After a span of hours so unremarkable she could cry, Sam had found herself standing in the condiment aisle of a grocery store. She was a prisoner, surrounded by row after claustrophobic row of perfectly placed products, with perfectly designed packaging, lit by perfectly placed spotlights, mocking her, daring her to try to buy something amidst so much choice. 

When the desk lamp opened its single eye, it illuminated various curiosities scattered across a makeshift desk. A jar filled to its lips with sea glass fragments, misfit buttons and pocket change from distant places. A dusty stapler atoned quietly for a lifetime of pierced paper and epidermis.

The paring knife slipped and sunk through the soft pink flesh on the index finger of her left hand, just below the second knuckle. She inhaled but remained still, watching as blood blossomed into a perfect sphere. 

Movement caught her eye. There was no reason to scream out, because there was no one to come to the rescue. She contorted her face, clenched her eyelids shut and screamed in a silent whisper.

“We can do this.”

The Westin. Roscoe Village Pub and Pizza. Sal’s Autobody. Bic. A1 Insurance. Sometimes they worked; the words would spill out onto the pages smooth with ease. Most of the time they didn’t. 

Jasper’s mom didn’t cry a single tear after his sister’s death. Because she didn’t cry, he took it upon himself to cry on her behalf. Enough tears to repel the sadness that gripped and enveloped his whole body. His favorite time to cry was just after dawn, after the neighbor’s rooster crowed but before the sounds of trucks echoed over their town.