuel turned round, saw an obese, retired firefighter fidgeting with his watch. He heard the faint barking of bloodhounds and he knew the man contacted the Bureau, had told them where he is. Manuel gasped for breath, sprinted across the street and to Crystal’s back door, shaking the doorknob in a frantic furry. It was locked, but in front of her door he wrote a single letter in the dirt: X

The barking of the dogs had gotten louder and Manuel was once again taken back to his childhood: climbing through the sewers behind Crystal’s house. He ran toward them, throwing himself down the small ravine, and limping to the opening of the sewer. It was not like he remembered it; someone had attached a gate.

Manuel pulled on it. Nothing. Then he looked at the other side, at the rusted bolts. Pulling at them, using his legs like an Olympic rower, the gate gave way and he fell backward and landed on his tailbone, hitting his head on an algae-covered rock. He laid there, unconscious. Julie shook him and when he came to, he heard voices.

“The neighbor said he went around back.” The agents could not see their suspect from the ravine and Manuel and Julie crouched down, walked toward the sewer, and picked up the gate. Then they climbed into the sewer, placed the cover back into place – bent and merely propped, but inconspicuous from a distance.

On all fours, they crawled through the metal tunnels. It had been snowing for weeks now and they wade through the three-foot metal tunnel, their sneakers soaked with water, with sewage. He saw a light ahead, and when they reached it, an overhead gate, he looked up, saw two men in FBL uniforms standing directly above him. Breathing heavily from the chase, Manuel closed his eyes, tried to relax, tried to avoid discovery. He signaled to Julie and they inched past the agents who were distracted in conversation. Breathing a sigh of relief, he focused on the next obstacle.

The pipes were getting smaller now, and donning a large backpack, Manuel would not fit through. Not wanting to irritate the already forming lump on his head, he crawled with his head close to the water. His knees were sore and he wished there were room to crawl on all fours. Instead, tailbone in the air, he trudged onward.

Exhaustion gave way to logic and he tried to walk on all fours, extending his legs and smacking his tailbone on the rigid ceiling of the pipe. His aching knees had made him forget his tailbone was hurt. Now he was reminded and fell back to his knees, his head submerged in the water and his lungs breathing in, taking in some of the water. He coughed some back up and grimaced at his mistake.

Manuel knew exactly where this pipes would let him out, had explored it with Crystal as a child. It was the summer then and the water level minimal.

He saw another light ahead and heard the passing of a train as he waded to the opening and waited for the train to pass.

The snow had turned to rain and Manuel walked on the slippery railroad tracks, bobbing up and down with each stride – one foot on the track, the other on the loose gravel – feeling his way through the fog and ensuring a quick escape. He had been walking for two hours before a train had passed, had surprised him by passing only seconds after it had first been heard. They jumped into the ravine, Manuel scrapping his unprotected arms on the rocks, the two of them stretching their bodies along a set of boulders and out of the camera’s range.

Now he looked at his arms, a reminder that he needed to remain alert. The bleeding stopped and the rain had washed out the dirt and pebbles. He looked at the warped, weathered wood of the tracks, soggy from a fortnight of rain, its grains split throughout. It reminded him of an old man’s face. He knelt down, seemed to be praying and hoping he should be so lucky to age, to become like the railroad tracks. He felt the rails for vibrations.

Nothing.

Soaked from the unrelenting rain, Manuel and Julie, hand-in-hand, trekked onward for miles. They were enclosed in a maze of trees, the highway just off to the side and the cars disappearing and reappearing from behind the leaved branches, their horns and engines making Manuel apprehensive, their sounds louder than an approaching train.

Manuel thought he must know how Amelia felt. So vulnerable. There wasn’t enough time to feel the track every few minutes. Manuel looked down the rocky ravine and to his earlier escape from the speedy train.

He had to find a way to avoid the cameras. They were slowing them down and the Bureau would be closing in if they didn’t make better time. He knew the cameras monitored the area ahead, behind, and beneath. Manuel looked through the fog and saw an overhanging tree. From above, he thought, he could steal a ride.

The sweat and rain dripped from his head and he was getting thirsty. He threw his arms back, and his backpack, the contents of all his possessions, of the water, dropped to the ground. Hands shaking from exhaustion and dehydration, Manuel once again felt the track for vibrations, unsure whether it was the shaking of his feeble hands or the vibration of an approaching train.

Unable to risk it, he grabbed his backpack, sprinted toward the tree, his feet heavy with moisture. The water bottle bounced forward and he kicked it farther. It came to a rest in front of the bent tree and he scooped it up with his left hand jumped up, grasped a branch with his right hand. He heard the sound of the train and dropped the water, pulled himself up. A few feet higher and he perched himself over the track and out of the train’s camera range. He hoped for a slow-moving train, and although the odds were against him, he was in luck.

He positioned himself just right, dangling above the train, his muscles shaking from supporting his weight, the result of his indecision. He had to be sure, had to land between trains. This meant he must lead a few feet. By the time he was sure of his timing, the train was nearing an end. With only a dozen trains remaining, Manuel released his tense grip from the branches, landed on the roof with a thump.

There was nothing to hold onto, but he managed to balance himself with one hand and get a bottle of water. He took a much-needed drink. The water supply was inadequate and he worried that the bottle, left at the foot of the tree, would be discovered, would tell where he had gone.

The train had picked up speed, and Manuel slid back and forth on the roof, slick from the rain. He rolled to the edge of the roof, the opened bottle rolling off. He sprawled himself out, made an “X” with his body for support and managed to remain on the train. For several hours he did not waver in his position, fearing that at any time he would fall to his death.

He heard the beating of a helicopter and he knew this ride must end. Manuel looked up at the sky, dark with a tinge of blue, the sun recently having set in the west. He looked right, saw the Big Dipper. He looked just off its handle and to the brightest star in the sky. The North Star. Once again Manuel’s feet were set in motion, moving in a straight line northward. His eyes focused on Polaris and his mind thought of his destination: Through Canada and to Alaska.

Manuel looks out the window of the 747 and sees, for the first time in his life, mountains – a seemingly endless range fused together with an equal amount of evergreen trees. He feels moisture from his eyes and forces himself to look away. Eyes closed and landscape frozen in mind, the tears come more freely, escaping through the corners of his eyes.

Alone in the woods, Manuel played the CD which now contained the complete text and, thanks to him, an oral reading which followed an automatic page turn feature. He stretched his uncomfortable back against the bark of the tree, gazed across the ravine for a more comfortable location. Striding to the edge of the ravine, he climbed down the steep and rocky walls, sliding with the shale in a mock avalanche. He reached the bottom with a thump. Here, at the foot of the riverbed, he gauged the current, trying to locate the best place to cross. Tempted at first to cross where he was, the shortest distance from shore to shore, he remembered learning in Boy Scouts that this would be where the rapids were strongest.

Manuel looked further upstream where the flowing water sliced around a narrow piece of land midway out in the crisp water. This strip of land, a miniature island thick with brush and carpeted with tundra, could be useful. Always on the move, Manuel was exhausted and thought this strip of land would be a safe place to spend the night.

First he had to get to it. He knew to go further upstream to where the river was widest, where there would be time to float diagonally downstream with the mighty rapids. He walked on, twenty paces in all, to where the river stretched at its sides like a knot in a piece of wood. This would be the best place to cross.

Manuel untied the double knots in his sneakers, took off his socks, balled them up and stuffed them into one sneaker. Reaching into his back pocket for the computer book, he realized he ought to protect it from the crash, and he doubled up the socks, placed the book securely inside. Then he crammed them into a sneaker, tying the laces with sailor’s knots and hurling it across the river.

The rain had subsided and the sun warmed his damp clothes. Manuel took off his shirt, felt the sun on his back and looked up at it to see if any clouds were on the way. Only a few: puffy and white. Manuel saw an eagle glide by. He watched it soar, wishing he could fly. Picking up a rock and tying his shirt around, Manuel threw them on the tiny island.

With a few deep and calming breaths Manuel dipped his toes into the water, retracted them immediately and grunted at the idea of being completely emerged in the autumn water. He encouraged himself, “At least I can wash this shit off me.” Manuel stepped into the river and the current was greater than he had perceived. Flexing his muscles at the water, Manuel told himself he was a strong swimmer. Knee deep and unstable in the rapids, he heard the screeching of the eagle.

Manuel looked up at the source of the sound, saw dozens of the birds flying nearer. One separated from the bunch, swooping down at him. He dove back onto the land, feeling the wind of the animal as its pointed beak grazed against his face. Manuel pressed his hand on his face and pulled it away red. There were more eagles now and they were circling him, taking turns plummeting down at him. He dove left and then right. He was under attack.

He screamed and shouted at them, speaking not in English but the few Spanish words he had thus far retained. They backed away at first, but slowly returned, gaining even more territory. He dove again – a near miss. Back on his feet, he grabbed a rock and threw it at the gang. They dispersed but quickly reformed. He picked up more rocks, frantically whipping them one after another. It was working.

Half the flock retreated, and then more until only ten remained. But the few were not afraid and their quick reflexes outmatched his poor aim. One by one the other birds returned. He clanked two rocks together above his head. Undaunted, the creatures came at him from all angles and now he became the one who was retreating. On the tips of his bare toes he sprinted toward the safety of the woods and its dense rows of trees.

He collapsed against a maple tree, dabbed his hand against his face and inspected his feet. The jagged rocks had cut them when he was racing away from the eagles. He realized his predicament and shouted into the wilderness: “Fuck!” The blood was dripping from his face and feet, splattering on the lush green carpet of the forest. Although the wound was not very serious, Manuel was without shoes, socks, or a shirt. He had to retrieve them lest they become discovered and he be found – if not by the very nature of the book then from his fingerprints and DNA.

His stomach was growling but he called forth all the strength left within him and walked back to where he was – the image of the opened beak and outstretched claws so close and so fresh in his mind. In a moment of mental clarity he realized they were more alike than he had realized. The hawks had acted this way because they were protecting their food source. There must be an abundance of fish in the stream.

Beginning to stand up, Manuel moved his hand and it found a thick branch. His mind drifted to his friend Brian and the baseball bat. Tears escaped his eyes and he clenched the branch tightly, put several large rocks in his pockets.

From the edge of the woods Manuel threw rocks wildly in the air. He made a run for it, dashing along the rocky coastline, but twisting his ankle and skidding on the ground. The hawks were attacking now and he stood up, waiting for the next. Stick in hand, he spotted the hawk as it plummeted toward him. Manuel leaned back and swung violently at the winged creature. He felt a thud, saw the feathers fluttering down, and was amazed to realize he had hit it. He continued his pursuit to reclaim the evidence. Manuel splashed into the rapids, his hands and feet fighting the forces of nature. It quickly forced Manuel downstream, but his forward progress was greater than the length he had before passing the plot of land. He landed exhausted at its coast, relieved to see the birds had gone elsewhere.
Fighting with his body, which begged him to sleep, his rational mind knew there was work to do, and it forced his body to obey. He stood on his feet, scouring the ground for his sneakers.

Manuel reflected on the many nights he had spent with Julie – the passionate, high, and drunken moments that she had revealed top-secret security information. He had listened, but thought, “What do I care, I’m never gonna be an agent.” This he no longer denied. Nevertheless, he had hung on every word she should not have spoken. There was a curiosity and a sense of pride in being one of the few privies to this classified information. And now he realized this knowledge was invaluable. If only he could apply it. “The system has a flaw,” he remembered, Julie’s words echoing in his head, the details of which had become deeply embedded. He needed only to recall them. But this would prove more difficult than he had expected.

Manuel tried to recall the information. He was not an expert at computers. Quite the opposite; It was Greek to him. Still, he remembered specific words. He had related them to words more familiar to him, altering the original phonics but triggering his memory. It was a sort of mnemonic device, and this was how he processed new information.

Manuel looked at the foreign books scattered throughout the forest floor. Including the volumes saved on his hard drive, he had accumulated a small library. Manuel knew it would have been more practical to have scanned the paper books into the computer’s memory and thrown away the originals. It would have been safer and it would have lightened his load by about forty pounds. But there was something magical in having the originals. It was a piece of history. He thumbed the pages, tried to make sense of the characters before him. Why this, the reading of printed text, so adamantly enforced.

But wait. There in red inc was his final grade: 55%. He panicked, his heart sank and he began to shake. How could this be, he thought. He had clearly answered the question and justified his statements. He wondered who was behind this. Was it a joke? He must speak to Jack at once. He phoned Julie.

“Julie? Julie! Julie!

“What? Calm down.”

“ You have to help me. Jack just flunked me. He gave me a 55 on the final.”

“A 55 percent?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“I got a 5/50 for the pro section.”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to have to deal with this one on your own. He’ll be home
in about an hour.”

That’s it? You can’t help me?
“I’m not Jack; I have no control over what he does.
“Whatever. Fine!”

Manuel had never experienced failure. At least not like this. This was supposed to be the one subject he knew something about. He was forced to question his future as an FBL agent. Physically, he was in the top ten percentile. Academically, he thought the same. But there before him, circled in red inc, was the contradiction to his identity. This single event had stomped out any future hope of his joining the ranks of the FBL. But he would not leave silently.

Manuel made plans to meet with Jack – face to face. He had only seen him in pictures before or silhouetted in his convertible with the top up. Now he would stand before him, a person, alive.

“How incredibly awkward,” he thought. “Who’d have thought we would have met under such bizarre circumstances – Julie, Jack and me, eating dinner together and discussing my ever-diminishing future as an FBL agent? And I’m getting old.”

“How Many?”

“Well, my boyfriend’ll be joining us, so, three.”

“Smoking or non?”

“Umm.”

“Smoking! You still smoke, don’t you Julie. Or did Jack make you quit them too?”

“No. One thing at a time he says. He’s content for now, thinking I quit smoking maristisy. But Jack doesn’t like me smoking around him. You know, both of his parents dying from lung cancer and all. Then again, you’re right; this is a democracy and he’s outnumbered.”

“Yeah, and he’s not even here anyway so what choice does he have in the matter?”

“Okay, if you will follow me right this way please.”

It was just after ten o’clock on a Sunday and the restaurant, Denny’s, was extremely busy. They served alcohol at this one, but by all other standards it was still a family restaurant. From his booth Manuel could see an employee, a busboy probably, outside the window with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, pretending to sweep the parking lot.

“You see that?” he said, pointing out the window, “That’s gonna be me for at least the rest of this year if Jack doesn’t hire me.”

“He will. You’re plenty qualified anyway.”

“Yeah, but the FBL is pretty competitive these days.”

“You wouldn’t want to work for him anyway,” she said, looking at her watch, “He’s always late.”

“You know what they say about boyfriends who are late don’t you?”

“No, what?”

“I don’t know either, but I’m sure it isn’t good.”

“Let me use your lighter before Jack gets here.”

Manuel slid his lighter across the table and Julie lit up a cigarette, coughed up a phloem ball and spit it under the table.

“Well that was rather childish.”

“Well I wasn’t going to swallow it.”

Manuel smelled the faint scent of maristacy.

“Do you smell that,” he asked.

Julie smirked, took a drag of her cigarette. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s only half and half; it won’t smell that bad.”

“Can I have a cigarette? And a piece of gum?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

“Maybe you should become a teacher. You have all the lame jokes mastered.”

Yeah, maybe. Here,” he said, sliding the lighter across the table. “It’s childproof though. Are you a child?”

“No. Why, do you think so?”

“No, but you are compared to Jack. He’s almost twice your age. I thought five years was bad, but he’s got us topped, that’s for sure. ”

“You always were good with math, but he’s not almost twice my age, he’s exactly twice my age — 18 and 36.”

“He’s 36! Wow! Anyway, about my always having been good at math. You do remember who got you through senior year of calculus last year don’t you?”

“Yes. You would spend all your time at my house, tutoring me. Still, you somehow graduated from college. Pretty good grades too.”

“Tutor! Is that all I was, a tutor?”

“No, you were a friend too, one with fringe benefits. Still are. “

“Oh.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just that we haven’t come along very far in our relationship. You’re still with him. We’re still sneaking around.”

“Yeah, but just wait a little longer. Until you’re hired. But, even then, you should wait until you’re tenured. I’ve fictionalized your character to his liking, so you should be getting some real fringe benefits soon. All the employees get retirement, dental, medical. The whole works, you know? I told Jack how you used to tutor me, except I said this took place at the library with other students and that you did it for free. Because you just love math sooo much. You’re so talented Manuel. Why don’t you do something with it?”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence; it’ll certainly help. But I’m so nervous. I’ve never actually met him, unless you count seeing him pull into your driveway as I fled out the back door. So he’s pretty much in charge of the hiring for the FBL, huh?”

“Basically. You’ll do fine. Just relax.”

“I would be relaxed if I didn’t have to worry about wolf nose smelling maristacy on me. He’s such a hypocrite. He argues against you smoking because his parents died from lung cancer, but he’s an alcoholic and your Dad died from cirrhosis of the liver.”

“But I don’t really care if he drinks, even if he does do it like a fish. That’s probably because I don’t really care about him any more.”

“If you say so. Hey where the hell’s our server?”

“I don’t know; they’re busy. What’s your hurry anyway?”

“Nothing, just wondering if anyone’s working here. Well I got to take a piss; I’ll be right back. Order me a coffee if the server comes would ya’?”

“Yup.”

As Manuel was walking away, he saw the server walking toward their table. He went into the stall and had a few puffs of maristacy, fixed his hair, and took a piss. When he returned there was a steamy cup of coffee waiting for him.

Jack, running late as usual, was just leaving his house. It was the one-year anniversary of his mother’s death; Jack’s father had not held on quite as long as her, for he had passed away nearly seven years ago. Jack was not entirely alone on his ride to Denny’s; accompanying him on his drive was a bottle of 151, which he talked to as if it were his mother; he asked it for advice and was surprised when it did not answer. He loved it and each time he pressed his lips to it he was taken back to when he was a child, kissing his mother goodnight. She was always first, followed by his father. He could remember the prickly feeling of his father’s mustache against his cheek.

It was approximately a twenty-minute ride to Denny’s from Jack’s house, but the radio being broken, time seemed to move more slowly for him. Having no music to distract him, Jack had nothing to do but think. And drink:

“God I’m pathetic. It’s not even ten in the morning and I’m drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Why should it matter what time it is anyway? This pain I carry inside of me is there day as well as night. You’re the only thing I can rely on in this world,” thought Jack as he took a gulp from his bottle. “Everything else dies on me or leaves me or cheats on me. So lonely. At least I have Julie. And I’m not gonna let her leave me – I’d become more mad than I already am. Then again, I don’t know that anything would bother me as long as I have you.”

Jack rubbed his hands against the bottle, pulled into the parking space, hitting the curb before he could stopped, screeching the car in reverse and parking, crooked but within the lines. He pulled himself out of the car and made his way into the restaurant.

“Ooo, Here comes Jack. And give me that damn lighter!” said Julie.

Jack walked toward their booth, trying to stand up straight, but tripping over his foot and stumbling to his seat. His breath reeked of alcohol and before introducing himself he called the waitress over for a beer. Except they couldn’t sell beer because it was Sunday and there were more than two hours until noon.

He became furious, started swearing, shouting, standing on the table. The whole works. You could tell he’d already had a few in him. His face had become crimson, the blood rushing to his head, the vein on his sweat-covered and balding head, bulging as he shouted obscenities. Manuel, is it?” he asked at length.

“Yes.”

“In short, your test has been reviewed and the decision remains. You do not fit the profile.”

And that was that. There was nothing more to say on the subject. But Manuel would still wreak the rewards of an FBL income. He practically lived in Jack’s home. He’d been there several dozen times before, just the two of them. They’d go immediately to the bathroom where they’d ritually smoke maristicy, always from a homemade pipe constructed on the scene. This was half of the fun, they thought. A little arts and crafts.

The benefits of smoking in the shower were twofold: first, the obvious, they were naked and high, which was a plus for them. In addition, the shower had a ventilator, which sucked out all the smoke. When they had completed their session they wouldn’t smell. This was crucial because they could never be certain when Jack would return. Just last week when Julie and Manuel had finished showering they dried off, put on their shirts. There was banging on the door.

“Honey, let me in,” said Jack. He was turning the knob, shaking it back and forth. Manuel’s heart beat visibly through his sweater and he opened the window the rest of the way. Leading with his head, he braced himself for the fall.

“Just a minute, I’m almost done,” said Julie.

For a bathroom, the window was fairly large and it swung out, making it easier to escape from. But this was little relief from the fifteen-foot fall. Nervous, Manuel didn’t think to lead with his feet. Jack was crashing his hip on the door, demanding it be opened. This was warning enough for Manuel and he jumped, his half naked body somehow managing, mid-flight, to contort itself and land erect on the pile of leaves. Julie dropped down his clothes. Even with the edge of the house, they disappeared from the height of the bathroom. A crashing sound and the door opened, the leaves crunched, the light flickered and the night was silence. Manuel had buried himself beneath the leaves.

“Why is this window open?” asked Jack.

“I thought I saw a shooting star. I wanted to make a wish.”

Jack leaned out the window, looked up at the sky. The gray and endless clouds blot out the stars. “I don’t think you saw a shooting star.”

“Well, my mistake. Maybe it was just the lights of an airplane.”

Jack looked down at the pile of leaves. “I thought I told you to get rid of those leaves. They’re gonna attract mice. What the hell have you been doing all day?”

“I’ll get them right now, honey,” she said, shutting the window and blinds.

They had come to master this art of escape, but Manuel was becoming impatient and he wondered how much longer he would have to lead this double-life.

In the event that they were able to complete their shower sessions, they would make their way to Julie’s room, which gave a clear view of any cars pulling into the driveway. Their room smelled like a brewery on account of Jack’s setting up an office in there where he would drink and analyze data.

Directly next to the bed there was a stereo system. An odd place for it, but Manuel had convinced Julie that it was a good idea because she could still listen to the radio in bed when she lost her remote, which she frequently did. They turned the radio on, played the latest bootleg music disc.

Lying next to Julie on the warm, Queen-sized water bed, Manuel tugged at the velvet blankets. “Knock it off,” she muttered.

“Knock it off,” he mimicked. Julie turned round on the bed and faced the wall, her buttocks facing Manuel. He pressed himself against her. She could feel him and she sat erect in bed. “Leave me alone. I just want to lay down.”

“What’s gotten into you lately?”

“Nothing. I keep telling you, I’m fine.”

“I know. And each time it seemed like you were about to pour out your soul, but then you remained silent. Seriously, Jules, you have to tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I wish I could. Everything just got so fucked up!”

“What? What’s fucked up? My career?”

“No. God no! I wish I hadn’t met you Manuel.”

“How could you say that.”

“I’m not who you think I am Manuel. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Honey, we all have our secrets. Just tell me.”

Jack celebrated his 40th birthday, and Julie gave him a candle for his present. Although Manuel was not there the day Julie gave it to him, he remember going to the flea market with her to help pick out a gift. Jewel and Manuel, alone, together again. She would always blush when he called her Jewel.

“Jack only calls me that when he wants something,” she would say. But he already knew that; he had jokingly told him in his office on more than one occasion. He told him all he would need to know. Like how Julie’s interest in foreign nations stressed him out and caused him to drink.

“Good thing she doesn’t ask me about that anymore. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise; it drove me crazy,” he’d say.

Shopping for Jack’s birthday present was one of the rare opportunities Julie and Manuel had to be together outside of her house; they had been planning to go to the movies for months, but Jack wouldn’t allow that. Nothing Jack did surprised him anymore; he was a mad man and he saw everyone as a possible threat.

“Jack, would you mind if I went to see a movie with my friend Michelle?” Julie asked several months ago.

“What, aren’t I good enough company for you? You gotta go to the movies with your friends? You’re not married to them. You’re married to me damn it! There will probably be guys there too won’t there?” shouted Jack.

Between the conversations Jack and Manuel had had in school and what Julie had told him, he felt as though he already knew what Jack liked, what he loved, and who he loved; he loved her too. And he still wonders if this was why he froze in the flea market when they passed a table of aromatic candles. About a dozen of them were burning brightly, their aroma drawing them nearer, the flames igniting the silent hatred within Manuel.

“It’s perfect! Smells good, looks good, probably burns well too. He could light it while he finishes his paperwork. It’ll remind him why his work is so important and that all foreign books must be burned,” he laughed.

“And we can use it to cover up the smell of our smoke; we won’t be trapped in the bathroom anymore.”

“Well, okay, but which one? Tangerine, honeydew, grapefruit?”

“How about this one? Strawberry. Remember the time we made love in the strawberry fields?”

“How could I forget? My underwear will smell like strawberry fields forever. Well it’s settled then, I’ll get it. Actually, I’ll get two.”

Fortunately for Manuel, or perhaps unfortunately, people are predictable. For the next seven days, Jack and Julie did exactly what he told her they would: He lit the candle and did his paper work, and she used it to cover up the smell of the maristicy. On the seventh day, a Sunday, Julie and Manuel once again took advantage of Jack’s absence; he was at a bar.

Manuel took the path he had taken so many times before – against the house, under the evergreen tree, the needles prickling his face, and then to the back window, climbing in headfirst and flipping over the windowsill, surprising Julie who was watching television, high as a skyscraper.

They lit the candle, smoked one, and with clever arrangement, they were off to the movies. It took a lot of convincing to get Julie to go to the movies with Manuel; she said Jack would be angry. Even if she did lie and say she was going to the megamarket to get him some clothes.

Manuel needed to see a movie. He needed to escape. The thoughts were coming with greater frequency and intensity. One moment he was a pound of pressure away from pulling the trigger and the next, complete bliss, Julie and him, together and in perfect harmony. He just wanted to laugh, to smile, to be alive. But he felt so dead and so alone – even though he was surrounded with so many of his friends. But they were just background noise, like the chatter of the factories, the sound of his computer voice. None of them knew who he was. Like everyone he had ever met, he was too afraid to become attached. Perhaps it was the fear of rejection or the thought of tasting love and having to spit it right back out. Either way, he was straddling the fence and it was hurting his balls. Something had to go. He hoped it would not be him.

It was a manic fork in the road – good and evil – and he could have chosen either one. But he had experienced love, had only peeked into its potential, but now there was no turning back. He did not know what this word meant – love – had not experienced it in its truest form. All he knew was that it was something he needed more of. No more was contempt nor disdain. It did not matter if he was the only one who felt this way; he would show them the way. So much love, so much hate. The choice was clear. He just needed a way to be with the one who felt the same, who could feel the same.

Manuel had been seeing a lot more of Crystal by this time and he had all but given up on any future with Julie. She was loyal to the Party and to the Party alone. It was Crystal, however, who had reassured him, with whom he shared common ground. They were both quite adventurous and unleashed the child within each other, all the while working together on the issue of Languagism.

It is an interesting thing how the mind works. It was true that Manuel had several reasons to want Jack to just disappear: he rejected his application into the Bureau and he was married to Julie – yet he never consciously decided to kill him. He had shown Julie how to set the alarm on the stereo, had set it on full-blast, and out of all the dates in the world he could have set it for, he chose the one day he knew Jack would be alone, would be most likely to be passed out on the bed.

It was on this seventh day that Jack realized he didn’t have Julie as controlled as he would have liked. He believed that she would change. He believed he could change her and that they would live together forever.

That their flame would never die.

And it probably never would have had Jack himself not died.

He could not be certain of the details that took place when Jack came home, and in the beginning he liked to imagine Jack came home an hour later, already drunk from the many hours he spent at the bar. He saw the planted evidence and immediately went for the bottle of 151, taking large gulps from it as he took out his family album and reminisced about the good times he had had with his parents. He couldn’t bear to lose another loved one the same way. He was tormented, feeling helpless in his desire to prevent history from repeating itself.

He was sitting on his bed and put the book aside for a moment. He looked at the candles, picking up the one on the right speaker, placing it in his hands and becoming mesmerized by the flame. After what seemed like only a moment, but was evidently much longer judging by the candle, which was burnt all but half way, he awoke himself from his nightmare only to realize that this was not a dream at all. He thought of the nightmares he had had as a child – falling from a cliff, robbing a bank, murdering someone.

Manuel told Julie about the one recurring dream he had been having. He would see himself in bed sleeping, and then his bed would burst into flame. Soon, his whole bed was blazing with fire. There was nothing he could do to save himself. He screamed. He shook himself. But still nothing.

Finally he would awake, sweat running down his temples, his heart racing in comfort, comprehending that this was only a dream. These nightmares were ultimately a source of happiness, for they allowed him to realize that he could be far worse off. He knew that this was not such an occasion. The fearful reality had set in; he would be forever tortured by her lying and deceit. He probably exaggerated the situation in his mind for he thought that she would die at any moment. He did not know how to deal with this.

Seeing the solidified wax on the sides of the candle, he scrapped it out, balled it up and threw it into the puddle of melted wax. But it was too late; the solidified wax raised the level of liquefied wax, causing the wick to drown. He had only intended to cause the candle to conform to the shape of its container, but now it was extinguished. He put the candle back on the speaker, the smoke rising as he gazed at the lit candle on the left side of the speaker. It stared at him as he polished off half the bottle of 151. He passed out hugging the liquor, half of the alcohol in him and half of it spilling, forming a blanket around him.

The stereo alarm went off, belting out the foreign lyrics. The candle on the left speaker began to dance with the beat, and it projected a halo of light on the white ceiling. It moved toward the edge. It fell, igniting the alcohol. Jack remained asleep as the bed and house were quickly engulfed with flame, burning away any evidence.

Mere speculation?

Several weeks later, Manuel told Julie about the recurring dream Jack had had – seeing himself lying in bed, blazing with flame.

Julie was visibly shaken by this foreshadowing death. “He never told me anything about those dreams.”

“You don’t suppose one knows everything about their significant other. Do you?”

As part of the selection process, a thorough background check was conducted of each applicant. Only those who possessed the views of the party and associated with others who likewise held these ideals were considered. Digging deeply into their past, their family’s past, and their acquaintance’s past, the Bureau sought to ensure that there were not any corrupting forces, which might taint the individual’s ideological beliefs, no windows into another’s point of view.
A party member was required to view the annihilation of all other languages as a necessity to the economic success of the nation, and as the means by which the unity of humankind could be achieved. He was expected to possess a deep-seeded hatred for competing languages, likening them to a deadly epidemic. Although this was never directly stated, it was crucial that this attitude be expressed in the written essay, which asked each of the potential candidates to explain why he or she decided to attend the academy and subsequently seek employment with the FBL. It was this essay that separated Manuel from the rest of the applicants and became his ticket inside the FBL. But they were Julie’s words, Julie’s thoughts, which Manuel had written. And he wished he could take them back. He wished his voice could be heard.
It was a frigid morning in January, and the sun peeked over the horizon as the bulletproof limousine pulled into Manuel’s driveway to bring him to the Center. Despite the brutal weather, Manuel had been waiting on his front porch for several hours in the darkness, unable to sleep. His baggy eyes turned toward the front porch where his parents, fiancé, and daughter were waving goodbye, his mother waving with her left hand and videotaping the moment with her right.
“Goodbye,” his father said.
“See you soon,” his mother said.
“We love you. We’re so proud of you honey,” Julie said, her eyes becoming watery.
The chaffer opened the door for Manuel’s chaperone.
“Mr. Luhon, we need to see your three forms of identification and do a preliminary inspection of your persons before you can be admitted into the car.”
“Yes sir, no problem sir.”
“You, as well as myself and our driver, will have to undergo a more thorough inspection as we near the headquarters. The inspectors will explain what to do. You are to immediately follow their commands without question, at all times. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir.”
The inspector searched Manuel for both weapons and foreign words. He started by moving the metal-detecting wand about every inch of his body. Then came the pat down. And finally, at least for now, the x-ray machine, which would reveal any potentially harmful items either missed by the inspector or stored in his stomach to be retrieved the moment nature took its course. All the x-ray detected were a few cups of coffee and a partially digested bagel. They climbed into the limousine, and Crystal and Manuel’s parents watched as the limousine pulled out of the driveway, down the road, disappearing as it zipped around a turn.
“Geez, this is some serious stuff, huh. They don’t take anything for granted,” said Crystal
Once within a ten-mile radius the vehicle had to pass through a total of ten checkpoints – one at each subsequent mile – where each passenger had to show their three forms of identification and undergo an inspection similar to the one Manuel had already experienced. Manuel grinned, realizing that the inspector was now becoming the inspected. The first nine checkpoints went without incident. The last checkpoint, however, was more thorough.
In addition to being patted down, x-rayed, and scanned by the wand, Manuel was told that each of them had to undergo a strip search, including a full-body-cavity search. “Isn’t this a bit extreme?” thought Manuel, but he pushed these thoughts aside, realizing this was a matter of national security.
The inspector, a tall man with a large build, signaled for the car to stop and it came to a halt, jarred backward, and the man exited. He wore a certified coat with the FBL’s logo imprinted on his left breast pocket – a solitary bald eagle in flight, peering down at the Earth. He opened the car door for their party and Manuel exited.
“How do you do sir?” Manuel said.
The inspector starred at him for an uncomfortable length of time. “Everybody follow me behind the curtains and take off all your clothes accept your underwear.”
“Oh no,” thought Manuel.
He now realized the extent to which the essay had consumed his time. He did not have time to perform many of his daily living tasks. His hair was greasy from not washing, his teeth hadn’t been brushed in several days, and he hadn’t showered in a week. His laundry was dirty. Not once during the ten days did he leave his apartment, and without visitors he felt comfortable in a swimsuit, the heat cranked up and his whites dirty in the corner. Manuel never had a chance to catch up on laundry, and in the midst of realizing his dream, at the final search before the headquarters, he was without underwear and being told to get undressed in front of two strangers. He would be the only one completely nude, the others protected by their briefs and his manhood staring them in the face, making a mockery of him.
They followed him to the makeshift room where the limousine driver and Markus undressed, Manuel standing with a sinking feeling and awestruck look upon his face. His jaw was open and he looked as though his paling body was going to pass out. The others had done as asked. The guard noticed Manuel’s suspicious demeanor and demanded he take off his clothing.
Before Manuel had a chance to explain, the alarm sounded and he was tackled to the ground, handcuffed, and brought into the interrogation room for a full body cavity search. The inspector noticed that he was without underwear and soon formed the obvious hypothesis of Manuel’s actions. Nevertheless, when nothing showed up, the inspector brought him into the other section of the interrogation room for a fully recorded questioning session.
“Why, Mr. Luhon, did you disobey the inspector’s order?”
“It’s really kind of embarrassing, sir. I wasn’t wearing any underwear and I did not feel comfortable being the only nude one in our group.”
“Why, sir, were you not wearing any underwear?”
Looking back on it, it almost seems humorous, if not for the very real effects. Manuel was forced to tell the entire story. The fifteen-minute version. At the end of his story he looked at the clock, no longer embarrassed, but increasingly agitated. “You have to believe me, sir. I’m telling you the truth,” he said. He bit his fingernails, spiting them on the black and white marble tiles and waiting for a response.
“We believe you; the lie detector is infallible.”
“Thank God. May I be on my way then?”
“Certainly.”
“Thank you sooo much.”
Understanding the need for punctuality, the driver and chauffer had already left and another driver came to pick Manuel up. He pulled up in a hurry, screeching the tires to a halt and nearly missing Manuel who dove to the side.

Kiki Luhon ran up from the first floor of the basement, diving up the stairs, sliding into the kitchen and hiding behind the dinner table for safety; her twin sister Katelynn was directly behind her, screaming the high-pitched shriek of an enraged twelve-year-old. “Give me back my lipstick!” she demanded, stomping her pin-like high heels, piercing both the linoleum floor and her fathers’ nerve.

Jose Sr. gazed into the kitchen, his eyes recently glazed from the beers he had been drinking. Following the trail of dents on the floor, he spotted Katelynn. “Get out of there with your high-heels. How many times do I have to tell you? The last thing I wanna do is replace another floor.” He was reclining on an adjacent sofa, catching up on current events as he always did after work. He pressed a few keys on his computer watch, took it off his wrist and set it on the coffee table.

On white walls, his wrist unit projected a telecast of world events. His hand, scarred from years of carpentry, held a stein of ale. Taking a sip, he read the captions of the telecast, tuning out the commotion in the kitchen.

Jose worked as a carpenter. Scattered throughout the city, he worked on his boss’s five apartment complexes, providing the Luhon Family’s primary source of income as well as affordable housing. Jose and his boss had made an arrangement where Jose would have control of one complex in return for the maintenance of the other six. He was constantly making repairs and, with the six unit style of his buildings, the work seemed endless. At ground level, the two-story house was the largest of the six structures. The five basement apartments, one below the other, each penetrated ten feet deeper into the earth’s crust. Fifty feet in all.
“Give me back my lipstick,” Katelynn repeated.

Kiki looked at the sliding glass door, a mirror to the setting sun and dimness outside. “Just a sec,” she said, taking out the lipstick and looking at her reflection.

But there was no time; Katelynn was chasing her again. Around the table they went, the smell of roasting turkey wafting around the room and the sound of their mother scolding them, her back turned and preparing the feast. “Girls! Girls, calm down. Your father’s had a long day at work.”

Kiki slid a chair in front of her sister, paused for an instant in front of the makeshift mirror – just enough time to smudge some lipstick on her lips. Katelynn jumped onto the chair, leapt onto Kiki and grabbed her by the throat. Kiki kicked wildly.

The sound of glass shattering, the sight of an overturned chair, and Katelynn bellowing in pain as she lie on her back, blood dripping from her leg.

“God damn it! I just had that door put in,” said Jose.

“She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. Call 911,” cried Esmarelda.

“Son of a… Where’s the phone?” he said, pacing back and forth. He pressed the intercom button, shouted into the microphone, “Ricardo!”

At fifteen, Ricardo was the youngest son. His voice had recently begun to change and he spent much time on the phone speaking with girls. He jogged up the stairs, tossed his father the phone with a smile, a wink, and a raised thumb. His mood soon changed when he saw his sister lying on the floor and bleeding. “What happened?” he asked, looking at Kiki.

“It was an accident. She was chasing me. She’ll be all right.”

Jose pressed the emergency button on the phone, added the emergency description code, 420, and the computer told the dispatchers there was a level two bleeding incident at 451 Oak Drive, which involved broken glass. He tossed the phone back to Ricardo and cleaned meticulously the glass fragments imbedded in Katelynn’s leg. When all visible pieces were removed, Jose looked up, raced to the door and into the street. Although the dispatcher’s phones instantly sent maps and descriptions to the ambulance computers, he was not taking any chances; he waited for the ambulance, searching through the unseasonable blizzard-like conditions.

Inside, dinner had finished cooking and the electronic gong of the timer reverberated throughout the five-floor basement, summoning the remaining Luhon family members.

The other three each paraded up from their basement apartments, taking the stairs because the elevator had been broken for years. Jose Junior, or JJ as he was often called, was the eldest, and was the first up the stairs. Although he had returned nearly two hours ago from work – a recording studio where he read and recorded books, poetry, and newspaper and magazine articles – he was still wearing his suit and tie. One stairwell behind were Amelia and Manuel.

Amelia had lost her hearing almost ten years ago, at the age of nine. She had compensated for this loss by heightening her other senses. Noticing the dimming of the lights caused by the one-thousand watt dinner bell, feeling the vibrations of the bass within the thin wooden walls, and seeing the elated look on her brother Manuel’s face, knew it was time for dinner. They ceased signing to each other and walked up the stairs. Amelia followed behind and to his side. Ever aware, she noticed the text on his watch screen. Manuel had been studying a book on his computer-watch. Amelia also noticed the familiar shape of his back pocket. It was a deck of cards for the traditional poker game. He was hoping he could get in a few games after they ate.

There was a rap at the door and four paramedics moved swiftly into the house. The fierce breeze and bitter weather whipped into their home, rousing the siblings’ sense of smell. With visions of a feast in their heads, they filed into the kitchen. Jaws dropped, panting mildly, the clouds of coldness formed at their salivating mouths. Seeing emergency personnel rather than turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and chicken, they were uncertain.

“Okay, don’t you worry now,” Esmarelda said, greeting her children as they approached, and looking at each of them, “Everything’s gonna be alright. She’ll just need a few stitches. Jose, you’re the eldest, you’re in charge.”

Manuel looked up from his computer-watch and rolled his eyes. In the openness of the kitchen he now stepped, turned off the oven and swept up the glass. Working efficiently and with speed, he picked up the big pieces and dumped them into the garbage. Then he got the shopvac to suck up the remaining fragments. Ezmarelda and Jose watched in the other room as two paramedics disinfected and bandaged Kiki’s leg. She cried out as the red-brown liquid was applied. The men rolled her onto a stretcher and carried her out. The vacuum, clogged and gasping for breath, drowned out Ezmarelda’s cries of empathy, muted her goodbye. She and Jose Sr. followed the ambulance to the hospital and Manuel put the vacuum away in the closet.

The remainder of the Luhon family huddled around the dinner table and waited to be served. Manuel turned on the news and all attention, save Amelia’s, was drawn to the telecast. Amelia sat in her usual spot, head of the elliptical table, opposite her father’s seat. With the absence of their father, JJ had assumed this seat. Here, in the catchers’ positions as Amelia called it, she could rely on sight rather than sound. She watched JJ, who was engrossed in the telecast. He looked at Kiki with a disapproving eye and Amelia knew the topic of the broadcast: English Only

This novel is copyrighted and may not be reprinted without prior written consent.

“English Only” Chapter 3: by John Halasz

____________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 3

Beyond a reasonable doubt.

The building, the color of night, blackness so foul so detestable as ever she had seen. Without windows, only artificial light did gleam, only compressed air did circulate into the never-ending stories. And in ten-foot, shiny black letters which rose several feet from the main entrance: F.B.L.
It soared as high as it sunk, the first and only building to join the hundred/hundred club – to be one hundred stories high and one hundred stories deep. Science had long ago perfected stabilization by isolating deep pockets of the earth. Even California, with its regular earthquakes, had several structures that stood more than 50/50, its greatest Janis structure running away at 78 feet in either direction.
Julie flashed her identification to the two guards – one slumped over on the wooden chair typing on a computer, the other stretching his leg muscles – and was admitted to the search room. Jack had informed security that Julie would be arriving today, had shown them a picture of her and what she would be wearing — what she would be taking off.

Julie was not exempt from the routine strip-search. According to official regulations, everyone had to be strip-searched. But this was not always the case. Several high-ranking officials, including Jack, walked right to their desks without ever even being patted down. There was only time for a brief pause as they acknowledged the security guards’ nods of respect. Julie had not yet achieved this status.
Guidelines regarding strip-searches were long out of date. Over a decade ago, in the year 2057, x-ray technologies had taken away the need for a manual strip-search, and they were conducted considerably less often; however, during one’s first arrival to the headquarters, the x-ray machines seemed always to malfunction. There still remained the psychological degradation unique to the old method.
The guard who had been stretching his legs greeted Julie and the man at the computer looked up. “Julie Featherton,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, entering the information into the computer.

“Yes,” she said.

Julie was escorted into a ten-foot room, the man guiding her with his hand on the small of her back. “Take off all your clothes.”

Her face turned crimson and beads of sweat rolled down her face. “Is this really necessary?” she asked.

“Afraid so. It’s standard procedure.”

“What about the x-ray machine?”

“It’s not working properly.”

Julie clenched her fists and jaw. “Well are there at least female security guards?” she asked.

“No. But I assure you we are professionals. We’ll be inside in one minute.” He walked back to the opening and his colleague waved his knees open and closed again, bit his lip, put on latex gloves, and passed his partner a pair. They grimaced at each other and entered the room.

The room was empty except for gloves, a dispensary of lubrication, a garbage can, and a table for the newcomers to lie on. Julie’s back was turned as the men approached, their fingers closed inside their palms.

“Spread your legs apart,” said one.

“Bend forward,” said the other.

She hesitated.

“We have gloves,” they both said and she complied.

They spread out their hands and revealed their naked fingers; the gloves had been cut like those of weight lifters. They conducted the search, their naked fingers lingering a bit too long in each of her orifices.

Nervous, Julie began to perspire even more.

“You’re all set.”

Julie got dressed, walked away, and pressed her thumbprint on the sensor, which opened the door-code prompt. She entered the ten-digit number and the door opened and locked behind her. Now she was at a different set of doors where she entered another ten-digit code. The door opened, closed behind her and finally she was in the building.

She looked at the signs on the walls, tried to locate room 101. With no luck she reached into her purse for the map Jack had drawn up. It located the correct elevator, and Julie stepped inside, pressed the up button, her clammy fingerprint seeming to melt on the ivory elevator buttons. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and Julie stepped out, looked at the long and thin hallways on either side of her. The actual distance was deceiving, for as far as she could see the walls joining together, merged into one. Not an insurmountable distance, but a hundred yards easily.

Once again Julie sought the map. It was drawn up well and after a few lefts and a couple rights she was at the door. She walked in, at once overwhelmed by the size of the room, the amount of workers, the design.

Gazing around the room, Julie’s senses became fascinated, her mind memorized by the intricate network of screens projected on the enormous walls. She had read about the headquarters and Jack had told her about it, but nothing could have prepared her for what now stood before her. Hundreds of thousands of live pictures were cast on the Federal Bureau of Language’s smooth white walls. She saw rows and isles of people, stacked atop one another. So numerous, they looked like a fifty-foot sheet of graph paper. She saw the ladder leading to their terminals, the handrails highlighted with a continuous row of neon-green lights.

In the dimly lit room she could not make out the facial features of particular observers, the computer screens casting a queer illumination on their faces, which flickered and made her all the more trancelike. She thought of their jobs, of the lives they lead. “The ideal candidate should possess the following skills: close attention to detail; high degree of body-language literacy; the ability to counterattack potentially harmful individuals or groups.”

They could not possibly cover every inch of the world, or even every mile. They chose instead to focus more exclusively on high-risk areas. All the statistics were accounted for. They may not have been reported to the masses with any accuracy, but it was science with which the people were dissected.

Each observer was assigned one hundred screens. But it was, for the most part, automatic, the facial scan and track functions locating and following a pre-programmed pattern of people as they made their way around the city, the country, and even the world. The agents saved volumes of information, storing it into permanent, private records, and using them to predict future behavior. Often with surprising accuracy. There was a correlation between movement patterns and language offenses. The cameras were programmed to focus on these areas.

It was fairly consistent from year to year. The steadiest influx of language transport came from overseas where stranded family members often sent immigrants letters in their native language. Each letter or character was scanned, but still they would not deter. All e-mails were processed through databases that scanned the texts. Like the primitive resume scanners used by employees, the Bureau’s scanners looked for key words or phrases, for a questioning mind and a potentially rebellious person.

Unlike most of the FBL’s employees, Julie, because of her relationship with Jack, knew all about the FBL’s intentions and technologies. Yet she could not pull herself away from the screens, and when she looked up she noticed that there were even pictures on the fifty-foot ceilings. Heads up and arms out, she whirled around like a child playing at a playground. The images blended together and she became dizzy. She stopped for a moment, fearing she might fall.

Startled by the opened hand gently touching her shoulder, she jumped, emitted a scream that seemed to focus the 126 eyes of the employees on her alone. The few who actually looked soon realized the source of the sound and returned to work, toiling at their desks in a vain attempt to focus on detail. Over stimulation had destroyed their attention spans, and the automated functions would have to suffice.

“Did I startle you?” Jack asked, “Let me show you to your office hun. It’s right next to mine, in the same room really, but there is a divider.

They walked into the room and Jack shut the door behind them, sealing them within the soundproof walls of their offices. It was a long and narrow room, separated by a crude ten-foot wall, which could be compacted by folding along the hinges at each foot.

“So, what happened?”

“Old hot hands shot a man in the back”

“Did he have a weapon?

“They thought he did, but it was only a book. A gray book, and from the angle its spine looked like a gun. Each of the three agents shot him in the back. He lunged forward and the book went sailing through the air, turning around, showing it dimensions ands making clear their error.”

“Did you recover the book?”

“They recovered five other books he had in his coat, but none matching that description have been recovered.”

“Have you tried analyzing the trajectory and speed to determine where the book would have landed and at what precise moment in time? It was on another camera. We just need to find out which one and slow down time.”

Jack adjusted the video to the instant the man was shot. “Go to work.”

At the time he was shot, the man was on a crack in the sidewalk where two slabs met. Knowing the distance of the concrete slabs, Julie programmed the computer to time how long it took the book to move three parts of the sidewalk. From here, it went off the camera and was difficult to track. She then measured the angle of its trajectory, drew a curve that looked like a mountain, and typed in a specific camera number. Zooming in, she saw the book land and then seem to disappear.

“Did you see that?” she asked

“Slow it down.”

Julie plucked a few key strokes and the incident replayed itself twenty times slower. Once again, the book seemed to simply disappear.

Shaking his head, Jack told Julie to try a different angle. She looked typed in the camera number that was adjacent to the one they were watching, slowed down the speed, and watched in awe.

“I know you saw that. That guy just swooped up the book and put it in his pants. Find out who he is and if he’s affiliated with our guy.”

“I don’t see how he could have known, but I’ll check it out. We have to get that book back anyways.”

Jack went back to manning the cameras and audio, watching people and listening to their conversations. He checked back with Julie about an hour later.

“What did you find out about this Manuel Luhon character?
“He works alone at the megamarket, but it’s loaded with security cameras so they can keep an eye on the employees. His accent is thick, but we already knew that. Oh, and get this, he actually plans to join the FBL. He even seemed to take a liking to me, which I find rather repulsive. Let’s see. We already know there is an access code and thumbprint scan, not to mention two security codes. This isn’t going to be easy Jack.”
“No, it isn’t going to be easy, but we can do it. You said he took a liking to you, right? Well, there’s your chance to get some more information. And he wants to join the FBL so let him think he has a good chance at getting accepted. He may actually have a good chance for all we know. With affirmative action and all.”
Jack paced back and forth. “This is your office,” he said, opening the door. She followed and sat at her oak desk. Jack opened up a locker across from the desk, took out a map, unfolded it on her desk.

“This is the blueprint of the megamarket,” he said.

“Where did you get that?” she asked.

“The internet, of course.”

“Excellent – I think we’ve found our fall guy.”

This novel is copyrighted and may not be reprinted without prior written consent.

“English Only” Chapter 2: by John Halasz

From behind his desk at the FBL Headquarters, Director Jack Marshall had overseen his agents on the streets. He leaned forward in his leather seat, and among the thousands of video images which shone on the smooth white walls of the Headquarters, he focused on one; it was the man they had been looking for, wanted for felony charges of disseminating hundreds of thousands of foreign literature in as many as thirty different languages.

From his control booth, Jack ignored the constant clatter of computer voices, which were intended to help the agents process the vast volumes of data. Jack analyzed the various functions: Verbal Systems, Facial Recognition, Gate Walk Analysis, and X-ray Text Scanning. There was no need for the Verbal Systems because the suspect was neither speaking nor moving his mouth. The Facial Recognition and Gate Walk Analysis had already confirmed the identity of the suspect and nature of his crimes. Every facial feature had been scanned, measured, and processed into the enormous database, which held the information for the entire nation.

The face of the suspect was somewhat chiseled, and his walk was not the walk of someone indigenous to New York City; it registered in the FBL’s Gate Walk Analysis System: the distance of the stride in comparison to the speed; the placement of the feet as they touched the ground; the swagger of the hips. These signs, among others, were processed into the computer to give a remarkably accurate identification of the person being monitored.

As powerful as these technologies were, they were no match for a well-trained agent. As Jack had anticipated a moment later the computer voice chimed,

“Stature and gate match international language terrorist.

“Manually scan suspect,” commanded Jack. An instant later an alarm sounded in sector 29, and the agent assigned to this section radioed to Jack.

“Sir…”

“One step ahead of you. And how many times do I have to tell you not to rely
solely on the technology. You have to be alert at all times.”

“But sir.”

The radio went dead and Jack commanded his men on the ground, at the scene. “830,1,2, we have an L.V. (language violation) at the corner of fifth and Broadway.”

“Copy that sir.”

“Suspect is wearing olive-green pants, a baseball hat, and black Nike running sneakers. He is of Spanish descent and is to be charged as such. He is in possession of five items. Don’t blow this one guys, we’ve put too much into this. He’s number three on the list.”

“No worries, sir.”

From the control booth, Jack zoomed in on his agents and then the assailant, honing in his team. “Walk about ten more yards, turn left at McDonalds, and he is right there. I want him brought in alive.”

“Roger that.”

The commanding officer motioned for his men to spread out on either side of him, creating a triangle pattern.

In case he decided to run.

But it had not gone as planned. He had pulled out the books and the officers had mistaken it for a gun. His back facing the agents, he was thrust forward and the books sent flying in the air.

At the Headquarters, Jack ran his hand through his thinning hair before calling his girlfriend and image alteration specialist to alter reality, superimposing frames, overriding the system and erasing images prior to the moment of the shooting.

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CHAPTER ONE: Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

When the blood-stained books finally landed on the crowded city streets, he was already dead – another nameless victim in the Federal Bureau of Language’s war on words. Manuel Luhon, who walked this way to work each day, had been only a few feet ahead of the young man when he heard the blasts from the guns. Having grown up all his life here in the ghettos of Brooklyn, the sounds of gun shots were all too familiar and he did not even turn around. An instant later it had rained books, one landing directly in front of him. Without thinking, without fearing, without breaking stride, his right hand seemed to act on its own accord, swooping up the bound pages and stuffing them in his waistband. He quickened his pace, hearing the agents behind him.

“Field agents, gather the evidence,” the officer commanded.

There was a team of three agents, all of whom had shot the man simultaneously in the back.

With his peripheral vision, Manuel saw the uniforms scouring the sidewalks for the books, and he heard the thumps of their steel-toed boots. He moved forward as casually as he could. This was not difficult because the blasts had alarmed the pedestrians on either side of the street and there were now many people running. Manuel began to jog, not completely aware of what he possessed.

What am I doing? Whose side am I on? Manuel had been a staunch supporter of the Bureau’s cause and had recently been studying to join its ranks. Now, he felt torn and unsure, but all the more sure that there was some substance to the rumors which painted the agency as a callous and racist group who would stop at nothing to see their goals of a one language world – English only. And with their goals would come, intentional or not, the end of other cultures.

There still remained in Manuel’s mind the curiosity of understanding why someone would be willing to risk their life for mere words on a page, words they were unlikely even to understand. He wondered in which language this book he carried was written. Familiar with many of the FBL’s technologies, Manuel was apprehensive that he had seen picking up the book.

Walking past the subway stop to work, biting his fingernails and fearing someone would see the contraband, the book, Manuel decided to call in to work. A part of him just wanted to throw out the book, but the desire to better understand how others had communicated and what they valued, was overpowering.

He pressed a few buttons on his telephone watch. The person on the other end spoke. “Megamarket, Gredy speaking.” Gredy looked at the caller ID. “Manuel, you better not be calling in to work.”

“I’m really sorry, but I’ve been throwing up. And I have a fever and I don’t have any energy. I’m sure you could find someone.”

“Maybe, but it’s your responsibility to find someone to cover your shift. Where are you? It sounds like you’re on the streets. I can hear horns and voices.”

“I was on my way to work when I became sick.”

“Likely story. I trust you have the list of employees’ phone numbers?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. My phone is breaking up,” Manuel said, smirking and turning off his phone, all too aware there was no time to waste and that he must get off the streets. He about faced and headed to his family’s structures, conscious of each footstep, fearful the book might fall out or down his pant leg. Without incident he made it the four blocks and to his street. He followed the buildings until they stretched to his building. The buildings, shared side walls, but the fronts were clearly identifiable. Manuel waddled up the steps and to his door. Standing in the corridor, the book began to slip but he limped his way into the elevator. A cockroach scurried by and Manuel barely noticed it. In a hurry, he allowed this one to live and pressed negative five on the elevator and began the decent to his apartment. It stopped along the way and his sister, Katelynn, met him on the elevator.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, looking him up and down, aware he was not acting like his normal self.

“I have a stomach ache,” he said, holding his stomach and the book in place.”

“You sure you’re alright? Your face is sweating.”

The door opened and he stepped out. “I just need to get some sleep,” he said, the door closing and the elevator finishing it accent. He fumbled with his keys, but managed at length to open his door and enter into his apartment.

His bookshelves were packed with literature and textbooks – Shakespeare, Poe, the Bible, and psychology and history books among others. Open and on the computer desk was his copy of the history of the Universal Language Laws. He set it aside, locked his door and revealed the book he had obtained.