Long Bones

Your browser lacks required capabilities. Please upgrade it or switch to another to continue.

Loading…

<<silently>> <<set $counter to 0>> <<cacheaudio "intro1" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/intro1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "intro2" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/intro2.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "whitenoise" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/whitenoise.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "train" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/train.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "wheel" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/wheel.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bones" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/bone.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "whiteloud" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/whiteloud.wav">> <<cacheaudio "knock" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/knock.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "end1" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene3end.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "end2" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene5end.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "end3" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene7end.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "end4" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene9end.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "begin1" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/scene4intro.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "begin2" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene6intro.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "begin3" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/Scene8intro.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "birds" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/birds1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "rusure" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/rusure.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "long" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/long.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "where" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/where.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "caylee" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/caylee1.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "cry" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/cry.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "been" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/beenthrough.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "james" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/james.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "ingrid" "https://Bamarkle.github.io/media/ingrid1.mp3">> <</silently>> <<timed 24s>><<audio "knock" time 6 play>><</timed>> <<audio "intro1" play>> <span id="intro"><h1>Hello!</h1></span> <<timed 12s>><<replace "#intro">><font color="darkred"><h1>CONTROL!</h1></font><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 12.25s>><<replace "#intro">><img src="Media/rake1.jpg" style="width:500px;height:281px;align=center;" /><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 12.45s>><<replace "#intro">><font color="darkred"><h1>CONTROL!</h1></font><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 17s>><<replace "#intro">><h1>How?</h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 24s>><<replace "#intro">><font color="darkred"><h1 style="font-family:papyrus;">Knock. Knock.</h1></font><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 35s>><<audio "whitenoise" volume 0 fadeto 0.25>><</timed>> <<timed 41s>><<replace "#intro">><h1 style="font-family:papyrus;">[[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]][[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]] [[Self-loathing]]</h1><</replace>> <</timed>>

<<silently>> <<audio "intro2" play>> <</silently>> <span id="next"><h1> You selected: "Self-Loathing!"</h1></span> <<timed 12s>><<replace "#next">><h1><font color="darkred">Jim & Janie</font></h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 17s>><<replace "#next">><h1>Caylee :*(</h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 20s>><<replace "#next">><h1>SpoOoOoOoky</h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 25s>><<replace "#next">><h1> RAINBOWS AND SUNSHINE!!</h1><br><img src="media/happy.jpg" style="width:512px;height:512px;align=center;"/><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 35s>><<replace "#next">><h1> Oh...</h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 36s>><<replace "#next">><h1> ¯\_(ツ)_/¯</h1><</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 40s>><<replace "#next">><h1>[[Click to begin!]]</h1><</replace>><</timed>>

<h1>Hunt Over for the Newberry Nine</h1> After months of dead ends and tips leading nowhere, police chief Samuel Clay announced Monday that the hunt for the [[Newberry Nine]] was officially over. "I am aware of the pain this causes the parents of the missing children. Not knowing is oftentimes worse than knowing. But, aside from the body of James Riley, and the N9 graffiti that occasionally pops up, we've found nothing in months. No leads, a few anonymous tips that went nowhere, but nothing concrete. As terrible as it is for [[these parents]], I really feel like public funds at this point in time will be better spent elsewhere," Chief Clay stated. Dubbed the Newberry Nine, [[nine children]] disappeared from Champions Park in October. No suspects were announced and no witnesses ever came forward.

<<silently>> <<set $counter to $counter + 1>> <</silently>> <h1> You Selected: "These Parents!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> [[My wife]] has died. Her soul has fled, escaped through her fingertips and hair and seeped out of narrow, lethargic brown eyes. Only the packaging her laughter and dry wit were shipped in remains. Janie has not spoken a word to me in over a week. I’m not certain she has even moved. I wonder what I will find if I pull back the covers of the bed she has evidently claimed as her final resting place. Will our lost daughter be under there with her? Will Caylee be curled up tightly against her mother, never missing at all, only proclaiming her status as the world’s best Hide-and-Go-Seek player? Will she crawl from her warm hiding place and wrap her arms around my neck, laughing and asking for chocolate chip pancakes with a glass of milk? Will my wife, [[complicit in the game]], giggle along with Caylee, resurrect from her reverie, and bound before us to the kitchen to start breakfast while I carry my daughter down the hall? I’m too afraid to lift the blanket and discover the truth, and so I do my best to avoid our bedroom. Instead I spend my days searching at the library. When word got out I was one of the desperate parents who circled this tiny ass town in a white Subaru ineffectually calling out the name of a daughter who never came, I was inundated with sympathy. Empathy is not the right word. Empathy means they could feel what I felt. It was sympathy that poured over me, a deluge of ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘How is Janie taking it?’ and a thousand other sentiments intended to understand what it was to lose a daughter. Not lose because she died. Not lose because she was tragically ripped from the world before her time. But lost. Misplaced. [[The guilt is crushing.]] As atonement I spend my days at the library, looking for a bright neon sign that will point me to my daughter, hoping I can find something the trained professional missed. What if they had missed something? What if there was a chance with all their questioning, all their probing and groping blindly for some thread of evidence they had [[missed something?]] What if the bloodhound had strayed just a few more feet away, its nose to the ground searching and snuffling, before its handler had tugged him off in the other direction? Would the air have been pierced by a baying howl? Would a crowd form around the fervent animal as it lead them onward, anxious feet clamoring to keep up as the beast pulled and tugged at its leash, dragging the pack of humanity behind as it found its way to a simple, nondescript looking house wherein a man lived who was quiet and polite and courteous and who his neighbors always thought was just a simple, average guy who hardly seemed like the sort of person you would peg to be a mass murderer? Would the bloodhound bound through the home, straight to the back door, clawing and scratching and whining until, at last, a young, shaky rookie cop would turn the handle so the dog could dart into the yard, its voice cracking and howling until finally the animal would sink its nails into loosely packed earth, digging and clawing until the poor beast was tugged away by the collar, still barking and whining at the spot while men moved in with shovels to clear away a womb of dirt that held within its dark belly the bodies of nine, once beautiful children?

<<silently>> <<set $counter to $counter + 1>> <</silently>> <h1> You Selected: "Newberry Nine!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> [[My wife]] has died. Her soul has fled, escaped through her fingertips and hair and seeped out of narrow, lethargic brown eyes. Only the packaging her laughter and dry wit were shipped in remains. Janie has not spoken a word to me in over a week. I’m not certain she has even moved. I wonder what I will find if I pull back the covers of the bed she has evidently claimed as her final resting place. Will our lost daughter be under there with her? Will Caylee be curled up tightly against her mother, never missing at all, only proclaiming her status as the world’s best Hide-and-Go-Seek player? Will she crawl from her warm hiding place and wrap her arms around my neck, laughing and asking for chocolate chip pancakes with a glass of milk? Will my wife, [[complicit in the game]], giggle along with Caylee, resurrect from her reverie, and bound before us to the kitchen to start breakfast while I carry my daughter down the hall? I’m too afraid to lift the blanket and discover the truth, and so I do my best to avoid our bedroom. Instead I spend my days searching at the library. When word got out I was one of the desperate parents who circled this tiny ass town in a white Subaru ineffectually calling out the name of a daughter who never came, I was inundated with sympathy. Empathy is not the right word. Empathy means they could feel what I felt. It was sympathy that poured over me, a deluge of ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘How is Janie taking it?’ and a thousand other sentiments intended to understand what it was to lose a daughter. Not lose because she died. Not lose because she was tragically ripped from the world before her time. But lost. Misplaced. [[The guilt is crushing.]] As atonement I spend my days at the library, looking for a bright neon sign that will point me to my daughter, hoping I can find something the trained professional missed. What if they had missed something? What if there was a chance with all their questioning, all their probing and groping blindly for some thread of evidence they had [[missed something?]] What if the bloodhound had strayed just a few more feet away, its nose to the ground searching and snuffling, before its handler had tugged him off in the other direction? Would the air have been pierced by a baying howl? Would a crowd form around the fervent animal as it lead them onward, anxious feet clamoring to keep up as the beast pulled and tugged at its leash, dragging the pack of humanity behind as it found its way to a simple, nondescript looking house wherein a man lived who was quiet and polite and courteous and who his neighbors always thought was just a simple, average guy who hardly seemed like the sort of person you would peg to be a mass murderer? Would the bloodhound bound through the home, straight to the back door, clawing and scratching and whining until, at last, a young, shaky rookie cop would turn the handle so the dog could dart into the yard, its voice cracking and howling until finally the animal would sink its nails into loosely packed earth, digging and clawing until the poor beast was tugged away by the collar, still barking and whining at the spot while men moved in with shovels to clear away a womb of dirt that held within its dark belly the bodies of nine, once beautiful children?

<<silently>> <<set $counter to $counter + 1>> <</silently>> <h1> You Selected: "Nine Children!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> [[My wife]] has died. Her soul has fled, escaped through her fingertips and hair and seeped out of narrow, lethargic brown eyes. Only the packaging her laughter and dry wit were shipped in remains. Janie has not spoken a word to me in over a week. I’m not certain she has even moved. I wonder what I will find if I pull back the covers of the bed she has evidently claimed as her final resting place. Will our lost daughter be under there with her? Will Caylee be curled up tightly against her mother, never missing at all, only proclaiming her status as the world’s best Hide-and-Go-Seek player? Will she crawl from her warm hiding place and wrap her arms around my neck, laughing and asking for chocolate chip pancakes with a glass of milk? Will my wife, [[complicit in the game]], giggle along with Caylee, resurrect from her reverie, and bound before us to the kitchen to start breakfast while I carry my daughter down the hall? I’m too afraid to lift the blanket and discover the truth, and so I do my best to avoid our bedroom. Instead I spend my days searching at the library. When word got out I was one of the desperate parents who circled this tiny ass town in a white Subaru ineffectually calling out the name of a daughter who never came, I was inundated with sympathy. Empathy is not the right word. Empathy means they could feel what I felt. It was sympathy that poured over me, a deluge of ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘How is Janie taking it?’ and a thousand other sentiments intended to understand what it was to lose a daughter. Not lose because she died. Not lose because she was tragically ripped from the world before her time. But lost. Misplaced. [[The guilt is crushing.]] As atonement I spend my days at the library, looking for a bright neon sign that will point me to my daughter, hoping I can find something the trained professional missed. What if they had missed something? What if there was a chance with all their questioning, all their probing and groping blindly for some thread of evidence they had [[missed something?]] What if the bloodhound had strayed just a few more feet away, its nose to the ground searching and snuffling, before its handler had tugged him off in the other direction? Would the air have been pierced by a baying howl? Would a crowd form around the fervent animal as it lead them onward, anxious feet clamoring to keep up as the beast pulled and tugged at its leash, dragging the pack of humanity behind as it found its way to a simple, nondescript looking house wherein a man lived who was quiet and polite and courteous and who his neighbors always thought was just a simple, average guy who hardly seemed like the sort of person you would peg to be a mass murderer? Would the bloodhound bound through the home, straight to the back door, clawing and scratching and whining until, at last, a young, shaky rookie cop would turn the handle so the dog could dart into the yard, its voice cracking and howling until finally the animal would sink its nails into loosely packed earth, digging and clawing until the poor beast was tugged away by the collar, still barking and whining at the spot while men moved in with shovels to clear away a womb of dirt that held within its dark belly the bodies of nine, once beautiful children?

<h1>You Selected: "My Wife!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I think [[Jim left clues]]. The idea is crazy. Sounds like the start of a bad book. And being crazy is cliché. On the bright side, I have medical science to back me up on that one. A myopic shrink with glasses thick as bullet proof glass comes by every so often to check up on me. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur. I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. He tells me I’m not crazy. But the pills say otherwise. The careful way he talks to me, as if I were a wild animal, teeth bared and claws flashing, suggests I am, yes, I am crazy. Maybe dangerous to look at too closely. Plus I’ve seen the sheets. Chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, and a thousand other terms that change day to day. Even anorexia nervosa. It’s difficult to get an appetite when your kitchen is covered in gore. I neglected to mention that bit of the tale. It’s also the reason why the thought of Jim leaving clues seems odd. When we first moved down to Florida and into our new house [[the walls]] were white. The floor was white. The ceiling, white. Everything was cold and sharp. I wanted to paint, to make the place seem less precise and more welcoming. I chose to paint the kitchen wall lime green. Jim refused. He said it was ugly and no one would ever buy the house again if we had horrible, puke colored walls. He told me the paint should be neutral. I shrugged. One day while he was out looking for work I went to the store and bought [[a can of paint and a roller]]. When he came home I greeted him with a rib eye dinner, a glass of champagne, and a hideous, Jell-O colored wall. I did a poor job. I got paint on the tile and the running boards. I even managed to get some on the ceiling. There were drips and drops here and there where I had put too much on the roller and thick runnels cascaded down without me noticing. I think I was too terrified to notice. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jim. I was only twenty one, and Jim an imposing figure, tall and stocky. He had a well groomed beard and nice hands. They were soft; he was a writer and rarely worked outside. Jim shook his head in disgust at my sad handiwork, but the following Saturday he went to the store and bought more paint, then came home and fixed the Jackson Pollock. I think maybe he shot himself in the kitchen on purpose. One last petty [[act of protest]]. Probably not. There it is again, so sorry. More vitriol for my ex. I'm allowed to call him that, right? If your husband kills himself and leaves you alone with your crushing depression he's officially your ex, right?

<h1>You Selected: "Complicit in the Game!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I think [[Jim left clues]]. The idea is crazy. Sounds like the start of a bad book. And being crazy is cliché. On the bright side, I have medical science to back me up on that one. A myopic shrink with glasses thick as bullet proof glass comes by every so often to check up on me. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur. I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. He tells me I’m not crazy. But the pills say otherwise. The careful way he talks to me, as if I were a wild animal, teeth bared and claws flashing, suggests I am, yes, I am crazy. Maybe dangerous to look at too closely. Plus I’ve seen the sheets. Chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, and a thousand other terms that change day to day. Even anorexia nervosa. It’s difficult to get an appetite when your kitchen is covered in gore. I neglected to mention that bit of the tale. It’s also the reason why the thought of Jim leaving clues seems odd. When we first moved down to Florida and into our new house [[the walls]] were white. The floor was white. The ceiling, white. Everything was cold and sharp. I wanted to paint, to make the place seem less precise and more welcoming. I chose to paint the kitchen wall lime green. Jim refused. He said it was ugly and no one would ever buy the house again if we had horrible, puke colored walls. He told me the paint should be neutral. I shrugged. One day while he was out looking for work I went to the store and bought [[a can of paint and a roller]]. When he came home I greeted him with a rib eye dinner, a glass of champagne, and a hideous, Jell-O colored wall. I did a poor job. I got paint on the tile and the running boards. I even managed to get some on the ceiling. There were drips and drops here and there where I had put too much on the roller and thick runnels cascaded down without me noticing. I think I was too terrified to notice. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jim. I was only twenty one, and Jim an imposing figure, tall and stocky. He had a well groomed beard and nice hands. They were soft; he was a writer and rarely worked outside. Jim shook his head in disgust at my sad handiwork, but the following Saturday he went to the store and bought more paint, then came home and fixed the Jackson Pollock. I think maybe he shot himself in the kitchen on purpose. One last petty [[act of protest]]. Probably not. There it is again, so sorry. More vitriol for my ex. I'm allowed to call him that, right? If your husband kills himself and leaves you alone with your crushing depression he's officially your ex, right?

<h1>You Selected: "The Guilt is Crushing!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I think [[Jim left clues]]. The idea is crazy. Sounds like the start of a bad book. And being crazy is cliché. On the bright side, I have medical science to back me up on that one. A myopic shrink with glasses thick as bullet proof glass comes by every so often to check up on me. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur. I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. He tells me I’m not crazy. But the pills say otherwise. The careful way he talks to me, as if I were a wild animal, teeth bared and claws flashing, suggests I am, yes, I am crazy. Maybe dangerous to look at too closely. Plus I’ve seen the sheets. Chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, and a thousand other terms that change day to day. Even anorexia nervosa. It’s difficult to get an appetite when your kitchen is covered in gore. I neglected to mention that bit of the tale. It’s also the reason why the thought of Jim leaving clues seems odd. When we first moved down to Florida and into our new house [[the walls]] were white. The floor was white. The ceiling, white. Everything was cold and sharp. I wanted to paint, to make the place seem less precise and more welcoming. I chose to paint the kitchen wall lime green. Jim refused. He said it was ugly and no one would ever buy the house again if we had horrible, puke colored walls. He told me the paint should be neutral. I shrugged. One day while he was out looking for work I went to the store and bought [[a can of paint and a roller]]. When he came home I greeted him with a rib eye dinner, a glass of champagne, and a hideous, Jell-O colored wall. I did a poor job. I got paint on the tile and the running boards. I even managed to get some on the ceiling. There were drips and drops here and there where I had put too much on the roller and thick runnels cascaded down without me noticing. I think I was too terrified to notice. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jim. I was only twenty one, and Jim an imposing figure, tall and stocky. He had a well groomed beard and nice hands. They were soft; he was a writer and rarely worked outside. Jim shook his head in disgust at my sad handiwork, but the following Saturday he went to the store and bought more paint, then came home and fixed the Jackson Pollock. I think maybe he shot himself in the kitchen on purpose. One last petty [[act of protest]]. Probably not. There it is again, so sorry. More vitriol for my ex. I'm allowed to call him that, right? If your husband kills himself and leaves you alone with your crushing depression he's officially your ex, right?

<h1>You Selected: "Missed Something?!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I think [[Jim left clues]]. The idea is crazy. Sounds like the start of a bad book. And being crazy is cliché. On the bright side, I have medical science to back me up on that one. A myopic shrink with glasses thick as bullet proof glass comes by every so often to check up on me. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur. I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. He tells me I’m not crazy. But the pills say otherwise. The careful way he talks to me, as if I were a wild animal, teeth bared and claws flashing, suggests I am, yes, I am crazy. Maybe dangerous to look at too closely. Plus I’ve seen the sheets. Chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, and a thousand other terms that change day to day. Even anorexia nervosa. It’s difficult to get an appetite when your kitchen is covered in gore. I neglected to mention that bit of the tale. It’s also the reason why the thought of Jim leaving clues seems odd. When we first moved down to Florida and into our new house [[the walls]] were white. The floor was white. The ceiling, white. Everything was cold and sharp. I wanted to paint, to make the place seem less precise and more welcoming. I chose to paint the kitchen wall lime green. Jim refused. He said it was ugly and no one would ever buy the house again if we had horrible, puke colored walls. He told me the paint should be neutral. I shrugged. One day while he was out looking for work I went to the store and bought [[a can of paint and a roller]]. When he came home I greeted him with a rib eye dinner, a glass of champagne, and a hideous, Jell-O colored wall. I did a poor job. I got paint on the tile and the running boards. I even managed to get some on the ceiling. There were drips and drops here and there where I had put too much on the roller and thick runnels cascaded down without me noticing. I think I was too terrified to notice. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jim. I was only twenty one, and Jim an imposing figure, tall and stocky. He had a well groomed beard and nice hands. They were soft; he was a writer and rarely worked outside. Jim shook his head in disgust at my sad handiwork, but the following Saturday he went to the store and bought more paint, then came home and fixed the Jackson Pollock. I think maybe he shot himself in the kitchen on purpose. One last petty [[act of protest]]. Probably not. There it is again, so sorry. More vitriol for my ex. I'm allowed to call him that, right? If your husband kills himself and leaves you alone with your crushing depression he's officially your ex, right?

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake3.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: "Jim Left Clues!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> So I go to the library, I sift through microfiche, I read the old news stories. I believe I can quote word for word the very first story that lit up the front page of the High Springs Herald with all the horrible implications of the headline: “Nine Children Missing.” It wasn’t until the third day that someone stumbled across the catchy alliteration Newberry Nine. There’s a gang that’s sprung up in town -- at least, that's what the news calls it – who has been spray painting walls around the city with the tag N9. It shows up on the sides of billboards, coffee shops, street signs. Newberry High School held a bake sale to raise funds to remove a particularly large specimen from the side of William N. Barry gymnasium: the ghoulish red letters N9 dripped down the wall and contrasted sharply with the pale white exterior much to the chagrin of a local population who would rather forget the event ever happened in this remote little town. Perhaps the magnitude of the tragedy is too much for anyone to grasp, maybe they just find it easier to silently give thanks that it wasn’t their child, tack their gratitude onto the tail end of their prayers like a postscript litany. Confronting horror face to face in the daytime was simply too much for them, and so the tag was [[covered up]] by three new layers of paint, [[hidden from sight]] and all the parents breathed easier. Except me. I liked the conciseness of the message, the brevity in which nine children were stolen, eighteen parents were heartbroken, and untold numbers of friends and relatives were awkwardly forced to feign empathy for an event outside the possibility of empathy. N9. Every time I see it I think I of Caylee. I wonder what she’s doing right now, where she is. Maybe she escaped from her captor and is trying desperately to find her way back home. Maybe she’s trailing the N9 tags, sprayed like breadcrumbs, slowly, carefully [[navigating the maze back to life]] and her home and her vegetative mother, and if we only give Caylee enough time she’ll return to us, so long as we remember to leave signs for her to follow. I had too much to drink, went to the high school that night, and painted N9 back on the gymnasium. What if my daughter couldn’t find her way home because a breadcrumb was missing? My actions caused an uproar on the front page of the newspaper, but the scandalous vagrant who defaced the city’s property was never caught and they painted over [[my handiwork]] the following morning. <</replace>><</timed>>

<h1>You Selected: "Covered up!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Dr. T.Rex came back today. His glasses are thick. I bet he could take them off and use the lenses to start a fire. Like they did in that movie Lord of the Flies. His are so thick I think the beam would be intense enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. Some guy in China would be out in his field. He would be following behind his ox or cow whatever they use over there when, pew! A laser beam pops out of the ground and turns his livestock into a burger. He’s a lefty, [[the good]] doctor. I just noticed today. I suppose it’s common sense. He certainly can’t write with his gimpy claw. I’ve read before that left handed people think differently. They’re more artistic. They use different parts of their brain. I’ve also read before that people only use ten percent of their brain. I wonder which ten percent lefties use as opposed to righties. I think the whole idea is a lie. An urban myth probably. [[I doubt people]] use one percent of their brain. My one percent? I think I spend it all in the same place. In the self-loathing spot. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. A double-fist sized grey lump packed with emotion and thoughts and memories and my one percent is invested in a tiny location. A single wrinkle of the brain. I wonder if the fleeting ghost of Jim felt, for an instant, self-loathing. Before his body fell to the tile. Maybe in that moment [[he hated himself]] for abandoning me. For giving up on Caylee. For taking the easy way. For ruining my kitchen. I doubt it. I can still remember his face that night. Fear. Dread, I think is the better word. Like he knew something terrible was about to happen and he couldn’t stand to wait for it. So, off with his head. Or most of it anyways. The important bits. The locus of self-loathing splattered on my wall. But that’s enough about my ex-husband. Again, is that the right term for it? Or is he simply the dearly departed? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I think he left a message for me. Things have been strangely out of place. It’s easier to tell than you might think. I live with my mother now and she’s OCD. After Jim excused himself from living my mother took me home to be with her, swooping to the rescue. Sort of. I live a censored life. Dr. T-Rex visits me here. I don’t ever leave. Every morning while I eat breakfast Mom takes the newspaper and a pair of scissors and locks herself in Dad’s old study. When she emerges, the High Springs Herald looks like one of the construction paper snowflakes Caylee makes every Christmas. Made. I never ask what she cuts out. [[Mother knows best]]. I take my blue pill and read the articles that are deemed to be wholesome for my mental well- being. Articles that survived [[the prejudices]] of my mom’s shears. Sometimes I think maybe I’d like to ask. One time her eye fell upon an offending Dear Abby article. I know this because I read it every day. But that morning, where Abby’s sage words usually lay in stark black against white, there was simply a large, rectangular hole. I held the paper up, peered through the opening at my mother, arched my eyebrows. I didn’t ask the question, and she pretended not to notice. I had to survive the day without Abigail van Buren’s wisdom to guide me. My phone calls are censored in much the same way. I can only talk to pre-approved persons, which generally means only Dr. T. Rex or one of his assistants.

<h1>You Selected: "Hidden From Sight!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Dr. T.Rex came back today. His glasses are thick. I bet he could take them off and use the lenses to start a fire. Like they did in that movie Lord of the Flies. His are so thick I think the beam would be intense enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. Some guy in China would be out in his field. He would be following behind his ox or cow whatever they use over there when, pew! A laser beam pops out of the ground and turns his livestock into a burger. He’s a lefty, [[the good]] doctor. I just noticed today. I suppose it’s common sense. He certainly can’t write with his gimpy claw. I’ve read before that left handed people think differently. They’re more artistic. They use different parts of their brain. I’ve also read before that people only use ten percent of their brain. I wonder which ten percent lefties use as opposed to righties. I think the whole idea is a lie. An urban myth probably. [[I doubt people]] use one percent of their brain. My one percent? I think I spend it all in the same place. In the self-loathing spot. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. A double-fist sized grey lump packed with emotion and thoughts and memories and my one percent is invested in a tiny location. A single wrinkle of the brain. I wonder if the fleeting ghost of Jim felt, for an instant, self-loathing. Before his body fell to the tile. Maybe in that moment [[he hated himself]] for abandoning me. For giving up on Caylee. For taking the easy way. For ruining my kitchen. I doubt it. I can still remember his face that night. Fear. Dread, I think is the better word. Like he knew something terrible was about to happen and he couldn’t stand to wait for it. So, off with his head. Or most of it anyways. The important bits. The locus of self-loathing splattered on my wall. But that’s enough about my ex-husband. Again, is that the right term for it? Or is he simply the dearly departed? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I think he left a message for me. Things have been strangely out of place. It’s easier to tell than you might think. I live with my mother now and she’s OCD. After Jim excused himself from living my mother took me home to be with her, swooping to the rescue. Sort of. I live a censored life. Dr. T-Rex visits me here. I don’t ever leave. Every morning while I eat breakfast Mom takes the newspaper and a pair of scissors and locks herself in Dad’s old study. When she emerges, the High Springs Herald looks like one of the construction paper snowflakes Caylee makes every Christmas. Made. I never ask what she cuts out. [[Mother knows best]]. I take my blue pill and read the articles that are deemed to be wholesome for my mental well- being. Articles that survived [[the prejudices]] of my mom’s shears. Sometimes I think maybe I’d like to ask. One time her eye fell upon an offending Dear Abby article. I know this because I read it every day. But that morning, where Abby’s sage words usually lay in stark black against white, there was simply a large, rectangular hole. I held the paper up, peered through the opening at my mother, arched my eyebrows. I didn’t ask the question, and she pretended not to notice. I had to survive the day without Abigail van Buren’s wisdom to guide me. My phone calls are censored in much the same way. I can only talk to pre-approved persons, which generally means only Dr. T. Rex or one of his assistants.

<h1>You Selected: "Navigating the Maze Back to Life!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Dr. T.Rex came back today. His glasses are thick. I bet he could take them off and use the lenses to start a fire. Like they did in that movie Lord of the Flies. His are so thick I think the beam would be intense enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. Some guy in China would be out in his field. He would be following behind his ox or cow whatever they use over there when, pew! A laser beam pops out of the ground and turns his livestock into a burger. He’s a lefty, [[the good]] doctor. I just noticed today. I suppose it’s common sense. He certainly can’t write with his gimpy claw. I’ve read before that left handed people think differently. They’re more artistic. They use different parts of their brain. I’ve also read before that people only use ten percent of their brain. I wonder which ten percent lefties use as opposed to righties. I think the whole idea is a lie. An urban myth probably. [[I doubt people]] use one percent of their brain. My one percent? I think I spend it all in the same place. In the self-loathing spot. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. A double-fist sized grey lump packed with emotion and thoughts and memories and my one percent is invested in a tiny location. A single wrinkle of the brain. I wonder if the fleeting ghost of Jim felt, for an instant, self-loathing. Before his body fell to the tile. Maybe in that moment [[he hated himself]] for abandoning me. For giving up on Caylee. For taking the easy way. For ruining my kitchen. I doubt it. I can still remember his face that night. Fear. Dread, I think is the better word. Like he knew something terrible was about to happen and he couldn’t stand to wait for it. So, off with his head. Or most of it anyways. The important bits. The locus of self-loathing splattered on my wall. But that’s enough about my ex-husband. Again, is that the right term for it? Or is he simply the dearly departed? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I think he left a message for me. Things have been strangely out of place. It’s easier to tell than you might think. I live with my mother now and she’s OCD. After Jim excused himself from living my mother took me home to be with her, swooping to the rescue. Sort of. I live a censored life. Dr. T-Rex visits me here. I don’t ever leave. Every morning while I eat breakfast Mom takes the newspaper and a pair of scissors and locks herself in Dad’s old study. When she emerges, the High Springs Herald looks like one of the construction paper snowflakes Caylee makes every Christmas. Made. I never ask what she cuts out. [[Mother knows best]]. I take my blue pill and read the articles that are deemed to be wholesome for my mental well- being. Articles that survived [[the prejudices]] of my mom’s shears. Sometimes I think maybe I’d like to ask. One time her eye fell upon an offending Dear Abby article. I know this because I read it every day. But that morning, where Abby’s sage words usually lay in stark black against white, there was simply a large, rectangular hole. I held the paper up, peered through the opening at my mother, arched my eyebrows. I didn’t ask the question, and she pretended not to notice. I had to survive the day without Abigail van Buren’s wisdom to guide me. My phone calls are censored in much the same way. I can only talk to pre-approved persons, which generally means only Dr. T. Rex or one of his assistants.

<h1>You Selected: "My Handiwork!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Dr. T.Rex came back today. His glasses are thick. I bet he could take them off and use the lenses to start a fire. Like they did in that movie Lord of the Flies. His are so thick I think the beam would be intense enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. Some guy in China would be out in his field. He would be following behind his ox or cow whatever they use over there when, pew! A laser beam pops out of the ground and turns his livestock into a burger. He’s a lefty, [[the good]] doctor. I just noticed today. I suppose it’s common sense. He certainly can’t write with his gimpy claw. I’ve read before that left handed people think differently. They’re more artistic. They use different parts of their brain. I’ve also read before that people only use ten percent of their brain. I wonder which ten percent lefties use as opposed to righties. I think the whole idea is a lie. An urban myth probably. [[I doubt people]] use one percent of their brain. My one percent? I think I spend it all in the same place. In the self-loathing spot. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. A double-fist sized grey lump packed with emotion and thoughts and memories and my one percent is invested in a tiny location. A single wrinkle of the brain. I wonder if the fleeting ghost of Jim felt, for an instant, self-loathing. Before his body fell to the tile. Maybe in that moment [[he hated himself]] for abandoning me. For giving up on Caylee. For taking the easy way. For ruining my kitchen. I doubt it. I can still remember his face that night. Fear. Dread, I think is the better word. Like he knew something terrible was about to happen and he couldn’t stand to wait for it. So, off with his head. Or most of it anyways. The important bits. The locus of self-loathing splattered on my wall. But that’s enough about my ex-husband. Again, is that the right term for it? Or is he simply the dearly departed? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I think he left a message for me. Things have been strangely out of place. It’s easier to tell than you might think. I live with my mother now and she’s OCD. After Jim excused himself from living my mother took me home to be with her, swooping to the rescue. Sort of. I live a censored life. Dr. T-Rex visits me here. I don’t ever leave. Every morning while I eat breakfast Mom takes the newspaper and a pair of scissors and locks herself in Dad’s old study. When she emerges, the High Springs Herald looks like one of the construction paper snowflakes Caylee makes every Christmas. Made. I never ask what she cuts out. [[Mother knows best]]. I take my blue pill and read the articles that are deemed to be wholesome for my mental well- being. Articles that survived [[the prejudices]] of my mom’s shears. Sometimes I think maybe I’d like to ask. One time her eye fell upon an offending Dear Abby article. I know this because I read it every day. But that morning, where Abby’s sage words usually lay in stark black against white, there was simply a large, rectangular hole. I held the paper up, peered through the opening at my mother, arched my eyebrows. I didn’t ask the question, and she pretended not to notice. I had to survive the day without Abigail van Buren’s wisdom to guide me. My phone calls are censored in much the same way. I can only talk to pre-approved persons, which generally means only Dr. T. Rex or one of his assistants.

<h1>You Selected: "The Good!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building.

<h1>You Selected: "I Doubt People!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building.

<h1>You Selected: "He Hated Himself!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building.

<h1>You Selected: "Mother Knows Best!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building.

<h1>You Selected: "The Prejudices!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building.

<<audio "whiteloud" time 9 volume 0.8 play>> <h1>You Selected: "Help!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Every day it’s the same thing. Two eggs over easy, a glass of orange juice, and one big, fat mournful blue capsule. [[My mother was never very imaginative]]. It’s been… three months? Three months since Jim did the deed and three months I’ve been under house arrest with my mother. Three months of two eggs over easy and a horse sized pill. She never cooks the eggs right either. She always breaks the yolk. You’d think after three months of cooking the exact same damn thing she could [[figure out]] how to do it. You’d think after three months of [[wallowing in my own shame]] I’d figure out how to survive without my mother feeding me, watching me, [[caring for me]] like a child. Mom won’t let me out of her sight. I live here, I read preapproved newspapers, I watch preapproved movies, I eat preapproved food, I swallow preapproved drugs. Which leaves me with [[a lot of free time]].

<<audio "whiteloud" time 9 volume 0.8 play>> <h1>You Selected: "Drugs!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Every day it’s the same thing. Two eggs over easy, a glass of orange juice, and one big, fat mournful blue capsule. [[My mother was never very imaginative]]. It’s been… three months? Three months since Jim did the deed and three months I’ve been under house arrest with my mother. Three months of two eggs over easy and a horse sized pill. She never cooks the eggs right either. She always breaks the yolk. You’d think after three months of cooking the exact same damn thing she could [[figure out]] how to do it. You’d think after three months of [[wallowing in my own shame]] I’d figure out how to survive without my mother feeding me, watching me, [[caring for me]] like a child. Mom won’t let me out of her sight. I live here, I read preapproved newspapers, I watch preapproved movies, I eat preapproved food, I swallow preapproved drugs. Which leaves me with [[a lot of free time]].

<<audio "whiteloud" time 9 volume 0.8 play>> <h1>You Selected: "Without Possession!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Every day it’s the same thing. Two eggs over easy, a glass of orange juice, and one big, fat mournful blue capsule. [[My mother was never very imaginative]]. It’s been… three months? Three months since Jim did the deed and three months I’ve been under house arrest with my mother. Three months of two eggs over easy and a horse sized pill. She never cooks the eggs right either. She always breaks the yolk. You’d think after three months of cooking the exact same damn thing she could [[figure out]] how to do it. You’d think after three months of [[wallowing in my own shame]] I’d figure out how to survive without my mother feeding me, watching me, [[caring for me]] like a child. Mom won’t let me out of her sight. I live here, I read preapproved newspapers, I watch preapproved movies, I eat preapproved food, I swallow preapproved drugs. Which leaves me with [[a lot of free time]].

<h1>You Selected: "Help!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<h1>You Selected: "Figure Out!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<h1>You Selected: "Wallowing in my own Shame!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<h1>You Selected: "Caring for Me!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<h1>You Selected: "A Lot of Free Time!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<<audio "wheel" play>> <h1>You Selected: "Proof!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Got a lead today. Not really, but I like to pretend that maybe I’m making some progress, that my time here is not being spent in vain. I found the article in which [[the little boy was discovered]], reclining against the trunk of a tree, the only member of the Newberry Nine to have [[made it back to his parents]]. The article was sketchy about where the body had been found, citing the location as “near the railroad tracks that run parallel to 250th Street.” Super. That’s only most of this backwater town. I miss the North. I miss the cookie cutter homes that mirror their neighbors’ in every way, giving the sense that everyone inside those homes is unified, that the community is tightly knit together, that come Christmastime they all gather in a massive block party celebration replete with food and song and dance. It makes me think that the people who live in those houses must have an understanding, they know they are in it together, and the only way they express their individuality is through the strategic planting of shrubbery in their front lawns or perhaps in a fresh coat of paint. Of course, spend time talking to those people up north and that idea disappears quickly. They’re nothing like the well-mannered southern belles. This place is famed for its hospitality. Ya’ll come back now, and all that hokey crap. But I get the feeling that [[it’s an illusion]], that beneath the polished exterior and the ‘yes sir’s and the ‘no ma’am’s there is hostility, a latent anger seething to get out. Maybe it’s because I’m a northerner and can’t relate, or maybe it’s because one of these redneck assholes kidnapped my daughter. It’s difficult to tell. The homes here are old, each one unique, each bathed in its own special seasoning of insect and rodent life. That’s the thing I think I like the least about this place. Everything down here in the swamps seems rampant, uncontrollable. The trees grow at strange angles, the bushes overrun everything, even the animals seem to be somehow mutated and wilder. Some of the homes are painted bright yellow, a fresh, beautiful veneer over wood that is slowly rotting away, tin roofs besieged by a rain of acorns dropped from the trees by noisy squirrels. Others can’t even be seen from the road, masked by bushes taller than the houses and thick banana spider webs that make me want to pack up and drive back home. I like order. The house Janie and I selected had a nice, clean, well-manicured front lawn. Trimmed hedges nestled against the white siding, while the yard stretched to the road, an unbroken pane of St Augustine grass. After only a month I realized how difficult it was to maintain that kind of order. Virginia creeper vines somehow took hold outside our front window and would climb over everything, shrouding the windows in green before crawling even onto the roof itself. Oleander, which was always one of my mother’s favorite flowers, apparently grows like bamboo, somehow adding inches to its height overnight. I don’t even want to speak of the kudzu or the snakes or the possums or the freakishly large cockroaches or the spiders that somehow always managed to skitter into the house and were always found at eye level, dangling and dancing their eight hairy legs right in front of you, suspended by a thin silk line. Even the owls seem to grow larger here. This place, the South, will grow on top of you if you let it. And of course, there’s the railroad tracks. They run right through the center of town, impossible to avoid, and always making everyone late. It was there that the little boy was found. I intend to visit those tracks and try to find where [[the body was discovered]]. Maybe the police missed something.

<h1>You Selected: "The Little Boy was Discovered!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe the truth is [[I like it here]]. It’s safe. I asked mom if I could leave. If I could go home, see if I could readjust to the house. She sat me down. A worried look. Wrinkled brow. I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, Janie. Dr. Calloway says you are still upset, Janie. [[Just relax]] and stay here, Janie. I’ll take care of you. She always used my name when she was saying something she knew I wouldn’t like. I didn’t push too hard to get out. My mind keeps telling me I don’t want to know what happened. One of the other mothers – she knows. Knew. There were nine of them. The newspaper called them the Newberry Nine. Nine little children gone missing from the park. Nine wailing mothers fumbling hysterically after dark. Nine anxious fathers circling the streets in cars. Nine sons and daughters strayed too far. I want to say I’m the worst mother the world has ever had the misfortune to beget. I can’t. There were nine of us who managed to lose our children. All on the same day. Lost. Like a TV remote. So I’m in the top nine. I’m in the running for worst mother of forever. I misplaced my daughter. Maybe if I look between the couch cushions I’ll find her. A friend of mine once lost her remote for two weeks. Then one day she discovered she had somehow, in some bewildering act of forgetfulness, left it in her freezer. Maybe I can find Caylee in mine, balled up among the frozen corpses of chickens and butchered cattle. Maybe, by some miracle, she would be cold and hungry, but still okay. These thoughts [[give me hope]]. Because I don’t know. The woman who knew? She killed herself even before the funeral was held. Her boy’s name was James. Just like my husband. I talked to her once or twice at the park. We sat on a bench and watched our children play together. She seemed nice. Busy. I remember James was a rascal. [[Caylee]] was trying to kiss him on the cheek and he would run from her, screaming at her to get away. But he always stopped and she always caught up. He patiently waited until she gave him a peck. Then he took off running again, hollering at her to stop. It was strange to see how this little boy, James, was so [[very much like my husband]]. When they found her boy two weeks after the Newberry Nine went missing, he was reclining peacefully against a tree. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be napping in the warm sun. Something he never did voluntarily before. Napped. He appeared healthy, except, of course, that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his veins. And someone had cut open the palms of his hands and removed all the bones, leaving only an empty glove made from flesh, embellished with tiny fingernails.

<h1>You Selected: "Made it Back to his Parents!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe the truth is [[I like it here]]. It’s safe. I asked mom if I could leave. If I could go home, see if I could readjust to the house. She sat me down. A worried look. Wrinkled brow. I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, Janie. Dr. Calloway says you are still upset, Janie. [[Just relax]] and stay here, Janie. I’ll take care of you. She always used my name when she was saying something she knew I wouldn’t like. I didn’t push too hard to get out. My mind keeps telling me I don’t want to know what happened. One of the other mothers – she knows. Knew. There were nine of them. The newspaper called them the Newberry Nine. Nine little children gone missing from the park. Nine wailing mothers fumbling hysterically after dark. Nine anxious fathers circling the streets in cars. Nine sons and daughters strayed too far. I want to say I’m the worst mother the world has ever had the misfortune to beget. I can’t. There were nine of us who managed to lose our children. All on the same day. Lost. Like a TV remote. So I’m in the top nine. I’m in the running for worst mother of forever. I misplaced my daughter. Maybe if I look between the couch cushions I’ll find her. A friend of mine once lost her remote for two weeks. Then one day she discovered she had somehow, in some bewildering act of forgetfulness, left it in her freezer. Maybe I can find Caylee in mine, balled up among the frozen corpses of chickens and butchered cattle. Maybe, by some miracle, she would be cold and hungry, but still okay. These thoughts [[give me hope]]. Because I don’t know. The woman who knew? She killed herself even before the funeral was held. Her boy’s name was James. Just like my husband. I talked to her once or twice at the park. We sat on a bench and watched our children play together. She seemed nice. Busy. I remember James was a rascal. [[Caylee]] was trying to kiss him on the cheek and he would run from her, screaming at her to get away. But he always stopped and she always caught up. He patiently waited until she gave him a peck. Then he took off running again, hollering at her to stop. It was strange to see how this little boy, James, was so [[very much like my husband]]. When they found her boy two weeks after the Newberry Nine went missing, he was reclining peacefully against a tree. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be napping in the warm sun. Something he never did voluntarily before. Napped. He appeared healthy, except, of course, that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his veins. And someone had cut open the palms of his hands and removed all the bones, leaving only an empty glove made from flesh, embellished with tiny fingernails.

<h1>You Selected: "It's an Illusion!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe the truth is [[I like it here]]. It’s safe. I asked mom if I could leave. If I could go home, see if I could readjust to the house. She sat me down. A worried look. Wrinkled brow. I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, Janie. Dr. Calloway says you are still upset, Janie. [[Just relax]] and stay here, Janie. I’ll take care of you. She always used my name when she was saying something she knew I wouldn’t like. I didn’t push too hard to get out. My mind keeps telling me I don’t want to know what happened. One of the other mothers – she knows. Knew. There were nine of them. The newspaper called them the Newberry Nine. Nine little children gone missing from the park. Nine wailing mothers fumbling hysterically after dark. Nine anxious fathers circling the streets in cars. Nine sons and daughters strayed too far. I want to say I’m the worst mother the world has ever had the misfortune to beget. I can’t. There were nine of us who managed to lose our children. All on the same day. Lost. Like a TV remote. So I’m in the top nine. I’m in the running for worst mother of forever. I misplaced my daughter. Maybe if I look between the couch cushions I’ll find her. A friend of mine once lost her remote for two weeks. Then one day she discovered she had somehow, in some bewildering act of forgetfulness, left it in her freezer. Maybe I can find Caylee in mine, balled up among the frozen corpses of chickens and butchered cattle. Maybe, by some miracle, she would be cold and hungry, but still okay. These thoughts [[give me hope]]. Because I don’t know. The woman who knew? She killed herself even before the funeral was held. Her boy’s name was James. Just like my husband. I talked to her once or twice at the park. We sat on a bench and watched our children play together. She seemed nice. Busy. I remember James was a rascal. [[Caylee]] was trying to kiss him on the cheek and he would run from her, screaming at her to get away. But he always stopped and she always caught up. He patiently waited until she gave him a peck. Then he took off running again, hollering at her to stop. It was strange to see how this little boy, James, was so [[very much like my husband]]. When they found her boy two weeks after the Newberry Nine went missing, he was reclining peacefully against a tree. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be napping in the warm sun. Something he never did voluntarily before. Napped. He appeared healthy, except, of course, that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his veins. And someone had cut open the palms of his hands and removed all the bones, leaving only an empty glove made from flesh, embellished with tiny fingernails.

<h1>You Selected: "The Body was Discovered!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe the truth is [[I like it here]]. It’s safe. I asked mom if I could leave. If I could go home, see if I could readjust to the house. She sat me down. A worried look. Wrinkled brow. I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, Janie. Dr. Calloway says you are still upset, Janie. [[Just relax]] and stay here, Janie. I’ll take care of you. She always used my name when she was saying something she knew I wouldn’t like. I didn’t push too hard to get out. My mind keeps telling me I don’t want to know what happened. One of the other mothers – she knows. Knew. There were nine of them. The newspaper called them the Newberry Nine. Nine little children gone missing from the park. Nine wailing mothers fumbling hysterically after dark. Nine anxious fathers circling the streets in cars. Nine sons and daughters strayed too far. I want to say I’m the worst mother the world has ever had the misfortune to beget. I can’t. There were nine of us who managed to lose our children. All on the same day. Lost. Like a TV remote. So I’m in the top nine. I’m in the running for worst mother of forever. I misplaced my daughter. Maybe if I look between the couch cushions I’ll find her. A friend of mine once lost her remote for two weeks. Then one day she discovered she had somehow, in some bewildering act of forgetfulness, left it in her freezer. Maybe I can find Caylee in mine, balled up among the frozen corpses of chickens and butchered cattle. Maybe, by some miracle, she would be cold and hungry, but still okay. These thoughts [[give me hope]]. Because I don’t know. The woman who knew? She killed herself even before the funeral was held. Her boy’s name was James. Just like my husband. I talked to her once or twice at the park. We sat on a bench and watched our children play together. She seemed nice. Busy. I remember James was a rascal. [[Caylee]] was trying to kiss him on the cheek and he would run from her, screaming at her to get away. But he always stopped and she always caught up. He patiently waited until she gave him a peck. Then he took off running again, hollering at her to stop. It was strange to see how this little boy, James, was so [[very much like my husband]]. When they found her boy two weeks after the Newberry Nine went missing, he was reclining peacefully against a tree. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be napping in the warm sun. Something he never did voluntarily before. Napped. He appeared healthy, except, of course, that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his veins. And someone had cut open the palms of his hands and removed all the bones, leaving only an empty glove made from flesh, embellished with tiny fingernails.

<h1>You Selected: "I Like it Here!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<h1>You Selected: "Just Relax!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<h1>You Selected: "Give Me Hope!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<h1>You Selected: "Caylee!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<h1>You Selected: "Very Much Like My Husband!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<h1>You Selected: "What Jim Was Up To!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Finding the spot where the boy’s body was discovered proved easier than anticipated. I walked the length of the tracks for about a mile when I saw a large piece of plywood [[nailed to a tree]]. A wreath of dead flowers was tacked to it and written in spray paint were the words: N9. Never forget. Confirming my suspicion that N9 wasn’t some kind of gang sign. It was a parent, like me, heartbroken, trying to leave breadcrumbs for their kid to find their way home. The ground beneath the shabby memorial seemed disturbed, as if someone had stood in that exact spot recently. Leaning against the tree was a foldup chair, the cheap plastic kind they sell at the supermarket heralding the arrival of spring. As if this damn place ever had winter. I unfolded the chair and sat, staring at [[the spot]], my eyes traveling up and down the rough pine bark. I considered. This must have been their way of dealing with it. The parents or the grandparents or the friends or the aunts or uncles, one of them, maybe all of them would sit here and stare at this spot. They would wonder why, and where, and how. This was their bed. Janie curled up in ours and didn’t move. This was somebody else’s way of dealing with it. Maybe they were hoping [[the killer would come back]], maybe they wanted revenge. Or maybe they were hoping to be taken too. After half an hour I got up, folded the chair and placed it against the tree. I walked in a circle, examining the area, looking for anything that might have been missed by the police. Of course I found nothing. If trained professionals couldn’t find anything, neither could I. But I can be stubborn. Just ask Janie. I searched and searched again. [[I dug in the earth]], pried off bark. Nothing. I surveyed the nearby tracks, I poked around in a nearby abandoned hobo camp, and still found nothing. I began to make wider and wider circles around the spot, circling the words N9. Never forget again and again. Head down, eyes darting over the land. It’s a miracle to me that trees can even exist in the dusty, nutrient deprived dirt that is Florida. The ground is soft as sand on top and hard as a rock beneath. I don’t see how [[the roots can grasp hold of anything]].

<h1>You Selected: "I've Searched!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Finding the spot where the boy’s body was discovered proved easier than anticipated. I walked the length of the tracks for about a mile when I saw a large piece of plywood [[nailed to a tree]]. A wreath of dead flowers was tacked to it and written in spray paint were the words: N9. Never forget. Confirming my suspicion that N9 wasn’t some kind of gang sign. It was a parent, like me, heartbroken, trying to leave breadcrumbs for their kid to find their way home. The ground beneath the shabby memorial seemed disturbed, as if someone had stood in that exact spot recently. Leaning against the tree was a foldup chair, the cheap plastic kind they sell at the supermarket heralding the arrival of spring. As if this damn place ever had winter. I unfolded the chair and sat, staring at [[the spot]], my eyes traveling up and down the rough pine bark. I considered. This must have been their way of dealing with it. The parents or the grandparents or the friends or the aunts or uncles, one of them, maybe all of them would sit here and stare at this spot. They would wonder why, and where, and how. This was their bed. Janie curled up in ours and didn’t move. This was somebody else’s way of dealing with it. Maybe they were hoping [[the killer would come back]], maybe they wanted revenge. Or maybe they were hoping to be taken too. After half an hour I got up, folded the chair and placed it against the tree. I walked in a circle, examining the area, looking for anything that might have been missed by the police. Of course I found nothing. If trained professionals couldn’t find anything, neither could I. But I can be stubborn. Just ask Janie. I searched and searched again. [[I dug in the earth]], pried off bark. Nothing. I surveyed the nearby tracks, I poked around in a nearby abandoned hobo camp, and still found nothing. I began to make wider and wider circles around the spot, circling the words N9. Never forget again and again. Head down, eyes darting over the land. It’s a miracle to me that trees can even exist in the dusty, nutrient deprived dirt that is Florida. The ground is soft as sand on top and hard as a rock beneath. I don’t see how [[the roots can grasp hold of anything]].

<h1>You Selected: "Jim Couldn't Have Thought!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Finding the spot where the boy’s body was discovered proved easier than anticipated. I walked the length of the tracks for about a mile when I saw a large piece of plywood [[nailed to a tree]]. A wreath of dead flowers was tacked to it and written in spray paint were the words: N9. Never forget. Confirming my suspicion that N9 wasn’t some kind of gang sign. It was a parent, like me, heartbroken, trying to leave breadcrumbs for their kid to find their way home. The ground beneath the shabby memorial seemed disturbed, as if someone had stood in that exact spot recently. Leaning against the tree was a foldup chair, the cheap plastic kind they sell at the supermarket heralding the arrival of spring. As if this damn place ever had winter. I unfolded the chair and sat, staring at [[the spot]], my eyes traveling up and down the rough pine bark. I considered. This must have been their way of dealing with it. The parents or the grandparents or the friends or the aunts or uncles, one of them, maybe all of them would sit here and stare at this spot. They would wonder why, and where, and how. This was their bed. Janie curled up in ours and didn’t move. This was somebody else’s way of dealing with it. Maybe they were hoping [[the killer would come back]], maybe they wanted revenge. Or maybe they were hoping to be taken too. After half an hour I got up, folded the chair and placed it against the tree. I walked in a circle, examining the area, looking for anything that might have been missed by the police. Of course I found nothing. If trained professionals couldn’t find anything, neither could I. But I can be stubborn. Just ask Janie. I searched and searched again. [[I dug in the earth]], pried off bark. Nothing. I surveyed the nearby tracks, I poked around in a nearby abandoned hobo camp, and still found nothing. I began to make wider and wider circles around the spot, circling the words N9. Never forget again and again. Head down, eyes darting over the land. It’s a miracle to me that trees can even exist in the dusty, nutrient deprived dirt that is Florida. The ground is soft as sand on top and hard as a rock beneath. I don’t see how [[the roots can grasp hold of anything]].

<span id="splash"><img src="media/slender3.jpg" style="width:900px;height:673px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: "What Jim Was Up To!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Eventually my circle led me to a small cluster of four or five trees. Immediately I was greeted by a foul odor and the sound of buzzing flies. Obviously something had died there recently and I had only to glance to confirm a small furry paw pointing straight up to the sky, testament to the absurdity that death and rigor mortis brings to a body. I stepped closer for a better look, entering the thicket where the body lay, and as I did a cloud floated over the sun making the place seem sinister and oddly cold. I held my nose and nudged the animal with my foot. The thing was half buried in a stack of pine needles and, after some work, I had managed to pull enough aside to discover a very dead, very deflated looking house cat. Around its neck was a purple collar. What immediately struck me was that it did not look like it had been eaten or even toyed with by some dog. A long cut ran the length of its body. It was clean, like someone had used a knife. I felt sick. What kind of asshole kills someone’s cat just for fun? I looked around for a leaf or some paper so I could turn the collar and look at the ID tag without having to touch the cat. Nothing. [[Only pine needles.]] <</replace>><</timed>>

<h1> You Selected: "Don't Look Inside the Closet!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> I held my breath, grimaced, and reached down to twist it barehanded, swatting at the flies with my other hand. It took more effort that I realized and, as I tried to twist the plastic collar, my knuckle accidentally pressed against the cat’s head. I heard a sound like [[a champagne cork popping]] and the skin around the area depressed and deflated like a balloon. A horrible smell followed and, unable to contain myself, I threw up all over the thing. I stood and turned to leave in disgust but an uncomfortable thought occurred to me as I did. Even dead, a cat’s head shouldn’t deflate. I turned to look at it again. It was disgusting, covered in my own bile. I held my breath and crouched down again. I could see into the cavity I had created and could easily make out what appeared to be the brain. I dry heaved a few times and stood up. Like everything else with four legs, cats have skulls. Why was I looking at a brain and [[not bone?]] I had another session of heaving. I gently stepped on the animal with my foot, and with a cracking sound the rest of it sank down with a gentle puff. I’d had enough. I turned and walked away, stepping into the sunlight with my shirt held over my nose. I was greeted by a blast of hot wind and blindingly bright sun. I held my face to the sky and soaked in the warmth and breathed in the clean air. After a minute or two the physical sickness faded, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew stronger. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I turned back to look at the cluster of trees. There were not nearly enough to cast a shadow like I had experienced when I stood in their midst. Pine needles are thin and airy, not like the large maple leaves from up north that could cast a pall over a wide space. The sinking feeling grew stronger and I nearly jumped [[out of my skin]] when a coming train blasted its horn half a mile down the tracks.

<<audio "train" play>> <<timed 8s>> <h1>You Selected: "A Champagne Cork Popping!"</h1> <h1> Jim's Letter to Janie </h1> Caylee was our girl. I say that on purpose. Was. She’s gone. Every bit of me is aching to hear her voice again. I sleep on the floor of her bedroom some nights now. I look at her toys, admire the only poster on the wall. Animal. I suppose our daughter was a bit strange. Most little girls have a fascination with being a princess or owning a pony and all that other rainbow smothered feel-good fluff. But our daughter liked Animal from the Muppets. She liked him best of all because he played the drums. I’m tempted to pick up her sticks and tap out a rhythm for Caylee on the small snare we bought her for Christmas but I never do. Maybe one of these days I’ll create a beat that will wake you from your reverie, like a kiss from Prince Charming maybe I’ll be able to save you like you saved me. I want this mostly because I need you. I place objects around our bedroom that I think will remind you of the life we lived before all this, before Caylee even. We were happy. We stayed up all night sometime just talking, holding hands, making love, drinking to stay awake long enough to watch the sun rise. You told me about [[your hopes for the future]], what kind of house you wanted to live in, about your fears that you would make a bad teacher, and about your ambition to move to some exotic foreign country. You talked, I listened, and we were both content. On the dresser I place the mittens you were wearing the night we met. On the table beside the bed I place our wedding picture. On the bathroom sink I place the cork from the bottle of champagne we shared atop the parking garage the night I proposed to you. On the wall a place a picture of Madrid: winding streets around stately, monumental buildings. I hope that in the brief intervals when you are not curled up under the sheets [[hiding from the light of day]] you will poke your head up long enough. Your eyes, puffy and red will wander the room, looking for a raft you can climb into, safe from the ocean you are drowning in. They will rest on the picture and you’ll remember that there’s a whole world out here. You will see the other artifacts laid out and be reminded that there is still a person in this world who needs you, who wants you, who you can share your sorrow with. And, like a trapper, you will follow the trail of breadcrumbs I have laid all the way down the hallway, past the ugly green kitchen, through the dining room, the table set for two, to the living room where I will spring my trap on you, grab you in my arms, and never let go. This is my hope. One day you will come back to me. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I will never let you read it. I will likely [[destroy this]], burn it, offer these pages up as a sacrificial immolation in the belief that the words will turn to smoke and the smoke will reach your freckled nose and you will understand and rise from the depths of your torment. This is all so very depressing. Maybe a joke. Do you remember Caylee’s joke? The one she said every night before she went to bed? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Olive. Olive who? Olive you! <</timed>>

<<audio "train" play>> <<timed 8s>> <h1>You selected: "Not Bone!"</h1> <h1> Jim's Letter to Janie </h1> Caylee was our girl. I say that on purpose. Was. She’s gone. Every bit of me is aching to hear her voice again. I sleep on the floor of her bedroom some nights now. I look at her toys, admire the only poster on the wall. Animal. I suppose our daughter was a bit strange. Most little girls have a fascination with being a princess or owning a pony and all that other rainbow smothered feel-good fluff. But our daughter liked Animal from the Muppets. She liked him best of all because he played the drums. I’m tempted to pick up her sticks and tap out a rhythm for Caylee on the small snare we bought her for Christmas but I never do. Maybe one of these days I’ll create a beat that will wake you from your reverie, like a kiss from Prince Charming maybe I’ll be able to save you like you saved me. I want this mostly because I need you. I place objects around our bedroom that I think will remind you of the life we lived before all this, before Caylee even. We were happy. We stayed up all night sometime just talking, holding hands, making love, drinking to stay awake long enough to watch the sun rise. You told me about [[your hopes for the future]], what kind of house you wanted to live in, about your fears that you would make a bad teacher, and about your ambition to move to some exotic foreign country. You talked, I listened, and we were both content. On the dresser I place the mittens you were wearing the night we met. On the table beside the bed I place our wedding picture. On the bathroom sink I place the cork from the bottle of champagne we shared atop the parking garage the night I proposed to you. On the wall a place a picture of Madrid: winding streets around stately, monumental buildings. I hope that in the brief intervals when you are not curled up under the sheets [[hiding from the light of day]] you will poke your head up long enough. Your eyes, puffy and red will wander the room, looking for a raft you can climb into, safe from the ocean you are drowning in. They will rest on the picture and you’ll remember that there’s a whole world out here. You will see the other artifacts laid out and be reminded that there is still a person in this world who needs you, who wants you, who you can share your sorrow with. And, like a trapper, you will follow the trail of breadcrumbs I have laid all the way down the hallway, past the ugly green kitchen, through the dining room, the table set for two, to the living room where I will spring my trap on you, grab you in my arms, and never let go. This is my hope. One day you will come back to me. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I will never let you read it. I will likely [[destroy this]], burn it, offer these pages up as a sacrificial immolation in the belief that the words will turn to smoke and the smoke will reach your freckled nose and you will understand and rise from the depths of your torment. This is all so very depressing. Maybe a joke. Do you remember Caylee’s joke? The one she said every night before she went to bed? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Olive. Olive who? Olive you! <</timed>>

<<audio "train" play>> <<timed 8s>> <h1>You selected: "Out of my Skin!"</h1> <h1> Jim's Letter to Janie </h1> Caylee was our girl. I say that on purpose. Was. She’s gone. Every bit of me is aching to hear her voice again. I sleep on the floor of her bedroom some nights now. I look at her toys, admire the only poster on the wall. Animal. I suppose our daughter was a bit strange. Most little girls have a fascination with being a princess or owning a pony and all that other rainbow smothered feel-good fluff. But our daughter liked Animal from the Muppets. She liked him best of all because he played the drums. I’m tempted to pick up her sticks and tap out a rhythm for Caylee on the small snare we bought her for Christmas but I never do. Maybe one of these days I’ll create a beat that will wake you from your reverie, like a kiss from Prince Charming maybe I’ll be able to save you like you saved me. I want this mostly because I need you. I place objects around our bedroom that I think will remind you of the life we lived before all this, before Caylee even. We were happy. We stayed up all night sometime just talking, holding hands, making love, drinking to stay awake long enough to watch the sun rise. You told me about [[your hopes for the future]], what kind of house you wanted to live in, about your fears that you would make a bad teacher, and about your ambition to move to some exotic foreign country. You talked, I listened, and we were both content. On the dresser I place the mittens you were wearing the night we met. On the table beside the bed I place our wedding picture. On the bathroom sink I place the cork from the bottle of champagne we shared atop the parking garage the night I proposed to you. On the wall a place a picture of Madrid: winding streets around stately, monumental buildings. I hope that in the brief intervals when you are not curled up under the sheets [[hiding from the light of day]] you will poke your head up long enough. Your eyes, puffy and red will wander the room, looking for a raft you can climb into, safe from the ocean you are drowning in. They will rest on the picture and you’ll remember that there’s a whole world out here. You will see the other artifacts laid out and be reminded that there is still a person in this world who needs you, who wants you, who you can share your sorrow with. And, like a trapper, you will follow the trail of breadcrumbs I have laid all the way down the hallway, past the ugly green kitchen, through the dining room, the table set for two, to the living room where I will spring my trap on you, grab you in my arms, and never let go. This is my hope. One day you will come back to me. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I will never let you read it. I will likely [[destroy this]], burn it, offer these pages up as a sacrificial immolation in the belief that the words will turn to smoke and the smoke will reach your freckled nose and you will understand and rise from the depths of your torment. This is all so very depressing. Maybe a joke. Do you remember Caylee’s joke? The one she said every night before she went to bed? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Olive. Olive who? Olive you! <</timed>>

<h1> You Selected: "Your Hopes for the Future!"</h1> <h1> Janie</h1> If it weren't for Jim's clues troubling me, I think I would almost be content. Why? Because I don’t know. If I did, I might [[end up like James’ mother]] did. Mom would come home one day to find me hanging from the dining room chandelier with one of Dad’s old ties lynched around my sorrowful throat. I think I would leave the lights on. Sometimes the dark scares me. Mom knows this, has always known this. I had [[nightmares]] when I was a child. They were never the same. Sometimes I dreamed that the figurine from my grandmother’s was after me, his horrible gaping slash of a smile dripping red at his feet while he chased me down the hallway. Other times I dreamed of being attacked by a large, black dog that would make me watch while he ate pieces of me. Other times I awoke from sleep with the overwhelming feeling that if I were to open my eyes there would be someone leaning over me, inches from my face. This one scared me the most because I had a very definite idea [[who that someone would be]]. When I was six I dreamed once I had woken up to find a man, standing in the corner of my room. He seemed impossibly tall. His skin was white. Not pale, white. His hands freakishly huge. The fingers were long and thin and could easily cover half my body if he put them on my chest. Which he did. Though he had the frame of a scarecrow, he moved faster than my eye could follow in a kind of crablike scuttle. He was in the corner, and then he was leaning over me, nose to nose, his massive hand pressing down my body. He didn’t speak a word to me, only looked. At least it seemed like it. He had no eyes. Something dripped from the hole in his face onto my cheek and I woke up screaming. Afterwards I slept with the lights on. Even when I got married. Jim and I argued over this, too, like so many trivial things. That period of time, the honeymoon and the aftermath, could be recollected in terms of the arguments we had. As if marriage itself were measured like geology, our time together divided into strata, eras of argument. The era of my need for a night light. The era of lime green walls. The era of alcoholism. The era of not having enough money. The era of dividing house chores. The era of Jim’s slip-up. The era of deciding Caylee’s name. The era of [[blame for her loss]]. The era of my shut down. The era of suicide. When I moved in with Mom — rather, when she forced me to move in with her — she remembered my nightmares. She left the light on.

<h1> You Selected: "Hiding From the Light of Day!"</h1> <h1> Janie</h1> If it weren't for Jim's clues troubling me, I think I would almost be content. Why? Because I don’t know. If I did, I might [[end up like James’ mother]] did. Mom would come home one day to find me hanging from the dining room chandelier with one of Dad’s old ties lynched around my sorrowful throat. I think I would leave the lights on. Sometimes the dark scares me. Mom knows this, has always known this. I had [[nightmares]] when I was a child. They were never the same. Sometimes I dreamed that the figurine from my grandmother’s was after me, his horrible gaping slash of a smile dripping red at his feet while he chased me down the hallway. Other times I dreamed of being attacked by a large, black dog that would make me watch while he ate pieces of me. Other times I awoke from sleep with the overwhelming feeling that if I were to open my eyes there would be someone leaning over me, inches from my face. This one scared me the most because I had a very definite idea [[who that someone would be]]. When I was six I dreamed once I had woken up to find a man, standing in the corner of my room. He seemed impossibly tall. His skin was white. Not pale, white. His hands freakishly huge. The fingers were long and thin and could easily cover half my body if he put them on my chest. Which he did. Though he had the frame of a scarecrow, he moved faster than my eye could follow in a kind of crablike scuttle. He was in the corner, and then he was leaning over me, nose to nose, his massive hand pressing down my body. He didn’t speak a word to me, only looked. At least it seemed like it. He had no eyes. Something dripped from the hole in his face onto my cheek and I woke up screaming. Afterwards I slept with the lights on. Even when I got married. Jim and I argued over this, too, like so many trivial things. That period of time, the honeymoon and the aftermath, could be recollected in terms of the arguments we had. As if marriage itself were measured like geology, our time together divided into strata, eras of argument. The era of my need for a night light. The era of lime green walls. The era of alcoholism. The era of not having enough money. The era of dividing house chores. The era of Jim’s slip-up. The era of deciding Caylee’s name. The era of [[blame for her loss]]. The era of my shut down. The era of suicide. When I moved in with Mom — rather, when she forced me to move in with her — she remembered my nightmares. She left the light on.

<h1> You Selected: Destroy This!"</h1> <h1> Janie</h1> If it weren't for Jim's clues troubling me, I think I would almost be content. Why? Because I don’t know. If I did, I might [[end up like James’ mother]] did. Mom would come home one day to find me hanging from the dining room chandelier with one of Dad’s old ties lynched around my sorrowful throat. I think I would leave the lights on. Sometimes the dark scares me. Mom knows this, has always known this. I had [[nightmares]] when I was a child. They were never the same. Sometimes I dreamed that the figurine from my grandmother’s was after me, his horrible gaping slash of a smile dripping red at his feet while he chased me down the hallway. Other times I dreamed of being attacked by a large, black dog that would make me watch while he ate pieces of me. Other times I awoke from sleep with the overwhelming feeling that if I were to open my eyes there would be someone leaning over me, inches from my face. This one scared me the most because I had a very definite idea [[who that someone would be]]. When I was six I dreamed once I had woken up to find a man, standing in the corner of my room. He seemed impossibly tall. His skin was white. Not pale, white. His hands freakishly huge. The fingers were long and thin and could easily cover half my body if he put them on my chest. Which he did. Though he had the frame of a scarecrow, he moved faster than my eye could follow in a kind of crablike scuttle. He was in the corner, and then he was leaning over me, nose to nose, his massive hand pressing down my body. He didn’t speak a word to me, only looked. At least it seemed like it. He had no eyes. Something dripped from the hole in his face onto my cheek and I woke up screaming. Afterwards I slept with the lights on. Even when I got married. Jim and I argued over this, too, like so many trivial things. That period of time, the honeymoon and the aftermath, could be recollected in terms of the arguments we had. As if marriage itself were measured like geology, our time together divided into strata, eras of argument. The era of my need for a night light. The era of lime green walls. The era of alcoholism. The era of not having enough money. The era of dividing house chores. The era of Jim’s slip-up. The era of deciding Caylee’s name. The era of [[blame for her loss]]. The era of my shut down. The era of suicide. When I moved in with Mom — rather, when she forced me to move in with her — she remembered my nightmares. She left the light on.

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake2.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: Self-Loathing!</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> There’s a little park near our house. My home. It’s a small, community plot of orange mulch harboring a jungle gym, a few metal slides, and a little green and yellow plastic house. Barely big enough for a mouse. Caylee loved it [[best of all]]. She would go inside and pretend she was baking cookies for everyone. A few times I gave her a pack of Oreos so she could give them to her friends. Pretend she baked them. Parents are more responsible for their kids’ popularity than they believe. All it takes is one purchase. This is America. We learn the value of money at a very young age. Buy one cool pair of shoes. Bring cake to class one day. Own the newest video game. Boom. Suddenly, you’re the popular one. Growing up, I was never [[that kid]]. Not because we couldn’t afford it. Because my Mom believed in saving. She still saves money, but now she’s set her sight higher. Now she wants to save me. Caylee’s friend knocked on our door. Asked if my daughter wanted to play with her. I was busy. I was a school teacher. Lesson plans were due. My God. Lessons plans. I hated those things so damn much. Principals want to see them, parents want to see them. [[The world wants to know]] you are teaching their children what they think you should teach them. Kids? Kids are smart, young, curious. They’ll learn anything you throw their way, and then more. They somehow always learn the things you don’t want them to. Cuss words. The birds and the bees. That Mommy thinks Daddy drinks too much. That they don’t love each other anymore. That Mommy thinks he’s a worthless asshole and that Daddy thinks she’s stuck-up bitch. Kids will learn long before you ever think they’re ready for it. They’ll even learn what it’s like to disappear. I told Caylee she could go. I told her to be careful, and to go only to the park. Nowhere else. She promised, and out the door she went. Eight years old. At the time I felt justified. [[Parents are so paranoid]] these days. They smother their children. They don’t let them out of their sight. They won’t even let them pour their own bowl of cereal. Caylee was smart. I knew she’d be fine. An hour or so later I finished my work. I wasn’t done, but I was tired of it. I walked to the park. The afternoon had turned beautiful. It was breezy, the sun wasn’t overly hot. I arrived at the playground and a chill went up my spine. There were two other mothers from the neighborhood. I recognized them vaguely. Perhaps from some [[community]] social event that I cannot recollect ever going to. Maybe I had taught their kids the year before. There were no children on the playground. The jungle gym was silent, the plastic house empty. The slides bore witness to stillness. Only three women batting worried glances back and forth, calling out the names of their children. It strikes me now that [[none of us called]] for any child other than our own. I could have easily mixed in a James or an Ashley between my anxious cries for Caylee. But I never did. I never heard the others call for Caylee. I think, even then, my womb had begun to ache. Empty. I don’t think I want to write anymore today. <</replace>> <</timed>>

<h1> You Selected: Long Bones, Long Bones, Leave Me Alone!</h1> <h1> James </h1> I found something disturbing today. A possible link at last. Sifting through yet more microfiche I found a police report that sent a chill through me: Bizarre Act of Vandalism Reported Police were called to SW Avenue early Sunday afternoon to investigate a reported break-in. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Clifford King, stated that they returned from church to find their front door swinging wide. Items were shifted but nothing was reported missing. According their statement, a small wooden doll that did not belong to the family was found in their son’s room. The figurine was discovered on the pillow of the bed. Police have confiscated the toy pending further investigation. No suspects have been named. The story itself is strange, sure, but there’s more to it. I distinctly recall watching Caylee carry around a small wooden doll days before her disappearance. I had never seen it before, and when I asked her where she found it she told me her friend from the playground gave it to her. I had assumed it was one of her playmates but… What if it wasn’t? What if someone she trusted, an adult who stood watch over the children every day, had given it to her? What to do next? Should I tell the police? No, this is circumstantial evidence at best. It’s not even evidence. It’s an intuition. I think I need to make a list of who was at the playground watching the kids. Uncover [[a sick bastard]], string them up, kill them with my own hands, and make them pay for the death of my daughter. I can’t believe I just wrote that. Caylee. I don’t believe you’re dead. I can’t. I’m coming. I will find you.

<h1>You Selected: A Sick Bastard!</h1> <h1>James</h1> I can’t take her to the doctor. She made me promise when we were still dating to never, under any circumstances, allow them to give her [[pills]]. She was depressed. She lived her whole life that way. She would seem fine and happy and buoyant and then, whoosh, out of nowhere a cloud would sweep over her and burn out the sun. She told me she had tried to kill herself in high school. A fistful of rainbow colored [[pills]] and a mouthful of bourbon. A rush to the hospital ensued, followed by a stomach pump and a vow she would never take another pill again so long as she lived. I have never seen her take an aspirin for a headache, a vitamin in the morning, or even a birth control [[pill->pills]]. Nothing. So I don’t know what to do with her. A doctor will almost certainly diagnose her with all manner of mental illnesses and prescribe a cereal bowl full of happy [[pills]] to cheer her up. So I leave her where she is. Hoping that she might get through it on her own. I hope she does soon. I’m beginning to go bonkers with her.

<<audio "whiteloud" time 9.5 volume 0.8 play>> <h1> You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones Let Me Go Home!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I can’t help but wonder. Was it me? Did Jim give up because I had already given up? Am I now responsible for both misplacing my daughter and killing my husband? An image of Jim [[sticks in my mind]], a picture of him that follows me when I close my eyes and chases after me in my dreams. That night, just before he went to the kitchen, Jim came and kneeled beside me. He kissed me on the forehead and whispered I’m sorry. I’m sorry Janie. This was not unusual. He took just as much blame for Caylee’s loss as I did. I would [[often wake]] from my endless slumber to find him sitting beside me, [[head in hands]], apologizing for our daughter. I always wanted to reach out to him when he did this. I wanted to cradle his head, tell him it was nobody’s fault. It was just bad luck. We couldn’t have known. No one could have. Instead I pretended to sleep. I’m not certain you could even say I was alive during that time. I lay in bed. I thought. I remembered. I ached for the sound of Caylee’s voice. So Jim was on his own. That evening though, he said something different. He said, "I’m sorry. I’m sorry Janie. It spoke your name. I’m so sorry." And the image of him, how he looked when he said it, I can’t forget it. I can’t shake it. I have never seen a person completely absorbed by fear before. [[His face was white]], his beard unkempt, his hands shook, his lips trembled, his eyes seemed almost hollow. It was this more than the sound that drew me from my bed that night. Normally I would have ignored the blare. A gunshot makes a singular noise. But I would not have risen from bed. I would have remained under the covers, curled up, an unmoving ball until someone came and dragged me from my refuge. But his face. I cannot forget it.

<h1> You Selected: "Sticks in My Mind!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> That was our first argument after we bought the house. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green. I wanted to because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen. I always loved the way her home smelled, and how the walls were a horrible motley of green and red and blue and yellow, and how she had a collection of the most bizarre, intricately designed ceramic figurines from around the world. I remember I loved all her statuettes, except one. It was supposed to be of a smiling little black boy kicking a tin can. Something about it scared me. His skin was too black, [[his features]] not quite defined. His eyes were overly white and his mouth was set in what was supposed to be a smile, but it looked like a menacing red gash across his cheeks, the grin just a little too wide. Like someone had tried to cut his throat but missed. I made her hide it whenever I came to visit. She did. She was kind. She made the world’s best lasagna. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green in honor of her, my grandmother.

<h1> You Selected: "Often Wake!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> That was our first argument after we bought the house. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green. I wanted to because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen. I always loved the way her home smelled, and how the walls were a horrible motley of green and red and blue and yellow, and how she had a collection of the most bizarre, intricately designed ceramic figurines from around the world. I remember I loved all her statuettes, except one. It was supposed to be of a smiling little black boy kicking a tin can. Something about it scared me. His skin was too black, [[his features]] not quite defined. His eyes were overly white and his mouth was set in what was supposed to be a smile, but it looked like a menacing red gash across his cheeks, the grin just a little too wide. Like someone had tried to cut his throat but missed. I made her hide it whenever I came to visit. She did. She was kind. She made the world’s best lasagna. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green in honor of her, my grandmother.

<h1> You Selected: "Head in Hands!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> That was our first argument after we bought the house. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green. I wanted to because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen. I always loved the way her home smelled, and how the walls were a horrible motley of green and red and blue and yellow, and how she had a collection of the most bizarre, intricately designed ceramic figurines from around the world. I remember I loved all her statuettes, except one. It was supposed to be of a smiling little black boy kicking a tin can. Something about it scared me. His skin was too black, [[his features]] not quite defined. His eyes were overly white and his mouth was set in what was supposed to be a smile, but it looked like a menacing red gash across his cheeks, the grin just a little too wide. Like someone had tried to cut his throat but missed. I made her hide it whenever I came to visit. She did. She was kind. She made the world’s best lasagna. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green in honor of her, my grandmother.

<h1> You Selected: "His Face was White!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> That was our first argument after we bought the house. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green. I wanted to because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen. I always loved the way her home smelled, and how the walls were a horrible motley of green and red and blue and yellow, and how she had a collection of the most bizarre, intricately designed ceramic figurines from around the world. I remember I loved all her statuettes, except one. It was supposed to be of a smiling little black boy kicking a tin can. Something about it scared me. His skin was too black, [[his features]] not quite defined. His eyes were overly white and his mouth was set in what was supposed to be a smile, but it looked like a menacing red gash across his cheeks, the grin just a little too wide. Like someone had tried to cut his throat but missed. I made her hide it whenever I came to visit. She did. She was kind. She made the world’s best lasagna. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green in honor of her, my grandmother.

<h1> You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones I Promise to be Good!" </h1> <h1> James </h1> Someone broke into Caylee’s room. I’m certain of it. I searched it today, looking for the wooden doll that she carried around in those final weeks. I try to [[avoid]] going in there. When she first disappeared I would sleep in her bed. But now I can’t. I stay out because seeing her drum set, her clothes, her toys strewn about is almost paralyzing. But today I had to. I found it, the wooden doll, under her pillow. I’ve slept on that pillow probably a dozen times or more since she went missing, and I know damn well that the doll was not there – someone must have broken in and put it there, like what happened at the King’s house. The thought gives me goosebumps – Janie hasn’t left the bed in weeks – that means that whoever broke in was [[in there with Janie]]. As soon as I found the doll I ran to check on her. She is still mostly unresponsive, but it seems as if whoever it was left her alone. Once I ensured that she was okay I went out to buy a gun. I shot one once when I was a kid – my uncle took us hunting. We never saw any game. He just dragged us through the muddy, swampy Appalachian trails until my brother and I were too tired to walk. Finally, he let us fire the rifle just once into the side of a clay hill. I remember the sound hurt my ears and the kickback almost knocked the gun from my grasp. I’ve never had the inclination to touch one since then, but now. Well. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose both my little girl and my wife. No. Fuck that. It will take a few days to clear the background check, but I’m getting a gun and I’m going to learn how to fire it at whatever bastard dares to step foot near [[my Janie]] again.

<<if $counter eq 1>><<goto [[Ending 1]]>> <<elseif $counter eq 2>><<goto [[Ending 2]]>> <<elseif $counter eq 3>><<goto [[Ending 3]]>> <<elseif $counter eq 4>><<goto [[Ending 4]]>> <<else>>> <<goto [[StoryInit]]>><</if>>

<<audio "end1" play>> <img src="media/sad.jpg" /> <<timed 19s>> [[Try to Make it Better->Intro 2]] <</timed>>

<<audio "begin1" play>> <span id="intro"><h1>Hello!</h1></span> <<timed 9s>><<replace "#intro">> Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh. <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 13s>><<replace "#intro">> <img src="media/optimist.jpg" /> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 16s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1>Yadda, yadda, yadda</h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 21s>>[[Etc., etc. Move along->Click to begin!]]<</timed>>

<<audio "end2" play>> <span id="intro"><h1>Ahhhhhhh!</h1></span> <<timed 4s>><<replace "#intro">> NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. NEVER. <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 7s>><<replace "#intro">> <img src="media/sad1.jpg"> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 10s>><<replace "#intro">> [[Give Up->Credits]] [[Try to Make it Better->Intro 3]] <</replace>><</timed>>

<<audio "end3" play>> [[Give up->Credits]] [[Try to Make it Better->Intro 4]]

<<audio "end4" play>> <<timed 3s>> <<audio "birds" play>> <img src="media/rainbow.jpg" ;> <</timed>> <<timed 20s>> <<goto [[Credits]]>> <</timed>>

<<audio "begin2" play>> <span id="intro"><h1>Hello!</h1></span> <<timed 6s>><<replace "#intro">> You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again? You again?<</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 12.5s>><<replace "#intro">> <img src="media/clown.jpg" /> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 13.5s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1> Try </h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 14s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1> Try, Try </h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 14.5s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1> Try, Try, Try </h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 16.5s>><<replace "#intro">> <img src="media/path.jpg" /> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 18s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1>NOTHING WILL CHANGE</h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 25s>><<replace "#intro">> <img src="media/doll1.jpg" /> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 32s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1> Move. </h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 33s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1> Move. Along. </h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 34s>> [[Give up->Credits]] [[Keep Trying! (and failing...)->NewStart1]] <</timed>>

<<audio "begin3" play>> <span id="intro"><h1>Hello!</h1></span> <<timed 3s>><<replace "#intro">> POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! <img src="media/pointless.jpg" />POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! POINTLESS! <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 10s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1>GIVE.</h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 11s>><<replace "#intro">> <h1>GIVE. UP.</h1> <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 12s>><<replace "#intro">> [[Give up->Credits]] <</replace>><</timed>> <<timed 20s>><<replace "#intro">> [[Give up->Credits]] [[Whatever. Try Again.->New28]] <</replace>><</timed>>

<<audio "bones" volume 1.0 fadeout>> <h1>You Selected: "Avoid!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I remember, when I was [[paralyzed by depression]], I had a dream one day. James was out, doing whatever it was he doing during that time. God knows. But it was there. The thing from my childhood nightmares. In the room with me. It [[stood in the corner]], grinding its horrible long fingers together. It sounded like bones grinding to dust. It stood there. Just. Watching. I closed my eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and hummed to myself. I [[woke up]] a few hours later when [[James came home]].

<<audio "bones" volume 1.0 fadeout>> <h1>You Selected: "In There With Janie!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I remember, when I was [[paralyzed by depression]], I had a dream one day. James was out, doing whatever it was he doing during that time. God knows. But it was there. The thing from my childhood nightmares. In the room with me. It [[stood in the corner]], grinding its horrible long fingers together. It sounded like bones grinding to dust. It stood there. Just. Watching. I closed my eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and hummed to myself. I [[woke up]] a few hours later when [[James came home]].

<<audio "bones" volume 1.0 fadeout>> <h1>You Selected: "My Janie!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I remember, when I was [[paralyzed by depression]], I had a dream one day. James was out, doing whatever it was he doing during that time. God knows. But it was there. The thing from my childhood nightmares. In the room with me. It [[stood in the corner]], grinding its horrible long fingers together. It sounded like bones grinding to dust. It stood there. Just. Watching. I closed my eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and hummed to myself. I [[woke up]] a few hours later when [[James came home]].

<h1>You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones, Let Me Keep My Bones!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I took [[the doll]] to the King’s house. They live on NW 252nd Street. I showed it to them, asked if it was the same one that the cops had found. They guy, Clifford, he didn’t even want to talk to me, but I got it out of him before he slammed the door in my face – it is the same doll. So there’s a link. These dolls were given to [[the children]] by whoever [[the kidnapper]] was. At least, that’s what I think. My next step is to try and contact some of the other parents and see if they, too, have seen these dolls.

<h1>You Selected: "The Doll!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I’ve figured it out – well, sort of. I was on my way to one of the other parents’ house – I even forget which – when a kid stopped me and asked if I liked [[Mr. Long Bones]] as much as he did. I had no idea what he was talking about until he pointed to the doll I was carrying. He said that Mr. Long Bones had given him one, too, and that he liked him very much even though he was scary at first. The kid said that this [[Mr. Long Bones]] was always giving him gifts and toys, but that the doll was his favorite. Boom! The shoe drops! I ask the kid if he knows where [[Mr. Long Bones]] lives, but he said no. This guy apparently just shows up at the playground every so often and gives toys to the kids. I’m going to find this son of a bitch and I swear to God I’m going to kill him. Even if Caylee is safe, I’m still going to make this fucker pay. Incidentally, I also discovered that this guy is apparently using some kind of fake Internet meme as his handle. I searched at the library for “Mr. Longbones” in Newberry, Florida, but only found articles that talk about a creepy folk monster that kidnaps children and steals their bones. They are a bunch of stories that are told apparently all over the world to scare kids at sleepovers. Kind of like Bloody Mary. The story goes that [[Mr. Long Bones]] needs new bones because his are brittle and break easily, so he steals them from children whenever his bones are hurting, and you can know he’s nearby because his bones make a creaky-grindy sound. Apparently he chooses the children while they are still babies and follows them until they are old enough to… well, harvest. As if that’s not creepy enough, he tells you if he’s chosen you by saying your name. So this asshat who kidnapped my daughter is naming himself after some urban legend who murders children for their bones. What a fucking psycho.

<h1>You Selected: "The Children!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I’ve figured it out – well, sort of. I was on my way to one of the other parents’ house – I even forget which – when a kid stopped me and asked if I liked [[Mr. Long Bones]] as much as he did. I had no idea what he was talking about until he pointed to the doll I was carrying. He said that Mr. Long Bones had given him one, too, and that he liked him very much even though he was scary at first. The kid said that this [[Mr. Long Bones]] was always giving him gifts and toys, but that the doll was his favorite. Boom! The shoe drops! I ask the kid if he knows where [[Mr. Long Bones]] lives, but he said no. This guy apparently just shows up at the playground every so often and gives toys to the kids. I’m going to find this son of a bitch and I swear to God I’m going to kill him. Even if Caylee is safe, I’m still going to make this fucker pay. Incidentally, I also discovered that this guy is apparently using some kind of fake Internet meme as his handle. I searched at the library for “Mr. Longbones” in Newberry, Florida, but only found articles that talk about a creepy folk monster that kidnaps children and steals their bones. They are a bunch of stories that are told apparently all over the world to scare kids at sleepovers. Kind of like Bloody Mary. The story goes that [[Mr. Long Bones]] needs new bones because his are brittle and break easily, so he steals them from children whenever his bones are hurting, and you can know he’s nearby because his bones make a creaky-grindy sound. Apparently he chooses the children while they are still babies and follows them until they are old enough to… well, harvest. As if that’s not creepy enough, he tells you if he’s chosen you by saying your name. So this asshat who kidnapped my daughter is naming himself after some urban legend who murders children for their bones. What a fucking psycho.

<h1>You Selected: "The Kidnapper!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I’ve figured it out – well, sort of. I was on my way to one of the other parents’ house – I even forget which – when a kid stopped me and asked if I liked [[Mr. Long Bones]] as much as he did. I had no idea what he was talking about until he pointed to the doll I was carrying. He said that Mr. Long Bones had given him one, too, and that he liked him very much even though he was scary at first. The kid said that this [[Mr. Long Bones]] was always giving him gifts and toys, but that the doll was his favorite. Boom! The shoe drops! I ask the kid if he knows where [[Mr. Long Bones]] lives, but he said no. This guy apparently just shows up at the playground every so often and gives toys to the kids. I’m going to find this son of a bitch and I swear to God I’m going to kill him. Even if Caylee is safe, I’m still going to make this fucker pay. Incidentally, I also discovered that this guy is apparently using some kind of fake Internet meme as his handle. I searched at the library for “Mr. Longbones” in Newberry, Florida, but only found articles that talk about a creepy folk monster that kidnaps children and steals their bones. They are a bunch of stories that are told apparently all over the world to scare kids at sleepovers. Kind of like Bloody Mary. The story goes that [[Mr. Long Bones]] needs new bones because his are brittle and break easily, so he steals them from children whenever his bones are hurting, and you can know he’s nearby because his bones make a creaky-grindy sound. Apparently he chooses the children while they are still babies and follows them until they are old enough to… well, harvest. As if that’s not creepy enough, he tells you if he’s chosen you by saying your name. So this asshat who kidnapped my daughter is naming himself after some urban legend who murders children for their bones. What a fucking psycho.

<h1> You Selected: "Mr. Long Bones!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> Fucking fuck fuck fuck. It’s fucking REAL. I’ve been visiting the playground on and off since I learned about Long Bones, trying to catch the kidnapper. Today I was there, pretending like I was a parent (God, I used to be a parent) when I saw it. The kids were playing, chanting “Red Rover, Red Rover send Tommy right over.” He couldn’t get through and complained about how it wasn’t fair that the teams were uneven. I did a quick count and saw that there were three on one side and four on the other. I mean, that shouldn’t matter, but apparently Tommy though it did. After they finished arguing they played a few more rounds and at some point it hit me. I don’t know when or how, but the teams were even. I was watching them play the entire time – no one joined that game, but there it was. Somehow, there were four on each side. At the same time, the kids noticed too, and all at once they shouted, [[“Mr. Long Bones!”]] And it stood up, as if it were pretending to be a kid the whole time. I can’t even describe it. It was… tall, and white. And its eyes were just these… black holes. I… I think I might be going insane. It just stared at me as the kids danced around it, chanting some creepy song and laughing as if he were their best friend. I… I ran. I feel like such a coward. I left all those kids there with that… thing. I bought a pack of cigarettes, something I have literally never done before, and I tried to smoke them all. I couldn’t, though. I threw up before I even finished one. What do I do?

<h1> You Selected: "Mr. Long Bones!"</h1> <h1> James' Suicide Letter (Unfound) </h1> Janie: I’m so sorry. [[It said your name.]] Tonight I woke up and it was in the room with us. In the corner. Just staring at us. I’m so sorry. I am so afraid. I was researching it. I found proof that he took Caylee – but that doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. There was a picture. I found it in one of our old boxes. The stories say that Long Bones picks children while they are babies – so I looked at the old Polaroids of [[Caylee.]] And there it was. It looks like a nice picture. Caylee is sitting on your father’s knee on a dock. It was when we took that trip to Maine. And there, way in the background. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just a tree. A poplar or an aspen maybe. But no. [[IT HAS EYES.]] I’m so sorry. I can’t save you. I love you. Maybe you, Caylee, and I will all be together again soon. A family once more. -Jim.

<<audio "bones" fadein>> <h1> You Selected: "It Said Your Name!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> I got to leave the house today. The first time in months. Mom said she wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I took her to the doctor. Amazingly, I haven’t forgotten how to drive. I did forget how many dumbass people are on the road, however. Apparently she has low blood pressure. Surprise. I’m astounded her heart continues to pump blood at all, the way she zombie walks around the house all day. I suppose I’m unfair to her. Maybe even mean. She’s only doing what mothers do. Protecting her young. Something I never learned. I took the car and left while she was in waiting room. What a horrible thing. Leaving my mother. But I had to. I hadn’t seen living, breathing people other than Mom for three months. I told her I’d be back in an hour. She protested of course. As winded and dizzy as she was, however, there wasn’t much she could do. So I took her car. I went to a coffee shop. I drove down West Newberry with the windows down. Turned up the radio loud. I didn’t recognize any of the songs but it didn’t matter. I almost felt alive. But then, I did it. I couldn’t help myself. By instinct my hands turned down one familiar road after the other until, there, I drove slowly past a playground. The playground. This time it wasn’t void of children. This time there weren’t mothers hysterically calling out the names of daughters gone missing. Honestly, I was shocked. If nine kids famously went missing from a playground, I would think no sane mother would allow their children to step foot anywhere near it again. But they had forgotten. It’s been almost two years since the Nine just evaporated off the planet. Well, the Eight. James was found. I searched for Caylee’s face among those playing. Finally a woman came up and knocked on my window. Can I help you? I realized then that I looked like my worst nightmare. My Mom’s car was grey with tinted windows. Dad hated the Florida sun. Said he missed Pennsylvania. So he had them tinted the darkest shade the police would allow. I was sitting outside a playground, no less than the very same place where the Newberry Nine had gone missing, in a suspicious looking car with windows tinted black. I rolled down the window. Tried to show I was friendly. No, I was just… looking for my daughter. And then I left before she could respond. Before she could see the tears forming. There will probably be a neighborhood watch for my Mom’s car for the next couple of weeks. Feeling like I hadn’t punished myself enough, I pressed on. I parked out front. Stared at the house. A ravenous clump of Virginia creeper vines had consumed the windows that open onto the street. If you were in the house looking out through that glass all you would see is green, green, green. I somehow mustered the courage and marched up to the front porch. As if I belonged there. I noticed there was still vibrant yellow crime scene tape wrapped around one of the posts. I put my key in the lock. I didn’t think I could do it. Who cleaned up? Did the fat cop come back later and scrape little bits of Jim off the wall? Did anyone? Did they expect me to just buck up, chin up, come back and scrub the bits and pieces of my destroyed marriage from my kitchen? I had no idea. I turned the lock and went in. Someone had been there. From the front door you can clearly see through to the kitchen, to the place where Jim said fuck it all and blasted himself into oblivion. The wall was no longer lime green. It had been painted white. A neutral color. The bastard probably planned it that way. Ok, Jim, you won. I didn’t have much time before I promised my mother I’d pick her up and, honestly, I didn’t want to stay. There was a feeling of such hollowness. Sorrow. Grief. Guilt. I went to the bedroom keeping my head down. Tried not to look at the spot where I had last seen him. I remember when I first heard the gunshot I thought it was the air conditioning acting up again. It had a tendency to pop and sputter loudly. I had asked Jim to fix it at least half a dozen times. Seeing as he had no job, the least he could do was work on the house. When I finally went out to the kitchen all I had to see were his boots. His legs sprawled out on the ground. I knew what happened. Poor Jim. Poor me. Poor Caylee. It wasn’t until the cops arrived that I actually surveyed the situation. Saw my husband’s opinion of our marriage. The writing on the wall. Can’t say I blame him. I kept my eyes low and walked past my newly painted white kitchen, into the hall. The house smelled stale now. Accented by the faint aroma of ammonia. I slowed as I walked down the hall. I had an overwhelming sense of panic. I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the dread of seeing our bed again. The place where we had made love. Because it certainly didn’t exist on its own. Love. We had to work for it. Make it happen against nature’s will. I paused outside the room. Wrung my hands nervously. Then, bravely, I charged in. I noticed no one had made the bed. The comforter was still in disarray. Pillow strewn on the floor. Sheets still tangled from when I had scrambled to the kitchen. I had heard the pop. I had called Jim’s name. Once. Twice. Three times he had denied me. Dreading what I already knew, I had clambered from my cotton sheets to the kitchen. It was strange being back here now. Three months later and the room was just as I left it that night. On the nightstand was a picture of the three of us. Caylee. Jim. Me. I picked it up and stared at it for a long time. And then my heart lurched. In my peripheral vision I could see movement. It took every speck of control not to turn and run down the hall. Hop in the car. Pedal to the floor to the doctor’s office. Pretend I never saw anything. I tore my eyes from the picture and looked. It was standing in the corner, just like in my dream. White and naked, scarecrow thin. It slowly twisted and uncurled its massive hands. Its long, branchlike fingers. And then. It smiled. The same, horrible red gash of the figurine my grandmother owned. The smile was too long, the lips too red. All I could do was open my mouth. No noise came out. It crabwalked over to me with blinding speed just like I knew it would. Nose to nose. Smile to open horrified mouth. And then [[I screamed.]]

Thanks to the following, without whom this story would not exist: <b>Audio taken from Freesound.org:</b> hargissssound Puniho CouleurCasquet Benboncan jhepkema <b>Images taken from creepypasta.com and creepypasta.wikia.com except for one image of the Rake, courtesy of user <a href="http://demongirl99.deviantart.com/">demongirl99 on Deviant Art.</a></b> <b> This project created for ENGL 857 as taught by Dr. Kenneth Sherwood at Indiana University of Pennsylvania</b> <b> Finally, special thanks to my wife, Christina, for the lovely voice acting. </b>

<h1>Hunt Over for the Newberry Nine</h1> After months of dead ends and tips leading nowhere, police chief Samuel Clay announced Monday that the hunt for the [[Newberry Nine->New1]] was officially over. "I am aware of the pain this causes the parents of the missing children. Not knowing is oftentimes worse than knowing. But, aside from the body of James Riley, and the N9 graffiti that occasionally pops up, we've found nothing in months. No leads, a few anonymous tips that went nowhere, but nothing concrete. As terrible as it is for [[these parents->New1]], I really feel like public funds at this point in time will be better spent elsewhere," Chief Clay stated. Dubbed the Newberry Nine, [[nine children->New1]] disappeared from Champions Park in October. No suspects were announced and no witnesses ever came forward.

<<silently>> <<set $counter to $counter + 1>> <</silently>> <h1> You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> [[My wife->New2]] has died. Her soul has fled, escaped through her fingertips and hair and seeped out of narrow, lethargic brown eyes. Only the packaging her laughter and dry wit were shipped in remains. Janie has not spoken a word to me in over a week. I’m not certain she has even moved. I wonder what I will find if I pull back the covers of the bed she has evidently claimed as her final resting place. Will our lost daughter be under there with her? Will Caylee be curled up tightly against her mother, never missing at all, only proclaiming her status as the world’s best Hide-and-Go-Seek player? Will she crawl from her warm hiding place and wrap her arms around my neck, laughing and asking for chocolate chip pancakes with a glass of milk? Will my wife, [[complicit in the game->New2]], giggle along with Caylee, resurrect from her reverie, and bound before us to the kitchen to start breakfast while I carry my daughter down the hall? I’m too afraid to lift the blanket and discover the truth, and so I do my best to avoid our bedroom. Instead I spend my days searching at the library. When word got out I was one of the desperate parents who circled this tiny ass town in a white Subaru ineffectually calling out the name of a daughter who never came, I was inundated with sympathy. Empathy is not the right word. Empathy means they could feel what I felt. It was sympathy that poured over me, a deluge of ‘I’m sorry’s and ‘How is Janie taking it?’ and a thousand other sentiments intended to understand what it was to lose a daughter. Not lose because she died. Not lose because she was tragically ripped from the world before her time. But lost. Misplaced. [[The guilt is crushing.->New2]] As atonement I spend my days at the library, looking for a bright neon sign that will point me to my daughter, hoping I can find something the trained professional missed. What if they had missed something? What if there was a chance with all their questioning, all their probing and groping blindly for some thread of evidence they had [[missed something?->New2]] What if the bloodhound had strayed just a few more feet away, its nose to the ground searching and snuffling, before its handler had tugged him off in the other direction? Would the air have been pierced by a baying howl? Would a crowd form around the fervent animal as it lead them onward, anxious feet clamoring to keep up as the beast pulled and tugged at its leash, dragging the pack of humanity behind as it found its way to a simple, nondescript looking house wherein a man lived who was quiet and polite and courteous and who his neighbors always thought was just a simple, average guy who hardly seemed like the sort of person you would peg to be a mass murderer? Would the bloodhound bound through the home, straight to the back door, clawing and scratching and whining until, at last, a young, shaky rookie cop would turn the handle so the dog could dart into the yard, its voice cracking and howling until finally the animal would sink its nails into loosely packed earth, digging and clawing until the poor beast was tugged away by the collar, still barking and whining at the spot while men moved in with shovels to clear away a womb of dirt that held within its dark belly the bodies of nine, once beautiful children?

<<audio "rusure" play>> <h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I think [[Jim left clues->New3]]. The idea is crazy. Sounds like the start of a bad book. And being crazy is cliché. On the bright side, I have medical science to back me up on that one. A myopic shrink with glasses thick as bullet proof glass comes by every so often to check up on me. His name is Dr. Calloway. His right hand is shriveled up, his twig arm bent at a weird angle. I can’t help but stare at it. I like to imagine he’s part tyrannosaur. I want to touch his desiccated fingers, fold them, shape them into the talon of a dinosaur. He tells me I’m not crazy. But the pills say otherwise. The careful way he talks to me, as if I were a wild animal, teeth bared and claws flashing, suggests I am, yes, I am crazy. Maybe dangerous to look at too closely. Plus I’ve seen the sheets. Chronic depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, social anxiety, and a thousand other terms that change day to day. Even anorexia nervosa. It’s difficult to get an appetite when your kitchen is covered in gore. I neglected to mention that bit of the tale. It’s also the reason why the thought of Jim leaving clues seems odd. When we first moved down to Florida and into our new house [[the walls->New3]] were white. The floor was white. The ceiling, white. Everything was cold and sharp. I wanted to paint, to make the place seem less precise and more welcoming. I chose to paint the kitchen wall lime green. Jim refused. He said it was ugly and no one would ever buy the house again if we had horrible, puke colored walls. He told me the paint should be neutral. I shrugged. One day while he was out looking for work I went to the store and bought [[a can of paint and a roller->New3]]. When he came home I greeted him with a rib eye dinner, a glass of champagne, and a hideous, Jell-O colored wall. I did a poor job. I got paint on the tile and the running boards. I even managed to get some on the ceiling. There were drips and drops here and there where I had put too much on the roller and thick runnels cascaded down without me noticing. I think I was too terrified to notice. It was the first time I ever stood up to Jim. I was only twenty one, and Jim an imposing figure, tall and stocky. He had a well groomed beard and nice hands. They were soft; he was a writer and rarely worked outside. Jim shook his head in disgust at my sad handiwork, but the following Saturday he went to the store and bought more paint, then came home and fixed the Jackson Pollock. I think maybe he shot himself in the kitchen on purpose. One last petty [[act of protest->New3]]. Probably not. There it is again, so sorry. More vitriol for my ex. I'm allowed to call him that, right? If your husband kills himself and leaves you alone with your crushing depression he's officially your ex, right? Double-click this passage to edit it.

<h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> So I go to the library, I sift through microfiche, I read the old news stories. I believe I can quote word for word the very first story that lit up the front page of the High Springs Herald with all the horrible implications of the headline: “Nine Children Missing.” It wasn’t until the third day that someone stumbled across the catchy alliteration Newberry Nine. There’s a gang that’s sprung up in town -- at least, that's what the news calls it – who has been spray painting walls around the city with the tag N9. It shows up on the sides of billboards, coffee shops, street signs. Newberry High School held a bake sale to raise funds to remove a particularly large specimen from the side of William N. Barry gymnasium: the ghoulish red letters N9 dripped down the wall and contrasted sharply with the pale white exterior much to the chagrin of a local population who would rather forget the event ever happened in this remote little town. Perhaps the magnitude of the tragedy is too much for anyone to grasp, maybe they just find it easier to silently give thanks that it wasn’t their child, tack their gratitude onto the tail end of their prayers like a postscript litany. Confronting horror face to face in the daytime was simply too much for them, and so the tag was [[covered up->New4]] by three new layers of paint, [[hidden from sight->New4]] and all the parents breathed easier. Except me. I liked the conciseness of the message, the brevity in which nine children were stolen, eighteen parents were heartbroken, and untold numbers of friends and relatives were awkwardly forced to feign empathy for an event outside the possibility of empathy. N9. Every time I see it I think I of Caylee. I wonder what she’s doing right now, where she is. Maybe she escaped from her captor and is trying desperately to find her way back home. Maybe she’s trailing the N9 tags, sprayed like breadcrumbs, slowly, carefully [[navigating the maze back to life->New4]] and her home and her vegetative mother, and if we only give Caylee enough time she’ll return to us, so long as we remember to leave signs for her to follow. I had too much to drink, went to the high school that night, and painted N9 back on the gymnasium. What if my daughter couldn’t find her way home because a breadcrumb was missing? My actions caused an uproar on the front page of the newspaper, but the scandalous vagrant who defaced the city’s property was never caught and they painted over [[my handiwork->New4]] the following morning.

<<audio "where" volume 0.8 play>> <h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Dr. T.Rex came back today. His glasses are thick. I bet he could take them off and use the lenses to start a fire. Like they did in that movie Lord of the Flies. His are so thick I think the beam would be intense enough to burn a hole straight through the Earth. Some guy in China would be out in his field. He would be following behind his ox or cow whatever they use over there when, pew! A laser beam pops out of the ground and turns his livestock into a burger. He’s a lefty, [[the good->New5]] doctor. I just noticed today. I suppose it’s common sense. He certainly can’t write with his gimpy claw. I’ve read before that left handed people think differently. They’re more artistic. They use different parts of their brain. I’ve also read before that people only use ten percent of their brain. I wonder which ten percent lefties use as opposed to righties. I think the whole idea is a lie. An urban myth probably. [[I doubt people->New5]] use one percent of their brain. My one percent? I think I spend it all in the same place. In the self-loathing spot. I’m sure there’s one somewhere. A double-fist sized grey lump packed with emotion and thoughts and memories and my one percent is invested in a tiny location. A single wrinkle of the brain. I wonder if the fleeting ghost of Jim felt, for an instant, self-loathing. Before his body fell to the tile. Maybe in that moment [[he hated himself->New5]] for abandoning me. For giving up on Caylee. For taking the easy way. For ruining my kitchen. I doubt it. I can still remember his face that night. Fear. Dread, I think is the better word. Like he knew something terrible was about to happen and he couldn’t stand to wait for it. So, off with his head. Or most of it anyways. The important bits. The locus of self-loathing splattered on my wall. But that’s enough about my ex-husband. Again, is that the right term for it? Or is he simply the dearly departed? It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I think he left a message for me. Things have been strangely out of place. It’s easier to tell than you might think. I live with my mother now and she’s OCD. After Jim excused himself from living my mother took me home to be with her, swooping to the rescue. Sort of. I live a censored life. Dr. T-Rex visits me here. I don’t ever leave. Every morning while I eat breakfast Mom takes the newspaper and a pair of scissors and locks herself in Dad’s old study. When she emerges, the High Springs Herald looks like one of the construction paper snowflakes Caylee makes every Christmas. Made. I never ask what she cuts out. [[Mother knows best->New5]]. I take my blue pill and read the articles that are deemed to be wholesome for my mental well- being. Articles that survived [[the prejudices->New5]] of my mom’s shears. Sometimes I think maybe I’d like to ask. One time her eye fell upon an offending Dear Abby article. I know this because I read it every day. But that morning, where Abby’s sage words usually lay in stark black against white, there was simply a large, rectangular hole. I held the paper up, peered through the opening at my mother, arched my eyebrows. I didn’t ask the question, and she pretended not to notice. I had to survive the day without Abigail van Buren’s wisdom to guide me. My phone calls are censored in much the same way. I can only talk to pre-approved persons, which generally means only Dr. T. Rex or one of his assistants.

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake4.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Speaking of vagrants, on my way to the library today, eager to resume pulling apart every last syllable of the myriad stories covering the N9, I passed a homeless man seated outside the building, his back to the wall, a sign in his hands. It read: [[Help.->New6]] Beside him lay an upturned football helmet, a few coins inside. My parents raised me to avoid eye contact with the homeless. They always told me people fell into poverty because they were either unwilling to work for themselves or else because they had somehow ruined their own lives through [[drugs->New6]] or alcohol or some other abomination in the eyes of the Baptist community in which I was raised. I had my doubts. My parents, though loving and caring and good honest people, seemed to have a cold edge to them. Who were they to judge poor souls who sat on sidewalks and stood at crosswalks without a possession of their own and no place to return to at night, no soft bed waiting to welcome them? How could my parents assume that the scattered and penniless were penniless because of their own actions? People fell onto hard times, sometimes the wind didn’t blow their way, right? I tell myself I believe this. I still avoid making eye contact. Sometimes I’ll throw some coins their way in penance for my cowardice. But I never look them in the eye. If you look at a thing head on, you must confront the uncomfortable truth of reality. It’s always just easier to throw some money in the general direction of the problem then walk away, telling yourself as you go that you’ve done your part. I always hated the speech about how people with nothing have nothing to lose, and it was this that made them dangerous. The implied lesson is that as long as we have something we value, we guide our lives and loves and make our moral decisions based on the nagging terror of losing what we have. It’s a strange thought: right and wrong are dictated by the currency our present situation offers us. [[Without possession->New6]] of something or someone, right and wrong become increasingly arbitrary. I looked at the sign again: Help. Against my natural instinct and perhaps better judgment, I asked the homeless guy if he could help me find my daughter. I showed him the picture I keep in my wallet. He stared vaguely at it then shrugged and nudged his football helmet toward me. My hopes skyrocketed. I dug out a grimy, folded five dollar bill from my pocket and placed it in the helmet. He smiled a mostly toothless grin and repeated, "God bless you, God bless you, sir" until I eventually realized I wouldn’t get any more out of him. I felt cheated and thought about taking back my money, but instead I shook my head and left him there against the building. <</replace>> <</timed>>

<<audio "caylee" play>> <h1>You Selected: "IT WON'T CHANGE!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Every day it’s the same thing. Two eggs over easy, a glass of orange juice, and one big, fat mournful blue capsule. [[My mother was never very imaginative->New7]]. It’s been… three months? Three months since Jim did the deed and three months I’ve been under house arrest with my mother. Three months of two eggs over easy and a horse sized pill. She never cooks the eggs right either. She always breaks the yolk. You’d think after three months of cooking the exact same damn thing she could [[figure out->New7]] how to do it. You’d think after three months of [[wallowing in my own shame->New7]] I’d figure out how to survive without my mother feeding me, watching me, [[caring for me->New7]] like a child. Mom won’t let me out of her sight. I live here, I read preapproved newspapers, I watch preapproved movies, I eat preapproved food, I swallow preapproved drugs. Which leaves me with [[a lot of free time->New7]].

<h1>You Selected: "You are not helping!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I began to rummage through the closet of the bedroom mother has so benevolently gifted me. There were clothes, old and smelling like they hadn’t been worn in ten years or more. They haven’t. They were my Sunday dresses when I was growing up. I found some of the gifts Dad brought back for me on his trips, a jar brimming with old coins, and a box full of obsolete Polaroids dating to God knows when. I’ve been thumbing through the pictures for the past couple of hours. Most were of Mom and Dad before I entered the scene. He was tall, young, handsome and strong. She was never very pretty, even then. I can’t imagine what Dad saw in her. Unfortunately, I got my looks from her side, so Jim and Dad must have had something in common: a love for ugly women. The pictures were taken when they still lived up north, in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. He had a boisterous way of speaking; he was almost too loud, too vigorous, yet he still gave one the impression of a gentleman. The kind of guy who held doors for women or offered his coat if it got cold. My mother, though, she was from New York, born and raised in the Bronx. She had a sharp edge to her. I wouldn’t call her mean. She just looked at the world as if through ice. She smiled rarely, and only when Dad was around. How the two ever met, I don’t know. But he wooed her or she wooed him and eventually his overwhelming personality convinced Mom to move away from the big city and live in a tiny ass town called Derry. It was in Pennsylvania and was populated by Irish. Lo and behold, that’s where I finally got my start in the world. Strangely, though, I cannot find a single image of my younger self in this box. There’s our old house, there’s the old car. There must be fifty pictures of our dog, Lucky, an Irish setter. Irish dog, Irish neighborhood. To my knowledge our family is German. Or maybe British. But definitely not Irish. There are images of our back porch, some of our old neighbors, some of the garden. But not one. single. picture. of me. I wonder if my parents simply forgot to point the camera my way, or if I am stored in a different box somewhere. I’ve dug through the rest of the closet, looked on every shelf, searched for an old shoebox labeled Janie, but no. Nothing. I’ve been erased. How rude. There’s another odd thing. There’s a picture of Caylee. When I saw it, my stomach clenched up and I sobbed for what seemed an endless amount of time. Into my pillow. If my mother knew I was crying she would come in. She would take the picture away. It was only after I finally ran dry that I realized how strange the picture was. I didn’t even know my parents still owned a Polaroid camera by the time Caylee was born. It was mixed in with others from Pennsylvania. The ones taken even before I existed. In the center of the frame is Dad, gaunt and skeletal, brain cancer almost finished with its awful work. On his knee is my little girl. Though still a baby, I could recognize her smile anywhere. The two are outdoors, on a dock somewhere. Off to their right are some trees, to their left a lake. I have no idea where it was taken. I thought about asking Mom about the picture, but given her history of censorship by scissors, I thought better. I flipped the picture over and there, on the back, was Jim’s handwriting. It read: [[proof->New8]]! What, Jim? Proof of what? I know that message was meant for me. What did you do that whole time? When I refused to get out of bed? When I was dead to you and to the world? When I had given up on Caylee? Did you look for her? Did you find her? I stowed the Polaroid under my pillow. As close as I can get to my little girl.

<<audio "bones" play>> <h1>You Selected: "Just. Stop!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Got a lead today. Not really, but I like to pretend that maybe I’m making some progress, that my time here is not being spent in vain. I found the article in which [[the little boy was discovered->New9]], reclining against the trunk of a tree, the only member of the Newberry Nine to have [[made it back to his parents->New9]]. The article was sketchy about where the body had been found, citing the location as “near the railroad tracks that run parallel to 250th Street.” Super. That’s only most of this backwater town. I miss the North. I miss the cookie cutter homes that mirror their neighbors’ in every way, giving the sense that everyone inside those homes is unified, that the community is tightly knit together, that come Christmastime they all gather in a massive block party celebration replete with food and song and dance. It makes me think that the people who live in those houses must have an understanding, they know they are in it together, and the only way they express their individuality is through the strategic planting of shrubbery in their front lawns or perhaps in a fresh coat of paint. Of course, spend time talking to those people up north and that idea disappears quickly. They’re nothing like the well-mannered southern belles. This place is famed for its hospitality. Ya’ll come back now, and all that hokey crap. But I get the feeling that [[it’s an illusion->New9]], that beneath the polished exterior and the ‘yes sir’s and the ‘no ma’am’s there is hostility, a latent anger seething to get out. Maybe it’s because I’m a northerner and can’t relate, or maybe it’s because one of these redneck assholes kidnapped my daughter. It’s difficult to tell. The homes here are old, each one unique, each bathed in its own special seasoning of insect and rodent life. That’s the thing I think I like the least about this place. Everything down here in the swamps seems rampant, uncontrollable. The trees grow at strange angles, the bushes overrun everything, even the animals seem to be somehow mutated and wilder. Some of the homes are painted bright yellow, a fresh, beautiful veneer over wood that is slowly rotting away, tin roofs besieged by a rain of acorns dropped from the trees by noisy squirrels. Others can’t even be seen from the road, masked by bushes taller than the houses and thick banana spider webs that make me want to pack up and drive back home. I like order. The house Janie and I selected had a nice, clean, well-manicured front lawn. Trimmed hedges nestled against the white siding, while the yard stretched to the road, an unbroken pane of St Augustine grass. After only a month I realized how difficult it was to maintain that kind of order. Virginia creeper vines somehow took hold outside our front window and would climb over everything, shrouding the windows in green before crawling even onto the roof itself. Oleander, which was always one of my mother’s favorite flowers, apparently grows like bamboo, somehow adding inches to its height overnight. I don’t even want to speak of the kudzu or the snakes or the possums or the freakishly large cockroaches or the spiders that somehow always managed to skitter into the house and were always found at eye level, dangling and dancing their eight hairy legs right in front of you, suspended by a thin silk line. Even the owls seem to grow larger here. This place, the South, will grow on top of you if you let it. And of course, there’s the railroad tracks. They run right through the center of town, impossible to avoid, and always making everyone late. It was there that the little boy was found. I intend to visit those tracks and try to find where [[the body was discovered->New9]]. Maybe the police missed something.

<<audio "cry" play>> <h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Maybe I don’t want to know. Maybe the truth is [[I like it here->New10]]. It’s safe. I asked mom if I could leave. If I could go home, see if I could readjust to the house. She sat me down. A worried look. Wrinkled brow. I don’t think that’s a good idea yet, Janie. Dr. Calloway says you are still upset, Janie. [[Just relax->New10]] and stay here, Janie. I’ll take care of you. She always used my name when she was saying something she knew I wouldn’t like. I didn’t push too hard to get out. My mind keeps telling me I don’t want to know what happened. One of the other mothers – she knows. Knew. There were nine of them. The newspaper called them the Newberry Nine. Nine little children gone missing from the park. Nine wailing mothers fumbling hysterically after dark. Nine anxious fathers circling the streets in cars. Nine sons and daughters strayed too far. I want to say I’m the worst mother the world has ever had the misfortune to beget. I can’t. There were nine of us who managed to lose our children. All on the same day. Lost. Like a TV remote. So I’m in the top nine. I’m in the running for worst mother of forever. I misplaced my daughter. Maybe if I look between the couch cushions I’ll find her. A friend of mine once lost her remote for two weeks. Then one day she discovered she had somehow, in some bewildering act of forgetfulness, left it in her freezer. Maybe I can find Caylee in mine, balled up among the frozen corpses of chickens and butchered cattle. Maybe, by some miracle, she would be cold and hungry, but still okay. These thoughts [[give me hope->New10]]. Because I don’t know. The woman who knew? She killed herself even before the funeral was held. Her boy’s name was James. Just like my husband. I talked to her once or twice at the park. We sat on a bench and watched our children play together. She seemed nice. Busy. I remember James was a rascal. [[Caylee->New10]] was trying to kiss him on the cheek and he would run from her, screaming at her to get away. But he always stopped and she always caught up. He patiently waited until she gave him a peck. Then he took off running again, hollering at her to stop. It was strange to see how this little boy, James, was so [[very much like my husband->New10]]. When they found her boy two weeks after the Newberry Nine went missing, he was reclining peacefully against a tree. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be napping in the warm sun. Something he never did voluntarily before. Napped. He appeared healthy, except, of course, that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his veins. And someone had cut open the palms of his hands and removed all the bones, leaving only an empty glove made from flesh, embellished with tiny fingernails.

<h1>You Selected: "She is Gone!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> Stir crazy. I’ve been diagnosed with all kinds of crazy since Jim’s suicide, but never once have I been labeled stir. Self-diagnosis: I’m going bat shit bonkers here. I think my Mom may be more dead than Jim. She walks room to room with a glassy look to her eyes. The only time she reacts in any way is if she feels I’m in need of protection. Her hands are old. Spotted, wrinkled. Emaciated. She makes sure I eat, I pop my pills, I don’t read anything that will bother me, I don’t see anything that might cause pain, I don’t breathe oxygen that might ache my lungs, I don’t do anything. Most of the time she’s a zombie. I expect her to groan when she ambles through a doorway. But if she sees something that may offend or hurt me, bam, she snaps right out of it. Overreacts. Shelters me from the rain. I tried to make myself some cereal the other day. She took the box out of my hands without a word. She poured it into a bowl, milk on top. Handed it to me and walked away. I was dumbfounded. Diagnosis: excessively overprotective. I guess that apple fell far from the tree. I can’t make a bowl of cereal without my Mom’s help. Caylee can disappear without her mother ever coming to the rescue. I want to leave this house. I need to discover if Jim left other clues. If I could get home I could search the place. Learn [[what Jim was up to->New11]]. I had hoped there might be more clues here. I’ve found nothing. [[I’ve searched->New11]] under beds, flipped through albums, rummaged through the pockets of my old clothes. Nothing. I spend more and more time staring at the picture. My eyes trace the lines of Caylee’s smile. Follow the shape of dad’s bones under his face. He was so skinny then. Cancer had eaten him away. Caylee looks like a plump turkey on his boney knee. This picture is proof. Jim thought so. Of what? I try to imagine where the picture was taken. Is the background familiar? The dock they sit on? The trees definitely seem to suggest the picture was taken up north. They are tall evergreens, lush and vibrant. I can make out the white bark of a single birch tree off in the distance. Not like the scraggily pine trees of the south. Damn it. Jim, help me out here. This thing was taken long before… long before the incident. How can it be proof? For a brief moment my eyes flicker over the face of my dad and I wonder. Maybe Jim thought my dad had something to do with Caylee’s disappearance? Jim and Dad had an awkward relationship at best. Dad was a military guy, through and through. He liked to flaunt his masculinity. He liked guns and cars and whiskey. He could build an engine from scratch and he knew how to fix just about anything. Jim was almost the exact opposite. He was a writer when I met him. A poet! He wrote me dozens of love poems. Every morning in college I would find a new one waiting for me on the window of my car. His writing was beautiful, his words perfect. I could never write like that. Ugly writing by an ugly girl. Jim had never fired a gun (until "the deed"), drank only the occasional beer, and couldn’t fix a broken light bulb. It’s not that he and Dad never got along. Dad was too nice for that. But they never could see eye to eye. Dad would talk about the military and Jim would nod his head, adding nothing to the conversation. Eventually silence would fall between them. But that was not reason enough for Jim to think Dad was responsible for Caylee, was it? No. It couldn’t be. Dad had passed away the year before. [[Jim couldn’t have thought->New11]]. So what the hell is the picture supposed to mean?

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake5.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: "Locus of Self-Loathing!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Finding the spot where the boy’s body was discovered proved easier than anticipated. I walked the length of the tracks for about a mile when I saw a large piece of plywood [[nailed to a tree->New12]]. A wreath of dead flowers was tacked to it and written in spray paint were the words: N9. Never forget. Confirming my suspicion that N9 wasn’t some kind of gang sign. It was a parent, like me, heartbroken, trying to leave breadcrumbs for their kid to find their way home. The ground beneath the shabby memorial seemed disturbed, as if someone had stood in that exact spot recently. Leaning against the tree was a foldup chair, the cheap plastic kind they sell at the supermarket heralding the arrival of spring. As if this damn place ever had winter. I unfolded the chair and sat, staring at [[the spot->New12]], my eyes traveling up and down the rough pine bark. I considered. This must have been their way of dealing with it. The parents or the grandparents or the friends or the aunts or uncles, one of them, maybe all of them would sit here and stare at this spot. They would wonder why, and where, and how. This was their bed. Janie curled up in ours and didn’t move. This was somebody else’s way of dealing with it. Maybe they were hoping [[the killer would come back->New12]], maybe they wanted revenge. Or maybe they were hoping to be taken too. After half an hour I got up, folded the chair and placed it against the tree. I walked in a circle, examining the area, looking for anything that might have been missed by the police. Of course I found nothing. If trained professionals couldn’t find anything, neither could I. But I can be stubborn. Just ask Janie. I searched and searched again. [[I dug in the earth->New12]], pried off bark. Nothing. I surveyed the nearby tracks, I poked around in a nearby abandoned hobo camp, and still found nothing. I began to make wider and wider circles around the spot, circling the words N9. Never forget again and again. Head down, eyes darting over the land. It’s a miracle to me that trees can even exist in the dusty, nutrient deprived dirt that is Florida. The ground is soft as sand on top and hard as a rock beneath. I don’t see how [[the roots can grasp hold of anything->New12]]. <</replace>> <</timed>>

<h1>You Selected: "Jim's Fucking Brains!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> Eventually my circle led me to a small cluster of four or five trees. Immediately I was greeted by a foul odor and the sound of buzzing flies. Obviously something had died there recently and I had only to glance to confirm a small furry paw pointing straight up to the sky, testament to the absurdity that death and rigor mortis brings to a body. I stepped closer for a better look, entering the thicket where the body lay, and as I did a cloud floated over the sun making the place seem sinister and oddly cold. I held my nose and nudged the animal with my foot. The thing was half buried in a stack of pine needles and, after some work, I had managed to pull enough aside to discover a very dead, very deflated looking house cat. Around its neck was a purple collar. What immediately struck me was that it did not look like it had been eaten or even toyed with by some dog. A long cut ran the length of its body. It was clean, like someone had used a knife. I felt sick. What kind of asshole kills someone’s cat just for fun? I looked around for a leaf or some paper so I could turn the collar and look at the ID tag without having to touch the cat. Nothing. [[Only pine needles.->New13]]

<h1> You Selected: "My. You are Persistent, Aren't You?"</h1> <h1> James </h1> I held my breath, grimaced, and reached down to twist it barehanded, swatting at the flies with my other hand. It took more effort that I realized and, as I tried to twist the plastic collar, my knuckle accidentally pressed against the cat’s head. I heard a sound like [[a champagne cork popping->New14]] and the skin around the area depressed and deflated like a balloon. A horrible smell followed and, unable to contain myself, I threw up all over the thing. I stood and turned to leave in disgust but an uncomfortable thought occurred to me as I did. Even dead, a cat’s head shouldn’t deflate. I turned to look at the beast again. It was disgusting, covered in my own bile. I held my breath and crouched down again. I could see into the cavity I had created and could easily make out what appeared to be the brain. I dry heaved a few times and stood up. Like everything else with four legs, cats have skulls. Why was I looking at a brain and [[not bone?->New14]] I had another session of heaving. I gently stepped on the animal with my foot, and with a cracking sound the rest of it sank down with a gentle puff. I’d had enough. I turned and walked away, stepping into the sunlight with my shirt held over my nose. I was greeted by a blast of hot wind and blindingly bright sun. I held my face to the sky and soaked in the warmth and breathed in the clean air. After a minute or two the physical sickness faded, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew stronger. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I turned back to look at the cluster of trees. There were not nearly enough to cast a shadow like I had experienced when I stood in their midst. Pine needles are thin and airy, not like the large maple leaves from up north that could cast a pall over a wide space. The sinking feeling grew stronger and I nearly jumped [[out of my skin->New14]] when a coming train blasted its horn half a mile down the tracks.

<h1>You selected: "We've Been Through This..."</h1> <h1> Jim's Letter to Janie </h1> Caylee was our girl. I say that on purpose. Was. She’s gone. Every bit of me is aching to hear her voice again. I sleep on the floor of her bedroom some nights now. I look at her toys, admire the only poster on the wall. Animal. I suppose our daughter was a bit strange. Most little girls have a fascination with being a princess or owning a pony and all that other rainbow smothered feel-good fluff. But our daughter liked Animal from the Muppets. She liked him best of all because he played the drums. I’m tempted to pick up her sticks and tap out a rhythm for Caylee on the small snare we bought her for Christmas but I never do. Maybe one of these days I’ll create a beat that will wake you from your reverie, like a kiss from Prince Charming maybe I’ll be able to save you like you saved me. I want this mostly because I need you. I place objects around our bedroom that I think will remind you of the life we lived before all this, before Caylee even. We were happy. We stayed up all night sometime just talking, holding hands, making love, drinking to stay awake long enough to watch the sun rise. You told me about [[your hopes for the future->New15]], what kind of house you wanted to live in, about your fears that you would make a bad teacher, and about your ambition to move to some exotic foreign country. You talked, I listened, and we were both content. On the dresser I place the mittens you were wearing the night we met. On the table beside the bed I place our wedding picture. On the bathroom sink I place the cork from the bottle of champagne we shared atop the parking garage the night I proposed to you. On the wall a place a picture of Madrid: winding streets around stately, monumental buildings. I hope that in the brief intervals when you are not curled up under the sheets [[hiding from the light of day->New15]] you will poke your head up long enough. Your eyes, puffy and red will wander the room, looking for a raft you can climb into, safe from the ocean you are drowning in. They will rest on the picture and you’ll remember that there’s a whole world out here. You will see the other artifacts laid out and be reminded that there is still a person in this world who needs you, who wants you, who you can share your sorrow with. And, like a trapper, you will follow the trail of breadcrumbs I have laid all the way down the hallway, past the ugly green kitchen, through the dining room, the table set for two, to the living room where I will spring my trap on you, grab you in my arms, and never let go. This is my hope. One day you will come back to me. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I will never let you read it. I will likely [[destroy this->New15]], burn it, offer these pages up as a sacrificial immolation in the belief that the words will turn to smoke and the smoke will reach your freckled nose and you will understand and rise from the depths of your torment. This is all so very depressing. Maybe a joke. Do you remember Caylee’s joke? The one she said every night before she went to bed? Knock Knock. Who’s there? Olive. Olive who? Olive you!

<<audio "been" play>> <h1> You Selected: Destroy This!"</h1> <h1> Janie</h1> If it weren't for Jim's clues troubling me, I think I would almost be content. Why? Because I don’t know. If I did, I might [[end up like James’ mother->New16]] did. Mom would come home one day to find me hanging from the dining room chandelier with one of Dad’s old ties lynched around my sorrowful throat. I think I would leave the lights on. Sometimes the dark scares me. Mom knows this, has always known this. I had [[nightmares->New16]] when I was a child. They were never the same. Sometimes I dreamed that the figurine from my grandmother’s was after me, his horrible gaping slash of a smile dripping red at his feet while he chased me down the hallway. Other times I dreamed of being attacked by a large, black dog that would make me watch while he ate pieces of me. Other times I awoke from sleep with the overwhelming feeling that if I were to open my eyes there would be someone leaning over me, inches from my face. This one scared me the most because I had a very definite idea [[who that someone would be->New16]]. When I was six I dreamed once I had woken up to find a man, standing in the corner of my room. He seemed impossibly tall. His skin was white. Not pale, white. His hands freakishly huge. The fingers were long and thin and could easily cover half my body if he put them on my chest. Which he did. Though he had the frame of a scarecrow, he moved faster than my eye could follow in a kind of crablike scuttle. He was in the corner, and then he was leaning over me, nose to nose, his massive hand pressing down my body. He didn’t speak a word to me, only looked. At least it seemed like it. He had no eyes. Something dripped from the hole in his face onto my cheek and I woke up screaming. Afterwards I slept with the lights on. Even when I got married. Jim and I argued over this, too, like so many trivial things. That period of time, the honeymoon and the aftermath, could be recollected in terms of the arguments we had. As if marriage itself were measured like geology, our time together divided into strata, eras of argument. The era of my need for a night light. The era of lime green walls. The era of alcoholism. The era of not having enough money. The era of dividing house chores. The era of Jim’s slip-up. The era of deciding Caylee’s name. The era of [[blame for her loss->New16]]. The era of my shut down. The era of suicide. When I moved in with Mom — rather, when she forced me to move in with her — she remembered my nightmares. She left the light on.

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake6.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> <h1>You Selected: GIVE UP!</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> There’s a little park near our house. My home. It’s a small, community plot of orange mulch harboring a jungle gym, a few metal slides, and a little green and yellow plastic house. Barely big enough for a mouse. Caylee loved it [[best of all->New17]]. She would go inside and pretend she was baking cookies for everyone. A few times I gave her a pack of Oreos so she could give them to her friends. Pretend she baked them. Parents are more responsible for their kids’ popularity than they believe. All it takes is one purchase. This is America. We learn the value of money at a very young age. Buy one cool pair of shoes. Bring cake to class one day. Own the newest video game. Boom. Suddenly, you’re the popular one. Growing up, I was never [[that kid->New17]]. Not because we couldn’t afford it. Because my Mom believed in saving. She still saves money, but now she’s set her sight higher. Now she wants to save me. Caylee’s friend knocked on our door. Asked if my daughter wanted to play with her. I was busy. I was a school teacher. Lesson plans were due. My God. Lessons plans. I hated those things so damn much. Principals want to see them, parents want to see them. [[The world wants to know->New17]] you are teaching their children what they think you should teach them. Kids? Kids are smart, young, curious. They’ll learn anything you throw their way, and then more. They somehow always learn the things you don’t want them to. Cuss words. The birds and the bees. That Mommy thinks Daddy drinks too much. That they don’t love each other anymore. That Mommy thinks he’s a worthless asshole and that Daddy thinks she’s stuck-up bitch. Kids will learn long before you ever think they’re ready for it. They’ll even learn what it’s like to disappear. I told Caylee she could go. I told her to be careful, and to go only to the park. Nowhere else. She promised, and out the door she went. Eight years old. At the time I felt justified. [[Parents are so paranoid->New17]] these days. They smother their children. They don’t let them out of their sight. They won’t even let them pour their own bowl of cereal. Caylee was smart. I knew she’d be fine. An hour or so later I finished my work. I wasn’t done, but I was tired of it. I walked to the park. The afternoon had turned beautiful. It was breezy, the sun wasn’t overly hot. I arrived at the playground and a chill went up my spine. There were two other mothers from the neighborhood. I recognized them vaguely. Perhaps from some [[community->New17]] social event that I cannot recollect ever going to. Maybe I had taught their kids the year before. There were no children on the playground. The jungle gym was silent, the plastic house empty. The slides bore witness to stillness. Only three women batting worried glances back and forth, calling out the names of their children. It strikes me now that [[none of us called->New17]] for any child other than our own. I could have easily mixed in a James or an Ashley between my anxious cries for Caylee. But I never did. I never heard the others call for Caylee. I think, even then, my womb had begun to ache. Empty. I don’t think I want to write anymore today. <</replace>> <</timed>>

<h1> You Selected: Long Bones, Long Bones, Leave Me Alone!</h1> <h1> James </h1> I found something disturbing today. A possible link at last. Sifting through yet more microfiche I found a police report that sent a chill through me: Bizarre Act of Vandalism Reported Police were called to SW Avenue early Sunday afternoon to investigate a reported break-in. The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Clifford King, stated that they returned from church to find their front door swinging wide. Items were shifted but nothing was reported missing. According their statement, a small wooden doll that did not belong to the family was found in their son’s room. The figurine was discovered on the pillow of the bed. Police have confiscated the toy pending further investigation. No suspects have been named. The story itself is strange, sure, but there’s more to it. I distinctly recall watching Caylee carry around a small wooden doll days before her disappearance. I had never seen it before, and when I asked her where she found it she told me her friend from the playground gave it to her. I had assumed it was one of her playmates but… What if it wasn’t? What if someone she trusted, an adult who stood watch over the children every day, had given it to her? What to do next? Should I tell the police? No, this is circumstantial evidence at best. It’s not even evidence. It’s an intuition. I think I need to make a list of who was at the playground watching the kids. Uncover [[a sick bastard->New18]], string them up, kill them with my own hands, and make them pay for the death of my daughter. I can’t believe I just wrote that. Caylee. I don’t believe you’re dead. I can’t. I’m coming. I will find you.

<h1>You Selected:You are A Sick Bastard!</h1> <h1>James</h1> I can’t take her to the doctor. She made me promise when we were still dating to never, under any circumstances, allow them to give her [[pills->New19]]. She was depressed. She lived her whole life that way. She would seem fine and happy and buoyant and then, whoosh, out of nowhere a cloud would sweep over her and burn out the sun. She told me she had tried to kill herself in high school. A fistful of rainbow colored [[pills->New19]] and a mouthful of bourbon. A rush to the hospital ensued, followed by a stomach pump and a vow she would never take another pill again so long as she lived. I have never seen her take an aspirin for a headache, a vitamin in the morning, or even a birth control [[pill->New19]]. Nothing. So I don’t know what to do with her. A doctor will almost certainly diagnose her with all manner of mental illnesses and prescribe a cereal bowl full of happy [[pills->New19]] to cheer her up. So I leave her where she is. Hoping that she might get through it on her own. I hope she does soon. I’m beginning to go bonkers with her.

<<audio "bones" time 9.5 volume 0.8 play>> <h1> You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones Let Me Go Home!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I can’t help but wonder. Was it me? Did Jim give up because I had already given up? Am I now responsible for both misplacing my daughter and killing my husband? An image of Jim [[sticks in my mind->New20]], a picture of him that follows me when I close my eyes and chases after me in my dreams. That night, just before he went to the kitchen, Jim came and kneeled beside me. He kissed me on the forehead and whispered I’m sorry. I’m sorry Janie. This was not unusual. He took just as much blame for Caylee’s loss as I did. I would [[often wake->New20]] from my endless slumber to find him sitting beside me, [[head in hands->New20]], apologizing for our daughter. I always wanted to reach out to him when he did this. I wanted to cradle his head, tell him it was nobody’s fault. It was just bad luck. We couldn’t have known. No one could have. Instead I pretended to sleep. I’m not certain you could even say I was alive during that time. I lay in bed. I thought. I remembered. I ached for the sound of Caylee’s voice. So Jim was on his own. That evening though, he said something different. He said, "I’m sorry. I’m sorry Janie. It spoke your name. I’m so sorry." And the image of him, how he looked when he said it, I can’t forget it. I can’t shake it. I have never seen a person completely absorbed by fear before. [[His face was white->New20]], his beard unkempt, his hands shook, his lips trembled, his eyes seemed almost hollow. It was this more than the sound that drew me from my bed that night. Normally I would have ignored the blare. A gunshot makes a singular noise. But I would not have risen from bed. I would have remained under the covers, curled up, an unmoving ball until someone came and dragged me from my refuge. But his face. I cannot forget it.

<h1> You Selected: "His Face was White!"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> That was our first argument after we bought the house. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green. I wanted to because that was the color of my grandmother’s kitchen. I always loved the way her home smelled, and how the walls were a horrible motley of green and red and blue and yellow, and how she had a collection of the most bizarre, intricately designed ceramic figurines from around the world. I remember I loved all her statuettes, except one. It was supposed to be of a smiling little black boy kicking a tin can. Something about it scared me. His skin was too black, [[his features->New21]] not quite defined. His eyes were overly white and his mouth was set in what was supposed to be a smile, but it looked like a menacing red gash across his cheeks, the grin just a little too wide. Like someone had tried to cut his throat but missed. I made her hide it whenever I came to visit. She did. She was kind. She made the world’s best lasagna. I wanted to paint the kitchen lime green in honor of her, my grandmother.

<h1> You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones I Promise to be Good!" </h1> <h1> James </h1> Someone broke into Caylee’s room. I’m certain of it. I searched it today, looking for the wooden doll that she carried around in those final weeks. I try to [[avoid->New22]] going in there. When she first disappeared I would sleep in her bed. But now I can’t. I stay out because seeing her drum set, her clothes, her toys strewn about is almost paralyzing. But today I had to. I found it, the wooden doll, under her pillow. I’ve slept on that pillow probably a dozen times or more since she went missing, and I know damn well that the doll was not there – someone must have broken in and put it there, like what happened at the King’s house. The thought gives me goosebumps – Janie hasn’t left the bed in weeks – that means that whoever broke in was [[in there with Janie->New22]]. As soon as I found the doll I ran to check on her. She is still mostly unresponsive, but it seems as if whoever it was left her alone. Once I ensured that she was okay I went out to buy a gun. I shot one once when I was a kid – my uncle took us hunting. We never saw any game. He just dragged us through the muddy, swampy Appalachian trails until my brother and I were too tired to walk. Finally, he let us fire the rifle just once into the side of a clay hill. I remember the sound hurt my ears and the kickback almost knocked the gun from my grasp. I’ve never had the inclination to touch one since then, but now. Well. I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose both my little girl and my wife. No. Fuck that. It will take a few days to clear the background check, but I’m getting a gun and I’m going to learn how to fire it at whatever bastard dares to step foot near [[my Janie->New22]] again.

<<audio "bones" volume 1.0 fadeout>> <h1>You Selected: "STOP. GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>Janie</h1> I remember, when I was [[paralyzed by depression->New23]], I had a dream one day. James was out, doing whatever it was he doing during that time. God knows. But it was there. The thing from my childhood nightmares. In the room with me. It [[stood in the corner->New23]], grinding its horrible long fingers together. It sounded like bones grinding to dust. It stood there. Just. Watching. I closed my eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and hummed to myself. I [[woke up->New23]] a few hours later when [[James came home->New23]].

<h1>You Selected: "Long Bones, Long Bones, Let Me Keep My Bones!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I took [[the doll->New24]] to the King’s house. They live on NW 252nd Street. I showed it to them, asked if it was the same one that the cops had found. They guy, Clifford, he didn’t even want to talk to me, but I got it out of him before he slammed the door in my face – it is the same doll. So there’s a link. These dolls were given to [[the children->New24]] by whoever [[the kidnapper->New24]] was. At least, that’s what I think. My next step is to try and contact some of the other parents and see if they, too, have seen these dolls.

<h1>You Selected: "MR. LONG BONES IS THINKING ABOUT SAYING YOUR NAME!"</h1> <h1>James</h1> I’ve figured it out – well, sort of. I was on my way to one of the other parents’ house – I even forget which – when a kid stopped me and asked if I liked [[Mr. Long Bones->New25]] as much as he did. I had no idea what he was talking about until he pointed to the doll I was carrying. He said that Mr. Long Bones had given him one, too, and that he liked him very much even though he was scary at first. The kid said that this [[Mr. Long Bones->New25]] was always giving him gifts and toys, but that the doll was his favorite. Boom! The shoe drops! I ask the kid if he knows where [[Mr. Long Bones->New25]] lives, but he said no. This guy apparently just shows up at the playground every so often and gives toys to the kids. I’m going to find this son of a bitch and I swear to God I’m going to kill him. Even if Caylee is safe, I’m still going to make this fucker pay. Incidentally, I also discovered that this guy is apparently using some kind of fake Internet meme as his handle. I searched at the library for “Mr. Longbones” in Newberry, Florida, but only found articles that talk about a creepy folk monster that kidnaps children and steals their bones. They are a bunch of stories that are told apparently all over the world to scare kids at sleepovers. Kind of like Bloody Mary. The story goes that [[Mr. Long Bones->New25]] needs new bones because his are brittle and break easily, so he steals them from children whenever his bones are hurting, and you can know he’s nearby because his bones make a creaky-grindy sound. Apparently he chooses the children while they are still babies and follows them until they are old enough to… well, harvest. As if that’s not creepy enough, he tells you if he’s chosen you by saying your name. So this asshat who kidnapped my daughter is naming himself after some urban legend who murders children for their bones. What a fucking psycho.

<<audio "bones" play>> <h1> You Selected: "Mr. Long Bones!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> Fucking fuck fuck fuck. It’s fucking REAL. I’ve been visiting the playground on and off since I learned about Long Bones, trying to catch the kidnapper. Today I was there, pretending like I was a parent (God, I used to be a parent) when I saw it. The kids were playing, chanting “Red Rover, Red Rover send Tommy right over.” He couldn’t get through and complained about how it wasn’t fair that the teams were uneven. I did a quick count and saw that there were three on one side and four on the other. I mean, that shouldn’t matter, but apparently Tommy though it did. After they finished arguing they played a few more rounds and at some point it hit me. I don’t know when or how, but the teams were even. I was watching them play the entire time – no one joined that game, but there it was. Somehow, there were four on each side. At the same time, the kids noticed too, and all at once they shouted, [[“Mr. Long Bones!”->New26]] And it stood up, as if it were pretending to be a kid the whole time. I can’t even describe it. It was… tall, and white. And its eyes were just these… black holes. I… I think I might be going insane. It just stared at me as the kids danced around it, chanting some creepy song and laughing as if he were their best friend. I… I ran. I feel like such a coward. I left all those kids there with that… thing. I bought a pack of cigarettes, something I have literally never done before, and I tried to smoke them all. I couldn’t, though. I threw up before I even finished one. What do I do?

<h1> You Selected: "GIVE UP GIVE UP GIVE UP GIVE UP"</h1> <h1> James' Suicide Letter (Unfound) </h1> Janie: I’m so sorry. [[It said your name.->New27]] Tonight I woke up and it was in the room with us. In the corner. Just staring at us. I’m so sorry. I am so afraid. I was researching it. I found proof that he took Caylee – but that doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. There was a picture. I found it in one of our old boxes. The stories say that Long Bones picks children while they are babies – so I looked at the old Polaroids of [[Caylee.->New27]] And there it was. It looks like a nice picture. Caylee is sitting on your father’s knee on a dock. It was when we took that trip to Maine. And there, way in the background. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was just a tree. A poplar or an aspen maybe. But no. [[IT HAS EYES.->New27]] I’m so sorry. I can’t save you. I love you. Maybe you, Caylee, and I will all be together again soon. A family once more. -Jim.

<<audio "bones" fadein>> <h1> You Selected: "Did you really think you could make it better?"</h1> <h1> Janie </h1> I got to leave the house today. The first time in months. Mom said she wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I took her to the doctor. Amazingly, I haven’t forgotten how to drive. I did forget how many dumbass people are on the road, however. Apparently she has low blood pressure. Surprise. I’m astounded her heart continues to pump blood at all, the way she zombie walks around the house all day. I suppose I’m unfair to her. Maybe even mean. She’s only doing what mothers do. Protecting her young. Something I never learned. I took the car and left while she was in waiting room. What a horrible thing. Leaving my mother. But I had to. I hadn’t seen living, breathing people other than Mom for three months. I told her I’d be back in an hour. She protested of course. As winded and dizzy as she was, however, there wasn’t much she could do. So I took her car. I went to a coffee shop. I drove down West Newberry with the windows down. Turned up the radio loud. I didn’t recognize any of the songs but it didn’t matter. I almost felt alive. But then, I did it. I couldn’t help myself. By instinct my hands turned down one familiar road after the other until, there, I drove slowly past a playground. The playground. This time it wasn’t void of children. This time there weren’t mothers hysterically calling out the names of daughters gone missing. Honestly, I was shocked. If nine kids famously went missing from a playground, I would think no sane mother would allow their children to step foot anywhere near it again. But they had forgotten. It’s been almost two years since the Nine just evaporated off the planet. Well, the Eight. James was found. I searched for Caylee’s face among those playing. Finally a woman came up and knocked on my window. Can I help you? I realized then that I looked like my worst nightmare. My Mom’s car was grey with tinted windows. Dad hated the Florida sun. Said he missed Pennsylvania. So he had them tinted the darkest shade the police would allow. I was sitting outside a playground, no less than the very same place where the Newberry Nine had gone missing, in a suspicious looking car with windows tinted black. I rolled down the window. Tried to show I was friendly. No, I was just… looking for my daughter. And then I left before she could respond. Before she could see the tears forming. There will probably be a neighborhood watch for my Mom’s car for the next couple of weeks. Feeling like I hadn’t punished myself enough, I pressed on. I parked out front. Stared at the house. A ravenous clump of Virginia creeper vines had consumed the windows that open onto the street. If you were in the house looking out through that glass all you would see is green, green, green. I somehow mustered the courage and marched up to the front porch. As if I belonged there. I noticed there was still vibrant yellow crime scene tape wrapped around one of the posts. I put my key in the lock. I didn’t think I could do it. Who cleaned up? Did the fat cop come back later and scrape little bits of Jim off the wall? Did anyone? Did they expect me to just buck up, chin up, come back and scrub the bits and pieces of my destroyed marriage from my kitchen? I had no idea. I turned the lock and went in. Someone had been there. From the front door you can clearly see through to the kitchen, to the place where Jim said fuck it all and blasted himself into oblivion. The wall was no longer lime green. It had been painted white. A neutral color. The bastard probably planned it that way. Ok, Jim, you won. I didn’t have much time before I promised my mother I’d pick her up and, honestly, I didn’t want to stay. There was a feeling of such hollowness. Sorrow. Grief. Guilt. I went to the bedroom keeping my head down. Tried not to look at the spot where I had last seen him. I remember when I first heard the gunshot I thought it was the air conditioning acting up again. It had a tendency to pop and sputter loudly. I had asked Jim to fix it at least half a dozen times. Seeing as he had no job, the least he could do was work on the house. When I finally went out to the kitchen all I had to see were his boots. His legs sprawled out on the ground. I knew what happened. Poor Jim. Poor me. Poor Caylee. It wasn’t until the cops arrived that I actually surveyed the situation. Saw my husband’s opinion of our marriage. The writing on the wall. Can’t say I blame him. I kept my eyes low and walked past my newly painted white kitchen, into the hall. The house smelled stale now. Accented by the faint aroma of ammonia. I slowed as I walked down the hall. I had an overwhelming sense of panic. I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the dread of seeing our bed again. The place where we had made love. Because it certainly didn’t exist on its own. Love. We had to work for it. Make it happen against nature’s will. I paused outside the room. Wrung my hands nervously. Then, bravely, I charged in. I noticed no one had made the bed. The comforter was still in disarray. Pillow strewn on the floor. Sheets still tangled from when I had scrambled to the kitchen. I had heard the pop. I had called Jim’s name. Once. Twice. Three times he had denied me. Dreading what I already knew, I had clambered from my cotton sheets to the kitchen. It was strange being back here now. Three months later and the room was just as I left it that night. On the nightstand was a picture of the three of us. Caylee. Jim. Me. I picked it up and stared at it for a long time. And then my heart lurched. In my peripheral vision I could see movement. It took every speck of control not to turn and run down the hall. Hop in the car. Pedal to the floor to the doctor’s office. Pretend I never saw anything. I tore my eyes from the picture and looked. It was standing in the corner, just like in my dream. White and naked, scarecrow thin. It slowly twisted and uncurled its massive hands. Its long, branchlike fingers. And then. It smiled. The same, horrible red gash of the figurine my grandmother owned. The smile was too long, the lips too red. All I could do was open my mouth. No noise came out. It crabwalked over to me with blinding speed just like I knew it would. Nose to nose. Smile to open horrified mouth. And then [[I screamed.]]

<<silently>> <<set $counter to $counter + 1>> <</silently>> <h1>ARE YOU SERIOUSLY DOING THIS AGAIN?!</h1> After months of dead ends and tips leading nowhere, police chief Samuel Clay announced Monday that the hunt for the [[Newberry Nine->New29]] was officially over. "I am aware of the pain this causes the parents of the missing children. Not knowing is oftentimes worse than knowing. But, aside from the body of James Riley, and the N9 graffiti that occasionally pops up, we've found nothing in months. No leads, a few anonymous tips that went nowhere, but nothing concrete. As terrible as it is for [[these parents->New29]], I really feel like public funds at this point in time will be better spent elsewhere," Chief Clay stated. Dubbed the Newberry Nine, [[nine children->New29]] disappeared from Champions Park in October. No suspects were announced and no witnesses ever came forward.

<h1>Hunt Over for the Newberry Nine</h1> After months of dead ends and tips leading nowhere, police chief Samuel Clay announced Monday that they are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. They are still dead. Dubbed the Newberry Nine, [[nine children->New30]] disappeared from Champions Park in October. No suspects were announced and no witnesses ever came forward.

<<audio "whiteloud" time 9 volume 0.8 play>> <span id="splash"><img src="media/rake7.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> Look. It's over. We know how this ends. Give. Up. [[Give up->Credits]] [[No.->New31]] <</replace>> <</timed>>

h1>You Selected: "GIVE UP!"</h1> <h1>Jam%x8es</h1> So I go to the library, I sift through microfiche, I read the old news stories. I believe I can quote word for word the very first story that lit up the front page of the High Springs Herald with all the horrible implications of the headline: “Nine Children Missing.” It wasn’t until the third day that someone stumbled across the catchy alliteration Newberry Nine. There’s a gang that’s sprung up in ausidhuihiouwbhfouifwhoufbhuoahobuichbuiohfuiofhoiaubhafuoshbfubaskhflhbblsdfcbisahfcubsfiashfscfoiahusiofhasiofuchbiufhsoiafhbsaioucfhsukabfhcaskbbfhcskofhuuaskochsaukohcfosfuisdbhcfoisafhbsduihfchsuihauityweuitywquiytqwebgskbhfaicfhaofdpqyqpqyptyqpyt [y [y[ yi [yuihbuivhagbiahboiyf7846520956895 bhrfeuwifhepwhfp8-`2y8yrfv hfpuio hfuiwhfuihaiopfuheuiyrfy4829075y89rybphvefhpcnfhweiophfcnweiofphnenxh^%%$$$$$$$$$%^%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%^@&@*($*#Y(I@)$U@)*$YU$Y*)B$BY@*$PYP@*$Y@P*YB$*PO$Y@B*O$Y@P*O$BY@P$OH$@HIOFHOIHIOSUIOPSUEOWE*U*(WE&@*()&*(&*(#BUHFDUIHuihuiefhuiofdhsbfy78sy0BIHBIFHBH(yu98ybp8r92hp892925y2-567605289y5b2u5h23u5238905275289-3-2-2---------djasdk;nasd;ioanjJIJIIOIODSSDUIJHSDH[[dhdjklhASDJKHA->New32]]

<<audio "bones" play>> [[Give up.->Credits]] <<timed 20s>> [[Fine. Do what you want.->New33]] <</timed>>

<<audio "long" play>> <<audio "bones" play>> <h3> LONG BONES, LONG BONES, LET ME GO HOME LONG BONES, LONG BONES, LEAVE ME ALONE LONG BONES, LONG BONES, I PROMISE TO BE GOOD LONG BONES, LONG BONES, LET ME KEEP MY BONES. </h3> [[Give up.->Credits]] <<timed 22s>> [[No.->New34]] <</timed>>

<<audio "james" play>> <h1> JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS IM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S [[FUCKING BRAINS->New35]] JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINSJIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS JIM'S FUCKING BRAINS</h1>

<h1> You Selected: "Don't Look Inside the Closet!"</h1> <h1> James </h1> I held my breath, grimaced, and reached down to twist it barehanded, swatting at the flies with my other hand. It took more effort that I realized and, as I tried to twist the plastic collar, my knuckle accidentally pressed against the cat’s head. I heard a sound like [[a champagne cork popping->New36]] and the skin around the area depressed and deflated like a balloon. A horrible smell followed and, unable to contain myself, I threw up all over the thing. I stood and turned to leave in disgust but an uncomfortable thought occurred to me as I did. Even dead, a cat’s head shouldn’t deflate. I turned to look at it again. It was disgusting, covered in my own bile. I held my breath and crouched down again. I could see into the cavity I had created and could easily make out what appeared to be the brain. I dry heaved a few times and stood up. Like everything else with four legs, cats have skulls. Why was I looking at a brain and [[not bone?->New36]] I had another session of heaving. I gently stepped on the animal with my foot, and with a cracking sound the rest of it sank down with a gentle puff. I’d had enough. I turned and walked away, stepping into the sunlight with my shirt held over my nose. I was greeted by a blast of hot wind and blindingly bright sun. I held my face to the sky and soaked in the warmth and breathed in the clean air. After a minute or two the physical sickness faded, but the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach grew stronger. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I turned back to look at the cluster of trees. There were not nearly enough to cast a shadow like I had experienced when I stood in their midst. Pine needles are thin and airy, not like the large maple leaves from up north that could cast a pall over a wide space. The sinking feeling grew stronger and I nearly jumped [[out of my skin->New36]] when a coming train blasted its horn half a mile down the tracks.

<<audio "ingrid" play>> <<timed 15s>><<audio "ingrid" fadeout>><</timed>> Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. [[Failed Marriage.->New37]] Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. [[Missing Daughter.->New37]] Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. [[Failed Marriage.->New37]] Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter. Failed Marriage. Missing Daughter.

<span id="splash"><img src="media/rake5.jpg" style="width:900px;height:582px;align=center;" /></span> <<timed .45s>><<replace "#splash">> [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[GIVE. UP.->Credits]] [[No. I want to make it better->New38]] <</replace>> <</timed>>

<h1>Fine. [[Have it your way->Caylee.]]</h1>