Dan was aware of the reconstruction shutting down nearly all of Alpine Street, and the reopening of the place after months and months of an absurd pedestrian-only authority. He knew many new shops had been opened. There was a fitness center and an upscale shoe store, both comforting and irrelevant. He did not know, however, that something like a Happiness Clinic could possibly stand amongst other common places to buy and eat and get fit. But it drew his attention. He ripped the article from the paper and left Hollow Café with a coffee in hand. Caffeine was the only way he could survive in this new, free, and safe land.    

After his return from the army, beat and bruised Puckett had not been in any luck concerning love or a job. Sure, he had taken a position in administration of a friend’s journalism firm, ordering the things she wrote about into the categories Very Important, New and Upcoming, Pointless Information, and Amusing But Not Worth Writing About, and although Esmée greatly appreciated the work he did, it was not what he had expected after serving for years in probably the most treacherous business in the world.   

 Arranging things into groups to calm his mind was what Dan did best, but never had he realized that coming back to his hometown would get him into ordering projects about an upcoming journalist’s writing, not ordering the people he came across as Intimidating/Mildly Intimidating/On Friendly Terms/Harmless.    

His cell rang. Crumpling up the article and stuffing it in his pocket, he clicked the green button on his phone.    

“I need your help,” Esmée cried into the receiver. “What do you find more inviting to read – the truth about World War II or apocalypses?”    “I’m free today,” said Dan wearily.    

“Journalism is a lifestyle, not a job you can forget about.” She was French, and even though her accent was nearly unnoticeable, Dan knew her well enough to both hear it through the phone and understand perfectly what she was saying.    

“They’re both in the Fascinating category,” he said. “Why do you need my help, anyway? Write what you want to write.” It was a sentence, especially in such an intonation, that would suggest to anyone, except Esmée, to sack Puckett.    

“Jean-Luc has offered to send me on an international project,” she said, her words fast. “Europe if I want to write about World War II, Guatemala and El Salvador if I want to do apocalypses. He said he really wants me, but there are others trying to go as well, and my application will need to be delivered as soon as possible.”    

Dan paused, trying to process what she had just said. He looked in the mirror of a shop window and tried to view himself as a normal man, but it was difficult with the scar lining his right eye and the bags that accompanied his face from lack of sleep. “Europe? Guatemala? Esmée, this could be your big break! That’s fantastic! How long would you go?”

“A month and a half,” said Esmée. “Long enough to speak to enough people regarding the issue and to write an article for the Times. Now answer my question: World War II or apocalypses?”    

“You know how sensitive I am about wars.” But something evil sat on Dan’s shoulder and told him he would only have a bigger chance to accompany her abroad if she covered a subject he knew about. “However, many people do not believe in apocalypses. I am fairly certain you would receive more readers if you uncovered some hidden stories about World War II.”    

“Oh, Europe!” Esmée sounded dreamy. “Thank you, Dan! Thank you very much indeed! I will apply to the international project right away.”    

“I’m sure Jean-Luc will be very happy.” Now the invitation comes. Dan, you have been so loyal to me over the past year. Please join me to Europe, if I indeed am chosen to go! But the offer never came. Dan wished her good luck, but she had already hung up the phone.    

It was no secret that Dan was jealous of just about any person with a standardized career and family, Esmée especially. She had moved to the United States to live with her American husband, to whom she was now divorced to but on friendly terms, and she loved the excitement and the variety of her journalism career. She had two beautiful kids, one who had just begun elementary school and one still the size of a boot. Esmée did not even have double of what Dan had, because two times zero did not add up to the situation—rather, the best way to put it was that Esmée had a life of gold and Dan a life of lead.   

His fingers brushed the newspaper article as he put his cell back in his pocket, but suddenly Dan was tired. A Happiness Clinic was the one thing he wanted, but he was certain it would just end up in disappointment.

Since his neighbor Phoebe had graduated from college and left the state, Dan had been alone in his apartment complex except for the janitor who also controlled the elevators. He, however, had long since acknowledged the fact that Dan liked the stairs more. The steps took him longer to get to his dreary living area, and procrastination was exactly what he needed every day.    But this time, the janitor—an old man with a leg impairment who barely spoke—walked right up to Puckett and handed him a letter. On the top were scrawled Dan’s full name and address. It was in his mother’s handwriting.    

It was the third letter he had received since his return and the third letter from his mother. His stepfather had fallen ill in the second year that he was away. Dan had taken leave and both had spent their last two days together at a hospital bed. Since the death of Dan’s real father, he had accepted this man into his family.    

His mother Rosemary currently lived in a small village town in Vermont, where she had moved after Dan had enlisted in the army. It had however been a no-brainer for Dan to go to Hollow, Massachusetts, instead of Vermont. Hollow was where he had grown up and where he thought he would find the life he wanted after his fierce ambitions told him to join the army. Now he wasn’t so sure. He knew no one except Esmée here, and Rosemary was alone and grieving in upstate Vermont.    

He picked at the envelope as he trudged up the marble stairs of the apartment building and took comfort in the thought of Rosemary’s fumbling fingers as she tried to enclose the letter. She had touched the paper he was holding, and she felt closer than she had been a minute ago.    

Dan grabbed some leftover chicken and salad and sat down at the dining table—a table set for one, because not often was someone invited into his apartment.

Dear Dan, I know I can email you now but I also know reading something from the mail is so much better, so I’ll stick to this. The last time I saw you, you had just moved into Hollow and you were trying to start over. I hope you have found a career, and maybe someone, you love. I know how difficult it can be to start somewhere new, but I have full confidence in your strength. I write to you now to explain something difficult. I am losing my ability to travel but am desperate to see you. Next week, on the 24th of September, I will be coming to Hollow in hopes of meeting with an old friend, and, evidently, in hopes of meeting with you. Please write back. Or email. I am finally coming to terms with my computer. Your loving mother

There was something urgent in her words. Something Puckett did not like. Losing my ability to travel. What was that supposed to mean? That her legs were failing her, or that her vision was incompatible with driving a car? Couldn’t she take a train from Vermont to Boston? Heck, Dan would even drive up to get her if need be. Dan fumbled around with the heaps of paper on the other side of the table until he found a pen. It seemed in that instant much more convenient to write back instead of taking his laptop to use email. ‘Coming to terms’ with her computer did not convince Puckett quite enough.    

He scribbled down word after word, barely thinking about the context of any sentence. He did not say anything about his jealously and his disappointment. He realized when he was nearly finished that everything he had written was about his time in the army. Revelations and stories about war. It was his only escape. Dan was too embarrassed to say the words Esmée or ordering of common projects or no social life.    T

he caffeine was still making a statement inside him as he walked down to the postal office after dinner and put the letter to the mail. It was still summer, officially, and it would not get dark until much later—Puckett decided that was the right excuse to take a walk around town to avoid his tiny apartment.