Chapter I.

.connection

Nine minutes after outplaying a severely stacked deck to avoid the sequential likelihoods of succumbing to capture, torture, and murder, I’m seconds away from executing a seventeen-minute-old ambition to stop by the rental property that I secured a few months ago upon relocating to this area temporarily—not the little house tucked away in Thierry’s neck of the woods, mind you.
Picture a minimally furnished one-bedroom shithole situated among a cluster of deep-rooted trees near a lake gigantic pond. Good job. Crushed it.
This shelter, one of hundreds in which I’ve dwelled over the course of the last four decades, has been ideal for my purpose{s} here; as such, I should (hope to) remember it fairly fondly in the future.
All is quiet. I park in the yard by the front door, kill the engine, equip my sawed-off shotgun, look back at our shell-shocked passenger. “Supplies,” I explain before explaining further: “I prepared for this. Can you help gather?”
She just nods. Good enough for me.
I am overcome by the urge to protect, at any cost fathomable, this anomalously brilliant human, this arrestingly radiant woman, this magically weird female specimen of singular sentient potential.
As yet, Thierry Tuck has no clue how truly special she is. Way I figure, her goodhearted, spirited essence equates with nature’s gift to humanity. She makes gold look like petrified manure. In a sense, I have gone to WAR for her.
So yeah—she’s our passenger—I’m including you in this journey. I mean, why wouldn’t I? You are here, aren’t you?

Four hands/legs (working together) can accomplish more than two.

Good god almighty, what a night, amirite?
And I had no idea about this place, as you may (not) have known/assumed. Naturally, having been both present and cognizant during the nightmarish madness I just experienced—um, not to mention witnessing logic-defying feats of strength and resilience—I’m none too surprised.
Honestly, at this point, I don’t know if anything could surprise me again. Ever.
Robotic zombie that I am (as a {temporary} result of the ordeal), I follow Atlas inside his secret base of operations, which is basically/eye-catchingly empty, but it’s tidy and clean and emanates an aroma reminiscent of his biologically specific brand. (He smells stupidly good {to me}, especially when he hasn’t showered in a hot minute.)
“I’ll explain everything soon,” he assures me.
“I know.” I do trust that he will. [Spoiler alert: he does.]
In his bedroom, which features nothing more than what looks like a lacquer-treated tree stump for a nightstand within a midget-arm’s reach of a twin bed constructed with cheap materials, he opens a small closet stuffed absolutely full mainly with hard-shell luggage of various sizes and dark colors, plus a few compartment-rich backpacks, the biggest duffel bag I’ve anyone’s ever seen, and a portable fire safe.
He doesn’t have to tell me what this is; he’s aware of my knack for deductive reasoning. It’s his “oh shit” button. It’s his emergency stash/exit. It’s everything he needs in order to get the hell outta dodge, regroup, and start anew someplace else.
Less than ten minutes later, we’ve loaded the car. I probably did a quarter of the work.
Listen, you, I wasn’t slacking; he’s just inhumanly fast and able to tote a positively absurd crapton of weight.
Now we vacate the premises, assumedly never to return. Nobody’s sad about it.
I’m in the front seat now. Back seat and trunk are jam-packed with god knows what; I’m guessing weaponry, gadgetry, clothing, cash, keepsakes, nonperishables—you know, the kind of stuff you’ve seen in countless movies wherein this sort of shit happens.
If only slightly, I do feel safer by the second.
“Turn off your phone please.” He’s not bossy, by the way. But when I think about him being bossy, in my head I’m like, “Hmm, hey.”
Immediately I determine the reason behind his advice: could be tracked/traced somehow. Whatever. It’s off. Was at 1% anyway, as usual.
“Your notes and pictures will be transferred to an alternate device.”
Oh, good. I really was worried about my notes/journal/diary. I record more of my thoughts than (you or) I will ever have time to {re}read.
At this moment, I dunno which of my *eleventy billion questions to ask first. “Where are we going?” I wonder aloud. Ah, guess that one’s the lucky winner.
“North.”
I nod. Because I get it. Right now, that’s all he knows. And it’s plenty.
[*Though I’ve not read it since I lived in England, The Hobbit is still my all-time favorite book novel.]

Your truest of homes cannot be a house.
Yet {un}known or otherwise, s/he must take the shape of a living being.
You can’t feel “at home” unless your home has a pulse.

Four hours later, the clock strikes 02:20 as we enter the city limits of Tuscaloosa, Alabama.
I’m glad yesterday’s over. I wonder if you feel the same, if only for your own personal reasons, a conditional state to which it is astronomically unlikely that I’ll ever be privy.
You know how math works, yeah?
You must. You wouldn’t be reading this if you didn’t.
Anything could happen, though!
Thierry and I have spoken sparingly so far since our nailbiter of a jailbreak, not due to any negative tension, let alone ill will—goodness, no; never—but because our dicey egress last night has required extensive reflection, self-assessment/-inventory, particularly on her behalf, and understandably so.
99.999% of humans don’t see what she’s seen and live to tell the tale.
An even more exclusive percentage of people can’t (yet) grasp some of what she has come to know all by her lonesome.
I digress.
So far, our drive has been ruled predominantly by silence, which we’ve shared comfortably, especially considering the completely crazy, emotionally impactful circumstances through which we somersault physically and mentally backflip together, I should clarify.
Or maybe I shouldn’t.
At this instant, I don’t know a goshdarn thing.
Unpleasant.
Hang tight…
Okay, (I think) I’m back.
My chief concern at the moment is changing automobiles since this little beaut has served its purpose and, most notably, been observed by the hunting party that aggressively advertised its goal to snuff out our reactively fluid coordinates.
Aye, I we must abandon my sneaky-fast ride.

Better safe than sorry, no?
Yes, indeed.
(Usually.)

My thoughts bloom like re-energized rays of light from a supernova.
I can’t think straight. I feel crooked. You’d think I had a dick. Common themes keep repeating. Too much at once. Kinda worried about having an aneurysm. Kinda hoping for a spontaneous orgasm. Kinda wishing I’d either wake up or fall asleep. My head aches. My nerves shake. My heart quakes. I’m questioning everything. Has life been an illusion? Why do I crave spicy pickles and soggy french fries (and a certain substance which I’m not presently prepared to mention)? I need help. I want to sit (in the mountains) and stare at a waterfall for twelve hours. I’m dying to believe that I deserve something/anything good.
Thankfully, enter my{/your [don’t get any ideas, hussy]} Knight in shining armor.
“We should switch vehicles.” With that declaration, Atlas has broken a silence that must’ve lasted somewhere between four and forty minutes. Yup, that’s the best I can do right now.
“Makes sense.” I mean, what? It does.
He sighs. “Given our predicament, also considering the time of day, the switch will have to come courtesy of, uh, a theft—by socially constructed technicality.”
Ha, he’s worried that I might pass judgment. Silly boy. I think I nearly smile before replying, “That also makes sense.”

Don’t ever try not to smile. What a waste of energy.

“But I will leave behind an envelope full of cash,” he adds {as if there’s a fireball’s chance in heaven that I won’t approve wholeheartedly of any decision he might make}. [See, “snowball’s chance in hell” makes absolutely no sense either because guess what—real hell ain’t hot.]
But yeah, he’s gonna pay overpay for our next temporary ride. So sweet/thoughtful. Genuinely. Sincerely, I let him know that I approve. Ninety percent sure he could grin in this moment if he let himself. Perhaps I’m rubbing off on him. We communicate for a few seconds via like-minded eye contact. Same wavelength. Exact, even. When he redirects his attention to the road ahead, I continue, “So it’s more like a sale without permission.” That wasn’t my most clever assessment of the decade; nonetheless, he shoots me a quick glance, almost a smirk, which reconfirms his fondness of me. Shite, for some reason, I can’t shut up: “And once the emotional dust settles, the transaction will be seen as a blessing.” No glance this time, but a definite smirk. I’m not even saying anything smart. But gah, his dimples. Fuck me.
For someone being stalked/h{a}unted/terrorized by the planet’s single most physically dangerous terrestrial creature (and friends), I’m a really lucky girl!

While we can’t precisely control the natural polarity of our luck, we can put ourselves in positions that lure good fortune (more so than the opposite {and less desirable} kind).
You only deserve what you get if/when you get only what you deserve.

That last sentence will dissolve your sense of self and reconstruct it on the spot if you’re sharp enough to perform a dissection in full.
Then again, maybe it means nothing!

Anyone may choose to buck an unwanted trend.
You’ve earned far more than you know.
Give yourself a break.
Be you.

Whoops, got a bit sidetracked.
Anyhow, where are we?
Oh, I see. Seems we’re canvassing a ritzy neighborhood, looking for a car to steal.
Man, the last fourth of this day has been chockfull of firsts for me. Him, too, I reckon (correctly).
Holy hell. For the second time in my existence, life as I’ve known it is gone. RIP!
Plus good riddance. Both of my middle fingers are blazing.
Sorry—I’m easily distracted.
On second thought, I retract. I’m not sorry. Why should I be?
I’m glad we agree.
Atlas pulls alongside a curb, kills the engine, surveys the area. Eventually he asks, “You can operate a manual transmission, right?”
“Right.” That’s how I learned to drive on backroads at age fourteen. I guess I haven’t told him about that yet. Granted I’ve yet to drive a stick on the American side of the road/automobile, but I should be fine, no?
Christ. I’m probably gonna stall out five sixteen times before wrecking and breaking my nose.
“I intend to assume control of that SUV down the street parked illegally on the left.”
By “illegally,” he means that although it’s positioned flush against a curb, it’s facing oncoming traffic, which, there is none at this wee hour. “The Land Rover?” I confirm.
He nods. “Just follow me outta here—not far, maybe a mile—then we’ll stop, quickly transfer, and evacuate this state.”
I nod. I’m a nodding machine lately.
He adds, “Don’t start the car until you see brake lights.”
Another nod from me. Usually I’m not this consistent. Sup?
With his sneakily expressive face, he apologizes—we’ve gotten really good at talking without saying a word—and with my swollen eyes, coupled with a brief head-shake, I inform him that he owes me no apology.
Quite rather, I owe him my life. Doubt I’ll ever be able to thank him enough, but I won’t let that stop me from trying.
Atlas promises, “See you soon,” then off he goes. As instructed, I slide into the driver’s seat.
I do some light swooning while I wait. Judge me. I forgive you in advance.
A minute later, we’re outta here.
Five minutes after that, we’ve transferred to a new vehicle.
It kinda just now hit me that I’ve abandoned all my earthly possessions.
I’m not fussed. To be honest, I feel liberated.

~200 minutes elapse at 75mph.

After having traveled the entire distance (mostly) with windows down (so that our thoroughly soaked clothes would dry), we’re stopping just off I-22 at a hotel on the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee.
Sun’s about to rise, and I’m wide awake.

An alert brain may have the power to hold any body hostage.
Embrace sleep when it invites your participation.
You need it, and you never won’t.
Plus, the mind is far smarter than your waterlogged shell.
Should you decide to extend trust only to a single source, make it your intuition.

By now, we find ourselves resting on separate double beds inside a cookie-cutter of a hotel room.
Daylight has set in nigh fully.
I’m extremely tired but not sleepy in the least.
Certainly, our minds mind has been working overtime.
I’m just over here fielding Thierry’s wild variety of pressing questions, which she blurts sporadically. Here comes one such example: “What if…”
Oh, my, I love it when she does that. It’s one of her many signature moves. She begins expressing a thought with those two words then pauses (as a sort of courteous teaser) because she knows I’m quite aware that whatever follows will be a hoot to contemplate and could require the deliberate application of maximum brainpower. Two for one; score. And then she starts over, “What if the same photon split in half like, I dunno, let’s just say somewhere between 12.5 and 13.8 billion years ago, and one half is lodged in my brain, but the other—sorry, better half is hanging out in yours?”
What can I say? “I’d say that it’s entirely possible.” I said that only because it’s entirely possible.
Her face suggests that she’s lost in thought about this fanciful prospect, and rightly so, because armed with adequate knowledge, hypothetical possibilities at the quantum level can be an infinitely rich, rewarding subject to contemplate and discuss. She and I are no strangers to deep conversation.
Also, given her apparent spell of intense concentration, I’m not sure if she heard my response.
Aw, hell, now I’m not sure whether I responded aloud.
I don’t even know which friggin’ day it is.
Cotton-mouthed, I add[?], “The only issue I have with that theory, Thierry, is your usage of the word ‘better’.” I even threw in the two-handed [four-fingered] quote gesture.
She rolls her amazingly maze-like eyes at me, tries not to smile, fails miserably, cackles at her failure.
A state of delirium might be setting in. (In my case, too.)
The last twelve hours have been, shall we say, eventful.

Trauma causes effects.
And grief does things to people.
Nobody goes through identical stuff.
Forgive someone for trying to survive, okay?

Make no mistake—I may appear to be a sloppy mess, but I’m (gonna be) happy. I know it. I can feel it brewing. I’m working my way through this, adjusting to my new concept of normalcy. It’s just…a lot, you know? The world’s upside-down.
Out of the blue, I wanna take a shower, but that sounds hard. I’m still wearing the same clothes that I wore yesterday, and they’re not quite fully dry. Close enough, though, hopefully.
Mildew is weird.
Well I’ll be damned—just found my favorite scrunchy in my back pocket—things are looking up already!

Right now, my brain amounts to an overbooked train station. “Should I dye my hair? Heck, should I shave it?” Seemed like a legitimate question when I asked it three seconds ago.
“Only if you want to,” he replies.
Ah, of course, because it wouldn’t matter. We’re being targeted by a squad with access to more resources than I can comprehend, I’m quite sure. Got it. Good. Because I’d cry if I had to cut my hair; it took forever to grow.
So, hmm, okay then—tomorrow I might add a touch of dark red to my caramel-colored locks. Maybe just a few streaks. Actually, I just talked myself into this. Yeah, that’s happening.
Officially.
I’m losing track of time.
I look at Atlas. Can’t help it. I’m inclined to stare, but for now I’ve elected to settle for looks. He looks human, but he’s “only” half. Hello, mindfuckery.
I must be dreaming.
I could use a nap.
Just remembered an idea I have for a movie. I share it with him. It’s about a superhero whose powers go in and out like shitty WiFi. Visualize, for instance, being able to walk on water but not knowing when the signal might drop out. He seems to enjoy the essence of the premise, even offers a spin on my concept: what if the superhero can use powers only while under the effects of psychedelic drugs? Can you imagine flying Superman-style while trippin’ balls? That’s fun to ponder. Hell, you can have the idea. Seriously. It’s yours.

Go nuts.

I’m loaded with ideas. I can see myself mentioning many of them (to you/him) either randomly or purposefully.
In this particular moment, I’m not sure I fully understand why the boss of The Belanoc would work for any human, let alone a dumb old blowhard like Dick Purdy, so I ask Atlas for an explanation.

Perhaps this is hard to explain.

As I mentioned to Thierry, Severus surely does Purdy’s bidding begrudgingly—and only on extra special occasions—in exchange for significant political influence, not to mention a superfluous (and assumedly very substantial) monetary reward essentially just for gobbling brain matter. In this regard, I suppose that my rebellious uncle moonlights, at least arguably, as a “hitman.”
In other words {or so I’ve gathered (very recently)}, what a basic bitch.
“Atlas?” she utters in an equally distributed combination of her soft and sleepy voices.
Eek, and it’s devastatingly sexy.
And it’s the first time I’ve heard her say my (real) name.
And I’ve detected—what the fuck are these—chill bumps??
And I’m not sure if enough oxygen is getting to my brain.
I can only muster two whole letters, evidently: “Hi.”
“Have you ever worried that you’re incapable of producing offspring?” she poses with a hint of vulnerability in her voice. “I only ask because it’s a recurring nightmare for me.”
“I have, yes, but I don’t recall having done so until roughly five seconds ago.”
This is the part where she opens up about her traumatic backstory. I already knew much of it, but now I know it all. Once she unloads, I suggest that perhaps writing about it could be cathartic, therapeutic, and beneficial to others.
I suspect that she might just do it. (Obviously she does.)

The process of writing can be its own reward.

Every now and again, bad things impact good people.
Tragedy strikes like an angry, vindictive thunderbolt, often spawning a Category 5 hurricane of relentless emotions which could sabotage sound-minded judgment.
Yes, sometimes, shitty shit happens.
No, it doesn’t have to be this way.
No matter the calamity by/from which you falter, you will can recollect and recover—perhaps even realize the error of your ways (if applicable)—but you may assume by then that you’re “in too deep” to get out.
You’re not.
You never are.
There is always a hard way forward; otherwise, people wouldn’t be able to backtrack so easily.
In general, the easy road is not the one that promises the most value.
In other words, as opposed to dying down, try growing up.
Additionally, given time’s longstanding demonstration of an unrivaled propensity to expire, (you better) make haste.
And start yesterday.

Don’t squander your existence.
Live.
Before opportunity evaporates.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Thierry begins hesitantly, “and don’t take that the wrong way either,” [oh my god, where is she going with this?], “but can I just sleep with you tonight?”
And now my heart [hers] is punching its own chest [mine] from the inside. I can neither make eye contact nor speak. I’m virtually certain that if I open my mouth, whatever comes out will make me sound like a teenage boy up to his bony little ass in pubescently uncontrollable vocal range.
Hmm, yeah, maybe she’s rubbing off on me.
All I can do is nod.
Without speaking, she accepts my invitation.

No “funny business” (tonight).
Safety and security first.
We just need sleep.
Seriously!

For the very first time, I crawl into bed with him. [I remember it vividly.] We’re not touching, but he’s so fucking hot—like oh my gawd.
No, not like that.
Well, yes, fine, like that, too. (Shut up [I’m talking to myself].)
But I’m referring to the temperature of his skin. Despite the lack of physical contact, it’s impossible to miss his status as a frickin’ flesh-furnace. This works out well for me because I’m pretty much always cold, especially my toes.
Holy hell, I’m thirsty.
And I can tell that he’s nervous. I’ll bet he can tell that I can tell.
Gosh, he seems human. Why am I not kinda weirded out by the other half? “Galacian?” I ask (for the third time) just to reconfirm (again).
“Correct.”
It’s not every day that I learn a new word. Always exciting. Hurrah for reality-bending wisdom.
Thanks to his facial muscles, I can see his head churning. He has a lot to say but seems content to call it a day. Understandable. The two brains in this room are fried.
Wow, okay, now I really, really wanna press my head against his chest and listen to his heart{beat}. But I’ll keep that to myself for the time being. It’s too soon to introduce him to that level of my weirdness, methinks.
At some point during our overnight roadtrip—can’t remember which vehicle, honestly—he floated a vague idea about hiding me in a safehouse of sorts. Well, that idea just sank because this just clicked: “I don’t want you to hide me.” He glances my way, waits for more, knows it’s coming. “Even if we’re in the thick of it—or whatever—I won’t feel safer than I do with you.”
His half-grinning cute-ass face lets me know that he sees my point.
But I’m big on verbal confirmation today, apparently; thus: “‘Kay?”
He processes my proposal for several seconds. “Consider me your bodyguard.”
So good to hear. And I wanna make a stupid joke about “calling me Al” but I just can’t string it together in this condition.
Since the day I met him, we’ve been melding in the most pleasantly surprising of ways.
Around him, I can’t not feel warmth. From multiple angles.
To hugely understate how that makes me feel, I’ll admit freely that in this, I find a solace like I’ve never known. And I’ve been through some shit.
As a personality-driven rule, I talk a lot, especially around him, and he has always listened to every (first and) last word.
Also, uh, hi, got a developing situation here, can’t really explain it at the moment because I haven’t gathered enough data, but my body might be broadcasting signals that it wants needs his. Involuntary stuff is happening to me in certain, um, regions. A region, more specifically. Maybe I’ll elaborate some other time unless I decide it’s none of your beeswax. Stay tuned?
This couldn’t be newer to me.
Given my newfound knowledge regarding the place where Homo sapiens actually sit in the planet’s food chain, should{n’t} I be more frightened? Because right now I’m not even worried about the creatures that remain conscious for centuries—tactically interspersed throughout several hundred millennia of technologically enabled hibernation {in the case of galacians, not belanoc}—and source their calories exclusively from human brains. Hmm, I wonder if something’s wrong with me—you know, psychologically.
Damn it, do I need therapy?
Nah.
Well, maybe.
Suddenly I’m sleepy.
Reckon I could get used to this persistently life-threatening reality.

Time creeps.

My stomach won’t stop growling and my ticker has lost its damn mind. Probably eighty beats a minute right now. Embarrassing! And it’s her fault.
Not sure what this could be if not “love.”
What am I even saying?
And no wonder love has been notoriously difficult to define/describe simply.
I need to be asleep; this is insane. Right on cue, a river of thought begins gushing from my mouth outta nowhere:
“Back in ‘05, this fellow—his name was Robert; no, Bobby; well, probably either, inferably—I think he earned a physics degree from a school in the Pacific Northwest. Arguably irrelevant; dunno why I said it. Medium story shortish, Bob took issue with the Kansas Board of Education’s decision to change their required curriculum pertaining to how evolution was taught in favor of opting to begin introducing intelligent design—which, as I’m sure you know, can only be called ‘science’ if one attaches the prefix ‘pseudo’ to the front. But, I guess, as is the case with most any movement that gains traction, truth can be found therein by anyone who knows how to translate. Anyway, Bob. He created a new religion called Pastafarianism, the deity of which is none other than the Flying Spaghetti Monster, an invisible being that conjured the universe—in another word, ‘God’—then he composed an open letter insisting that this new religion be taught in schools. There are people today who subscribe to this. Oh, and meatballs are also featured in the Flying Spaghetti Monster’s imaginary physical form. One too many words to include in the official name; I get that; I’m as OCD about acronyms as you are. Hmm, now I’m questioning my recollection of his name. Maybe it’s not Bobby. Something childish, though. Like Chipper. Or Sparky. You’re not a baseball fan, are you?”
Wow, I should stop talking immediately, so that’s precisely what I do.
When I get really nervous, apparently, I’m prone to transforming into a blabbermouth.
(Thierry is the only person ever to make me nervous.)
Oh.
Hang on.
She just snored purred. Yeah, okay, wow, she is extra asleep. Phew. Maybe she didn’t hear any of that.

Find your person.
Make him/her the first sight you perceive each morning.
Profit.

When I wake up at 10:53 on the dot, the first thing I notice is that my left foot is touching his right leg. He’s either still asleep, or faking it well.
Ack. Should I disengage? ‘Cause I don’t wanna. So maybe I’ll just think about it for a minute or thirty.
Damnation, his electromagnetic field feels better than good.
I hope he’s aware of that/this.
I’m like a schoolgirl who only just now recognized her attraction to the opposite sex.
Anyone {else} remember the moment they realized girls/boys weren’t “gross”?

Never hesitate to turn over a new leaf, especially when you’re drawn to it emotionally.
Unless, of course, mentally, you already know it’s a bad idea.
To put it simply (on purpose), being human is hard.
Emotions v. thoughts—an evenly matched tug-of-war for all/the ages.

Despite my long-closed eyelids, I’ve been awake for over an hour—I logged no more than ninety minutes of total slumber in three successive bursts of approximately equal duration—and unless Thierry was sleepwalking just now when she checked her new cellular device [internet only (for now)] to learn the time of day, she’s conscious, too.
She accumulated at least 3.5 hours of shuteye. Under these most unusual circumstances, that’ll do.
As we [you & I] speak communicate, my heart rate remains total bullshit, for lack of a better way to put it. If my her life depended on my ability to run sprint a mile in less than two minutes at this moment, well, I’m just not sure that I would succeed. How frustrating—you have no idea.
How do you people deal with all the troublesome emotional interference??
Yes, you people. Humans.
Color me flummoxed!
(I’m fine, right?)

As hours do, another passes.

But it felt like twenty minutes tops. And we’re still touching. I’m in heaven despite the deadly living hellscape we face on the horizon.
Finally, Atlas speaks, “My internal clock tells me that it’s noon.”
Suppose he knew I was awake. I consult my new favorite phone ever. 12:01. “You need to wind your mental clock back one minute exactly.”
“Done.”
Quick-witted, this lad. I’m curious: “How long have you been awake?”
“Hmm.” His brow furrows. “Hard to say—not too long—got distracted contemplating possibilities for today’s itinerary, came away with a rough plan.”
“Do tell.”
He tells.
I’ll break down the first chunk as economically as my hyperactive head will permit. Bring all the supplies inside the room. He drives the Land Rover a few miles away to hide it somewhere in plain sight, jogs back here at a very comfortable pace of four minutes per mile. Meanwhile, using one of his secure laptops, whatever that actually means—I dunno, fancy spy business—I search the web for a new vehicle preferably for sale by an individual owner who accepts cash. Once he returns, we take turns showering.
And that’s more or less what happens. Just like he drew it up. Easy and uneventful.
Oh, and one of his biggest suitcases was already full of brand new athletic garb (just for me), the entirety of which fits me (in all ways) perfectly. Highly functional gear for running from monsters. Fresh clothes feel better than ever this afternoon.
Oh, and my left foot stayed glued to his right leg the whole time we talked in bed until the plan was finalized and we mobilized. Basically I’m in kindergarten; leave me alone. (Don’t.)

There can be no substitute for physical contact.

After getting clean/clothed, I resume my search for a car. Awaiting my discovery are 4 messages—3 obvious scams but 1 potential score, to which I compose a short reply. Then: “Atlas?” I love saying his name aloud.
“Yessum?”
Trying not to blatantly bat my eyes at him, I inquire, “What’s your budget for this?”
He gives it some thought. “Less than three million. Technically.”
He’s not even being a smart-ass. That’s how his brain works. He’s breathtakingly literal. I’m about to say something—no clue what—but wait, hold up, already got a response to my reply! It’s promising. I look at Atlas and forecast, “I think I found a car.”
He’s curious. I can tell that he’s formulating an educated guess. He probably knows already, but I’ll bet he lets me (try to) surprise him.

Mutual trust is rare.
When you’re lucky enough to establish it, keep it safe.

We’re in an Uber on the way to meet the owner of the vehicle Thierry selected (for us) at a shopping center.
The driver of our evolved taxi hails originally from Rwanda, hardly speaks {English}, listens to 90s R&B. I like him.
If Thierry’s subtle smile is any indication, then she’s thoroughly enjoying her daydream. She catches me staring; I look away clumsily. She tells me, “I’m not even kinda sorry that I’m really excited about this.”
“Nor should you be.”
“And you know I don’t give two shits about cars, right?”
“Right.”
Given the agreed-upon price of 72k in cash, as well as a brief exchange we had three days after meeting, I know exactly what we’re getting into—down to the model and year—but I’m unable to confidently predict the paint color. I’d guess something…neutral.

Though patterns tend to repeat, details often do not.

We just got here and I already see the prize.
As we approach, I side-eye Atlas. Surely he sees it, too. Yup, he does. And he definitely doesn’t disapprove. “Did you already know?”
He shrugs. “It might’ve been one of my ten guesses.”
Whatever. He knew. I’m so fine. He’s cute.
Anyway, it’s a silver 2019 Tesla Model S Performance, 0-60 in <3 seconds, 22,111 miles.
The hasty transaction goes off without a hitch. We suspect that the well-to-do, stank-faced, Botox-lipped lady who sold it did so outside her soon-to-be ex-husband’s awareness just to spite him. Works for us!
Once I calm down a little and stop acting like a kid on Christmas morning, just as we’re about to drive our sweet new wheels back toward the hotel room, I notice a store that I know will offer products I’d quite like to acquire. “Mind if I pop in there for three minutes? I know exactly what I want.”
He kinda looks disappointed that I asked. “Of course not.” With that, he leads the way, and happily I follow.
Five minutes later—fuck, yeah, blew that prediction, but it’s okay—we’re in the Tesla and it’s in wonderfully electric motion. Maybe I like cars now. Hmph.
Oh, and I changed my mind about the dark red hair dye; went with light purple instead. Also I had to get lip gloss. Reasons, okay? Got extra, too. Hush. Talking to myself again.
Relatively speaking, this is a good day.

Never feel bad about feeling joy.
After all, you can’t help it.

By dusk, the Tesla—hmm, needs a name; let’s go with Gloria—is jam-packed and we’re hitting the road. We’re headed west on I-40. Won’t get far tonight. Sleep is needed. The western border of Arkansas is the goal.
Tomorrow, Atlas plans to contact his best bud [EQ2] from the secret government organization [“Bessi”] where he grew up. They haven’t seen each other since 1979.
That’s obviously effing crazy as hell.
I still have so much to learn.
Putting together this otherworldly puzzle (bit by bit) has been surreal.
All the lingering mysteries in the cosmos, as well as within the confines of my own personal universe, are starting to make all the sense in the world, one piece at a time.
Finally, I’m finding my purpose.
Yup, this is it.
And it’s as if—since I was, oh, about five years old—I’ve been looking for him (specifically), someone I shouldn’t have thought could exist but would constantly feel his presence regardless, a living being who, by my (own) unreasonable standards, sets the bar safely out of reach.
Atlas hasn’t even kissed me (yet), but somehow I know that we’ll be together forever. I’m also pondering baby names just in case.
For reasons that I haven’t quite grasped, metaphorically, he has extended his hand to me. Me, of all people. An underachieving fuck-up with a lifetime of shitty luck. I have been offered his hand? Okay then. I’ll take it. And I won’t be letting go.

What can any dot do beyond clamor for a reciprocal, meaningful, powerful connection?

Your dot is out there somewhere.
You have my word.
Consider taking it.

III.