The line for the Shake Shack spilled out the door onto Newbury Street. Elizabeth begged Jules to grab something elsewhere. But Jules craved a burger, and Elizabeth couldn’t refuse her, so they waited fifteen minutes. After standing there with the smell of greasy meat for so long, Elizabeth wanted one too. Jules looked great today. ...

Almost a week after it happened, Elizabeth told Jules she had gone to see Mr. O’Donnell. They were both folding laundry in the room. The topic came up because Mr. O’Donnell had called that morning, asking Elizabeth to run some errands. She’d agreed, but knew that Jules would eventually demand an explanation. She wasn’t good ...

Elizabeth called her Uber and drove back to International Village. Exhaustion swept over her as she sat in the car thinking about dinner. Mr. O’Donnell reminded her a lot of her grandfather on her dad’s side, who had died some years earlier. They used the same mannerisms, the same old adages and archaic phrases. It ...

“Elizabeth, you look radiant. Welcome to the Menton,” he said. The chef bowed to the pair and returned to the kitchen. Elizabeth greeted James in kind and sat down across from him at the table. She looked around for a menu but found none. “It’s not that kind of place, I’m afraid,” said Mr. O’Donnell, ...

Over a week had passed since the shooting. Elizabeth spent most of her recovery in her room hanging out with Jules. She had to avoid screens for the first few days, so they would sit and listen to podcasts instead of watching anything. Her parents had visited the weekend before, which was nice but also ...

He was an unimposing, but very interesting figure. “My name is James O’Donnell. I wanted to come in person to express gratitude for interposing last night and make sure you’re okay.” “I should be thanking you,” Elizabeth said. “You had everything handled and saved me after I tried to play hero.” “Yet I doubt you ...

“Lizzie?” She realized she’d zoned out of the conversation while her parents were play-fighting. Jules was looking at her, concerned. “Sorry, my head hurts, but I’m okay.” She gave a loose synopsis of the situation, about the old man and the two gunmen. She minimized how close she came to dying from the gun pointed ...

Elizabeth didn’t sleep well. She woke every few hours, either to some noise or because she was uncomfortable. She dreamt of the old man and the ring, a different dream every time she fell asleep. They were in the diner, but it was only the two of them in there. She sat on the ground ...

Across from her, stuck to the bar, was a fragment of bone, glued to the surface by a glob of viscera. It made Elizabeth queasy, but somehow her intense focus on it prevented her from throwing up. The white shard eventually fell. No one noticed but her. The old man snatched the discarded weapons and ...

paddling in time, tracing tranquility’s lines.  rowing upstream,  or flowing downstream– no matter.  time floats in no direction. time hears no commands. time flies in the sky. time is not a passenger. time neither says hello nor goodbye. time never dies.  Editor: Erynn Crittenden