Saturday, April 4, 2015



The noises from above are enough to make me scream, but my voice stays hidden in my throat, stuck there for several heartbeats before I can find it.  

At first it's just a rattle or two of boxes.  

Great, I think to myself, I have a rodent.  Then the rattles turn into thumps.  Okay, maybe it's a family of rodents.  Then the thumps multiply themselves.  I hear a moan and then more movements, like there's a fight of some sort going on.  But that doesn't make any sense.  Then I hear the sound of glass breaking.  
"What the fuck?"  I try to sound loud and brave.  I turn the garage lights on and grab for one of the garden shovels on the wall.  So, maybe it's raccoons.  Another burst of sounds from above.  A family of them.

That's when I see it, something sharp sticks out from one of the attic's floorboards.  What is that?  What the hell is it?  And why is the attic door open?  I haven't been up there since I moved into the house.

"Who's up there?"  I call out and after a moment's thought I add, "I have a gun!"

I should really fucking buy a gun and learn how to use it.  Add that to my list of to do's for the weekend.  Do dishes.  Dump Brian.  Buy gigantic fuck-off gun.

I don't know why I think it will help, but I decide to make as much noise as possible.  I open the door that leads from my detached garage to the stone path and stairs to my house.  For a moment I think about running for it, but hesitate when I hear a crack that sounds like lightening hitting the earth, followed by an awful howl and a high-pitched screech. 

"Hello?  Are you okay?  I know someone's up there.  I'm, I'm calling the cops, damnit."

"Great," I mumble, "tell the bad guy you're calling the cops. Good move."

Standing there debating my next move, I startle when the attic door releases and pops open, just enough for me to see the ladder.

Then I see it.  Blue eyes stared at me.  Four white paws and two white ears twitch back.  It lowers its head and looks at me before cocking its head to the right and panting a bit.  A dog is in my attic?  Then it blinks twice at me and I swear that it smiles before it noses something into sight until something dark falls to the ground at my feet that causes me to jump back. 

Black and matted fur.  My body reacts immediately in two different ways.  I scream like a little girl and raise the shovel above my head then slam it down as hard as I can on the object that I decide is my enemy.  It flops up in the air and falls quickly back down with a wet plopping sound.

A dead rat.  A soft chortling sound from above.  I look quickly back up at the animal in the attic.  It appears to be smiling at me and, was that a chuckle?

"Are you laughing at me?"  The animal chortles again in reply.

"Hey," I say, "I'm the one with the weapon here, buddy," and wave the shovel around above my head again, careful to avoid getting any bits of rat on me.

"So, you're a dog," I said, channeling my best adult voice, "in my attic."

The blue eyes blink and the dog cocks its head to one side.

"How the hell did you get up there?" I ask the furry face.  As if in reply, the dog pushes at the ladder with its nose until it starts to unfold a bit.  The dog follows soon after, tumbling to the ground in a leap that is both impressive and clumsy.

The animal unfolds itself from the ground and stands up slowly.  I realize that I'm in a pickle.  This isn't a dog.  This is a wolf.  A long-legged, large white wolf that comes up to my hips and is barrel chested.  With fangs.  Not teeth. 

"Okay," I say, as I tighten my grip on the shovel.  "No problem.  I'm going to back out of here and then you just leave, okay?"  I try to sound calm.  I try to back out slowly.  I realize that I really need to pee.

The wolf lowers its head and cocks it to one side again, while it watches me.  Then it lays down on the ground and rolls over onto its stomach.  Everything is white except for a patch of red blood on the beast's front leg and I realize the blood is his, discovering the wolf to be male.  The creature let its tongue loll out to the side and pants while he looks at me.  I think he's trying to smile at me.

"Shit," I say softly, mostly to myself.  The wolf pants again and then it whimpers.

"Shit," I repeat to the wolf, and decide to test things out.  I lower the shovel a bit.  The wolf makes no move.

"Alright, look, I can help you, but only if you're not going to eat me for dinner."

No reply.  Of course no reply, I scold myself.

"Right," I say, hoping that I sound authoritarian enough to pull this off, "I'm going to come closer now, and you are not going to hurt me," pointing my finger at him for emphasis.

Because this is a smart idea, I tell myself in a manner that's more question than fact.

I inch forward slowly and try to avoid the dead rodent on my path to the wolf.  His blue eyes look at me and he whimpers again.  I watch his tail move.  At first it's just a swish against the floor.  Long, thick and bushy.  The closer I get to him the more it turns into a wag.  His tongue laps the air and I hope it's not because he's hungry for human.  He repeats himself and he looks more like a dog to me. 

"Please don't wreck this moment by chomping me to pieces," I tell him, and finally stand next to him.  The wolf stays still, his eyes continue to follow me.  Then he shifts his head sideways and waits.  I carefully poke my foot against his neck, gently sliding my foot back and forth against it.  The wolf does nothing, as though patiently waiting for me to do more.

"Right," I say with marginally more confidence, "I'm going to sit down now on the floor with you.  Do not try to eat me, okay buddy?"

I move slowly to sit down and lean back on my knees.  Slowly, I reach out with one hand and stroke the wolf's neck.  He whimpers again and moves his neck to inch closer to my hand.

"Okay, big guy, let's see how bad it is.  Will you let me take a look?"

The wolf raises its head up and down once, and I take this for an answer.

Gingerly, I make my way to the front leg and discover that it's still bleeding.  I find the opening of the wound.  It looks like a long slash, jagged and thin, but deep.

"You poor guy,"  I murmur, and run my fingers gently behind his ear to scratch it for him.  He rolls his head back to face me and gently licks my hand in reply.

"Your eyes are so blue," I say, a little in awe.  They're like sapphires.  They look like they're asking me for help.

That's decided then.

"I think you might be a wolf-dog.  Or maybe you're a giant husky. Which means you might be someone's pet.  So, let's see if I can get you in the car and take you to the vet."

Slowly I stand, unsure about how he'll react to my moving quickly around him, and move to the other side of the garage, to find some sheets in one of the storage boxes that I keep for fix-it projects.

I pull three of them out and set one of them on the back seat of the car, after shoving shoes and clothes onto the floor.  I make my way back to the animal and sit down next to him again.  Working slowly, I fold a second sheet in half once and then again.

"Roll over," I instruct, and the animal obeys, shifting onto his back again, so that all four legs are in the air.

"Good start," I tell him, "maybe you are someone's pet."

I do my best to bind the animal's leg so that the bleeding will stop, or at least be contained.  He watches me and waits until I secure the sheet tightly around his leg.

"Okay, that'll have to do for now," I tell him.  "Let's go."

I stand up and head to the back of the car, opening the door for him.

"Come," I command and point at my foot.  He gets up and walks slowly to me.  I notice that he doesn't put his paw on the ground.  My voice softens as I watch him make his way to the car.

"Okay, big guy, let me help you up,"  I say, and carefully lift him up without touching his wounded leg, until I can shift and nudge him up and onto the seat.  He whimpers a bit.  It takes some effort, but once I got him up there, he flops down onto his good side and stays still, panting quietly, while I close the door and sit down in the driver's seat.

The drive to the vet's office is slow.  I don't want him to feel any bumps in the road, and I'm not sure that I can trust him yet, so I keep glancing at him in the mirror.  I can feel him watching me the entire ride to the vet.

When we reach the office, I realize I don't have a leash.  "Stay here," I tell him, "I'll go get help."  I leave the window open just a crack for fresh air while I go inside.

The vet tech who listens to my story comes out with me, armed with a small tranquilizing needle and is accompanied by another tech who is a giant of a man.  He carries a catching pole and has a collar and a leash tucked into his back pocket.  I tell him the pole won't be necessary.

The first tech looks at the animal and assesses him through the window.

"Wolf-dog," she claims.  The man with the pole nods.

"I don't think you'll need to sedate him," I tell them, "he was very gentle with me and let me pick him up to get him in the car."

"Hmph," the woman grunts, "well let's see if we can get the pole on him."

"Can I try with the leash first?"  I ask.  The two of them exchange looks that don't mask their doubts, but the man shrugs and hands the leash to me along with the collar.  He stands behind me with the pole, looking like he's at the ready, knees bent and elbows cocked.

I open the door just a crack and the dog looks up at me first and then behind me as if to assess the situation.

"Okay, big guy, let's get you looked at by the vet, so you can feel better."

I show him the collar and he makes a grumbling sound that causes me to laugh.

"I know, but it's better than the pole or the needle, isn't it?"

No reply.

"I'm going to put this around your neck," I say, as I clip the leash to the collar and reach slowly for his neck.

His eyes shift up and down but then he raises his head up a bit.  I slide the collar over his head and look at him.

"Good boy," I tell him.  He grumbles.  It isn't really a growl, more of a quiet complaint.

"Okay," I say, and turning to the man, let him take over.

The man reaches down and slides a soft muzzle around the dog quickly and quietly.  I think it took the dog by surprise, but he doesn't have time to react to it before the man gently scoops him up and into his arms and carried him inside, careful not to touch his wounds.

I lock the car and follow them into the clinic where a chirpy woman named Rita asks me to fill out some paperwork while the staff takes a look at him.

"What's his name?" Rita asks me.  I shake my head in return.

"I don't know," I reply.  "I found him in my garage when I came home from work.  There was a dead rat in the garage.  I think maybe the dog bit it, and I'm pretty sure the rat scratched the dog."

Rita looks up at me and calls out for one of the techs to come up.  The woman who helped me earlier pokes her head out of a door.

"Jamie, this is . . ." Rita glances at the ID that I've handed to her, "Rory Layne."

Jamie nods at me in response.

"She found the dog in her garage with a dead rat.  She thinks it killed the rat and maybe the rat scratched or bit the dog."

Jamie looks back at me and asks me to join them once I finish filling out the paperwork.

"You're going to treat him, right?"  I ask her, feeling like the dog's advocate.  "I think he might be someone's pet."

"We're looking at him right now," Jamie answers quickly and then turns back to Rita to tell her to send me in when I'm done.

Rita hands me a clipboard and I sit down to fill out the paperwork before I'm shuffled into a small white room with the dog, Jamie and the other tech, who introduces himself to me as Fred.

It's Hard To Be A Bug


It is really fucking hard to hang onto a moving car when you are a fly.  First of all, that fucker is moving fast.  Really fast.  It's not fun. 

Everything I see up close is unfocused, so I don't really know what's going on around me but if I were able to turn my little head around I could see where we're headed off in the distance.  Instead I'm staring at what I hope is one woman driving the car, and not a bazillion of them, and I'm trying to tell her to open the frigging window and let me in.  

The problem is I didn't get into her car fast enough before she closed the door.  And she didn't open her windows because it was a little bit cooler outside.  So now here I am trying to stay attached to the outside of her windshield but not get sucked into the vents.

Eat a dick, wind.  You are not making it easy.

If only she could hear me screaming.  I could turn into something bigger, but that would freak her out, and I'm not ready for that yet.  Baby steps.

So I wait, and I hang on for my dear buggy life.  To cope, I scream tiny bug screams until finally, she comes to a stop and opens her windows to catch some fresh air.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Wings don't fail me now.  I boomerang myself into the air and fly into her car as fast as I can and settle on the passenger's side of the dashboard.  Far enough from her in case she decides to swat at me.  I don't need this relationship to start with violence.

Good, so far she hasn't noticed me.  Or she is a bug saver.  The car starts to move again and picks up speed.  I stay away from the vents and the window.  I don't need to have my work undone.

It's hard to tell what's going on because, I'm a fly.  Colors are all screwed up and I can't focus on much.  

She sings out loud.  The vibrations of her voice are awful.  She needs to stop.  Switch to NPR, woman, for the love of everything.

I know.  I'll distract her.  I launch myself up towards her ear to tell her to stop singing, but she swats me away.  I try again and Oh my God your hand is huge!  It's a bear's paw!

Alright, never mind.  I'll just ignore your miserable voice.  But we are going to have a conversation about it later.

When they sent me here they did not warn me that she was a karaoke lover.  Or that she was so messy.  When was the last time she cleaned this car?  I fly around the back seat and explore my surroundings.  You are not clean, lady.  She has shoes and tissue boxes and tubes of lipstick and socks and books and old maps back here.  And bags with sirens on it.  I think.  It takes a while for me to figure out what everything is.

It feels like we're slowing down, so I buzz my way back up to the front.  We're approaching her garage.  I know it's hers because I was here this morning to snoop around.

Things change.  The tiny hairs on my body stiffen.  He's here.  I know it.  His smell is obvious even when I'm stuck as a fly.  He smells sweet and rancid.  I had hoped to get here first.  So much for a slow introduction to her.  I fly out of the car as the garage door opens and she pulls in to park.

Where is he?  Then a noise from above.  I fly up to the attic.  It's open but the ladder isn't pulled all the way down to the floor.

I fly up into the attic and there he is.  Looking for something.  His body is stooped over, poking through boxes.  Others have been emptied without much care.  His smell is much worse now, sickly sweet and rotted.  He shifts his body to another box.  Thin and wrapped in robes, his hair is long, wiry and white.  It creeps down to his feet, which, I know are clawed stumps.  The back of his robe shifts.  His wings are folded underneath, but if they were to come out they would be expansive, black, and paper thin.  I watch him pick his way through each box.  One clawed hand reaches out to poke through old books.  He's so focused on the task at hand that he hasn't noticed me buzzing about.  Until he hears the music from the car below and turns around.

His face is hidden by the robes, except for his nose, which is long and pointed.  Sharp and curved downward like a sabre made of bone.  It's a dull black.  He slides the hood of his robe off his head.  His eyes are what catch me first.  There are no eyelashes.  Just eyelids that slope up and are silver like the moon.  The pupils are round and black as night and are surrounded by irises of fire with flames that stir within.  The pupils are encircled by a ring of yellow light, and the whites of his eyes house green flames that constantly swirl.

He stares down at the attic's floor and I watch his hands flex and release.  The car shuts off and I know what he'll do next if I don't stop him.

I focus on changing.  I feel my blood and my muscles and my bones as I shift and everything looks smaller as I become larger again.  I haven't gotten used to the pain yet but I have no choice.  Limbs stretch out and to the side and I am a young man standing behind him.

He hears me first and spins around, a horrible sight.  

He looks surprised for a moment and then he smiles.  His eyes burn brighter and flames burst out towards me.  I crouch down just in time for them to miss me then rush forward to knock him over but he blocks me and throws me to the ground.  His clawed hands cut into my arms.  I try not to cry out but I hear myself moan.  He turns to make for the attic's stairs.  I grab at his feet and miss twice before I succeed.  He lands with his nose stuck in a floorboard.  His hands flail out and knock a blue vase off of one of the boxes he had unpacked earlier.  It falls and breaks in shards across the floor.    

"What the fuck?"  She exclaims from below.

His body grows still along with mine for just a moment.  Then he turns himself.  He shrinks to the size of a rat and makes for the stairs to escape.  I swing out at him and fling him across the attic.  He scurries across behind boxes.

"Who's up there?  I have a gun!"

No, she doesn't, but she really should.

I try to stay quiet as I look for him while I make my way to the attic's door. There he is, behind a few old lamps, two eyes burn in my direction.  I catch the handle of the door and close it shut to protect her from him.  I shift my focus and turn my hand into a whip of fire, up to my shoulder and blink back tears, trying to push past the pain.  I hear her down there, calling out again, and turning on the lights.  Rattling around for something to use.

He starts to turn again, this time into a wolf, with matted fur the color of tar.  Before he can fully turn, I lash out at him with the whip and cut him.  The whip cracks again at him, and I feel it slice him.  He howls and screeches, writhing on the ground an ugly beast not fully one thing or another.  His teeth snap at the air.  I let the whip turn to blade and pierce him, stabbing twice, until he shrieks.  I'm shocked that I feel myself plunge into him, forgetting for a moment what I was taught.  If you turn to something like a sword, you don't lose your sense of touch.  You still feel.  The air pops audibly.  I watch as his eyes burn out and his body, not fully turned, shifts back to what it last was, now a dead rat.

"Hello?  Are you okay?  I know someone's up there.  I'm, I'm calling the cops, damnit."

I hear her mumble to herself, "Great, tell the bad guy you're calling the cops. Good move."

Looking around, I see no way out.  No other option then but to turn again.  I'm not ready for her to meet me like this.  But to what?  Then I realize what I need to be. 

When I was learning about humans, I discovered that they kept animals as pets.  Dogs in particular.  There's one that stood out in my studies.  I hear her mustering the courage to open the attic, stomping around loudly and banging the shovel against the garage's walls and tables.

I unlatch the attic door and turn again.  Fuck, this hurts.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Hctib Afonos!


First of all, the size of my breasts is of no concern to anyone reading my story.  That being said, I should second that my ass is indeed fantastic.  

(Oh, so you can talk about your ass, but I can't?  You know, I said it was nice, not fantastic.  That's not fair, that's just - ow! Hctib afonos!

You've really got to learn how to swear properly if you're going to try to do so.

The thing I should mention is I don't know how to tell a good story.  I'm great at the beginning and end bits, but the meat of it is where I lose my way.  Details.  They turn fuzzy.  So if I get this wrong, I'm sure that someone will interject with corrections.  Or opinions.  Some of which will be embellished or just plain stupid.


Oh sure, scratch yourself while you're at it, why don't you?  Animal.  

(Obvious statement.  Tiny human.)

Flea-ridden dog.

(You should bathe me more often.)


(This isn't going anywhere, you know.  You're just putting off telling them the truth.  Go on.  Tell them.)

Alright, alright.  Fine.  The reason we're telling you our story is because, well, someone needs to know what we've done.  It's not every day that you get to save the world.  Let alone two of them.  Since we might not succeed, someone needs to know what happened.  Then maybe you can get us out of the mess we're in.  And it's all his fault, by the way, if we screw it up.  

(Oh, thanks a lot, lady.)

You're welcome.

You should know that he's gotten most of it right so far.  I am bored.  I love what I do for a living.  I recruit managers for hotels around the country, but the office where I work is toxic and bland.  Adam, the boss, and founder of the company, is an ancient man who thinks that the 1970s was our peak decade.  Anything that has happened after 1979 is unimportant.  He wears plaid suits, pointed leather shoes, and has no idea how to use 'the Google.'  He treats the office like its his kingdom.  We've caught him referencing himself as Adam the Great, but I have another name for him.  Adam the Perv.  He spends most of his days in the office shining his shoes until he swears that he can see his face reflecting back at him.  I think it's so he can look up our blouses, as opposed to down them, you know, to keep things fresh.  

The Office Manager, Alice, sounds like Darth Vader.  She smokes five packs a day.  Alice decorates her desk with pictures of her overfed pet rats.  She has six of them and has named them all after Russian politicians.  Ironically, Putin is the largest of them.

Richard is another one of the recruiters.  We should be on the same team, but we're not.  Richard is one of those office mates who greets you with a smile if he wants something from you and otherwise ignores you as though you were a potted plant.  He sings Broadway tunes at an alarmingly constant rate.  He has a fantastic voice, but is bitter because his musical career has not garnered much attention.  Apart from a Huggies commercial, where he played the chubby balding father, his career consists mostly of community musicals and plays.  He's in rehearsals for The Music Man now.  It's the eighth time he's performed it.  This time it's in Wilmette.  If I have to hear him sing "Seventy-Six Trombones" one more time, I really am going to burn the building down.

(Me too.  I've caught her singing it to herself.  Richard may have a handsome voice, but this lady cannot carry a tune.  Trust me.  She goes from sounding pretty to croaking and squeaking in zero to five.)

Thanks.  The only saving grace, aside from loving my clients, is Anne.  She's the other recruiter in our office.  She just moved to Minnesota and is working out of her home.  Which mostly translates to her porch from May - September and her study during the colder months.  Anne is nurturing.  Holistic.  If doctors opened her up, they'd find she has a heart too big to fit in her chest.  Her backbone is larger than you think it would be when you first meet her.  She has the kind of courage that creeps up on you slowly, and doesn't melt away at the first sign of trouble.  Anne and my clients are the only reasons why I am still working for Adam the Perv.

Brian, on the other hand, is a very sweet, very kind man.  He's an Accountant for one of the Big Four companies and works in an office in a shiny glass building downtown in Chicago's Loop.  He loves it.  Numbers are his crack.  We met at a coffee shop and have been politely dating each other for a few months now.  Wait, make that six months.  Brian is safe.  I guess that's why I was initially attracted to him.  Predictable.  It's not fair though.  I can't date a man just because I know when he'll call me.  I plan on ending it with him this weekend.  Really, I mean it.

(Hmph, you know, I bet you've planned on dumping him for the last 10 weekends.  Really.)

But this weekend I am recommitted to doing so.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow I will be the evil dumper.  Tonight I will have wine.

(And meet me.  Don't forget about me.)

Right.  I guess we should move this along.  Back to the garage.  Where did you leave off?

(Will you just let them watch what happens, already?)

Right, got it.

"What the fuck?"

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Let Me Tell You A Story


Rory rolls her shoulders to ease the tension.  Shit, this traffic sucks.  A common thought during her daily commute to and from the office.  24.4 miles each way.  Or 25.4, depending on the route she takes.  This is a superfluous detail.  She's full of them.  

6.8 miles left.  Bruce Springsteen croons out a song via her cell phone.  Brian.  She lets him go to voicemail.

Her hair is neither blonde nor brown, neither short nor long and is often stuck in a ponytail, if it's not worn down.  She never took the time to figure out how to do more than a ponytail, bun or braid.  Much to her regret, she does not live next to a fabulous neighbor who happens to be a stylist.  Apparently life is not a rom-com full of convenient characters and plots.  

Rory stares at her reflection in the mirror and notes that her eyes are darker than usual, reflecting her mood.  Her eyes are blue, darker than her mother's, with less of a light and more of a swirl of blues and greens.  She admits to liking them.  They soften when she is happy, but are otherwise like the onset of a storm when clouds darken.  She studies them while she waits at a red light on the corner of you don't care and neither do I.  Time for a change, she thinks.  She needs to shift her focus from one to the other.  A new job, a new man, a new haircut.  Something more than that.  But what? 

Green means go. 

Her relationship with Brian has lasted for a few months, but it's too vanilla for her.  It's not his fault.  He's nice enough.  Midwestern, with all of the wholesome suburban qualities the term implies.  This is the problem.  At thirty plus a year, nice enough is not cutting it anymore.  

Fingers tap against the sides of the steering wheel.  The September sky is perfect tonight.  She loves a good sunset.  The moon is hungry tonight; bright orange and huge.  Is it more like a blood red?  Rory blinks and rubs her eyes, deciding they must be dry and tired. 

At a second light, she inches forward and squints, concentrating on the pigments of the harvest moon.  Red.  Too bad the camera's in the trunk.  Maybe the moon will wait for her to get home before it fully rises and changes colors again.  She hasn't seen a red moon since last year when Henry died.  The thought distracts her until the blue Audi behind her reminds Rory of where she is.  The man gestures in a rude manner like an Italian as he passes her.  "From New York," she notes aloud to herself, "Figures."  She waves back at him.  Kill them with kindness, she reminds herself and smiles casually at him as she drives alongside his car.  The Audi guy looks like a fat George Clooney.  Rory pictures him sidling up to a bar in the Gold Coast, preying on hot young blondes.  At the next light his eyes linger on her and he studies her breasts.  Fat Clooney winks at Rory.  She ignores him and rolls the windows up with a decisive tap of her finger.  

Rory shifts in her seat and scrolls aloud through the laundry list of tasks to complete before climbing into bed.  I won't bore you with it but it does include both laundry and dishes.

Rory is a mostly good person.  Typically good-natured.  Usually friendly.  Feisty, witty, intelligent, funny.  Lately on edge and numbed by boredom.  Too sedated and unchallenged.  That's going to change in about 3.6 miles.  She has no clue what's going to happen to her, but I do.  She'll say later that everything that happened was my fault.  I say I was the best thing to happen to her.  That's humans for you.  Complain, complain, com - right, better pay attention here, it's not easy to hold on to a moving car and it's hard for me to focus with these eyes.  Although I can tell you that Fat Clooney has good taste in breasts.  She has a great ass too, especially for a short white gal.

Ouch!  Quick kicking me, lady.  I'm just saying.

2.4 miles and her mood starts to improve as she passes Victorians and Colonials.  Pajamas!  Dinner!  Modern Family!  She's thinking about the weekend ahead of her.  Dump Brian, schedule drinks with Alex and Georgia for sympathy and reassurance, cut hair, bike 50 miles.   Maybe take Monday off to shop for new clothes and revamp that old profile on

Shit!  She just kicked me.  You're lucky I have six of those, lady.

I should get to the point.

Rory lives in the suburbs of Chicago.  It's got houses, Protestant churches, schools, shops to buy overpriced art and vases, a few restaurants, and two bars.  Whatever, it's got stuff.  Do you really care about these details?  It's actually pretty enough, I guess.  The town she lives in is idyllic for parents but teenagers call it Borington.  Unless you're popping out babies there's not much for you to do here.  Still, it's where she grew up, so she bought a house once she had enough money saved.  Apparently you need to kill trees to turn them into paper to buy a home.  This world kills everything, even plants.  You people need to work out your aggression.  Anyways, her family is gone now, but she decided to stay.

Finally!  She pulls up to her house.  Two stories with a garage and a neat yard that she pays a landscaping crew to mow.  One of them is teaching her Spanish.  She's not picking up on it very fast.  She just added a fence for a future dog.  It's light blue.  The house, not the fence.  Not that this matters. 

She opens her garage and pulls into it, parks the car, turns it off, and emits a happy sigh.  She cracks her neck twice, lugs her briefcase and purse over her shoulder, and slips one foot out of the car but stops when she hears a sound.  A soft whimper, like an animal.  Or a small child.  She's not sure.  It sounds like the it's coming from under her car.  Another sound.  No, it's coming from above.  Her eyes widen as she looks up and says, "What the fuck?" 

Get ready for it, this is where I enter.  Now it gets good. 

Glass breaks.