THE FISHING LURE

THE FISHING LURE

by

Jason Brannon

What can I say? Terrence was a good guy. He’d never done anybody wrong; he was seldomly ever in a bad mood. But my god, he loved to fish! Maybe that’s what really did him in at the end.

I met Terrence at the plant years ago on my first day. He was extremely helpful in teaching me--well--everything I needed to know. I’d never had a factory job, and so I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Anyway, he took me under his wing and schooled me in the ways of the cannery. We got close after a while. He’d become like a brother to me. But years later, the factory shut down. Nearly three-hundred workers got laid-off. The higher-ups either joined the retirement club, or were offered other jobs. The peons like Terrence and me had to do the legwork ourselves. For some, it was easy. For us, not so much.

I kept telling Terrence, “With your experience, man, everybody is gonna want to pick you up!”

He said I jinxed him every time I said that. So, I started knocking on wood, or telling him something the complete opposite of being supportive. Neither way helped either of us.

But he told me one day, “Maybe I’ll just fish for a livin’.”

I thought it was a great idea, no matter how much he laughed about it. He was an awesome fisherman, I’ll tell ya! I’ve been on fishing boats that couldn’t wrangle and angle like this guy. We’d gone out hundreds of times since we met. Never did we dock without at least fifty pounds of fish. I would catch a couple big ones every so often, but it seemed like that was all he’d reel: big’nes.

After we lost our jobs, the fishing trips seemed to come less. Ironic, huh?

His wife, Josephine, was never too fond of the scent of his fishing adventures; even though they would have meals for days at a time. From salmon to shark, he’d boat them all. And he could cook them, too, I’ll tell ya!

One evening, I went over to see him; see how the job hunt was going.

“Overqualified,” he said. “There’s not a place that’ll touch me because my resume is ‘too intimidating.’ So, Sam, you know what I did?”

I shook my head.

“I went fishin’. Calmest waters in a while, they were. Everyone else out at work, it was just me and the waves, son.”

He started calling me “son” after his dad passed. I’d gotten to meet the legend, himself, a time or two. Wasn’t fond of new people, but I’d listen to their stories about when Terrence was a young fisherman.

“He had the gift,” his dad would tell me after a few beers.

Terrence always responded the same way, “The gift you gimme, old man.”

The “old man” would stand up, eight-ounce in hand and slap his son’s shoulder, “Son, I never had the luck you did when I went out.”

But I’m getting off track. Back to what I was saying:

“What’d you catch?” I asked Terrence, his still wreaking of dirt, ocean water, and sweat.

He looked at me with a frown that would break a clown’s heart, “Nothin’.”

“‘Nothin’?’” I repeated.

“Not a dang thang.”

I knew that was impossible, so I chuckled, “OK, man.”

He looked down, “Seriously, Sam. I’ve gone fishin’ every day this past week and I haven’t even had a nibble.”

I reared backward, “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. I think the beds are dryin’ up.”

“We’re twenty miles from the ocean. We fish the river running into it. There’s no way there aren’t any fish left to catch. We’ve thrown back at least a quarter of the ones we’ve caught. How can you have that bad of luck?” I asked, trying to sound less like a jerk than the way it came out.

He laughed, rubbing his face, “Maybe that’s all it is, Sam. Bad luck.”

A silence filled our conversation for a few moments, until he spoke again.

“Not like it matters. Josie doesn’t want me fishin, until I find another job. She won’t accept the argument that I’ve found several jobs, just none willing to hire me. Says ‘it’s not valid’. But who knows, maybe I’ll find somethin’ tomorrow.”

He was always optimistic about those types of things.

He didn’t find himself a job the next day. But what he did find was just as, if not twice as, good.

The following morning, he decided to go further out of the city, “maybe there was something closer to the outer rims.” Something told him, as he began noticing the broken down residences, the sun-bleached streets, and the brown, dead plantation, that he’d probably gone to the wrong side. But he kept driving. Dilapidated buildings, crumbled architecture, and swollen, busted roadways greeted him in the once “business district,” only proving his hypothesis further.

He soon noticed, though, the area was familiar. He stepped out of his car as the ocean gusted through his senses. He walked up the road, where the water had sunken the street slightly lower than the rest of the city block. The water, be it rain or ocean, had recessed in this dip, stagnating for who knows how long. This spot, however, was right where Terrence had wanted to end up--whether he knew it or not.

As the wind blew through his suit, sloshing puddles onto his pants legs, dampening his sunday socks, Terrence beheld the ramshackle of what had once been his and his dad’s favorite tackle shop. He’d mentioned it, once or twice.

Now and then, when we’d be on our way to the river, he’d mistake the street we crossed as the one he found that day,

“There used to be a shop around here, when I was a kid. My dad would bring me to it before we’d go out. We fished the mighty sea, though! I swear, that place had the best equipment. Most of it was handmade; it cost a little more, but it lasted forever.”

I imagine, now, as he crossed the rusted, broken threshold of the once-magnificent shop, he remembered telling me about this one lure:

“It was never for sale. But it was inlaid with gold, and had three gold spoons lining the dorsal of the fish-shaped jig. One just behind the head, one in the center of its back, and the last as its tailfin. A type of gold-mail filled the gaps between the shiny feathers. It hung loose, as an extra attractor. It had the three basic-styled hooks dangling below. It sat in a plexiglass case, for admiration purposes only. Always just within reach, but the regulars knew not to touch. Strangers and newcomers got their lessons handed to them, real quick. Inside the cube, it rested on a velvet-cushioned pedestal. On the lip just beneath it was a plaque which read:”

“The Gift Of Innsmouth”

I imagine him as feeling like a great explorer as he entered the building, laying eyes on the untouched, unharmed, gently-worn treasure. How long had the store been unoccupied? How long since the weather--the ocean--the elements destroyed the outskirts of the port land? Was it in the news?

“HISTORIC MAIN ROADS FLOODED”

“DEVASTATION HITS FINANCIAL DISTRICT”

“SITTING ON THE EDGE OF DYSTOPIA”

I don’t recall. Could it have all been destroyed before I came to town all those years ago? And if so, why wouldn’t anybody have claimed the relic for themselves?

All of these questions rushed my brain as Terrence told me of his find. No telling what crossed his. Probably a lot of memories of his dad. Whatever he thought, he didn’t tell me.

Terrence figured he deserved a break from his job search. So, naturally, just as anybody would do, he took the coveted lure for a test drive. And did it drive! He swore he pulled in twice as many fish as we ever did--granted, he was out in the ocean this time. He fell in love with that little thing all over again.

He showed it to me that evening, after his “big day of catching.” That was the only time, though. I looked it over: it was just as he had described it those few times. Except. . .

“May the Sea bless you,” was etched in gold letters on the belly of the thing, between the three hooks. I pointed it out to Terrence, who turned it where the light could catch it just right to read.

“Well it sure did that!” he chuckled before putting it in what looked like an eyeglass case.

“So, when can we try that magic tackle out again?” I asked, hoping to get some time back on the water with my old friend.

I’m pretty sure he was sincere when he told me it would probably be a few days.

“Promised Josie I’d follow up on some of those applications for the rest of the week. So, I don’t know. But I’ll call ya.”

But ol’ Terrence was bent on using that lure the next day. Then the next day. Then the next. Not to say he didn’t do as he’d told Josephine he’d do; he simply didn’t do it all day long. And every day he took that piece out, every day he brought home the nicest catches. Be it from the ocean or the river. He sold some to the local fish market, which made up for the gas spent driving and boating, with a little left over to help out around his household.

Still, Terrence kept his word and called me over the weekend, “Wanna go fishin?”

I was at his place before he could hang up the phone.

He kept the lure tucked away, hidden in that little case. I didn’t want to use it. I just wanted to see it in action. Surely enough, the thing did. As soon as Terrence cast his line, his rod would arch and his reel would screech like a cicada on a humid summer night. He’d pull it in: no broken lines. Never. And the catches would be three pounds, five pounds, fifteen, fifty, sixty, seventy pounds! It seemed unreal. We had to dock multiple times to take our--his--prize fish to market.

Or the taxidermist.

Or just to walk this block, where he’d found his passion.

He finally showed me the old tackle shop. Of course we went in. The streets were deserted. Abandoned. Nobody’d traveled those roads in ages. Nobody was in sight for miles. So, of course, we went in.

The roof dipped; the ceiling dripped. Insulation, black with mold, hung low spreading its scent throughout the store. The floor was rotten; the laminate was broken and shuffled. The underlying boards were swollen and the plywood had seemingly burst through. The walls appeared to wave like a waterbed; like the water was still trapped within the sheetrock and plaster. It looked as if they were a sort of gelatin, just ready to splatter if they ever fell. The counter where the cash register sat was broken, worn, dry-rotted to the point that if it had been to be repaired, it would simply need to be replaced. The till was on the floor, long-since emptied. So, again I wondered, why didn’t the looters take possibly the most valuable article in the shop?

I wandered into the office. The vault was open--rusted and empty; except for the remains of a rat or something. The old ledger sat on the unsteady desk: papers dried and wrinkled were stuck together, but some of its entries were still legible. Nothing really worth remembering. Simply what was made, what was sold, and what might have been broken--write offs--things like that. The desk drawers were either locked shut or busted open. The office was small and cramped, so there wasn’t much more to it.

I walked back into the showroom to find Terrence looking at all that was left behind, all that was damaged.

He looked back at me, “I wish I coulda worked here while it was up-and-running. I bet it would have been awesome.”

I just chuckled, “Well, it would definitely get your wife off your back.”

He slapped his forehead, “Crap! What time is it?”

The sun was setting slowly, but it was going to be dark by the time we got back to his house. What can I say? We skedaddled, blowing through every stop sign from there to in town. We made it; wreaking of fish and saltwater, but we made it.

“You went fishing again!” Josephine demanded of Terrence.

I opened my big mouth, “We did; but technically, it being the weekend, nobody’s really ‘reviewing applications,’ right now.”

She just turned her finger towards me, “You! Be quiet. I’m not talking to you!”

I just backed up and threw a hand up as a farewell. He was going to need it.

I don’t know how they planned on doing it, but the following week Terrence would have the chance to get his wish.

The paper headlined:

“CITY DISTRICT PLANS RESTORATION:

Old Shop Seeking New Workers”

The article went on to say that the heir to the tackle shop had come back into town, and was ready to take the reins in planning the grand reopening of the store, as well as the streets of the area.

“That shop was my home for many years of my youth,” the paper quoted the man, “The destruction the ocean caused on that part of my childhood will be removed from the city’s memory, as we renovate and restore what was once the pride of the coast. I look forward to bringing a new look to the old district, as well as resurrecting the glory of my family’s business.”

Terrence went to work for the city, where he met the new owner of the store. Camp Terrabond, the heir to the old tackle shop and new proprietor of the financial district, got to know my buddy very well, from what I heard. I wondered if Mr. Terrabond ever mentioned the relic-lure; and if so, how nervous Terrence got, knowing it belonged to this man’s family. He wasn’t a bad guy, but he never let things get to him either. I don’t think guilt was ever too much of a burden for him. Not to say he didn’t have a conscience. I don’t know--now, never will. But I do know, when the shop was back in business, Camp Terrabond made my friend Terrence the manager. His wish had come true, however long it may have taken: a couple of months to level out the road; a few weeks to rebuild the shop from the ground-up; and the time it took to reinforce the limits so the elements couldn’t destroy it again. Things began to look on the brighter side for Terrence and his oh-so-loving wife.

He called me up to go fishing on one of his days off and I was happy to take a sick day, just so I could hang out with him. But before we left, he asked me to “look at something” for him. He had been complaining about an itchiness he’d been getting on random parts of his body,

“A rash.” he’d call it.

I agreed to check it out. What are friends for, right? He lifted his shirt to reveal white splotches lining his torso. He told me it had spread over the past few weeks. He showed me his calves, down to his ankles; the “rash” had. . . festered? Into a rise down the back of his legs. I was so curious, though. So I touched it. It was rough, calloused.

I asked if it hurt and he said, “Yup.”

I asked if he’d seen a doctor, and he said, “Nope.”

Told me he “didn’t have time to go get a rash checked out.”

Just that he’d put some “miracle creams” on it, along with positive thoughts.

I told him to take a sick day some time soon, and get it looked at. He nodded, and put his shirt back down. We headed out to the river to drown a few worms.

When we made it back onto the water, he pulled out his “lucky jig” case, ready to string it up. As soon as he opened it, though, he was sickened. One of his spoons had fallen off in the case, and we had no way of repairing.

“How long’s it been like that?” I asked.

He shrugged, pale as death, “I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you used it?” I continued.

“A few months? I don’t know. I’ve been working on the shop. Haven’t fished in forever. And I’ve been leaving it at home, so Terrabond doesn’t recognize his family’s prized possession.”

I just made an uneasy face and let it go. He was able to use it, but the fish he caught weren’t as spectacular as before. Still plenty to sell; plenty to eat. None worthy of stuffing, though. Naturally, he blamed the lure’s loss for our “lighter day.” I told him it was no big deal.

“It’s a different season.” I said, “Not gonna catch exactly what you were back in summer.”

He just nodded, disheartenedly.

We docked and headed back home. We said our goodbyes and I didn’t see him for another week or so.

He called me to tell me how his doctor’s visit went:

“Not good.” he said in a low, somber tone.

I rushed over as soon as I could. Josephine was out, as she’d often been since Terrence began work. When I saw Terrence, he had the biggest frown expressed since the night before he found that Lure. Cheeks sunk in--lips half swollen.

“Jesus, man!” I called to him, “Have you eaten anything?”

He nodded, eyes puffy and bloodshot, “Every day. But I can’t hold a lot down.”

I asked in concern, “How long has it been like this? Before or after the doctor?”

“Before,” he began to chuckle, “I wasn’t going to make the appointment, but after a couple of days the rash seemed to be getting closer to my neck. By the time I made it to the visit, it had made it onto my scalp.”

He turned to show me where his “rash” had receded his hair in the back; but it was only in a few spotted patches. He rubbed close to the base, and a fleck of skin embedded by his hair shook out. It landed on his shoulder. I picked it up like I was picking up a dead mouse. The skin was still calloused--hard--with thin edges. I didn’t want to say what it looked like to me.

He looked at it, “Yeah. I just had to unclog my shower drain because of all the dead skin I was losin’.”

“What did the doctor say?” I asked, even more concerned now.

He sat down, visibly in discomfort, “He couldn’t say.”

He rubbed his long face, scratching the pit in his jaw, “He had a few ‘theories,’ though:”

“Like?” I impatiently prodded.

“LIKE,” he impatiently replied, “skin cancer.”

His voice shuddered with a lowering volume.

My throat filled with stones, as my heart fell, “Skin cancer? What kind of skin cancer causes. . .”

He interrupted, “scales?”

That’s what I was thinking. I guess we’d hung out too long. Or he had been thinking the same thing the whole time.

He chuckled before standing back up, “Some mumble-jumble, scientific, BS. ‘Rare cases,’ he told me. ‘But not unknown.’

“He assured me, ’we won’t rule out simple explanations such as a rash, some sort of infection, or even stress.’”

“That doctor was a kook if I ever met one,” he continued, “So, I mentioned the stress thing: told him I’d been looking for work for a couple of months and that Josie had been on my case about it.”

“But you found a job,” I said, “a good job that you enjoy.”

He nodded, “That’s what I told him. ‘Plus I’d go fishing to alleviate the tension.’ I said.”

I laughed, “So that definitely can’t be it.”

He laughed as well.

After the small boyish giggles emptied from the room, so did any sound among us.

The silence was broken when he mentioned the possibility of cancer again,

“That’s what the doctor kept drawing back to,” he said, “he took a sample to get sent off.”

Terrence lifted his shirt again, unveiling a hole on his back.

I got a closer look, “That’s a sample?!”

“Yeah,” he answered, “why? Is it noticeable?”

“Umm, yeah!” I put my finger on--or in--the recessed sore. “Does that hurt?”

He jerked away, “Yep! It always hurts.”

Josephine walked in while Terrence still had his shirt up, her arms full of groceries, “If you two just want me out of the picture so you can have your bromance time, please, just tell me.”

“Have you seen this, Jo?” I asked about Terrence’s ailment.

She responded in a less-than-worried tone, “Ohhh, yeahhh. I’ve seen it. Not trying to be mean or anything, but if it is a rash, I’d rather not worry about getting it. So. . .”

Terrence finished her sentence, “. . . so I’ve been sleeping in the den. It’s fine. Turn the fire on, and I’m comfy. Sleep all night. Most of the time.”

Josephine flipped her hair to head toward the kitchen, “And don’t call me ‘Jo’. You don’t know me like that.”

“Ouch.” Terrence and I said, staring at the woman.

I told him I was just a phone call away if he needed anything.

Josephine must’ve overheard, because she was quick to holler back out at us, “That’s obviously not far enough away.”

I told him to start feeling better, then I headed out.

He returned to work the following week. Apparently Camp noticed Terrence’s lethargy and soreness, because when I stopped by to see him at the shop they were talking in the office.

It wasn’t Terrence’s voice, so I assume I walked in as Mr. Terrabond was speaking,

“I’ve seen how you work. It isn’t like you to slack up like this.”

Then my friend’s familiar tone arose from behind the door, “I know. I don’t know what I got into, but I’ve got this rash. It’s not contagious. . . but it’s causing me to feel sick when I eat. I’m sore when I move. I’ve gotten inflammation in my face--around the corners of my lips and eyes. I’m not trying to ‘slack off’. I just can’t move comfortably, while I’m covered in this. . .”

Terrabond said, “OK. And you’ve been to the doctor about this?”

No audible response, so I assume Terrence nodded as he always did.

“What kind of doctor was he?” Camp asked.

Terrence replied, “The kind you go to when you’re sick.”

He chuckled, “What do you mean, ‘what kind of doctor was he?’”

Camp laughed, too, “What field was he in? Was he a skin doctor or just a general practices doctor?”

“Oh,” Terrence laughed again, “he wasn’t any kind of specialist, I guess. Seeing as he couldn’t point out exactly what is going on.”

Terrabond raised his voice a little, “OK, then. This is the name and number to my dermatologist. He’s out of town, but he does fantastic work! I’ll give you a few days off so you can go see him. I’ll call him, myself, and let him know you’re coming.”

What a boss, I thought.

Camp Terrabond opened the door, and Terrence was smiling his fake smile in appreciation. I’d known him long enough to know what was what, when it came to him; even behind the painful, puffy, frown which had fixated to his jowls.

The store owner saw and greeted me as a good businessman does,

“Hey there! How are you today? I hope we didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

I smiled, “No, sir. I just came to see how my friend, Terrence is doing.”

Terrence cut his eyes towards the man, then back at me, “I’m good, Sam. Thanks. You didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

I looked at his smiling boss, “No problem, man. I was just hoping to see the shop running. You’d mentioned your dad would bring you here as a kid, a couple times. I hated that I never got to check it out.”

Camp steadied his salesman’s grin with a hand out to shake, “So you’re Sam! Oh my goodness. It is such a pleasure to meet you! Terry here has talked about you since the day we met. I half expected you to apply, as close as he said you are.”

I nodded with a smirk, reciprocating his gesture, “I really appreciate that; but by the time the city started talking about renovations to the area, I’d found something already. Had to take a slight cut in pay, but it pays the bills better than nothing at all, right?”

I thought it would get a sympathetic laugh, but instead it was reacted to with,

“How much of a cut?”

“Well I went from a machinist’s wage to a clerk’s. So, I’m sure you can imagine. Terrence wasn’t about settling for anything less than his intellect, though. That’s why I’m glad he got into something he’s passionate about.”

Terrence interjected, “You know me. I appreciate your stopping by, Sam; but like I said: I’m fine. I’ll get up with you after I get off, tonight.”

I didn’t understand why he wanted me out of the store so badly.

“Would you want to work here?” Camp asked, “I can’t get you back to where you were at the plant, but I can pay you a little more than a clerk’s salary.”

I laughed and shook his hand again, “I really do appreciate that, sir. I’ll have to think about it. Two weeks notices and all.”

The man exclaimed, “Absolutely! I completely understand.”

He handed me his card, “Feel free to call me when you’ve reached a decision.”

I took it and shoved it into my back pocket with my wallet, “Will do, Mr. Terrabond.”

I turned and waved at the two, before I exited.

Terrence never called me that night. Or the night after. So, I waited until noon the following day before I called him.

The phone rang twice before he answered, “Hello?”

“Hey, man.” I replied.

He responded, “What’s up?”

“You never called me, the other night.”

“Oh, man! I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t thinking about it when I got home.”

“It’s alright.” I tried not to let “his forgetting me” affect my demeanor.

“So, when ya going to see that doctor Camp is sending you to?” I asked.

“Oh. I’m actually packing to head out in the mornin’. I didn’t realize you’d heard that.”

“I didn’t get the whole conversation, just that last part. Josephine going with you?”

He coughed in his laugh, “Yeah right, man. She barely even acknowledges my existence anymore. If it wasn’t for the paychecks, she’d have nothin’ to do with me.”

I sighed, “What time are you leaving?”

“The appointment is at one. It’s a three-hour drive; I should be there about an hour early for paperwork and check-in. I guess I’ll head out about seven.”

“OK,” I replied, knowing I would be at his house early enough to ride with him.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?” I asked.

“You don’t have to go with me. I’ll be fine.”

“What do you mean? I didn’t say--”

“--You don’t have ‘to say.’ I know what ‘OK’ means when we’re talking.”

I laughed, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He laughed, “Uh huh. OK.”

“I’m just sayin, ‘have a safe trip.’” I assured him

“Yeah,” he laughed one more time, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” I replied.

We only talked a few minutes longer, about nothing in particular. Just trying to catch up--trying to keep his mind off from the constant pain he felt. He’d told me once that it was like a relentless sunburn. He couldn’t move comfortably. He couldn’t rest.

He said he enjoyed cool showers, “They help the dead skin flake off more easily. I can actually move better.” he told me.

“I hope you feel alright,” I told him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” I said, without giving him a chance to object before I hung up the phone.

Of course, I was in his car before he’d loaded up his luggage. I had to ensure there’d be room for me. I sat in the passenger seat for about fifteen minutes before Terrence finally showed up. I’d fallen asleep, so his reaction caused me to react. I laid my seat back as soon as I’d gotten in, and dozed off.

I heard the back door open, and he leaned in with his first bag. Our eyes met, and he jumped backwards, hitting his head on the roof.

“You said you weren’t coming!” he cried.

“You said you knew I would!” I yelled back.

He finished putting his packs in, closed the back, subsequently opening the driver door.

He sat down and coughed a sigh, then looked at me, “I said ’you didn’t have to come.”

I chuckled, “And I said, ‘OK.’ But I’m here now, so let’s go!”

He started the car.

I backhanded his arm, “Wait.”

He looked at me again, feigning annoyance, “What?”

“You lock the house?” I asked.

He paused.

“Yeah,” he said, “I think.”

He looked out the window, “If I didn’t, maybe someone will break in and steal Josie.”

We both laughed.

“We can only hope.” I returned.

He shifted into drive, and we were on our way to the big shot dermatologist in Talins. A three-hour drive with nothin’ but the road beneath us, and no one but us. We never really talked on our fishing trips. On our way out to the docks, sure; but once on the boat, it was silent.

Except for the few requests:

“Hand me that bait.” or “Grab me a drink, please?” Even, “How long’s this been out here?”

But never any conversations. That’s how we liked it, too. Just the fresh air rehabilitating our lungs from the nonsensical daily routines of,

“How are you today?” “Will that be all for you?” “Have a wonderful day!”

The BS of customer service tasks and dialogue. That’s how I felt, anyway. He was always quiet out of, I think, the superstitious teachings of his dad:

“Shhh. The fish’ll hear ya.”

You know the ones,

“Nah ah! Don’t rock the boat; you’ll scare the fish away.”

But either way, we agreed that there was no need for pointless banter. That’s what car rides were for. And we were on our next great adventure--or that’s how I felt.

We’d been on the road for about an hour or so, and having discussed the regular topics, we started talking about more personal things. I mentioned Josephine and how she was coping with his current situation.

“She’s coping fine,” he chuckled, “She mostly avoids me. But she was doing that before the ‘rash’. We share an account, so she doesn’t ask me for money. I’m good with that, though. I don’t want a lot of things. You know that.”

“Yeah,” I put my head down. “I do. Sorry, man.”

There wasn’t much left on that subject--nothing I would have been comfortable with, anyway. Traffic was coming to a standstill: horns honking, brakes squealing, roadsters raging. We still had a few hours before we had to be in Talins, but the lines weren’t moving.

Terrence began to get agitated because his car wasn’t the newest, or in the best shape. The longer we sat there, the closer to red the water levels got. We had to keep the windows down, turn the ac, and occasionally the ignition off. We’d probably gone five miles in two hours. It wasn’t the “great adventure” I was hoping for.

After another twenty minutes, the lane had begun pacing forward. This was the last time we had to switch the car off. . . and the last time it ever worked. Terrence tried turning the ignition over, but there was only a steady knocking while the key was flipped, followed by the hissing of the radiator. Smoke--or steam--or a combination of the two--arose from under the old hood. Terrence put his head on the steering wheel in defeat before he threw his neck back, groaning and smashing the dash with his fist. I’d never seen him this frustrated, and we had been friends for about fifteen years. I always admired the way he took so much crap as gracefully as he did. But that day, there was no grace to it. There was only fury. But, what can I say? I think he deserved to lash out that way. The way his luck was going, I’m surprised he hadn’t exploded sooner.

He attempted to pop the hood, and have a look at the problem. As soon as he hit the latch, the pressure blew the radiator cap upwards, throwing the hood back onto the windshield. Naturally, it busted it. Even more naturally, it scared the mess out of us!

“I just wish SOMETHING would go right for me!” he squalled.

I sat back in my seat, hoping it might absorb me.

The traffic moved steadily, now. However, there were horns still honking, wheels squealing to turn, and roadsters still raging. Only this time, it was all towards us.

Soon, out of fortune or misfortune, a police car pulled up behind us.

His lights flashed, followed by his voice crackling over the loudspeaker,

“Attention, driver!” he commanded, “I want you and anyone you have inside the vehicle to put your hands outside the windows, where I can see them!”

Of course, we did as the officer asked.

He followed our submissions with another request,

“I need you to open your doors, and step out of the vehicle.”

We did so, cautiously. He did the same. As routine, he kept his hand on his sidearm, just in case. This often makes everybody nervous, but we weren’t idiots and we weren’t hiding anything. So, he approached, following procedure:

He told us to walk to the front of the car and put our hands on the hood, we told him we couldn’t because the hood wasn’t down. He peered off to the side to find we were telling the truth.

“Then come and put your hands on the trunk, but don’t open it unless I say.”

We did.

He searched us, “Do you have anything that might stab, poke, cut, or in any way harm me, on your person?”

“No sir.”

He checked our pockets. Nothing which interested or worried him.

He turned Terrence around to face him, and directed me to come around to their side.

“We’ve been getting angry calls about a car blocking the highway. What are you doing out here?” he asked.

I looked at Terrence, then at the officer, and opened my mouth. He stopped me before I got out a syllable.

“I’m talking to Mr. . .” he looked at Terrence’s license, “. . . Terrence Shirley.”

Terrence explained, “We’re on our way to Talins to see a dermatologist. The traffic jam got us, three hours ago, and caused my engine to run hot and my radiator to burst, which blew my hood open and shattered my windshield. My appointment is supposed to be at one this afternoon, but I don’t think I’m going to make it, considering the bad luck.”

My friend wasn’t in his positive mood. Again, how could he have been?

The officer walked towards the front of the car, the radiator had stopped hissing a bit earlier. He tried pushing the hood down, but it was stuck on its hinges. After a few shoves, he was able to force it down and look at the windshield.

“That does look like some bad luck, guys.” he told us.

“I’m actually heading into the area, I can drop you off in town and you can call a taxi to take you where you need to go.”

We were grateful, for the most part. But as we walked towards the police unit, I had to ask,

“You can’t take us where we need to go? I mean, thank you! But, we are in a hurry.”

He looked directly at me and said, “I’m not a transit service, boy. I can get you where I need to go, but after that it’s on you two. Besides, I have to send someone back to search your vehicle before we tow it in. The only reason I’m not tearing it apart right now is because I have somewhere I need to be too. Now, get in the car, or wait by yours; but you won’t get to town any more quickly that way.”

I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I really wasn’t. But the thing about Talins, I’ve heard, is it’s a hard place to make it. Busy and brutish. I understand why officers are the way they are, I just never hoped to be on their radar.

“Wait!” Terrence stood back out of the unit, “I need to get something out of my car.”

The officer stopped him, “I bet you do.”

He looked back at our ride, “What is it?”

“It’s a little plastic case, it’s in the glovebox.” Terrence answered.

“What’s in it?” The officer asked, “Why do you need it now?”

Terrence sighed, “It’s a very valuable--very sentimental-- family heirloom. I just don’t want anything happening to it. Could you go get it for me?”

The lawman nodded, “OK. But if it’s anything other than what you said, you’re next stop is behind the iron.”

Terrence nodded back, and sat beside me.

“Why do you need that thing, now?” I demanded.

He looked at me and said, “I don’t know when I’ll see that car again. The clothes, I can go without for a little while--got plenty of those. But that lure: I can’t let anything happen to it.”

I kind of just glanced at him and asked, “You. . . you aren’t obsessed, are you?”

He just laughed, “May be, Sam. Just may be.”

The officer came back to the car with the case open, “A fishing lure, son?”

“Yeah,” Terrence chuckled.

“I’m a third generation fisherman,” he looked at the officer, “if you fish, you may have heard of my dad and granddad. Mostly my granddad, Josiah Shirley. He was a tournament fisherman.”

“Oh, yeah!” the officer pulled his sunglasses down, “Captain Shirley, of the Renascence Fishing League! Me and my grandfather used to watch his competitions on Saturdays in Springtime. Man, I hated when he passed. I was just heading into the academy when I heard.”

Terrence thanked the man for his condolences, as he took the jig case, in hand.

The officer got in, himself. And began driving off.

Terrence noticed that another one of the lure’s golden spoons had fallen into the case,

“I guess it came loose when the hood flew into the glass. It did shake the car pretty good.”

“Might be proof that they’re real gold,” I told him.

He only shrugged.

For the duration of the drive, all the officer could talk about was how much he enjoyed and admired Josiah Shirley’s broadcasts. I got tired of it, myself; but I knew Terrence had heard it all before. That’s why he hated fishing with a lot of people, he’d told me.

By the end of the praise, we noticed the officer did take us all the way to the dermatologist’s office. Whether he realized it or not, we were even more appreciative than before.

We were late, but we made it. At least Terrence didn’t have to reschedule.

We walked through the doors just before 2 p.m. As we approached the counter, I noticed Terrence had slown his stride to an seemingly painful drag. I stopped and asked if he was alright, but he just maintained his sliding gaunt and nodded.

He made it to the station, coughed, then spoke, “I’m here to see doctor Phillips.”

He coughed again.

The nurse noticed his consistencies, “You understand that Doctor Howard Phillips is a skin doctor, don’t you? He doesn’t handle health issues.”

I just looked at the woman with disgust for her ignorance.

Terrence nodded, then coughed and lifted his shirt, “I understand.”

Her eyes widened with a sort of uneasiness--like she had never seen anything like it.

Pulling her out of her unprofessional stupor, I told her, “Mr. Shirley’s appointment was supposed to be at one today, but we got stuck on the straight-away for three solid hours. If we could go ahead and get the paperwork done, that’d be greatly appreciated.”

She shook herself, be it consciously or only a chill, and handed us a clipboard with the stack of information sheets Terrence needed to fill out, along with a surgery mask.

“What do we need this for?” I asked.

“Like I said, ‘Dr. Phillips isn’t a physician.’” she answered, “So, we aren’t sure if Mr. Shirley’s cough is catchy. Therefore, we politely ask that he wear this while inside the building.”

I nodded and led him to a row of plastic chairs. He slid his mask on, all the while glaring at the nurse, who was also glaring at him. I sat the paperwork in his lap.

He attempted to grab the tethered pen, but it kept slipping away from him. He lightly laughed. But the laughter soon became a low sob. I had smiled with him until that point; but here was one of the few times in our friendship that I watched a tear slide down Terrence’s cheek. His sobbing didn’t last long, though it broke my heart to see my friend cry.

“I can’t. . .” he sniffled.

I just looked at him, “‘You can’t’ what?”

I caught the dangling pen and lifted it up for my friend, “You can’t get the pen? It’s ok, buddy. I got it for ya.”

I tried handing it to him, but he only shook his head.

“I can’t hold it. . .” he cried a bit more now, only louder.

“It hurts to bend my fingers!”

A grown man in this kind of pain has always made me a bit uncomfortable. But Terrence was like a brother, so I wasn’t so much “embarrassed” by him as I was worried.

“It’s OK, man,” I tried to assure him, “I’ll do it for you. It’s no problem. I’ll ask you the questions, and you tell me what to write. OK?”

I tried sounding as positive as I could, so maybe he would feel a little better.

I readied my pen as if I was hunkering down against a timed test,

“Name?” I asked.

“Oh.” I said nervously, “I’ll just write what I already know, and ask what I don’t.”

He sat straight and still, only exhaling every so often with a cough, inside his mask.

I began mumbling the questions that I knew, my utensil scurrying away.

I stopped, “Here’s one:”

I laughed, “Social Security Number?”

He laughed too--it was so good to hear his chuckle--”The one thing about me even you don’t know.”

I don’t know if I was offended or just happy he wasn’t crying anymore, but I scoffed. He told me, coughing after every number sequence. After that, I was almost able to complete the rest of the forms without disturbing him. He’d started to close his eyes, so I kept mine on his mask; making sure it bubbled every so often. I wasn’t ready to lose him, yet. I had really started to worry that he did have some sort of cancer. And it was killing him.

I returned the clipboard to the lady at the counter,

“Doctor Phillips will call when he’s ready.” she told me.

I blame our tardiness--poor Terrence’s bad luck--that we had to wait a whole hour and twenty minutes before he was called back. But it wasn’t all bad: he got to rest. For that, I was thankful.

“Terrence Shirley!” a voice rang through the nearly empty lobby.

I shook my catatonic companion.

“Terrence Shirley!” called the voice again.

I shook Terrence again, “Get up, man!”

His eyes popped open, bloodshot and wide. I mean, his eyes were solid red where the whites should have been. He heaved--he wasn’t coughing, anymore.

“Hold on, Doctor!” I yelled for the man to heed.

Terrence grabbed his neck, because nothing was coming through. No coughs. No heaves. Nothing.

He fell from his chair, struggling as his face began turning purple.

“HELP! HELP!” I cried, “NURSE! SOMEONE! HE’S CHOKING! PLEASE!”

I saw, presumably, the doctor rush to my friend’s aid. He was followed by the three nurses who were working the front. The one who “helped” us covered her mouth like she’d never seen anyone fall out before. One of the other ones called for an ambulance.

The doctor ripped Terrence’s facemask off and shoved his finger into my friend’s throat--standard choking procedure, I guess.

“He isn’t choking on anything!” Dr. Phillips exclaimed.

“Bring him some water!” He cried.

Terrence’s mouth had started to bleed.

I shoved the doctor, “What’s happening to him?!”

A nurse rushed over with one of their tiny paper cups.

“He’s going to need a lot more than that, if ya don’t mind!” Commanded the doctor.

He poured the water into Terrence’s mouth, sat him up and held his head back.

“What’s happening to him?!” I frenzied.

Doctor Phillips rubbed Terrence’s patchy throat, “He’s gravely dehydrated!”

Another nurse ran back to us with a tumbler full of water. The doctor turned it up to Terrence’s swollen, blue, frowning lips; he continued to massage his Adam’s apple. Finally, I noticed Terrence gulping the liquid, himself. He soon gasped, coughed, and spewed his water all over me.

I tried not to show him how scared I was, “Thanks, man.”

I wiped the esophageal, warm fluid from my face, “How ya feelin’?”

He wheezed trying to speak, but only coughed and sprayed me again. He held his right thumb up, as though to say, “Better.”

The doctor sat with me and Terrence until the paramedics got to us. They lifted him up on a gurney and strapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm. He was wheeled out to the ambulance; I followed with the doctor and nurses close behind.

“I guess we will have to reschedule, won’t we?” I asked climbing into the back before they shut the doors.

“I’ll contact Mr. Terrabond,” the doctor shouted as we began to pull off, “I’ll meet you at the hospital!”

The EMT’s checked Terrence’s vitals and shined the flashlight in his eyes--it wasn’t looking good. Whatever had gotten a hold of him just refused to let go. And it was making a wreck out of him, in the meantime. The lights wigged and wagged through tunnels, while the siren deafened everyone within range. His skin was cold and dry. Drier than it had been. I watched the monitor jump steadily, then spike every so often. I had never been so frantic as I was that afternoon. I can’t say I’ve ever been since. I’d never watched a person die before. And that’s what I thought was actually happening; but as long as that meter jumped. . . I was alright.

When we made it to the hospital, the chaos worsened. I was thrown out of the path of actual doctors, and pushed away from my friend!

“Hold on,” I cried, “I gotta be back there!”

The doors closed, and two officials in scrubs halted me.

One asked, “Are you a relative?”

I stopped. Silence overtook my reeling brain. I couldn’t speak. I felt like I was choking. I shook my head. Then realized that I could stay beside him if I answered correctly.

I then nodded, rigorously, “He’s my brother!”

“OK,” the asker continued.

I rushed the door. They pulled me back.

“He’s my brother!” I fought, “You’ve got to let me back there! HE’S MY BROTHER! YOU’VE GOT TO LET ME SEE HIM!!”

The two soon carried me from the doors as I released an erratic sense of madness.

The quiet one threw me against the wall in the adjacent hallway, “YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN, NOW, BOY!”

The nicer one patted the meaner one away, “Listen. . .”

“Sam,” I introduced myself.

“Sam,” he repeated, “Listen, Sam. Your brother is going to be taken care of. I promise. You don’t need to worry about him. And you really don’t need to be screaming, getting everyone in here anxious and riled up. This isn’t the place for that. That is in Quad II. You don’t want to go to Quad II.”

He shifted his head towards the mean one, “That guy over there,”

I looked as that guy over there snarled.

“That guy over there is Cedric. He works in Quad II. He will break your arms and throw you over to Quad II. But if you’re nice, I’ll keep Ol’ Ced at bay, and you’ll get to go see ‘your brother’ when they’ve stabilized him. OK?”

My eyes welled, I didn’t want to cry in front of these guys. Especially not that Cedric. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won over me.

I swallowed the knot in my gullet, “So, what’s your name?”

Not Cedric replied, “I’m Tyler. And we have to get back to our jobs.”

He leaned down, “You be good, OK?”

I nodded.

“I’ll bring you some coffee or something when I come back.” he promised, “Just try to stay calm. Your brother is in good hands.”

I thanked Tyler for not letting Cedric break my arms; or at least that’s what I was thinking I was going to do. I just continually nodded, silently, until they were out of sight.

“Be good!” Tyler shouted from out of sight.

And again, I continued to nod.

As promised, Tyler brought me a cup of coffee. He’d fixed it up and everything with the creamer and way too much sugar. But I needed it. It was dark out, and I hadn’t slept since last night.

“You want a snack or anything?” he asked.

I shook my head, “Thanks, though.”

He laughed, “Oh. . . well if you get hungry, the snack machines are in the next room. And there are microwavables in the back, when you go to see your friend.”

I just sipped my overpowering caffeine drink and nodded.

I didn’t even realize that Tyler had said “your friend” until it was too late to take it back. But he saw when I realized it.

I’m sure my tired eyes were wide when I looked at the scrubbed orderly.

He just scoffed at me, “It’s OK. You were listed as his emergency contact. So, I guess that means he trusts you like a brother.”

I didn’t write my name on his emergency contact form. I wrote his wife’s.

“How long have you known each other?” Tyler asked.

“Fifteen years.” I bobbed my head, keeping my drink steady.

He leaned his head against the wall behind us, “Yeah. That’s long enough to earn ’brother’ status. Shoot. In Talins, if you can keep a friend for twelve months, that’s sayin’ somethin’.”

“Yeah?” I gulped the warm nectar.

He showed an awkward half-smile, “Yeah.”

I leaned forward, “I’ve heard it’s rough out here.”

He laughed again, “Yeah. ‘Rough’ is an understatement. It’s straight up he--”

“Are you, Mister Samson O’Connor?” A nurse interrupted her colleague as she approached.

I stood up, nodding, “Is he OK? Can I go see him?”

She just smiled, “He’s sleeping,”

“Oh, boy.” I thought, remembering the last time he woke up.

“We’ll take you back to him.” she comforted me, “Is there anyone you need to call?”

I scanned my brain for anyone who might have been missing me, but the only person I could think of was laying in the back of this hospital. Then I thought about Josephine--

“Would she even care?” I asked myself.

I thought about his boss, Mr. Terrabond.

“He needs to know that Terrence isn’t going to be able to make it back to work as soon as they thought.”

“Yes,” I answered. “I should probably call a few people.”

She continued to smile as she led me through the doors.

“You can make them from his room.” she said.

I looked back at Tyler, “Tha--Thanks for the coffee!”

Tyler threw his hand up to wave, “No problem!”

I watched his arm drop, like a sad puppet falls at the end of a play, while the doors closed behind us. I wondered, for only a moment, if he was really lonely.

I made my calls:

Josephine teased, “Where are you two? Did you finally run away together and get married?”

I ignored her, “Josephine. Terrence is in a hospital in Talins. I don’t know what’s going on, but he isn’t doing great!”

She asked which one and I scurried through papers in the room to see which hospital and in which city, we were. I didn’t think to ask anyone where we were supposed to be going today; I just went along for the ride--in all literal senses.

“OK,” she said, “I’ll try to make it out there when I can.”

She hung up.

I tried to wade through the apathy and called Camp Terrabond. He shared more concern and urgency than Terrence’s own wife.

“Did Dr. Phillips get up with you?” I asked.

“No,” he responded, “but it is after hours. Is everything alright?”

I explained everything that happened in the past nine hours. I told him where we were, and that he didn’t have to rush.

But he insisted, “I’m on my way.”

I sat at my friend’s side, just rubbing my face and eyes, when Dr. Phillips walked in, escorted by a nurse and a “physician”. I stood up and shook Phillips’s hand.

He introduced me to the other two.

I asked what I’d been needing to know for the past four hours, “What’s wrong with him?”

Doctor Heather Meads began to explain, “Your brother seems to have had a strong allergic reaction to something, which has been slowly graduating from allergy to sickness, in the past several weeks.”

“Allergies?” I asked, “You’re saying Terrence has been growing swelling up with cold, dry skin, and shedding scales from allergies?”

Dr. Phillips interjected with his two-cents, “Sam. When I first felt Mr. Shirley’s skin, I thought it might have been a late-blooming case of psoriasis. Perhaps a plaguous rash, as you and he had first assumed. I’d thought, after seeing his eyes bulging from their sockets, that even a congenital metamorphosis of the harlequin-ichthyosis genome (which rarely happens in any cases--and certainly never in adults!) was possible. But Dr. Meads here has made some significantly rational points--radical, sure, but rational. So, if you wouldn’t mind: we would like to sit you down and discuss what we believe may be going on.”

I only stood in utter dismusement. Mouth-agate. All I felt I could do was agree. If any of this was to make any sense, then I had to listen to these doctors. No matter how much I heard Terrence’s voice say,

“That doctor was a kook if I ever met one.”

Though these were real doctors. I couldn’t help but think they had no idea what they were talking about.

Terrence laid motionlessly in his hospital bed. I wondered if he was comfortable, or if it was at least more comfortable than the couch in his den. I wondered if Josephine really cared enough to actually come see him. I wondered if he was dreaming. I wondered if he would be alright after the machines came off. My mind flitted from thought to thought, all within seconds of the doctors getting ready to explain their professional diagnoses. I watched my friend writhe in pain from the dried, dead skin on his body. I watched him almost asphyxiate on the air, alone. I was willing to listen to their analyses, while he “slept”.

I sat in the chair which I’d made my home, only a few hours prior. Dr. Mead stood, as Phillips and the nurse sat on the pull-out couch.

Dr. Meads began, “First of all, let me tell you, we have the results from your brother’s previous visit about his skin condition. The results of the biopsy returned negative, as far as any kind of cancer.”

All things considered, that news gave me a sense of relief like I’d never felt.

She continued, “However, it was also negative for all other tests. But, as we speak, Mr. Shirley seems to be developing more and more of these callouses all over his body--several varying in size, based one their location. We have not watched this happen, but as we connected his monitors, the pads would slide off after a few minutes. Your brother was extremely dehydrated, thus the probability of his sweating--or secreting any kind of natural oils--in this volume is highly unlikely. Our staff simply replaced the pads, but they just would not stick. The first sets, though, did have Terrence’s dried skin pocking the sticky sides of them. This either means that his body was producing high levels of secretion, or that those particles grew beneath the sticky pads. I am inclined to believe the latter, considering his low hydration levels. Do you know when the last time he took a shower or bath was?”

Of course, I didn’t know, but I assumed he was a pretty clean guy. He’d only skip some days when he’d go fishing because, “the fish can smell ya.” More of his dad’s unjustified sport superstitions. I always laughed at that.

“When we left this morning, he smelled like he might have just gotten out of the shower.” I replied.

“And his activities?” She proceeded, “Does he get out often, or does he stay home?”

I answered as quickly as I could, “He’s definitely an outdoorsy kinda guy. We’re always out, if we aren’t workin’.”

She either checked something off, or shorthanded it, but she followed up with less than a beat between us,

“And what do you do, when you’re out? Do you go to clubs and bars, or do you go camping and the like?”

“What kind of question is that?” I asked, “I just said we’re ’outdoorsy’. We do stuff outdoors.”

She only peered at me over her glasses, and then back to her notes, “Try not to get too hostile, sir. I’m only asking these questions in the sequence in which they are provided. So, you’re ’outdoorsy,’ this means you camp, hunt, fish, ride atv’s, etc.?”

I nodded, “Not so much four-wheeler ridin’, but we’ve been camping a few times over the past decade. It’s always too early for us to go huntin’, but we’ve tried it. But we’ve never stuck to any of that like we have with fishing.”

“And how long have you and your brother been fishing?” She asked.

I responded like a trained animal, “Well, he’s been doing it all his life. I only got into it when I moved here.”

A silence overtook us, along with each of the staff’s leering at me. It took me a second to realize what I’d said,

“Back here!” I corrected, “I only got into it when I moved back here. That was about fifteen years ago. Man, I need some more of that coffee. Would you mind?”

Meads directed the nurse to get me another cup of joe, and continued.

“How often does your brother interact with the fish and other sea life?”

I was puzzled at her phrasing, “What do you mean? Does he go partying with them? I don’t understand the question.”

Dr. Phillips laughed. The real doctor didn’t find it as funny.

She explained, “Does Terrence usually wear gloves when handling his catches, or does he unhook them bear-handed?”

I “oh’ed” accordingly,

“He’s pretty gritty when it comes to boating the fish, sharks, whatever. He’s never been afraid to grab them without gloves!”

She lowered her notes in front of her, “That’s all I needed to know. What I’m afraid is happening to your brother, is he might have come in contact with diseased sea life--whether a fish, a shark, or even a type of algae--which may have transferred this ailment to him. These types of situations are common, depending on the contact. Nobody I’ve ever met has had a reaction to zoonotic diseases from fish as bad as your brother’s.”

She walked over to his bed, hovering over and tracing his face with the butt of her pen.

I got up to find out what she was trying to get at.

“You see how his cheeks have sunken in, but his lips are swollen?” she pointed out.

I nodded, “Yeah, but he hasn’t been able to eat a whole lot, so he’s just lost some weight.”

She agreed, “Still, his face should be equally puffy. You see how his sockets seem to have shrunk behind his eyes? And his ears have a similar look to cauliflower ears?”

I just stared at my friend’s resting face.

She said, “It would appear that this infection has attacked Terrence’s major sensory organs, as well as killed a vast majority of his skin, which is our largest organ. To explain why he’s so dehydrated, I’ve come up with the only theory which makes sense--”

“Great,” I commented, “another theory. That’s what he needs.”

Phillips cleared his throat as a warning.

Meads followed up, “--his pores have shrunk, making it almost impossible for him to perspire. All that salt inside his glands are being pushed back into his system, virtually engulfing the water retained in his body. The blocked glands also explain the distention of skin on his extremities, as well as his back and the crown of his head.”

She told me to rub from his forehead, to the top of his cranium. I did. I felt a rough transition from dry and smooth, to slightly bumpy, to rough and elevated.

“And you’re saying this is caused by infected glands and tiny pores?”

She nodded.

I straightened back up, “That’s a very interesting theory, ‘Doctor.’ But here’s my recommendation, ’find a real, plausible, answer,’ so my brother doesn’t have to be hooked up to wires and tubes for the rest of his life!”

“Sir, I’m sorry you’re unhappy with the results, but this is all we could come up with, so far!” she retaliated.

“You mean, ’all you could speculate.” I defended.

She, once being more than astute, then began to fail in assertiveness, “Well, yes.”

“Then, as I said, ’put your hypotheses to rest and fix. . . my. . . brother.”

There was no reason for me to have gotten so angry, but I did.

The nurse had just opened the door to bring coffee as I watched the two doctors rush out. She was kind of nervous, I could tell. She just tip-toed in, to hand me the cup, then long-stepped out, without a word.

I watched the IV drip. I watched the monitor skip. I watched his feeding tube shift as he breathed. At least he was breathing.

Then the all-too-familiar and abrupt heaving of a cough came through. This, plus the tube down his throat caused him so much pain, it woke him up. He coughed, and gasped, and wheezed, and heaved for a solid minute. Again, I watched tears roll down his cheeks; only, this time, he wasn’t crying. He was just strangling.

I pushed the nurse call button on his bed.

“Yes?” a voice answered, “Can I help you?”

I wasn’t so much panicked, at that point, as I was unsure of what I could have done to make him more comfortable.

I responded, “Yeah. My brother is waking up and he seems to be in a lot of pain and discomfort.”

The voice called back, “Alright, we’ll be right there.”

“Sam,” Terrence’s throat crackled.

I just grabbed his shoulder as lightly as I could, “Hey, man.”

I tried sounding as calm as possible.

“Wha--” he tried speaking again.

I just shook my head, “You’re gonna be fine, man. Don’t try talkin’ with that thing in your esophagus.”

The nurses came in and shoved me to the side. They wrapped him with a blood pressure cuff, and whatever else they had to, before they pulled his feeder.

“OK, Mr. Shirley,” one said, “We need you to stay as still as you possibly can while we take this tube out. Think you can do that for me?”

I couldn’t see him, but I’m sure he nodded. He always just nodded. That was just how positive he used to be. So agreeable, but also very steadfast.

I heard him gag, then gasp and cough. And cough and cough. They checked his pupils, and he appeared to be fine. They finished their fondling, and began to leave.

“If you need anything, just call and let us know, OK?” the main one said.

I stood next to him, again, “How ya feelin’?”

He chuckled as he tried sitting up, “Lhike a milliern buckh.”

His words were airy, almost open-throated. But he just had a tube down his gullet, so I didn’t think too much about it.

“Do you remember what happened?” I asked, touching his forehead, checking for a fever.

He was as cold and dry as before.

“Yeah.” he answered with a rasp, “we were at yhe gerrmacologist’s office and I shtarted to choke. Yhou were shcreaming, and I bracked out. Yig schomeone put yheir finger down my ’hroat?”

I laughed a little, “Yeah. The skin doctor. I guess he scratched your tongue or somethin’ because your mouth started bleeding.”

That had begun to make sense, if he had a sore on his tongue, it could’ve explained why he was talking so weird.

“Stick your tongue out,” I requested. “Let me see.”

He opened his mouth and said “ahhh,” but his tongue wasn’t out.

“I said, ‘stick your tongue out so I can see.’” I chuckled.

“I am hyicking it out.” he replied, mouth still wide open.

I saw it move as he spoke, but it wasn’t stretching.

I commanded again, “Stick it out, or I’m reaching in there after it!”

He enunciated as well as he could this time, “I shold you, ’I aaam!”

I had had enough of his disobedience, “OK. Open up.”

He did. I tilted his head backward, so the light could shine inside.

“Schee angysing?” he asked.

Again, I watched his tongue bounce with the syllables, but it looked less than natural.

I looked closer, but more cautiously,

“Terrence, “ I gulped, “go like this, ‘La La La La La’.”

He tried, but only his mandible moved with the flow of what should have been his dancing tongue.

I backed away, quickly.

“What ish it?” he asked nonchalantly.

I tried keeping myself reserved, “Terrence. . . Buddy. . .”

He repeated, more freaked out, “What?”

“You don’t have a tongue. . .”

He lifted his hand to his mouth, his eyes wide from my discovery. He placed a finger inside and pressed down where his tongue was supposed to be.

He tapped and pressed it repeatedly. He began to laugh, removing his finger,

“Gyou awmost got me, Scham.” he coughed, waving it at me.

I approached his bed.

“Stick it out,” I demanded.

He made the ahhh and the ehhh sounds, but in all efforts and attempts, his “tongue” never escaped from behind his downturned, puffy, lips. The tendons in his neck tightened with each try; still no evidence of it. He even pulled his mandible down, so that I might see the lingual muscle. It only stiffened into a cushion.

“It’s probably just a side-effect,” he told me “but it’s there. I can feel it.”

“Yeah,” I thought, “a side-effect of what?”

I didn’t want him freaking out, so I didn’t carry on about it. Still, keeping a conversation going was nearly impossible. His voice sounded dry and broken, along with his “paralyzed tongue” often making his words incomprehensible; I only agreed and chuckled most of the time, quickly moving to a new subject.

I stared at Terrence as he peered off into space between talks. I couldn’t tell if his nose had shrunk or if the swelling on the other places of his face were simply minimizing it. However, as I studied him, I took in all of his fantastic and impossible detail:

His bumpy skin increased in size, based on its placement from the center of his face. From his smooth brow, towards his forehead, and back, its transition was almost seamless. The places on his cheekbones, just behind his sunken cheeks, and following around his ears, were sharply defined: the pieces of dried skin looked like they tried to peel off, but remained stuck to the live tops of his flesh. Below his ever-drooping mouth, the skin wasn’t dead or flaking. It was as smooth as I’d seen, but his neck was sort of loose--like he’d aged twenty or thirty years, as he laid in that hospital bed. It didn’t jiggle or anything, but I could tell it was different.

His eyes still bulged from their sockets, only now they looked to have grown outward, rather than just have popped open. His hospital gown covered his body, so I only saw his arms. The patches of psoriasis--sure--came to a point, just above his elbow. But below it the “infection” caused his flesh to rise, almost jutting out.

“What ig it?” he asked, having caught me visually judging him.

I shrugged with a smirk, “I don’t know, man. Just glad you’re alright.”

He smiled that liar’s smile. He knew he wasn’t OK. But so did I.

“Want any coffee or anything?” I asked, needing a minute to breathe.

He only nodded.

I got up and patted his shoulder as I headed out,

“But hey! At least it’s not cancer.”

He laughed at me with a cough tied into it. I put my head down and stepped out of his room. I closed the door behind me, pressing myself into the corridor wall. I held the balls of my hands into the sockets of my eyes, just inhaling deeply.

I finished my meditation and started toward the coffee station. I fixed our cups; each how we liked it.

I like mine with a bit of sugar and--working with what they provided--a little cream. Their lack of milk required me to guesstimate the percentage of ice I needed to make it immediately consumable.

He always liked his black with lots of sugar. So, I removed the lid from the sugar container and simply poured in a good amount of it. He liked his scolding hot, so I just put in a couple chips of ice, so it would have at least not burned his tongue off--

--Well, so it would have at least not burned his tongue.

I think I thought the same thing as I was making the cups. I’m sure I thought it was funny at the time. It’s almost funnier, now, since the moment has passed.

I carried the coffee to his room. The door was slightly opened. I knew I’d closed it. I walked in, and a nurse stood by the bathroom door.

She knocked, “You OK in there?”

“Gyeah,” he muffled through, “Be ou’ing a mingute”.

“OK,” she called back, “Your brother’s here; he brought you something to drink.”

She looked at me, “He’s been in there for a while, now. Think you can help him, if he needs it?”

I just emoted in confusion, thinking, “Why are you even here, then?”

I told her I would, then she left.

I put my coffee down and knocked on the door.

“I sgaid, ‘Gimme a mingute!’” he shouted from irritation.

“It’s me, man.” I responded. “Got your coffee.”

He opened the door, then immediately turned to the mirror. He rubbed his face and neck, like he was admiring a halloween mask.

I handed him his cup, “Have you looked at your tongue, yet?”

He nodded, “Ghat’s why I wantked to come in here.”

He looked back at me, “Gwhat goo you ghink is kappening to me?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Maybe it is an infection, like the doctors said. You have been going fishing a lot, lately.”

He shook his head then looked back at the vanity.

“I gjust wish I knew gwhat’s causing all ghis.”

He rubbed his jawline, once more, before taking a sip of joe.

He gasped and coughed, “Gwhat gig you goo koo it?!”

Insulted, I scoffed, “Gwhat goo you mean, ‘gwhat gig I goo koo it?!’”

“‘Coffee-black with a lot of sugar,’ that’s how you’ve always liked it.”

He handed it back to me, “Kaste it.”

I took the cup and swigged the black coffee.

I spit it out into the shower.

The “sugar” I dumped into his cup was actually salt. And it was a crap-ton of it.

“I’m sorry, man!”

I went to pour it into the sink, but he stopped me.

“Gon’t worry about it,” he chuckled, taking the cup from me.

To my surprise, he downed the rest of the bitter brew.

I quivered in disgust, “How?”

It was all I could say to the feat.

He shrugged, “I gon’t know. It gjust sgurprised me, at first.”

He looked into the bottom of the now empty container, “It wagn’t really ghat bad.”

I stood in the door frame maintaining my expression of discomfort, when Camp walked in.

“It was salt coffee, man!” I told Terrence.

“Ick!” Camp replied, hanging his coat on the doorknob, “That doesn’t sound good, at all!”

I stepped out of his way, so he could talk to Terrence a little easier.

Terrence just stared into the looking glass as Camp peered over his shoulder.

Mr. Terrabond spoke, uneasily, “I gotta say, Terry: you’ve looked better.”

My friend turned toward his boss, “Ghanks, Camp. Scho have gyou.”

The two walked out of the bathroom. Terrence was in visible discomfort as he approached the bed. He sat on the edge and reached for my cup of coffee.

“Goo gyou mind?” he raised it in front of me.

I just made that curious face of disgust, which I was quickly becoming accustomed to. It was colder than Terrence preferred, but he drank it down in three good gulps.

He leaned back into his pillow with a twinge of pain, but also with a closed-eye smirk of relief,

“Mmm.” he groaned, “that’s so much better.”

Camp just paced the narrow part of Terrence’s room in front of the bed. I watched him. Something was on his mind; I could see it as he rubbed his baby smooth chin and tilted his head back. He’d stop in his tracks for a moment, then continue. What worried him, I couldn’t tell.

So, I asked:

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, Camp?”

He stopped and scratched his neck. His face like sardines in a tin can: bitter and straight and unable to bring himself to say what he needed to say.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Terry,” he paused, “Back when my grandfather had the shop open, there used to be a golden fishing lure set up in a plastic case. Did you ever see that thing?”

Terrence coughed a scoff, “Did I see it? I adored that thing, down to its tiny spoons! But I’m sure everyone who went in there coveted the beauty of that jig. But, of course, I saw it.”

He nodded.

“You’re right, Terry. That you are one-hundred percent unmistaken about. I know the media didn’t cover the tide which took out that entire block, because the family felt it was necessary to keep bad media out of our little, but ever-growing, city. So, let me tell you what happened to that part of the world:”

He cleared his throat in preparation for his long, yet profound, history lesson.

“Renascence--our beautiful and quite lively territory--it was once connected to the island of Sorna. You know that much, I’m sure. Well, after the Fallen City. . . fell, the landbridge which attached our part of the nation to the, now, floating mountain began to sink, as well. Among this devastation was the Town of Innsmouth--that accursed place. It and its inhabitants deserved worse than they got; but by the gods, they were barely spared! Some of the denizens escaped by boat. Others drowned. . . allegedly. Their fates were always a question mark among those who watched the darkened section of the globe sink beneath the ravenous waves of the ocean. But my grandfather, he was on his boat as the Innsmouthers struggled to survive in their dinghies, off the shore of Renascence. Their pitiful vessels barely made it ashore before they were torn to shreds by the tides. My grandfather took aboard, those left to die in the salty surrenders, under the expanse of black and electric clouds. Thunders clashed and roared. Lightning kissed the water, setting fires to the dead, dried seaweed, and the remains of the Innsmouthers’ matchbox-rafts left adrift. My grandfather risked his life for the arrogant narcissists who were ’the Innsmouthers!’ And those ingrates tried to mutiny; blaming his kind for their kinds’ losses! The hideous beasts fought him for the helm, and they ripped holes where they could see the weaknesses of his meager ship! Oh, but they wouldn’t take him: no! He fought them, tooth-and-nail, to reclaim his safety. He threw several overboard with a few swift tosses of the helm. The horde nearly killed my grandfather, but with his quick wits and sailing knowledge, he reduced them to few. He killed many, on deck. Their blood pooled around the broken and ripped up boards, sinking into the brimey water as that very water arose into the boat. A young boy cowered at the quarters hatch, his fist clenching that golden lure: it was all the child had of his family, now. My grandfather, being the kinder than his actions proved, took the boy to the bow of the vessel. They approached land, and went ashore.

“The boy’s eyes were wide, as yours are now. His mouth drooped into a permanent frown. But none of this was from despair. No. Not from fear. T’was from the curse. His tongue rested on the bed of his mouth, and his ears were small and puffy. The boy was an Innsmouther, for sure, but my grandfather couldn’t kill him. No. It wasn’t in the old fisherman to take the life from an innocent kid. So, he kept him. Hidden, naturally. But he kept him. The boy repaid my grandfather’s forbearance by allowing him to use the lure. The Lure of Gold which brought my grandfather such fortune in his trade that he was able to build that old tackle shop, where you and your dad used to frequent. Oh, but the treacherous tides longed for that gift. It coveted it, just as you and several others had! The boy got sick. Without the ‘blessed sea’ to nourish him, the boy got weak. After so long, the child--whom my father befriended in their short time together--passed away.

“But before this ‘tragedy,’ the boy told my father the secret of The Lure:

“‘Bear it securely,’ he quoted with his last few gasps, ‘For it gives the Gift of the Sea, after it grants thine wishes of three.’

“My father held onto those words until his own father--my grandfather--passed away.

“When those final words fell from the Innsmouther’s flat-padded tongue, my father called for my grandfather.

“Out of respect, he locked that relic in its small encasement--ne’er to cast a line with it again.

“After the child left this world, my grandfather thought it only proper to release his body into the tormented, and restless sea.

“‘He had no family, y’know,’ my grandfather would tell us, ’Nobody knew he existed except for us. Only seemed right.’

“But then his one eye’d get wide, as he leaned closer to us,

“’Though, I swear to you--by the gods and seas--that boy. . . swam away!’

“That plaque beneath it, as it rested on its cushion, read, ‘The Gift of Innsmouth’. But it wasn’t. By no means was that little trinket ‘a gift!’

“Because when my grandfather released that boy into the ocean, the earth opened up beneath the sea, and spat out the strongest, most violent, weather and waves Renascence has ever seen! My grandfather made it back to shore before the roughest of it followed him to that skirt outside the city limits. That avenue on which our once prestigious shop sits.

“The tides grew tremendously; crashing into the backs of the businesses, collapsing their walls and crushing all who resided within them. However, that wasn’t my grandfather’s fate. The streets were flooded from the angry tides. They tossed and flipped his old truck, with him inside, trying to make a ‘witty’ escape.

“The Sea took him away, along with the back sides of that strip. That plaza which my grandfather helped build from his earnings as a ‘master fisherman.’ That place in which the boy hid from the outside world, from my grandfather’s racist tendencies. Where he died. Where they both died.

“Grandfather always kept the secured Lure inside his truck, when the store was closed, so no one would try to break in and steal it.

“My father found the plastic case containing the ‘Gift’ floating at the back of the ruins. The Sea couldn’t keep it sunk. He always assumed the air-filled casing was just ‘too strong for that worthless ocean.’

“He placed the jig where his father kept it during business hours; never looking back to that side of the city. He kept the story quiet, for his own reasons. Never told me why. But he cursed that Sea until the day he died.

“So, my question for you, Terrence: where is it?”

An unnerving still enveloped the three of us. Camp eyeballed Terrence. Terrence stared right back at his boss. And I looked at the two, only shifting my oculars between the two.

“Don’t lie,” Camp told him, “I know what it means to be Blessed by The Sea. I knew when you started to develop ‘dry skin.’ I remember the pictures my father showed me of him and his best friend. But it hasn’t been a blessing. Has it?”

“I gon’t gnow gwhat gyou’re talking about,” Terrence said.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!”

“Gyou shaid ‘afger it grants hree wishes!’ I khaven’t magde any wishes!.”

I stopped the two’s bickering for a moment to think back.

I asked Terrabond, “Just to clarify: he had to have said, ‘I wish,’ right?”

Camp nodded.

“Terrence,” I looked at my friend with dismay, “you made three wishes without realizing it.”

I sat on the far edge of his bed and began to recount,

“When we walked into the destroyed tackle shop, you said,

“‘I wish I coulda worked here while it was up-and-running.’

“Then that part of town started its rebuild, and Camp, here hired you on at the shop.

“Then again while we were stuck in traffic, trying to get you to Dr. Phillips.

“You hit the dashboard and said, ’I just wish something would go right for me. . .’

“That officer came, and brought us to the dermatologist’s office.”

“Yeah!” Terrence fussed, “but we were lyate. Gnot khoo menshion, I ended up in ghe khoshpital!”

I shook my head, “But you did say ‘I wish’.”

Finally, his last wish resounded in my--

So, I repeated it to him,

“Tonight you said, ’I just wish I knew what’s causing all this.’

“Then Camp shows up and basically tells us that it’s that Lure that’s turning you into a--a--a FISH!”

“An Innsmouther,” Camp spoke up.

“And you’ve made all three wishes.” his temperament became less cold and more concerned.

“But ghey gon’t count!” Terrence cried, “I gign’t meang ghem!”

Terrabond peered directly at my friend, “But each was made with passion. Your emotions, when wished, made them real.”

Camp stood at the foot of his bed, “So, I need to know, Terrence: Where. . . is. . . The Lure?”

Terrence arose, slowly, painfully, but almost hypnotically. He walked, the same way, around his bed and to the closet, where his personal effects were. He fumbled through his belongings, coughing and hacking--from, presumably, panic. Otherwise, though, he seemed calm; like he used to be. He finally pulled away from the interior of the wardrobe: the faint light in the room was quick to glint off the gold design of the jig. It looked like the lure, itself, was the source of illumination.

My friend walked over to his boss, with a shameful look in his bulging, pale-looking eyes.

“I’m sgorry,” he said, “I gnever expegted the sctore khoo open back up.”

He placed the thing into Camp’s hand,

“Ghe Shpoons kept falling off.”

Camp stared at the relic, “They broke with every wish; symbolizing their irreversible permanence.”

He looked back at Terrence, “Then there’s nothing that any of us can do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I approached the two.

“It means--” Camp replied.

“I gdead.” finished Terrence.

Camp turned to me, “Soon Terry will become one of them, completely. He won’t be able to survive after that. They were always less human and more fish. That’s why the gods destroyed their homes. They belonged in the sea. They belonged to the Sea. So when he finally metamorphosizes into that creature. . . he will die.”

I’d heard enough. It was both absurd and infuriating! How could this little charm be so unlucky? I pushed Terrabond out of the room, cussing him for upsetting my friend and making up such ridiculous BS!

When he was out in the hall, as I attempted to close the door, he stuck his hand inside. He clutched the Lure. I slightly opened it back up.

He gave the jig to me, “Make sure--whatever happens--you send this curse back to the depths, where it belongs.”

“Why can’t you send it back?!” I tried forcing it back into him.

“I didn’t take its wishes.” He lowered his voice.

“Neither did I.” I mimicked toward him.

He leaned in to whisper, “So, make sure you find a way to send this thing back where it belongs.”

He was full of nonsense, I thought, as I shoved him back out. I held the broken Lure, admiring it in curiosity. I stuffed it into my pocket before appearing in front of Terrence, again.

“Gwhat gig he shay?” he asked, sitting straight up in his bed.

I feigned a laugh, “Nothing really. Just some crazy stuff. I think he might’ve been drunk. Too many ‘onboard drinks,’ ya know? Can’t believe that guy owns part of our city. And you worked for him!”

I continued to be cheerful, now, but Terrence just laid back onto the up-right and angled part of his gurney.

“Gwhat if khee gwasn’t gjust grunk?”

I sat down on the pullout couch, and leaned back, myself,

“Then he’s just stupid.”

I glanced at him, one more time, “Just get some sleep, man.”

He closed his eyes before I looked away,

“Yeah.” he chuckled.

We drifted off to sleep.

I was woken up by the high-pitched tone of the heart monitor, and the slamming open of the room door, and the rushing in of nurses. I got up to investigate the calamity, but was pushed backwards--again--by one of the staff. They pulled and thrusted his bed out from the room, fighting their way to the O.R.

Dr. Meads found me in his room,

“After several attempts to resuscitate your brother, Terrence’s life support failed, and we were unable to bring him back. You can follow me, and say your goodbyes, if you want.”

I did. I followed the doctor down the twisting halls, through the claustrophobic corridors, down the suffocating elevator, and right to “my brother’s” side. That was the longest walk I’d ever taken. I’ve never had to take another one, since, though.

Terrence laid on the steel table, half covered beneath a white sheet. I looked him over. It was the first time I really got to see how much he had actually changed.

His sad, frowning mouth had seemingly evened out. His chin had receded, noticeably more than it had, days prior. Skin drooped on his neck. His eyes were open,

“The lids had shrunken, behind his eyes, where we could not pull them forward.” the doctor explained,

“I personally tried to set them back into their sockets, but they were simply too large to budge. But our mortician’s will do what they can in the case that you’ll want an open-casket funeral.”

His eyes were open. Grey and lifeless, as they should have been, but his eyes--which once brought life and joy to the room--hadn’t shined like they did before. His eyes were open. And to this day, they haunt me.

His scales were defined and rugged, now. Some frilled outward. Some were missing. And where they were missing, there were painful looking sores, in their place. I touched his cold, dry, and stiff arm, nicking myself on the fins which had begun to erupt on his extremities, during my first look-over, weeks back.

“Yes, careful!” she said as I withdrew my finger, sticking it in my mouth.

“Those things broke a scalpel, tonight.”

I looked at her with distrust, “Still think it’s shrunken pores and blistered infection?”

She shrugged, “We can autopsy him, if you like. But from everything we’ve found, we’re afraid he may have had a stroke.”

I sucked my bleeding finger, just chuckling at their ignorance.

Beneath some missing scales on his ribs, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be slits in his sides.

“Were y’all just that eager to open him up?!” I lifted the skin, revealing the open “wounds.”

“We didn’t do that.” she remarked.

“We can do the autopsy,” she repeated.

“Don’t bother,” I threw my hand up, “We know what happened.”

I began walking away from the table, “I’d like to take him home, now, please!”

She nodded her head. I know she meant well, but I felt like their compassion for the situation was more for show; that, maybe, they knew they couldn’t help him, without looking like they weren’t trying to help him.

We were coptered from the hospital to our medical center, in town. I stared at the black bag containing my friend. I cried, silently. He was all I ever knew, in Renascence. He was my brother.

So, I couldn’t let the reapers keep him, just yet.

When we landed, I followed his gurney until we reached the elevator.

That’s where I stole him.

I kicked the nurse out of the elevator, and pressed for the lobby. When the doors opened up, again, I rushed my brother through, making my way out towards the parking lot. I found a car with backdoors and--I’m ashamed to admit it--tossed Terrence inside. The owners were quite scared as I shouted for them to get out. I drove for the next twenty minutes to the outskirts of the city, where Terrence and I would always ship out. A small boat, not much of an option, awaited our boarding. I flipped Terrence onto the tiny vessel, and paddled out to the nearest point of the dock, but where I knew the undertow was strongest. Unzipped his body bag, almost regrettably, and held the naked fish-man close to me. I put the broken Lure in his dead hand. I kissed his scaly, balding head, and released him to the Sea’s mercies.

But, I swear to you--by the gods and the Seas--that man. . .

. . . Swam away.