Not Yet

"Where would he go with this information? You have to ask yourself what value this knowledge presents to him and what potential he can exact with it. Ask yourself if he's the vengeful type, the type to act off instinct, impulse or logic. If he's impulsive and vengeful, he'll have to be contained. If he's logical and tempered, he'll measure his actions and could possibly be open to bargaining," Sean explained.

The desk phone rings. Sean takes the call, speaking quickly and quietly, ending the call seconds later.

"Consider all his motivations. Think of what would drive him to risk what he values. Does he have family? Friends? Debts? Assets? Research all his ties and locate them. Gather that information then assess your options."

"I understand he has a daughter," John says.

Don't Drop It

With both hands supporting it from below and thumbs just touching but not climbing over the crust. Never clasping it like a book or cradling it like a football. Two hands from below, as if presenting a precious gift. Thomas had clear instructions on how to hold the fresh pie and he knew it would be more trouble to protest and put his creative spin on it than to follow his mother's instructions. They probably worked best in the end anyway.

Only problem; the thing was damn hot. A freshly baked pie was cooked mainly from below so all the heat focused on the bottom. That's why she wrapped it with tin foil and gave him two oven gloves for each hand and two oven mats for it to sit on but the heat still passed through. It would've been fine to hold it like this for ten seconds, but by now six minutes went by and the pie felt like it still hadn't reached it highest cooking point. Any minute now he would feel it cooling - the car ride was only a few miles longer.

He knew the place well. Every summer, his family would attend the Church Picnic where every household brought a side dish and dessert. The church would supply the entree; usually some kind of barbecued beef or pork. Her side dish - red potato salad - wasn't as tender, so it sat on the floor of the backseat in a sealed container, but the pie was safe and warm in his hands. Cooling since the minute before. By dessert time it would settle nicely - just as planned.

Believe Me

She pushes too eagerly, like some idiot child first given the reigns to the empty shopping cart. We're in a rush. And in the middle of the city, a wheelchair is about as welcome as some raining jagged glass, so yes, it's the right thing to hurry along. But this is not a baby carriage and I'm hurt as is. So pounding the pavement, couched in a sagging blend of padding-stuffed black nylon flattened by piss-crusted hospital butt really sours the ride on this fucking wheelchair. Rental.

She doesn't seem to get that a broken foot doesn't give her license to re-create her supermarket racer fantasy. It's still an injury that deserves respect. She squirts me through a narrow gap between a mother and child - as if this was a passing gap. If I really wanted to, I could walk - granted, with crutches - but that would slow me to a pace ten times slower than a normal walk and the ferry was leaving in ten minutes. I wondered how hard it was to carry me through with dignity, speed and grace.

As the young women in smart skirts trotted by I straightened up, wagging my splinted foot, making clear this arrangement was temporary.