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MEA
Enzo Stephens
Mirabella, Now
Mirabella – Bella for short – gingerly placed a cup of scalding chamomile-chai tea on an intricately scrolled end table. She stood before that table, studying minute variations in the flow of the cherry woodgrain; at once, rich, dark, flowing into a subtle brightness that never failed to impress her with its infinite, simplistic yet somewhat chaotic beauty.
Yeah, she admonished herself. It’s a wood table. Convenient. Sturdy. Clean. A matched set, its companion coffee-table strategically placed before an overstuffed sofa with a vague, floral print. Comfy stuff. But she still wished it was crammed with Memory Foam instead of whatever the heck was in there.
Bella glanced at her favorite chair in her small house, performed a deft, military-style about-face, and sank into its surprising depths, permitting a small ‘ahhh’ to escape her thin lips.
Her tea was still hot, ethereal wisps of steam rising, delicate in their dissipation. Too hot, she mused, so she leaned to her right and hoisted a worn six-string acoustic from its stand, resting its bulky box on her right thigh. It felt good. Right. One of the true Loves-of-Her-Life (and there weren’t very many of those, no siree).
She eschewed a flimsy, triangle-shaped pick, allowing the fingers of her right hand to drift downward in a loose strum, smiling as the tones resonated within her.
The instrument was well-tuned.
The instrument brought her joy.
It was steady, reliable; a friend that comforted her soul, helping her to push her past mistakes into the rear-view mirror, where they belonged. She let the fingers of her left hand slide over frets idly, no particular tune or song in mind as the fingers of her right hand caressed steel strings.
This went on for a while. Her mind roamed as it often did when she strummed like this. That her tea had likely cooled enough to drink was an idle thought, fleeting in its mundanity.
Time was like that to Bella anymore. She’d become a true octogenarian a couple of weeks ago, and time seemed to lose its significance in her life. After all, what did she have to keep a schedule for? Doctor appointments? Bella grimaced. “Bah!”
She did not like the medical system in the least bit. Inconsistent, expensive and unreasonably demanding that she keep their schedules that they set for her (without her damned consent, mind you).
Yeah, enough of that insipid negativity. She took a sip of her tea and replaced it on the end table, just as a small sigh escaped her. Bella closed her eyes and let her fingers charm the cozy space where she lulled. Floating, her mind awash with resonant harmonies.
The rustle of a key penetrating the deadbolt on her front door rousted her. Unconsciously, she sat up a bit straighter as her fingers ceased caressing her six-string.
The rustling stopped, followed by a click as the deadbolt snapped open; a sudden twist of the doorknob, a small gust of chilled, autumn breeze, and in stepped a man made of iron. Brock. Her son. A tall, clean-shaven ramrod of a man with close-cropped hair and impeccably clean shoes. First impression would scream United States Marine Corp! Not for the first time did she wonder just how in the hell he came to be that way.
He extracted his key from the lock, swung the door closed, and turned to face Bella from across the small, cozy room. “Mother.”
Bella smiled at him, lowered her guitar to its stand beside her. “Brock.”
Her only child strode into the room, aiming for the fireplace; purposeful, economical in his movements. Tucked in the crook of his left arm was a rectangular box, about the size of a box one would use to package a small, kitchen counter-top appliance, such as a small coffee pot or a water-boiler. He placed it on the mantle as Bella noted the plainness of the carton.
No labels, no colorful displays of happy people sipping steaming brews. Just a simple, tan box with a string of numbers along one side, toward the bottom.
Still facing the mantle, he removed a small, clear, plastic Ziploc baggie from his jacket and rested it beside the box. “What did you bring me today, Brock? Doesn’t look like a box of chocolates.”
His reply was stone-silence. He crouched down on fifty-year-old, fluid knees and began poking at the charred debris in the fireplace. “It’s chilly in here.” He poked at the fireplace flue, clanking it open, then snatched a page of newsprint from the kindling pail, twisted it, and shoved an end of it beneath thick, scorched logs. He dropped a couple of snapped twigs atop the paper, still silent. A long match flared, then was tossed onto the pile.
“I don’t feel it. The chill …” Which wasn’t entirely true, she’d simply forgotten about the cold; lost in her strumming.
He stood, moved to the thermostat mounted on the central wall in the house, and leaned in close to read the barely illuminated numbers. “Mother, it’s 65 in here. We need to get it up to 70.”
Bella folded her hands in her lap. “Whatever, Brock. Set it where you like.”
“I will, but you’re just going to drop it down again, so what’s the point?”
“You’re a surly little crapper today.”
“Maybe. But we have to talk.”
“Go fix yourself a tea, then come join me. Do me a solid and heat mine up as well.”
He snared her cup and marched into the tiny kitchen. Too small for Brock’s tastes, but just fine for Bella’s. He wasn’t a fan, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his feelings with her.
The sound of tap water landing in the bowels of a mug; the microwave door popping open; ceramic sliding against a tempered glass surface; the microwave door clunking closed, followed by digital beeps, and then the hum of mechanically excited electrons reached Bella as she gazed at what Brock had placed on the mantle.
Curious, but patient. Brock would get to it in his own good time. Bella considered a return to her guitar but opted instead to wait for Brock. After all, according to him, they Had To Talk. When Brock spoke like that, well, let’s just say he is a man of few words.
He strode back into the room, placed her cup on the end table, then perched on the edge of the sofa, facing his mom. He sipped, slowly, cautiously, his eyes fixed on Bella, then set the tea on the coffee table.
“What did you want to talk about?” Best not to waste time with unnecessary banter with him; that’s not how he was built at all.
Wordless, he stood, strode to the mantle, snared the box and the Ziploc, and returned to his seat, perched like his mother, back ramrod straight. He placed the box on the floor between his feet and dangled the Ziploc out before him, and Bella saw what was in it. She allowed herself a small frown.
Brock yanked the seal open and slid a small device out, then held it up so that it dangled from a bright, blue-ribbon lanyard. “You know what this?”
Bella’s gaze grew flinty. “I’m not dragging that thing around with me, Brock. How many times do we have to have this argument?”
He sighed, looked down, shaking his head. Then, “Until you’re dead.”
A part of Bella marveled at his abruptness, terse to the point of downright rudeness. “Mind your tongue, boy.”
“Enough!” His voice was a deep, threatening rumble; a pit-bull warning something away from its food. “I am not having another argument with you over this.”
“Then get rid of it. I’m not interested.”
He turned, placed it on the table, then faced Bella again. “Here’s the way this is going to go, Mother.”
And with that, a small, ebon switchblade flicked open with a piercing snick. Brock drove the point into the top of the box, slicing the tape apart. The knife disappeared, and he opened the flaps of the box. He slowly extracted the contents of the box, which was sheathed in a white sheet of packing foam.
Brock peeled the packing foam away, revealing an obsidian urn. Ornately curved handles spanned the height of it on either side, and it reflected the morning’s light with a chilling effect on Bella. Her hand went to her mouth; her eyes widened. “Is that what I think it is?”
He sat the offensive thing on the thick carpet. “If you think it’s a cremation urn, then yes, it is.”
“Brock!” She pushed herself back in her chair, trying to get away from it. She glared at Brock.
His eyes seemed to soften; she read sorrow and compassion there, which surprised her more than the unboxing. “Mother—”
“–Get that damned thing out of my house!”
~~~
Summer of ’50, Wichita Kansas
“Mirabella Marie Franzetti! Get in here, pronto!”
Bella was seated at the kitchen table, forcing herself to focus on the unbelievably dry geography textbook opened to the section on ‘Continents of the World,” when her Papa barked that command.
Her head jerked up, eyes wide, even though mere moments ago she was struggling mightily to keep those eyelids open.
A dish clattered in the sink. “Well, at least I didn’t break it.” Becca Franzetti turned at the sudden masculine command that seemed to echo throughout their small two-story home. “Bella? What did you do now?”
“Ha ha ha ha ha! You’re in for it now, Binkie.” Of course, her older brother, Frankie, just had to chime in. He seemed to be obsessed with his little sister getting into trouble, though he once confessed to Bella that was so Ma and Papa would ignore him.
Fat chance. He was a booger, through and through.
Becca turned to face Bella. “Well? Don’t sit on your laurels, young lady. Get in there and see what your Papa wants”
“Yes Ma,” and she was out of her chair in a flash, all gangly arms and legs and wild ebon tresses flying all over the place as she darted from the kitchen, down a short hall, and then a sharp right turn, and then a quick stop, with a little bare-sock slide that put her right in front of her Papa. “Yes, Papa?”
Ma once told Bella that Papa was a very smart Engineer over at the Cessna plant, which was a golly-gee big deal. She’d informed Bella and Frankie of this because Mister Nunzio Franzetti was always puttering around the house with neat ideas and weird little gadgets that served some purpose, of which only he knew. Her way of explaining Papa.
“I ask you, my Little Swan, are you hot?”
Bella was indeed hot; it was sweltering in the mid-summer Kansas heat and humidity. The whirring electric fans strategically positioned around the house just pushed the hot air around and around. She brushed a trickle of sweat from the tip of her nose. (Ma always called her nose a ‘schnozz’, which sounded funny). “I guess so.”
“You don’t know?”
“I do, Papa.” She began shifting weight from foot to foot as her Papa stared at her with his unblinking coal-dark eyes. “Yes, I am hot.”
He smiled, and it lit his swarthy complexion. “Then, my Swan, we will go tomorrow to my work, and we will get things for my new project. Would you want to know what it is?”
Her fingers on both hands danced and thrummed against her blue jeans. Nervous energy. Her Ma said she was ‘twitchy’, because she fidgeted all the time, just as she was doing right then.
~~~
The Following Morning
Frankie Franzetti was playing stickball with his friends in the middle of the street. The Franzetti house was at the very end of the block of modest, white frame houses, with open fields to the west, leaving a whole lot of street to play and not fret about breaking windows.
Becca Franzetti stood on the front porch, a dish towel draped over her forearm. Silent, her eyes sparkling blue in the brilliant Kansas sun.
Nunzio backed the Ford station wagon over the gravel drive and literally bounced out of the car before the engine quit knocking. Bella was a bit slower than her dad and more than a little bewildered, not really grasping why her Papa was so excited.
Ma once said that Nunzio is ‘old country’. “What does that mean, Ma?”
“Old country?” Bella nodded. “Yes or no, young lady. I can’t hear your head rattle.”
“Yes, Ma.”
She nodded. “Old country’ means that your Papa was born in Italy, just south of Rome, in fact. You can look that up in your geography book. Those people tend to be… excitable.”
Indeed, Nunzio was excited, hauling large boxes from the back of the car. Bella met her Ma’s gaze and shrugged, as if to say, ‘No idea, Ma.’ Becca spun on her heel and disappeared into the house, her voice calling out, “Lunch will be ready in 15 minutes, so you two better have your hands washed and seated at the table.
Becca was in a mood because it was so ungodly hot.
Lunch was served: cucumber sandwiches, potato chips, and lemonade, which Nunzio wolfed down at high speed. Talking while his cheek bulged with half-eaten food. “I want to tell you about my project, but—” chew, chew, chew, gulp; “It will be so much the better for us. You wait, you see.”
Becca nodded, smiled, and patted Nunzio’s hirsute hand, while Bella resigned herself to munching as many potato chips as she could filch without her parents seeing her.
Becca saw her, and her smile for Bella was real and warm.
The big Project turned out to be a roof fan.
Several weeks working mornings, nights, and weekends, Papa Nunzio would excuse himself after a peck on Ma’s cheek and disappear upstairs where he would bang, saw, solder, weld, and handyman away, accompanied by a steady stream of cursing both in English and Italian.
The Project is Finished!
Then came a fresh Saturday morning. Not a cloud in the sky. A slight, swirling breeze flicked the wispy curtains in the house as Bella came downstairs with a yawn and shuffling feet, her eyes not yet fully open and functional. “Whass for breakfast?”
Papa was up and moving like a dervish. “Sit, sit, little Swan. It is a beeg day today!”
Ma stepped into the kitchen, and Papa repeated his performance for her, and last, of course, came 12-year-old Frankie, preceded by a loud fart. Ma glared at him. “What do you say, swine?”
Frankie plopped into a kitchen chair. “Sorry. ‘Scuse me.”
“I swear, boy, I will beat manners into your rump if I have to. Stop using your head for something besides a hatrack!”
“Enough, mi familia! It is time.” Papa strode to the wall on the other side of the kitchen and flipped a switch, grinning ear-to-ear.
A low hum filled the air as Papa joined his family at the table. The kids looked at him. “Nunzio? What is this?” The hum grew louder, deeper, and Bella felt her tangled mane start to ruffle.
A breeze kicked up, and to Bella it was absolutely wonderful after a night of full-on sweat. Nunzio reached for Bella’s hand, then Ma’s, and Frankie reluctantly joined them, and the breeze grew in intensity.
Wispy drapes fluttered in the wind, because that’s what the breeze had grown into. Wind. Nunzio jumped up. “Come!” And they did, bolting up the creaking stairs, staring up at the ceiling where this amazing appliance took up over half the hall ceiling. The thrum of it, that close, felt peaceful to Bella. She imagined how delicious it would be to sleep with this thing running, sucking all the hot air out of the house.
“This is wonderful, Nunzio!”
Nunzio Franzetti was judicious in operating the roof fan, only running it for 15 minutes every hour, and constantly reminding the family, as follows:
1. To Ma: “You must always run this like I am now.”
2. To Frankie: “You don’t touch nothing, Frankie, you hear!”
3. To Bella: “You don’t touch nothing, my Swan, you hear!”
Nunzio was the first to die in the fire, although some think that Frankie might have been the first. The condition of the bodies made it hard to tell.
But Becca was on the move as the electrical fire chewed hungrily at the frame house, literally chasing her out of the bedroom as she raced to get Frankie first and then Bella. She couldn’t find Nunzio through the billowing smoke that was searing her lungs.
She shouldered open the door to Frankie’s room on the run and was immediately blown backward by a blast of heat and blinding smoke.
She screamed for Frankie, Nunzio, anyone, but she had no idea if she was even making a sound. She felt a tug on the back of her nightgown. Whirling, she saw Bella, then snatched her up and crashed down the stairs, instinctively protecting Bella from the impact of the fall with her body.
Becca struggled to her feet, Bella crying, wheezing, clinging onto Becca as she slammed into the front door. Glass shattered, and everywhere Bella looked it was ablaze. Becca screamed, tugging frantically at the doorknob, then yanking the door open to a rush of hot, humid air that was nowhere near as hot as the roaring blaze in the house. Bella saw a chunk of her mother’s skin smoking on the glowing doorknob.
Becca threw Bella outside, stumbling backward, and Bella stared in shock and horror as her mother was incinerated right in front of her before the blistering heat hammered her off the porch onto the hard gravel driveway.
Bella cringed in shock at the ferocity of the fire, sitting on the driveway, arms wrapped around her drawn-in knees, eyes wide, leaking tears, and coughing endlessly.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind, then cradled her in powerful arms as a myriad of voices swirled around her. Cool air washed over her skin, and she closed her eyes and burrowed into the thick warmth of the man who carried her.
The house collapsed in on itself with shattering thunder, then the blaze resumed its ravenous feeding frenzy. There was nothing left, the fire rabidly consumed everything it touched; wood, fabrics, bodies, reducing everything to ash.
Bella watched her mother get cremated alive, the sound of her teeth popping like popcorn embedded in her brain forever..
~~~
Now
“No, Mother. We’re going to discuss this like adults.” Brock leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs.
A spark of anger flared in Bella. “Mind your tone, boy.”
He sipped his tea, meeting Bella’s glare evenly while formulating his words. “See, that’s the problem?”
“What is? I didn’t know we even had a problem.”
“You talk to me as if I’m a twelve-year-old that doesn’t know his butt from a hole in the ground.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
“How is asking you to wear this MEA device acting like a kid?”
Bella opened her mouth, but before she could retort, she realized the truth of his words, not to mention the absurdity of her stubbornness. “I…. Her response felt weak. Feeble. And she hated it. “I don’t know Brock.” She sighed deeply, shoulders slumping. “We always argue….”
Brock smiled. He was a comely man to begin with, but when he flashed that smile, well, Brock would rival … other, much more vain men. “–No, Mother, not always. Mostly when we discuss this stuff. This MEA, or any other medical alerting device….”
“Because I don’t want to be monitored like some infant living in a crib!”
Brock placed his cup on the coffee table. “Is that what you think?”
“Not just think, Brock. Think, and feel. Don’t you think I know I’m getting old?”
Brock leaned forward. “It’s not that you know it, Mom. It’s that you don’t accept it. Or have an awareness of how your age impacts your day-to-day living. Folks usually don’t realize their diminished capacity until they understand that they can’t do some of the things they did in the past, even if the past is literally yesterday.
They don’t realize it until something bad happens, and then it hits like a sledgehammer.”
Bella sagged, flopping back into her chair. She was a little stunned that he actually called her ‘Mom’, but aside from that, his words punched her on several levels; tears slipped down her lined cheeks. She raised her gaze to Brock and was even more surprised to see him in tears as well.
He stood abruptly and rushed over to her, engulfing her in a hug, lifting her from the chair, and they held each other. He leaned down and whispered, “Remember what happened to Father?”
~~~
52 Months Ago
The house reeked of… illness!
A cloying haze of mentholated rub, steam, and a variety of other pseudo-noxious inhalants hung in a visible layer in the second-floor master bedroom, hovering over a nest of blankets on a king-size bed, where Carl’s wife of 54 years was barely visible.
“Bella?” Carl eased his lean, 78-year-old frame into the doorway to the room. A spike of alarm urged him forward when Bella didn’t answer. He bolted to the bedside. “Bella!” He rested the back of his hand against her forehead, quickly registering that she was with fever.
“Ummm.” Her eyes were closed, her gray-blond hair plastered against the pillow in sweaty clumps.
“Cold.”
Carl’s mind raced. What could he do to help her? He was afraid for her; no, not just afraid. Terrified.
Was this it?
He lifted the afghan and the duvet and the damp sheet and burrowed under the covers, pressing his body against hers. Bella shivered. “It’s okay, My Bell. I’m here.”
She turned her head, prying her eyes open to gaze at him, offering a weak smile, unaware that her breath could defeat an entire tin of Altoids. “I know you are, Jarhead.”
“Hush. Close those beautiful windows, Bell. Rest. I’ll warm you.” And he pulled her in closer. She was fast asleep in moments, breathing shallow, but regular.
He rested his fingers on the inside of her wrist and measured her pulse. Fast, but strong.
Phew!
He lay there with her, watching the moon track across the sky, which usually induced sleep in him, but not tonight. No, his thoughts churned, with one prevailing drumbeat; neither of you have much time left in this world. Tonight was a wake-up call.
They’d started one of those Make-A-Will-Yourself kits a while ago but never finished it. Well, now is as good a time as any. Deciding who should be the Power of Attorney (in case they both passed away) – Brock (who else?). Medical Power of Attorney? Duh. Brock. Who gets what? Brock gets everything. On so on it went, Carl’s crisp mind flitting over so many details: all their investment accounts, their trust (which owned their house and investments), banking details, passwords, web links, contacts. Why didn’t we finish this? This was so last-minute, and that really rankled Carl, because that’s not how Carl rolled.
Carl, buttoned up, neat, everything in its place, the entire house, his entire life up to USMC standard.
Ooorah!
Except for Bella. The chaotic love of his life. Literally dripping with creativity, arts and crafts supplies, and half-completed projects in every room of the house. It absolutely made Carl nuts. But, over time, as the years flowed seamlessly, Carl simply grew to accept Bella for Bella, an amazingly beautiful, humble, gracious, maddeningly-creative woman who chose to spend her life with a shlep like him.
Hours slipped past. A neighbor’s dog yapped, which was abruptly cut off, but it served to snap Carl out of his churning thoughts. He checked Bella; out like a light. Then he gingerly slid his arm from beneath her neck, flipped the covers on his side off, and rolled out of bed. He tucked the covers around her lightly snoring body, then padded into their bathroom.
He’d changed the bedding earlier that morning, and it lay heaped in a corner against the far side of the shower. Seeking something mundane to take his mind off all the morbidity, he grabbed the bundle, backed out of the bathroom and trundled down the short hallway to the stairs, using his chin to clear his line of sight.
The laundry was in the basement, and again, Carl wished that he’d just done what Bella had asked of him years ago: to move the laundry to the main floor. A dim thought flitted through his mind; you’re getting too old for this.
A few unsteady minutes and 14 steps later Carl was on the main floor and turning to the basement steps. The door was slightly ajar; he nudged it further open with his toe, then eased his foot to the lip ofthe top step, hitting the light switch toggle with his elbow. Okay, easy does it…
The sun blazed incandescence into the master bedroom, rousing Bella. Groggy, weak, eyes felt like they were glued shut, she croaked, “Carl?” That seemed to suck her energy and she flopped back on her moist pillow.
She tried again. “Carl?”
Nothing.
She reached over to her nightstand, aching agony lancing every muscle fiber, and snagged her mobile phone. Maybe he was asleep downstairs or in another bedroom. She sent him a one-word text then dropped the phone on the duvet, just as she heard a ping from across the room.
He left his phone. He never leaves his phone. A pang of worry spiked. She reached for her phone again.
‘Brock, pls come, I’m sick, and your father isn’t answering.’
The blackness of sleep washed over her, and she collapsed, out cold.
Lights. Voices. Jostling. Blankets whipped off, then shivering, and Bella became annoyed. “What—”
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
Her throat felt like she’d eaten glass. “Y-yes.”
A woman, in a blue button-down shirt, with ‘EMT’ on her sleeve. She shined a light in Bella’s eyes, making them sting. “Ma’am, we’re taking you to the ER.”
A swarthy man appeared on her other side, wrapping a blood-pressure cuff around her arm. “You’re getting an ambulance ride. Ever had one?”
“N—”
“You’re running a serious fever. Do you know how long you’ve been sick?” The woman again.
It was all too fast. “Sick? No.”
“Mother, we’ve got to get you in because you’re dangerously dehydrated.” A familiar voice. Brock.
Then, “One, two, three!” and she felt her body lifted, then settled onto a crinkly bed, then was wrapped in a thin, soft blanket, and a mask was placed over her face, and she was flooded with cool, terribly dry air.
“Brock? Where is Car—your father?” Her voice sounded muffled, but she saw him as she was being hustled out the door, and he was crying.
~~~
Now
“No, Brock, I didn’t see him until the funeral, when he was lying in the casket.” She pushed away from Brock.
They both sat down again, Brock right beside Bella. “I did, Mom.”
A quiet sob slipped from her. “I know, son. I never wanted you to see such a thing.”
Brock sniffled, blew his nose with an almost genteel honk. “He shattered his skull; snapped his neck—”
“–Brock, please—”
“—But he didn’t die. Not right away. He dragged himself across—”
“—STOP!”
”—The concrete basement floor, trying to get to the phone!”
“Oh, my God.” Bella covered her face with shaking hands, tears spilling down her forearms.
“The laundry was scattered on the floor.” Brock’s tone softened, and he wrapped his strong arm around her shaking shoulders. “Right up until the very end, Mom, all he wanted to do was to take care of you.”
She lowered her hands, reached for a tissue from the end table, and dabbed her eyes and nose. “I know son, and that’s exactly what I wanted with Carl. Carl, was my … home.”
“I know, Mom. I could see that between you. That kind of love was. … is a model that my Janet and I live by, and, as you know, it’s how we raised your grandchildren. And, guess what?”
“Tell me.”
“You’re going to be a great grandma.”
“Brock!”
Brock sat back. “Now, don’t you wish Father were here to share in that news with you? Think about how he’d react to that little bombshell, huh?”
Bella’s voice was soft, small. “I know.”
“Well, the newsflash, as if that wasn’t enough, was that I had been trying to get him to wear a MEA for over a year before his fall. Know what he kept telling me?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“That I wouldn’t like it.”
“Bingo.
“So, Mom, we want you to see your great-granddaughter, almost as much as you want to see her. And yes, before you ask, it’s a girl. Her name will be Bella.” And Brock rested the MEA device, still attached to its lanyard, on the coffee table.
“Please.”
Bella offered him a weak smile. “I’ve been a stubborn old bat, haven’t I?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Mom.”
“Well, your father raised an upright man, and I know what’s in your heart, so yes, Brock, I will wear it.”
He pulled her into an embrace, holding her close. “Mom, Mom, we will always be there for you.
Always.”
As he pulled away, Bella whispered, “But …”
“But? But, what?”
“Figure out how to put it on something I can wear on my wrist. It needs to look good.”
They laughed together, mother and son. Brock collected the offending urn and the box it came in, blew her a kiss, and strode out the door, closing it gently.
Bella brushed her cheek, grabbed the MEA, took it into the kitchen, and dropped it into her junk drawer. She took her seat, leaned over, and picked up her six-string.
Everything in its place.
Images are free use—Image by EN-Design from Pixabay.
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