◆

I

Woody sat across from his boss’s boss, Clarence, silent. Clarence, general manager of Audi of Huntington, stared back at him, silent.

“You know I don’t want to take you off the floor,” Clarence finally said, swiping his thick fingers across the table. Without taking his eyes off Woody, he flicked his head to the right, toward his assistant manager. “But Gerald here tells me it has to be done.”

“Yes,” Gerald said, solemn. “It has to be done.”

The clock behind Clarence ticked on, and Woody, for the first time during this meeting, wasn’t sure what was going to happen. He’d given both Clarence and Gerald an ultimatum: promote him, or he’d look for opportunities elsewhere. Now, resisting the urge to pick every piece of lint from his black pants, he wondered if he’d overplayed his hand; if men like Clarence likened ultimatums to the government negotiating with terrorists.

He heard the front door open and close; heels clacking across the gleaming white tile, rubber soles thud-thudding. A man and a woman. Thin. Medium-height. Their unhurried steps told him they wanted to buy a car, but didn’t want to come off as too eager, lest they become the baby gazelle to the alpha lion. It was all so obvious to him, though he knew it would take Sam a while to understand who they were, how best to handle them.

Woody had already been training Sam in the way of car sales for three months; Gerald offloading his own work onto him. Instead of viewing it as a drag, taking time away from his own art––because, as he described it to Sam, “what we do is an art, just like sculpting, writing, and dance”––he took to it, found real and genuine joy watching his trainee struggle to stand on wobbly legs, then walk with firmer steps, day by day, week by week. This is one reason why he now sat in front of Clarence, the room growing stuffy with the warming spring air of Long Island; pollen and saltwater mixing into a potent olfactory cocktail that, once it got into your lungs, never left, no matter if you were in Greenlawn or Greenland.

Clarence inspected his fingernails, slapped his palms on the table, then sighed directly into Woody’s face. “I know what you are, Woody. But Gerald has the data to back it up. In the last twelve months, you’ve averaged twenty-five cars a month, with an unheard of thirty during January, the worst month possible for us.” He sat back in his leather chair. “How’d you do it?”

Woody looked at Gerald, who shrugged, then back at Clarence; his hands were extended in front of his chest, frozen, mouth half open, lips tugged up at the corner, beseeching the Jesus of Audi of Huntington to explain his mysterious ways.

“You really want to know?” Woody asked.

Clarence looked up at Gerald and back at Woody. “Do I really want to know? Goddamn, Woody, yes!”

“Well, ever since I started here last year, I took up a routine.” 

“A routine?” Clarence asked, eyes narrowed as if he thought Woody were joking.

“A routine,” Woody confirmed. “Before work, I’d drive all over: Lloyd Harbor, Northport, Syosset, Oyster Bay, Cove Neck. Everywhere. If I saw a BMW or a Mercedes in someone’s driveway, especially one that was an older model, I’d walk straight up, knock on the door, and introduce myself. Coffee or donuts in hand. And not Dunkin’ Donuts, but the expensive gourmet kind from those boutique cafes.”

Clarence nodded. “Smart.”

“Sometimes they’d slam the door in my face. Other times, they’d invite me in. We’d get to talking, and I wouldn’t really sell them; I’d just connect with them, meet their kids, and then leave my card. As time went on, I drove to more and more towns, also after work, and more of the people I met began to call me or swing by the dealership. A lot of these people like to drive to Vermont in the winter, skiing and all of that, so it was just good timing, really.”

“And you still do this?” his boss’s boss asked, leaning forward.

“When I can, yeah. But, you know,” he laughed. “Life is a little different now.”

Clarence’s eyebrows pole vaulted to his forehead. “You’re telling me. New wife. New baby, right? What’s his name?”

“Woodard Nash Jr.”

“A strong name if I ever heard one. And how’s Daphne?”

“Getting on. Her mom’s been with us for a month now, which helps.”

Clarence checked his watch, sighed again. “Listen, Woody. You’re the best earner we’ve had”––he looked up at Gerald, Gerald nodded back at him––“ever. And while I want you to stay on the floor, I understand you have different ambitions. Gerald says you’ve done an incredible job with Sam and the others. So, if it’s an assistant manager you want to be, then let’s do it. But,” he held up a finger, “you understand what this means, right? Sam, Felicia, and the rest need to make up for what we’re losing with you. If they don’t, you’re back on the floor. Deal?” He held his hand out, and before it was fully extended, Woody’s was already there to meet it.

“Deal. Thank you, sir.”

“Now go on and tell Daphne the good news. We’ll discuss the details tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Gerald said.

When they exited Clarence’s office, Sam, Felicia, and the other salespeople turned. Gerald gave them the thumbs up, and even though there were customers on the floor, they each stopped and applauded. The customers, not knowing what else to do, joined in, further roping them into the dealership, driving up the vibrational resonance of their emotion. “Quite an electric environment at that Audi dealership,” they’d later tell their friends, yielding an unparalleled form of advertising as old as cavemen telling others about the best field for hunting wooly rhinoceroses: word-of-mouth. 

Cha-ching.

“SPEECH!” Sam said.

“SPEECH!” Felicia echoed.

“Sorry for the interruption, folks,” Woody said to the three or four customers standing there. “And I thank all of you for the kindness. To be honest, not much will change, other than me doing less of the selling, and you,” he drove his index fingers out in front of him like planes hitting the runway, “will be doing more. But what will always remain the same is being customer and company first. Never adopting sleaze for sales, grift for green, and white lies for lazy wins. We’re Audi of Huntington, something to be proud of.”

They continued clapping as Gerald, lanky arm around Woody’s bulging shoulder, walked him out.

“Not bad for a college dropout,” Gerald said, smiling.

“Thanks for believing in me, man. I can’t thank you enough.”

He waved the gratitude away. “You know why I did this, right? Got you in here and everything?”

“Because we’re both Omegas?”

“This isn’t any frat shit,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s because I knew you’d be superman at it. Even with all the trouble back in college, the disciplinary hearing, and what came after––I knew you had the heart of a hustler. Heavy emphasis on heart.”

Woody looked down, saw his brown loafers were lightly scuffed. He’d polish them later that night. It had been a long, windy, screwed-up road getting here, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nature is as nature does, like Daphne says. And you can never stop that. “I appreciate it.”

“Also, I’m out.”

“You’re what?”

“Out. Next month. It’s the reason why your promotion is even possible.” Gerald gazed upon the back parking lot, where employees parked their cars. “I’m setting off for greener pastures.”

“Such as?”

“West, probably. Somewhere I can use my hands and sweat. Wildfire fighting. Organic farming. This modern life is starting to feel unnatural, so…”

“I don’t know what to say, man. But I’m going to miss you.”

“Same here. Just keep making me look good in the meantime, aight?”

“Aight.”

They glanced over their shoulders, made sure no one was watching, and dapped each other up.

Driving on Jericho Turnpike, Woody looked at his car with new eyes. The Audi Q5, a forest green they called “District Green Metallic” was aspirational. He’d bought it his first month on the job, fully loaded, for about $49,500; 10% employee discount off the MSRP. Technically, he wasn’t eligible for the discount and other incentives, but Gerald vouched for him, and the turbocharged V6 engine, butter interior, crossover SUV was his. A symbol that he was betting on himself; a bet, since college ended early, he vowed to never lose.

A year ago, when he’d rolled into the driveway of their newly acquired two-story home, their neighbors suddenly had something to do outside and came to greet Woody, even though he and Daphne had moved in two weeks prior. Then she came out, shook her head, and laughed. She must have thought the car to be her twin; something just out of Woody’s reach, but close enough that, with spit and hard work, he’d make his. Eventually, it would be as though it was always his; the world would never be able to imagine it, or her, as fitting so well with anyone else. This, he had figured out, was not the American Dream™, but the American compulsion: to will the world as you saw fit while never even considering it to be warped.

He turned off the turnpike onto New York Avenue, driving over cracked black asphalt, past medical offices, boxing and CrossFit gyms that went up, died, and rose from the ashes with new names on different signs; strip malls with the same printing outlets, nail and spa salons, and variations of cuisine that sounded misleadingly ethnic, but were close enough to the idea of the real thing for the residents of Huntington and surrounding towns to never really know the difference. Daphne always knew, and after one too many bland chicken tikka masalas, soggy quesadillas, and microwaved spring rolls, she declared a moratorium: they were never eating at those restaurants again. It was all childhood recipes and the Food Network; air fryers and ovens.

The Audi purred past the tire stores, paint shops, and auto body repair spots, as Woody asked himself what was next. Woody Jr., of course. But what new heights could he, the man of the house, achieve? After being dealt one of the worst hands possible, the Future® finally unfolded itself in front of him, and said, “Take me, Woody! Take me just like millions have taken me before!” After a couple of years, he could start his own business. Why not? He’d buy a new car. An Audi, of course, even if he didn’t work there any longer. He and Daphne would have a second child; a girl with a smile as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon. A bigger house, somewhere on the North Fork, where they’d have a long driveway from the street to their McMansion, maybe one of those cobblestone or gravel circular driveways with a fountain in the center.

Finally, he hit downtown. Starbucks, The Paramount, American flags galore, strange little stores, like “Little Switzerland Dolls,” and its neighbor, “Rumpelstiltskin Yarns.” It was stuffier here, more money, but he could breathe easier. There was at least a veneer of civility in these spotless streets, and though he wished he were the type to prefer people to always be their true selves, after a long day, he’d take a fake smile over a genuine sneer. Plus, look at him. The Audi, the off-the-rack suit that looked made-to-measure, a wife that every woman in the street couldn’t help but compliment, every man, even hand-in-hand with their own spouses, still turned to stare at.

Yes, like the Audi, she was too good for him. At, least, that’s how it initially seemed. But that night, in that bar, they were equals. He was honest about being kicked out of college, doing odd jobs in the meantime. She was also honest: ten years his senior, a newly minted PhD in Ecology with her feet on the ground and one eye on the present, the other on the future. On paper, they weren’t a fit. But who cares about something as flimsy as paper? Hard reality stared them in the face, and they’d each decided to take up a chisel and start hammering away, shaping the life they wanted, together.

Her mother-in-law was another matter. He stepped on the gas harder, dread spreading throughout the car, a dense smoke crawling over the leather interior until he was forced to crack the window open, gather as much fresh air into his lungs as possible, and slow down before crashing into a minivan at the light. The past month was heaven and hell in the same house. He didn’t have to be there to know she was badmouthing him 24/7. Subtracting the subpar sleep he and Daphne got, and when he was at the dealership, that left at least eight hours a day, two-hundred-forty hours already elapsed, for his mother-in-law to sow seeds of discontent in Daphne, and, subconsciously, Woody Jr. No matter how hard the ground, when you keep hacking at it with a hoe or hand cultivator, sprinkling seeds along the way, eventually, some take root. 

His hands gently guided the steering wheel off Main Street, onto Woodbury Rd. past the church on the corner. “We’ll go there every Sunday,” Daphne said, grabbing his hand the first time they came upon it. “Every Sunday,” he squeezed back, smiling. In the past year, they’d attended church a total of zero Sundays, but the desire remained in their hearts, and there was something about it that sustained them more than the actual act.

If he were anyone else, a slight percentage point off––taller, shorter, louder, quieter, funnier, calmer––would he and Daphne still have achieved resonance; would they have found the same frequency? Maybe. But, the more terrifying question was would their vibratory forces remain in sync for the rest of their lives? Over the past four years, they’d spun at the same speed, a centrifugal force growing stronger around their love. Now, their center was Woody Jr., their baby that would grow into a child that would grow into a teenager that would grow into a young adult that would grow into a man who left their home, leaving them all alone, scrambling to find their center again. But what if it was no longer there?

Stop it. You’re already letting Eurita in your head, and you’re not even home yet.

You could calculate the permutation of permutations until the end of time. Sometimes, you just had to accept the unknown, and that was that.

He drove on a while, made a right onto a tree-lined path that he’d soon turn off to his own street. The sun began to cast its orange-red glow, and up ahead, he saw a squirrel attempt to cross in front of the car, but stopped. He, too, stopped. Then, when the squirrel made another attempt, he drove, causing it to freeze. It tried again, and he repeated the action, putting them both at a standstill. The squirrel made a third attempt, Woody hit the gas, playfully swerving toward it, but this time, the squirrel didn’t react quick enough, and the Audi’s tire buh-bumped.

“No. No, no, no, no, no.” He pulled over, in front of a sidewalk separating the street from the houses. “No, please, no.” Walking toward the body, he already saw it twitching. “No,” he repeated, mouth dry, hands on his waist as he alternated between pacing near the squirrel, stopping to stare at it, and pacing again. He’d never killed anything before. Flies, roaches, and ants, of course, but no mammals. There was something different about ending the life of something with a sizable brain; its pain was undeniable. It continued twitching, and he moved to grab it, but then thought better of it. Woody Jr. was at home, and who knows what this squirrel had. Fleas, rabies, ticks.

His heart beating faster than his Audi’s top speed, he hung his head, got back into the car, and drove off.

◆

One, two, and three of them watched his car from a tree limb high above the homes. Then, they crawled down, surrounded the squirrel, and remained there until he arrived. The one much bigger, fatter, and bushier than the rest. They looked to him, but he didn’t look back, his eyes set in the direction of the Audi.

◆

Woody pulled into his driveway, stepped out, and suddenly felt sad that his feet touched white concrete rather than loose gravel. His eyes scanned the lawn, not exactly because he was looking for anything, but because, being a homeowner, he figured it was something he should do every day. The sod they’d had placed last season was serving its purpose, automatic sprinklers stilled sprinkled twice a day, and children of all sizes, with limited hues, raced each other on bikes up and down the street, jostling for position, just like their parents and teachers.

Inside, he heard Daphne say, “And you wouldn’t even know it, out here in placid Long Island, but the Amazon rainforest is still on fire. Literally, right now. Because of us.”

“Who’s us, Daphne?” Eurita asked. “You forced me to stop using plastic bottles. ‘Single-use,’ or something like that. I recycle. I’m up to my throat in totes. I mean, really––”

“Totes! Momma, trust me when I say this: totes will be the death of our world. One cotton tote bag’s CO2 equivalent is 598.6 pounds. A plastic bag’s is less at 3.48 pounds!”

“Shush now, you’re making my head spin. First you say not to use plastic, now you say not to use totes. What, do you expect me to strap a straw basket to my back and carry my groceries that way?”

Woody kicked off his shoes, took a deep breath, then headed up the stairs, which placed him at the intersection of the living room to his left, kitchen in front of him, hallway to his right, and stairs to the landing, leading to the first floor, behind him.

“Woody, baby,” Daphne said, pausing her cucumber cutting. She wrapped her arms around him, kissed him deeply, and gave his butt a squeeze.

“Hey, hon.” His eyes traveled to his mother-in-law, seated away from the table, rocking Woody Jr. “Eurita.”

He washed his hands, held them out to Woody Jr. Eurita made no move to give up her grandson, so Woody took him himself, planting kisses all over his son’s bright face, baby spit getting on his lips and shirt collar.

“You’re back early,” Daphne said. “How was the meeting?”

“Went well.” He rocked Woody Jr. back and forth, mesmerized by his month-old son. His mahogany-colored eyes stared back at him; the nostrils of Daphne’s button nose flared, and, disappointingly, Eurita’s high cheekbones––she claimed to be one-sixteenth Cherokee or something––roll and fell beneath his eyes.

Daphne touched his neck with her vegetable wet hands. “Well as in…”

He turned around, teeth flashing. “Well as in I got it.”

“Yes, baby! Congratulations.”

“Congratulations to us,” he pumped Woody Jr.’s plush fist in the air.

She pulled off a pot’s lid, steam rising into her face. Something was boiling inside, probably noodles. “Looks like I can get back to work sooner than I thought.”

“Work?” Eurita said. “You need to stay home and take care of your son. Back in my day, that’s what we did. And,” she shot her eyes at Woody, “Men were men.”

Back in your day, men dragged their knuckles across scorched earth in search of feral rodents to eat. No wonder Roark cheated…

Daphne turned to Eurita, wooden spoon in hand. “Momma, I can work and still be there for Woody Jr. And Woody will, too. Won’t you, babe?”

“That’s not even a question,” he said, still peering into his son’s eyes. “Plus, this street is full of fourteen-year-olds looking for extra cash. Isn’t that right, son?” He rubbed his nose against Woody Jr.’s. “Cash is king.”

“Huh.” Eurita chuckled, shaking her head. “You two are too modern. Look at this house you got. You’ve lived here for a year, yet I saw mold in the basement this morning. That fence in the back needs to be repaired––termites have torn it to bits. And that chimney, don’t get me started. You don’t even have a chimney cap.”

“We don’t use the chimney, Momma.”

“Shows how much you know. The point of a––”

He tuned Eurita out, reluctantly handed Woody Jr. to her, and, while she was still speaking, kissed Daphne on the ear and whispered, “I’m gonna shower up for dinner. God speed.”

After dinner, he washed up, and they all moved to the living room. Lights turned low, he brought the needle to Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell’s spinning “United” record. He and Daphne began by serenading their son, a Motown duo singing about how no mountains, valleys, or rivers existed to keep them from him. By the time they reached “Your Precious Love,” they had their hands around the other’s waists, tight, swaying close as their baby jerked his arms. Even Eurita, that venomous Medusa, looked softer in the lamp’s yellow glow.

“Thank you, Daph.” Woody said, low enough for only her to hear.

“For what, baby?”

“For everything.”

II

Dressed and ready to go, he bent over his wife, kissed her cheek.

“Five more minutes, babe.”

“Take ten,” he said. “Eurita got Woody Jr.”

“Have a good day, newest assistant manager of Audi of Huntington.”

He laughed. “That’s a mouthful, hon. But thank you. You too.”

A thermos of coffee was waiting for him on the kitchen counter. He eyed it skeptically, backed into the living room-kitchen-hallway-staircase intersection, and faced Eurita, seated on the couch, the morning light stretching across her glacial face.

“This for me?”

A cold stare.

“Did you spit in it?”

“You think I’d waste my spit on you?”

It was settled then. He took a sip, gave her a slight bow, and kissed his gurgling son before heading out the door.

When he closed it and turned around, he saw a squirrel on the edge of his lawn, where it met the concrete walkway beneath the three stairs to the house, staring. It was the fattest and biggest specimen he’d ever seen. But what struck him as being strangest is that aside from a white, almost bleached long, bushy tail and a typical tan underside, its head was completely black, save for two tiny white ears and a cloud-colored muzzle. The way it stared at him, though, unblinking. It was like it knew him.

He went back inside, entered his bedroom, and found Daphne yawning.

“I thought you left?”

“Hey, Daph. Come downstairs for a sec. I want your PhD in Ecology self to see something.”

She drowsily followed him, muttering, “Morning Momma, morning Captain.”

At the landing, he turned and said, “Okay, now look,” and opened the door. But nothing was there.

Twisting her head to the left and right, a school bus drove past, its breaks creaking to a stop. Birdsong filled the air. “What am I looking for, babe?”

He walked down the stairs, surveyed the property, and saw nothing. Embarrassed, he laughed and said, “Look at the grass, hon! Greener than Eden. Sod is God.”

Rolling her eyes, she said, “This connection between man and his lawn. It must be primal. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

She remained there as he got into the Audi, started her up, and reversed. His dashboard immediately flashed, signaling low pressure in his back left tire. When he hopped out and knelt down, he saw it was completely flat.

“What happened, babe?” she asked, still standing on the stairs, soaking up as much sunlight as possible. It was unnaturally hot for spring, a summer day in May.

He ran his hand over the tire until he felt a small piece of metal. Getting closer, he saw the head of a nail.

“Damn it. Ran over a nail.”

“Good thing you sprung for that spare. Need help?”

“No, babe. You go inside. I’ll take care of this.” He heard Eurita droning on in his head, “Something needed to be fixed, it was fixed. No talking, only doing. These days…”

He loosened the lug nuts and jacked the car up without trouble. Within fifteen minutes, his new tire was on. Feeling the manly jolt of just having done something for himself, with his own two hands, he thought, “Let me change the oil, too. Why get some schlub at Audi to do it when I can?” But once he was down there, his back against the coarse grip tape of his neighbor’s son’s skateboard, he felt a shockwave of fear pass over him and threw himself forward, chest heaving as sweat covered his face. Maybe another day.

“You know,” Gerald said, grinning, as Woody approached the entrance. “A promotion means you work harder, not later.”

“Sorry about that. Flat tire.”

“Went to a mechanic that quick, huh?”

“Did it with my own two hands,” Woody said, raising and twisting them for Gerald to see. “A man’s way.”

“As I live and breathe, brother. As I live and breathe. Head up to Clarence’s office to work out the details of your promotion. Then, you know the drill.”

“Indeed I do.”

Standard. A whopping 37.5% base increase, but that was only because a salesperson’s salary is mostly commission. He’d still make commission from Sam, Felicia, and the others, but he’d have to work harder to grow his annual on-target-earnings. Not no sweat, but good sweat, the kind of sweat he’d grown to love.

“So,” he said to his team during an afternoon huddle, “we price in terms of monthly payments not to dupe the customers, but because that’s what we’ve learned is most important to them. They can do the math and see how much the car costs per year. It’s the same with APR on their financing. Assume your customer is as smart as you, and treat them accordingly. Questions?”

“Just one,” their newest hire, Ronaldo, said, raising his hand.

“Ronaldo.”

“I mean, anyone who can afford an Audi is rich, right? Why should we ever offer any of these fucks a discount?”

Woody took a deep breath, released, and swung his jaw around. “A good question, Ronaldo. But first, please don’t ever refer to our customers that way. It’s not Audi style, cool?”

“Yeah,” he dropped his eyes. “Cool.”

“It’s fine. We all adjust in the beginning. But the main reason is that you’re not selling someone a car, you’re selling someone a life enhancement. Meaning that you plan to be there, for them, for life. Get the difference?”

“I think so.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, which meant it had to be Daphne. She was the only person who could get through his do-not-disturb setting.

“Let’s get to it,” he said, before walking outside and picking up the call.

“Daph?”

“Woo–woo,” she was sobbing, failing to even get his name out.

“What is it, Daph? Is Woody Jr. okay?” His mind Usain Bolted to the worst places.

“Woo–woo. Momma.”

“Eurita? What happened?”

He heard shuffling, then a man’s voice. “Hi, Mr. Nash? This is officer Hickey. Your mother-in-law had an accident while in the pool.”

“An accident? What kind of accident?”

“Accidental electrocution, it seems.”

“And my son?”

“He’s fine, sir. But, please, come to Huntington Hospital.”

“On my way.”

In the hospital, a receptionist directed him to Eurita’s room. Outside the door, a doctor was speaking with a nurse.

“Hi,” the doctor said, extending a hand. “Doctor Bodhi. Are you Mrs. Nash’s husband?”

“I am. What happened?”

“Your mother-in-law was wading in your pool when she was electrocuted. It seems she had a radio playing near the water’s edge, and it fell in.”

“Fell in?” he squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. “Fell in how?”

“Who knows. Wind. Something else. These things happen. I’ll leave you to check in, and then come back in a bit. Your mother-in-law is sleeping right now, but she should be fine if we let nature run its course.”

“Thank you.”

Woody opened the door. Daphne rushed to him, throwing her arms around his back, plunging her face into his chest.

“Woody.”

“Daph.” He held her in front of him, saw the mascara trailing down her cheeks like snail slime, and used his thumbs to wipe it away. “Daph. What happened?”

“Mom,” she shook her head. Then, “She wanted to use the pool, was adamant about it. So she called the pool guy, had him open it, clean it out, then changed and got in. You know that radio she brought up with her? The old one? She had it near the pool, oldies playing. One second I was feeding Woody Jr., the next I saw her frozen underwater.”

“Frozen?”

“Paralyzed. I ran out, fished out the radio, then jumped in. Fran next door heard me screaming and called 911, and the ambulance came. Woody Jr.’s with her now.”

He approached Eurita, saw the oxygen mask helping her breathe, the IV drip; vital signs peaking and valleying. Her breathing was labored, yet he’d never seen her so peaceful. If it weren’t for the slow rising and falling of her chest, and her skin’s deep brown hue, he’d think her dead.

“No burns?” he asked, turning to his wife.

“No. Just temporary paralysis. I got to her before she drowned.”

Woody wrapped his arms around her, kissed her cheek. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “And yours. All of ours. If it weren’t summer when it should be spring, she wouldn’t have insisted on going in.” She took a breath. “I remember when it was cold in New York. When sixty-degrees in February, or eighty in early May, was as real as the Easter bunny. We’re all to blame.”

He didn’t laugh, because in a not-so-twisted way, it was true. They were each, we are all, one strand in the dense knot of how we got here. She wasn’t a cynic, not even close; he wouldn’t have married a cynic. No, she was a realist who’d opened his eyes to facts he couldn’t believe he’d ever ignored. And she didn’t do it so that they could stand on the side of the world’s highway and gawk at the pile-up, mouths open and hand-in-hand, but to act. To act in ways large and small.

“Harmony is everything,” she said to herself. She would rationalize to stop the tears. He would listen to every word, speaking only when he felt she needed him to.

Dr. Bodhi said Eurita would gain strength slowly, for them to head home and return the next day, so they did. Fran wished them well as she handed Woody Jr. over. “Bright as a bug, calm as a cucumber,” she said, swiping at his nose. And they had leftover vegetable chow mein. Despite how flavorful it had been the night before, the bok choy sauteed to perfection, the ginger pungently delicious, now it was all tasteless; just texture going into their mouths, down their throats, and into the bubbling vat that was their digestive system. Sometimes, he thought, we’re no different than garbage trucks.

But what devastated him at the dinner table was that Woody Jr. sensed Eurita’s absence, his tiny head twisting around and around and around. Panic crossed his face, erupting in crying, before he eventually tired himself out and they put him in his crib in the room next to their own. Woody thought he’d rejoice when Eurita was out of the house. Now, he realized how the weight of her presence was an anchor, holding them all in place in ways he hadn’t known, but felt.

“Tomorrow is a new day,” he said, his body one inverted comma next to Daphne’s own. But she didn’t respond, and that was probably a good thing.

III

The next morning, he called out of work. After explaining the situation, Gerald said he understood, and that everyone would keep the machine running until he was back. “Family first,” he added. “Always.”

He strapped Woody Jr. to his chest as Daphne continued to sleep, and prepared coffee. Mug in hand, he went out to grab the newspaper––he had to distract himself from the desire to work––and stopped when he saw it. That same big, fat, black-headed squirrel standing on the edge of his lawn, facing him. Behind it were three others, all the typical brown and gray of Northeastern squirrels. He didn’t know their exact types, that would be ridiculous, but it was equally ridiculous that this squirrel was there, again, staring. 

Instead of grabbing the newspaper, he sipped his mug, went back inside, and down the stairs, to the first floor. The sliding glass doors brought him to his deck, the newest part of the home. It was hard to enjoy unseasonably warm days, but what was he going to do, stay inside and sulk at the end of the world? No, Daphne wouldn’t want him to do that. But when he walked up the deck’s steps and headed for one of his chairs, he stepped on something that made him shout, which then caused Woody Jr. to cry. He looked down and saw what seemed to be a ringed pattern, made of acorns; in its center was the antique radio that almost killed Eurita.

“What the?”

Woody rushed back inside, woke Daphne up, and pulled her downstairs, to the deck. But when they arrived, there were no rings of acorns, no radio.

“What, Woody? What did you want to show me?”

He threw his hand toward the polished, pressure-treated wood. “It was right here, I swear.”

“What was right here?” she asked, bouncing Woody Jr. in the air, wrinkling her nose at him, a perfect mirror of his own, making him laugh.

“Daph”––he shook his head, hesitating––“This is going to sound crazy, but I think squirrels pushed that radio into the pool.”

She stared at him, eyes scrunched in confusion, her mouth a twisted grimace. “This isn’t the time for jokes, Woody. Momma’s in the hospital and can barely breathe. And now I’m going to be responsible for her and him,” she said, raising their son. “When I need to get back to work.”

“I’m not joking, Daph.” He prayed his voice, concrete and unyielding, would convince her.

“Maybe you should lie down then, babe. Because, you’re right. It does sound crazy.”

He did as he was told, and the day passed quietly. Song and games with Woody Jr. A long hospital visit. Fortunately, Eurita was awake and able to talk, but still weak. Dr. Bodhi said they’d like to keep her for a few more days. Eurita said she was fine with that, the TV would keep her more than occupied, and the food wasn’t that bad. “But please bring me a couple candies when you come back, Daph. You know I need my candies.”

They returned home, spent, and went to bed early. Hours later, there was loud screeching. Woody, still in a dream state, wasn’t sure if it was real or not. “I’ll check,” Daphne whispered. Only when he heard a hard tumble and groaning did he jump up and run out. Daphne lay on the hardwood of their hallway, unable to move.

“Daphne, what the…”

“Call an ambulance,” she said through gritted teeth.

Woody followed the ambulance with an already awake Woody Jr. Fear worked its way into his marrow; an overwhelming flood of helplessness caused his jaw to tremble. Daphne didn’t just fall. They’d lived there for over a year, and you don’t just fall like that in a house whose every crack and creak is an extension of yourself. He knew who was responsible, but the thought of articulating that, of trying to convince Daphne, only further plunged him into despair’s dark abyss.

After checking her out, the doctor, Dr. Myrtle, said she’d suffered a slight concussion, with bruising in her back, and would need to remain there for at least twenty-four hours, for observation. They’d placed her in the same room as Eurita, “to make it easier on you,” Dr. Myrtle said.

“What’s this?” Eurita asked when they entered, waking up in the black of night. “Is that Daphne?”

“She just fell and hit her head in the hallway,” Woody said. “She’ll be okay. Doctor figured it’d be nice for you two to be shacked up together,” he did he best to soak his voice in a little humor. “Instead of making me run up and down all the different floors. She’s just resting now, but you two can talk in the morning.”

He walked back over to Daphne, kissed her forehead. “Daph,” he whispered. “You awake?”

She gave a slight nod.

“Daph. I think we should leave the house for a while. First Eurita, now this.”

“Leave…the…house?” she said, struggling to speak. “Woody.” She winced, sucked in a mouthful of air. “Go home and take care of our son…okay?”

He stopped the car on the street, locked it with Woody Jr. inside, and used his phone’s light to check the driveway for nails. Then he scanned the lawn, saw it was empty, and examined the trees nearest to his home, trying to see what, if anything, was in there. The sprinklers, faithful to their 2:30am time, popped out the ground and tut-tut-tutted water through their tight openings. With everything as normal as ever, he pulled the car in, and headed inside.

Instead of placing Woody Jr. in his crib and leaving, he sat in the rocking chair, watching his son sleep. But he must have soon fallen asleep himself, because suddenly, Woody woke up, and perched on his son’s crib was a small silhouette. It was facing away from him, then, slowly turned around, eyes glowing like tiny pearls. He jumped up to grab it, but though it was as large as a small dog, it was as agile as a mouse, and ran out of the room, through the slightly ajar door.

Frantic, he picked up his son, placed his ear to his heart, and exhaled when he felt it beating. Holding him close, Woody threw on the light, then removed Woody Jr’s clothes and diaper, inspecting every inch of him until he was sure that nothing was wrong. No scars, no abrasions. Drunkenly, Woody Jr.’s eyes fluttered open, and he hiccupped.

“Okay, son. I’m going to set you here and close the door. But I’ll be right back. Okay?”

Woody Jr. opened his mouth wide, sucking in air; drool bungee jumped down his lips and landed on the floor with a splat. That would have to do.

Woody did as planned. He flicked on the hallway light, immediately shutting it off, the image in front of him already burned onto his cornea. Long bushy tail was standing there, in his living room; two dozen squirrels behind him, each of their faces trained in the direction of Woody Jr.’s room. 

This isn’t real, Woody declared to himself. This can’t be real.

More and more squirrels silently streamed out of his chimney like black smoke, covering his living room floor. As if they were furry soldiers, they each took up a position behind their leader, his long bushy tail slowly rising into the air, a wooly duster reaching for a chandelier.

“Please,” Woody whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your friend. I don’t know if you can understand me, but I’m begging you.” Hands extended, he took a step toward them. “I’m begging you to just stop this.” But they remained as immobile and menacing as garden gnomes. Dark and plentiful, dozens of eyes glowing blue in the night.

He had nothing to offer them. They didn’t care about better financing, upgraded wheels, or top-notch customer service. They subsisted as they always had, with what the Earth had to offer them, and nothing more. If anything, he and his family, just like Fran and everyone else on their block, in their neighborhood, in their town, in their state, in their country, in the whole damn world, were in their way. But the squirrels had adapted and accommodated their every whim. Jackhammers, inground pools, chainsaws ripping into their very habitats. They moved, they continued burying and forgetting seeds, contributing to the ecosystem without needing to wear it on a tote or count it as a tax-deductible. They were among the purest, most humble beings in existence. 

Until now.

Woody only heard the sound of his heart crashing in his ears. Then, long bushy tail swiftly dropped his tail. One of the squirrels let out a rolling chirrup! before jumping onto Woody’s face, its long pointed teeth sinking into his cheek’s flesh. He spun into the kitchen, fighting to rip it off, but another flew onto his back, its sharp claws deep in his shoulder blade, before another did the same, and another latched onto his head, and another onto his thigh, and another onto his other thigh, and another onto his calf, and another onto his other calf, until he was a man in a suit of squirrels, all gnawing, chewing, and shredding with quiet precision.

His screams filled every inch of the house, as if he were on fire with nowhere to run. The morning sun rose, diffusing its gentle orange light, and his thoughts were on Woody Jr.; praying they wouldn’t harm him, that he wouldn’t have to pay for his father’s mistakes. 

He dropped to his knees, and before he fell onto his back, the small rodents clawing his eyes, nose, and mouth, he saw long bushy tail standing at the intersection of the stairs, living room, hallway, and kitchen. It stared at him with that same stoic face that had looked upon him from his lawn’s edge, as if this were the true natural order all along.

Less than an hour later, there was knocking at the door. “Sir,” a man said. “Sir, it’s the police. Your neighbor called about loud screaming. Please, let us in.”

When they didn’t receive a response after a second, third, and fourth attempt, they forced the door.

“Jesus,” Groves said, ascending the stairs. “Hickey, look at this.”

Both cops stared down at Woody’s body, the majority of his flesh gone in small, little bites. His heart a bloody black hole, pieces of white rib floating like rafts in an ocean.

“What happened here?”

“I don’t know,” Hickey said. “But don’t touch him. Could be some disease, acid, or something. Call backup and an ambulance.”

Officer Hickey stepped into the hallway, flipping on the light. “Anyone else home?”

He checked the bathroom. Empty. Pressed open the bedroom door. Also empty. Then, before returning to the kitchen, his partner’s walkie talkie crackling, he opened the closed door, saw the crib, and found Woody Jr., kicking his legs in the air, speaking his unintelligible language.

“Groves,” he said. “Check this out.”

His partner entered the room, and they both peered over the crib.

“Hopefully he doesn’t have whatever his dad got,” Groves said, leaning in. “What’s that in his hand, though?”

Hickey found a bottle and used it to gently pry open Woody Jr.’s hand. Falling onto the mattress beside him was a single brown acorn.

◆

They watched the ambulance and police car’s lights flash as they drove down the street. Neighbors stood on their lawns, hands to chests, wondering what in the hell could be happening on their quiet street so early in the morning. Some of them, staring at the house, noticed a strange thing: two dozen squirrels on the lawn, all red in the muzzle and facing the direction of the cop cars, but shrugged it off.

Slowly, the squirrels dispersed, half going one way around the house, the other half mirroring. In the back, they took off, bloody claws tack-tack-tacking up tree bark. But in the center of the backyard, head pointed upward, swiveling around his kingdom, remained one bigger, fatter, and with a head blacker than the rest.