I step out of the screen glass door, a cathedral organ echoing its dirge in my head. I’ve been hearing this noise on and off over the past week, I’m not sure why. Shaw seems rather attached to it. I hold the door open a while, brushing back the curtains so the cat can slip out into the night with me. I quietly push the door closed again, sneaking a glance at dad’s bedroom window. No lights. I think I’m in the clear.
	Scooter and I separate, his nocturnal instincts guiding him towards his midnight snack. I suppose that’s what’s leading me on too, I think to myself, as I pad around the wood shed, avoiding the stacks of uncut wood. I’ll have to help dad split and stack those in a few days, but now they are just foot traps. Step on one and the whole pile shifts. Too much noise; so I go around.
	I bid a last farewell to the black hunter, watching his misshapen tail (the product of some door from his youth, no doubt) bob off into the night. I turn and make my way across the concrete of our parking space, and then the gravel of our half circle driveway. Each crunch is painfully loud to my ears, delicated by the night.
	I arrive on our front lawn, the one closest to the highway. Blissfully, my feet make no sound on the grassy turf. I hop over the small wooden flower trench and make my way onto the open road. No headlights appear on the horizon, and not a soul to be seen. Only the sound of frogs and crickets greets me, floating harmoniously up from the crater-like pond across the street.
	I hate walking like this, slowly, carefully, all the pressure on my toes. I want to run, I want to race down the street as fast as I can, but that will only make it easier for the dogs to notice me.
	Our neighbors have two dogs. An older Doberman, and a younger black dog. Both are dark colored, and often come out of nowhere barking. The Black will begin once her strong nose catches a whiff of me, and the Dobe will follow along behind, acting as guardian and chaperone. I begin to wonder if taking a shower was such a good idea. The smell of soap is much stronger than human body odor. Still, I don’t regret bathing. Feeling clean is its own reward. As I draw nearer to the lighted region of their house, I begin taking quicker steps. My scent will take a moment to catch here, there’s a breeze in the opposite direction. I look over my shoulder and over their fences at their side door as I finally make it past their driveway and mailbox. The Black Dog comes out of the carport just parallel to the door, and gives one sharp bark. The sound is piercing, haunting, and it echoes in my mind as though there is nothing else in the world.
	Wait, there is something else here. Something important. I almost say her name as I lose myself, but there’s no time. I’m gone.

	I pick this body up off the ground and break into a full sprint, ignoring the skinned knees. That black Labrador is right behind me, barking wildly. If it wasn’t barking so hard it could run a hell of a lot faster. I almost laugh, but it’s really not that funny. Especially since I can hear the other dog start barking too. Then a whistle. The Lab stops barking at me and turns, I imagine, drawn by the call of it’s master. The young mother is leaning out of the doorway, slippers and coat on. I’m sure of it. She’s calling the dogs back. They’ve been sprayed by skunks before, and she is not interested in another tomato juice bath party. In the darkness, she can’t see me flee into the night.

I consider stopping, but as long as I still can, I might as well run. If I get there fast enough, she’ll still be awake. I draw a digital watch from my front right pocket, where it always is. I press on a side button, and it’s face lights up merrily, revealing 9:46 to my blinded eyes. I cover it with my hand and let my eyes readjust to the darkness, then place it in the pocket once more.
I entertain myself by trying to remember where I’ve heard this churchy melody. It’s a popular song, I’m sure, and an old one. As I lose myself in thoughts it becomes easier to run. As I jog past the Horning’s mailbox, I remind myself that the humming noise is just their big sprinkler hose, retracting itself across the field and dragging a large sprinkler behind it. I remember the night we spent in this cornfield, and wonder how unpleasant it would be to suddenly be soaked by an automatic sprinkler. There’s no rain, and a bright almost-full moon shines down to light the way once I get across Bundy Bridge.
I slow down to a fast walk. Once I get around this corner I will need to constantly look over my shoulder. Usually, a car is betrayed by its headlights shining on the ground around me. At the end of the road on this corner though, there is a house with a bright outside light that is always on. It disguises cars’ headlights before I can hear them coming, and I am not looking to attract unnecessary attention.
There are taller sugar beat stalks on the left side of the road, so I stick to that side. I almost had an idea where I’ve heard that song but it’s gone now. I’ve forgotten again. I’m always losing my thoughts. I pay too much attention to what’s happening right now to dwell on other things. Interestingly enough, others seem to find my thoughts when I’m not around.
Inspecting my pockets, I find a small plastic container undoubtedly filled with sugar. My watch, and my wallet. Why the wallet?.. It comes to me: I still have that Mint Trojan Man in there. As I’m playing with the matches I find in my change pocket, I realize that the round burn on my palm (from when I put out a match on it) still hasn’t healed, and I’m holding my hand strangely so that I don’t scrape it on anything. I didn’t even notice.
	I pass the mishappen old tree where Irish Bend Road forks into Old River Road, and I look and wonder what caused it to lose that particular branch. It looks like the sort of place an owl would call home. Suddenly a rush of memories slaps me in the face; drama class with Mr. Elliott, the monologues we did, trying to find an animal personality to connect with the character. I had read “Words of Wisdom,” a 1997 inspirational speech, and the speaker’s profile had seemed closest to that of an owl. Then I remember Leroy and his attempt at suicide, not ten feet away from where I gave my monologue aloud to the class. He had told me it had begun as a joke, but I could see he was trying to keep me from worrying about him. I couldn’t.
	I’m still standing by the old tree. One foot raised in midstep. Tears sliding from my eyes. I’ve no idea how long all my thoughts took to pass through my head. It could have been seconds, but it feels like hours. I remember something she once said to me, that she used to think about suicide. I’m really crying now, and I have to wipe my face with my sleeve. And there he is.

	My accomplice, my nemesis, my friend. He’s right behind me and he’s coming closer and if he catches me he’ll throw me in a prison. I don’t see him but I can tell he’s there. He has followed my feelings from his memories and found me at last. I’m living on borrowed time.
I’ve been in his prison before, trapped in his heart. It was the loneliest thing I have ever experienced. So I run like hell.
	I need something to listen to, I need a tune or a beat. This body operates on imagination, and music is the best fuel. Shaw doesn’t listen to me, or take my orders, so I have to improvise. The timing of my breathing changes, forming a tune of it’s own as I rush down the highway. He’s so mad at me. I’ve never really been sure why he hates me so much, why he always wants to push me out or away. It’s not really his will either. He’s a reasonable enough person. It’s just his instinct when he can’t feel or do anything.
	It doesn’t matter, though. I can see her house now. I’m passing by her neighbors’ mailbox, and then the road sign after that, and my lung feels like it has a hole in it and my throat is made out of sandpaper and all the while he’s getting closer and closer to grabbing me by the neck and stuffing me into a cell.
	My left leg is opening up again, an old wound from when we fought last. It never really heals, not since that first confrontation. Perhaps it never will.
	And suddenly I’m very tired.

	It’s hard to tell. I think I’m at Sara’s house finally. I’m still a little dizzy. I pull myself off of the ground and fall down again. It feels like I’ve got jelly for legs. And a gut ache. I was so close to something, and now it’s gone.
	A little effort gets me on my feet. I’m definitely at her house. Here’s the tree we used to meet at, and her dad’s pickup. I reach into my right front pocket to check my watch, but it’s not there. Oh shit, where did I leave it? No, it’s just in my left pocket. It’s 10:03, but that doesn’t seem right. I left the house at about 9:40. That’s about two miles in 23 minutes with no light. I jogged two miles just now nonstop. Wow.
	I grab a few small rocks and step off of the road onto Sara’s lawn. I’m pretty tired, and all I want is to lay down somewhere with her. Just be with her and rest. It really does seem strange, doesn’t it? If I was at home, in bed, I wouldn’t be tired. I’d be wide-awake, thinking about her.
Sometimes I worry if she thinks all I’m interested in is her body. Sure, Sara’s gorgeous. Sara’s drop-dead gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous where she doesn’t even know she’s gorgeous and she just smiles at me and I fall flat on my ass because she’s so gorgeous. But at the same time, it would be almost easier to be with her if she weren’t beautiful. I’m always wandering what she’s thinking, I’m always curious what she thinks of me. I care about her opinions, and it hurts more than I can say when she laughs at my thoughts. It hurts more than I can stand when she shuts me out. I really care for her; I’m in love with her, but she still hides feelings from me, ashamed or scared or confused by them. Shaw takes that personally.
I gingerly step past the wash bucket and Dylan’s bicycle in the yard. My footsteps sound three times as loud as they should, but I’ve done this so many times – I know better. The part of my mind that produces fear in response to danger is closely related to the part of my mind that controls my hearing. I know this because that part of my mind told me so. His name is Shaw. I suddenly realize that the organ music is gone. Finally.
I whip a tiny pebble at her window. It hits the wooden span between windows, and makes a sound somewhere between crack and thunk. I almost laugh and say ‘crunk’ as I throw the next rock. This time it hits the glass and the sound is a definite crack. Not a window-cracking crack, but a wake-up-the-parent crack. I wonder how fast asleep her dad is.
Fuck that, she’s moving. I can hear floorboards creaking. I can almost see her leaning out the window now, smiling. But I’m mistaken. She isn’t at the window. She’s stopped moving. She never smiles when I visit her at night anyway. She probably hates it when I come to see her. ‘Oh great, that red headed jackass is here to wake me up again, here to take me down the street and have his way with me again.’
Damn Addus to hell. I hate it when I think like this. I hate that there’s a part of me that thinks like this and I can’t get rid of it. It bleeds into me when I’m depressed and weak. I know she doesn’t think like that… Does she? No. I’ve always been straightforward with Sara. I always tell her that I don’t want her to feel rushed. Don’t I?
All this has taken a second to rush through my head and I’m now trying to concentrate on gently rapping her window again. I hit the wood.
A fourth pebble hits the glass, but very softly. No stirs from within. I’m pushing it when I throw the fifth one. Enough noise and the dog will wake up too. When the dog wakes up, everyone wakes up. Still, nothing. I can’t see her curtains move, or hear her floor creak.
I back up slowly, to get a better look at her window without the night sky reflected on it. I’m stepping backwards and then my foot is wet and I’m standing in a pool of something and then…

I’m tired enough that I don’t get up right away. I lift my head up enough to see that I’ve been turned away again. This happens every time, but I still don’t understand why. There’s blood everywhere. I can see it perfectly. Everything else is dark, moonlit, but the blood is as red and perfect as though it was made of light. It makes the darkness look darker than ever. It’s my imagination, I know it is. It’s not really there. Funny thing is, I can’t get rid of it. I can’t control it, I can’t stop it. I can’t understand it.
I get up and brush myself off. I suppose I’ve given up on myself. I’m wiping blood off of my leg that I know isn’t there. I’m wrapping my belt around a wound in my leg that continues to hurt, continues to bleed, even though it’s never actually been cut. Truly, I’ve lost my mind.
Sometimes I see things in the blood. Black creatures that are tall and silent, that block out the moon and stare at me through hollowed red eyes. But they only follow me home. They never follow me here.
I walk forward, over the bloody pool and towards the plastic garbage can at the corner of the house. It’s black and square, just like the one at my house, and it can make me half again as tall. With snatches of Audioslave and A.A.R. and Saliva stealing through my mind, I haul the garbage can noiselessly around to the back of her house. I slip off my shoes and step up onto the can. I haul myself onto the lower half of the double layer roof. It’s a good feeling. I can still climb like a goat after all these years away from hiking and climbing with the Boy Scouts.
I go to the bathroom window on the.. Northern side of the house. Moss grows on the northern side, right? I think I read that somewhere. And there’s definitely more moss on this side. It makes the roof slippery, so I watch my step.
My little sugar packet is still there on the sill. I pick it up and it’s wet and nasty and I instinctively drop it. No matter, I’ve got more. This is about when I realize that the window is closed. I stop dead. 
Before, when I climbed up onto the roof, I had spent half an hour trying to pry the westernmost windows open with my fingers before giving up and surveying the other sides of the house. That was when I discovered the upstairs bathroom window, wide open, and big enough to squeeze through. I had knocked on her door, and began to open it when she closed it again, thinking I was her dog. She was right.
I go to work, first pushing on the window, then trying to pry at it, then pushing again. It’s starting to sink in that it really is locked. I can’t get in. I guess last time I scared her pretty bad and she didn’t want to relive the experience. 
No, dummy, she doesn’t want to see you at night anymore. Get it through your head that she’s never enjoyed these evening strolls with you. She likes you, but she can’t understand why you insist on sneaking out every night and roaming the country.
It hurts so much inside, I huddle up next to the window and start crying. I give it a halfhearted knock but I know she won’t hear me. She’s fast asleep again, no doubt. She probably doesn’t think I’d be stupid enough, want to see her enough that I would climb up on her roof again and try to sneak through the window like a thief. Like a rat.
Of course, a normal person would give up here. Hell, a person fitting the confines of normality would be at home asleep right now. Just like Sara is. She says that when she calls me weird it’s in a good way. She likes me because I’m weird. Bullshit. Here’s the proof. This is how weird I am, and I don’t think she would like it one bit.
I move around to the South (?) side of the roof, facing Hubbard road. I can’t quite hop onto the higher section of roof without making noise, so with my left foot I step up onto the T.V. antenna’s wooden support plank and swing my right leg up. A grunt and a heave later, I’m on top of it. I do a sort of crouching walk up to the apex of the roof, and from there I crawl.
I get close to what I decide to call the Eastern side of the house, facing Old River road. From there, I approximate where Sara’s bed must be. I lay down, one leg swung over the apex for security. I rest my head on my arms and contemplate the complete and total insanity that has driven me to do this stupid thing.
I suppose the idea was that if I can’t be with her, I should at least be close to her. I suppose my insanity is called love. So tonight, this is where I sleep.

Hmm. It’s kind of wet.
Oh shit. My eyes are open now. There’s light in the sky. The sun’s getting ready to come up. I’m outside still… Where am I?
I’m on Sara’s roof. Has to be, there’s her dads truck, there’s her Fairlane.. Where are my shoes? What the hell am I doing up here? Don’t get alarmed, getting alarmed doesn’t help. Just get the fuck off of this roof and get home before the sun comes out and Mike gets up. Which Mike? Both of them.

How to get off of the roof? Crawl to the corner and drop down. Which corner? Scope it out and make a decision. My thoughts carry on like this in an efficient question and answer system. It helps me focus on the task at hand, especially in times of emergency. Even incredible focus on the task at hand, however, can’t prepare me for the roof tile that breaks off and slides down the roof, taking my foot with it. I panic, and crouch down with my other foot, so that now it looks like I’m doing a power stretch, left leg drawn up under me and the other stretched back, almost to the roofs edge. I worry about how much noise I’ve made, but it doesn’t seem like anyone’s stirring below me inside the house. I’m about to draw my extended leg back to my body so that I can get some balance back when the tile under my left foot, which is now holding my entire body’s weight, breaks away. I sprawl forward, flinging my hands out to catch myself but it’s too late. I’m sliding off of the roof.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck thump.
My feet hit the ground first and then I fall backwards onto my back. The result is that my legs are numb and my back feels half broke. As an added bonus, the soft grass I so graciously landed in is extremely wet from morning condensation. I just hope there’s no dog shit under me. It’s hard to move, so I just lay there listening. Did I make too much noise? Have I woken someone up? What will they do if they look out the window and see me here, lying tits-up in their yard with roof moss all over the front of my shirt?
But nobody stirs, and I pull myself up off the ground for what seems like the tenth time. My legs are still tingly, but my back has felt worse, and I have shit to do. I know I didn’t jump onto that roof, and I’m not wearing shoes.
Oh no, did I leave my shoes on the roof? I ache at the thought of walking home in nothing but socks. A quick peak around the back end of the house reveals my footwear too me, thankfully. Also, a black garbage container with a slight crease in the lid, like a pop-bottle that has been squeezed too hard and is starting to crumple inwards. I slip on my shoes and try rolling the container, but it’s too loud, so I bodily pick it up and walk around the house with it. It’s damn heavy, and hard to hold all at once. I’m careful to walk around the side of the house opposite that of Mike’s bedroom. When I get to the spot next to the walkway where it’s usually at and set it down, the crease in the lid pops up and makes a loud noise. Just like a pop-bottle.
This is my cue to leave. There’s only so many strange noises someone can hear in the morning before getting up and investigating, so I beat feet down the road. Soon I slow down, though, because my legs are still bothering me a little, like they’ve grown funny bones or something.
It seems like a long trip home. I’ve got no music to listen to, and no company to talk to, and no wonderful night to reflect on. What I have is a desire to get home before my dad gets up, and for a glass of water, and also a desire to know what the hell happened at Sara’s house. I was on her lawn, I was on her roof, and somehow, she wasn’t involved at all. I don’t think I saw her face or heard her voice at all tonight.
I walk past my neighbors’ house. No dogs run out to greet me. I’m thankful. I walk across my driveway, oblivious to the sound of crunching gravel beneath my feet. It always sounds quieter when you return than when you leave.

Scooter nearly makes me jump out of my skin when he brushes against my leg at the corner of the house. I didn’t even remember that I had let him out until just now. I open the back door and he goes in while I take off my wet shoes and socks and then follow him. The house is quiet. I don’t think dad’s awake yet. I close the screen glass door and let the curtains fall in front of it again. I can hear Scooter eating his breakfast in the kitchen, and I feel around for his fuzzy body on the kitchen floor next to the fridge where his food dish is. I pet him and then I drink some water straight from the tap. This at least seems very loud to my ears, so I don’t drink much. Just enough to wet my throat and quench my thirst.
I pad down the hallway and gently push my door open with one hand, slide around it and push it closed again with the other. I take off my wet shirt and pants and put them on the floor next to my shoes and socks. I’ll take care of that mess when I wake up in a few hours. Right now, though, I need to sleep.
I climb up onto my bunk bed, careful not to make too much noise on it’s aging springs. I pull the covers over me, all the way up to my chin. This kind of comfort is hard to come by. It only comes from complete physical and mental exhaustion. It’s the single most blissful thing I’ve ever experienced, I realize as sleep begins to wash over me.
My only regret is that I couldn’t share it with her.