chapter 5

I think I may have blacked out.

Seriously, one minute I am walking towards the construction site, the next I suspended in limbo. I don’t know where I am. The world feels upside down as if I am hanging from a tree. I struggle for a moment, but nothing seems to come of it. I struggle again. Am I being pinned down? Where was I last? I remember. I was walking down the bike trail. It was hot. I felt light headed. Then everything seemed to go light. I struggle again.

“Help!” No answer. “Help!” I try to roll into a ball. I can feel my legs contorting, my knees in my chest. I take a deep breath and feel damp fetid air rushing into my lungs. Suppressing the urge to cough I thrust my legs out from under me. Suddenly my head shoots up. I can feel the warm light of the sun on my face. Fresh air. Looking around I am in a pile of leaves.

“Are you alright?”

There is a face in the sunlight. “I think so.”

“Then, do you mind giving me a hand, for you see, I am stuck in here as well.”
I look around. This is no ordinary pile of leaves. It is a mountain of leaves, with peaks and valleys that stretch as far as the eye can see. “Where are we?”

“As near as I can tell, we are here. Beyond that, I cannot say.”

It was not the answer I was expecting. Shifting my weight, my hand alights on the handle of Azarias. “I think you are sitting in my wheelbarrow. If you will hold on for a moment, I think I can push us both out of here.”

“What a fortunate turn of luck.”

I shrug at this.carefully prodding with my legs, my feet find something that feels like firm ground. I press my palms into Arazias’ firm handle. “Ready? Here we go!” With a great surge of energy I heave the wheelbarrow forward. I have no Idea what direction I am even heading. Arazias groans under the weight of the man as I continue to push. “This isn’t easy” I pant.

“It never is.”

Harder and harder I strain, the crackling leaves underfoot give no sense of time or distance. “We are almost there” I say aloud, as much to reassure myself as anyone.

“You are doing very well.”

“I don’t even know your name.” I grunt.

“Most men never do.”

“What?” I wheeze “Is” groaning “ It?”

“I think you know.”

“Please. Tell me.”

“I am that I am ” rang the voice.

Azarias seems to be rolling of its own volition. Am I pushing the Lord of hosts? I have the curious sensation that I am falling. The weight lifts from Azarius and I know my passenger has departed. “Wait!” I cry. “I have so much to ask you.” My hand slips on the handle and it jabs me in the side. “Wait!” I cry again. “Don’t go!” Again, there is silence. “Wait!” I shout at the top of my lungs.

My eyes are open. I am laying on the ground. Someone is tapping my with their toe.
“Buddy. Are you alright?” He kicks me again.

“I will be if you would please stop kicking me.” I say angrily.

“Can you sit up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’ve fallen on the bike trail and taken quite a blow to the head. Would you like me to call for assistance.”

Rocking forward I have the distinct impression that this man is someone of authority. “Who are you? I ask meekly.

“Officer Perkins. Do you require assistance?”

“I don’t think… No. I think I am alright.”

“Can you stand?”

“I… Yes” I say rising. I can see the officers uniform, his badge gleaming in the sunlight.

“Are you sure you are OK?”

“Yes. Thank you officer.”

“Have you been drinking or taking drugs of any kind?”

“What?”

“Are you on any medication?”

“No.” I say.

“Listen,” says the officer. ”I want you to write your name for me.”
He produces a black pen and taps the tip of it on a notepad. Numbly I reach over and take the pen from him and begin to write my name. Half conscious, I realize that I am signing a document of some kind. “What is this?” I ask.

“It’s nothing” said the officer. “It merely states that you are alright and that I can leave the scene."

“Oh” I said, rather confused. “Well” I pause “then, thank you again officer.”

“And sir?”

“Yes officer.”

“I suggest you take that wheelbarrow of yours and return home immediately.”

“Yes officer. Thank you, officer.”

“Anytime.” He said as he watched me pick up the wheelbarrow and begin to walk away. “Anytime.”

Canto IV

Shaken but undaunted I made my way back up the street, glancing nervously over my shoulder several times to make sure I wasn’t being followed. I walked until I came back to the park, and then found a comfortable bench to sit down and reflect upon my progress so far.

What were the facts? I awoke this morning to discover that someone had broken into my garden shed and stolen a green wheelbarrow full of my homemade mulching fertilizer. To the average layperson this might have seemed a mere insult, but to someone who had labored with love over his garden, who had tinkered with different ingredients ranging from eggshells to bone meal and beer, and who had produced some of the most lovely plants and vegetables this neighborhood had ever seen, this was an affront.

I had been searching for my stolen property assuming the worst, that the thief or thieves had stolen my precious black compost and had merely dumped it out of spite or neglect at the first opportunity. But this was not turning out to be the case. A cursory search of the neighborhood had produced no evidence to support this theory. I was not unaware that I had yet to make a thorough search of every garbage can and dumpster in the vicinity, but was beginning to suspect that my first instincts were correct and that the culprit had targeted my garden treasure from the onset.

A thin telltale trail of manure had led me to this park once before, and it was here that I had decided to undertake my quest to find my possessions. But where was I to go from here? Surely the vandals had passed this way. But where had they gone?

I stood up and scanned the horizon. The tranquil houses became an impenetrable wall obfuscating my desire to lay sight on anything that might give me some sense of direction. I have but two choices. I begin a house-to-house search, or I continue to canvas the area in hopes of discovering more clues or the potential witness.

As I stood there I suddenly realized that the roads and streets were not the only avenue into this neighborhood. Of course! The bike trail. It was only a few blocks away and the thief would have undoubtedly passed this way to access it. Bending over I grabbed the handlebars of my Azarias brand red wheelbarrow and began to trek towards the bike path.

The bike trail was the brainchild of the municipal government and ran along a strip of land originally set aside for a series of power lines that cut through the city. It was thought that adding the trail would create a green zone. But the stark contrast between the cold industrial towers supporting thick grey cables and the tranquil domestic scene of couples pushing their strollers or walking their dogs along the path below was surreal.

The path from the park to the trail ran along the creek and emerged onto a street that separated the power corridor from the surrounding houses. Looking both ways I dashed across the street and as I angled my wheelbarrow past the yellow concrete barrier designed to keep motorists off the bike trail I imagine I got more than a few awkward stares from passing drivers.

Contrary to whatever image the name may summon, the bike trail was not home to bikes. For that matter there were no pedestrians, no dog walkers, no children chasing Frisbees. There was no one. Just a long grey slab of concrete that stretched out across the grass and vanished into the horizon.

Scratching my head, I looked first up and then down the trail hoping that some figure would suddenly burst into sight offering hope and the possibility of a witness. Realizing the futility of the situation I hiked up my wheelbarrow and began to trot along the downward grade of the trail heading back into the neighborhood.

The sun was getting higher in the sky and the weigh of my bathrobe seemed to be bearing down on me. Also, accustomed as I was to pushing my wheelbarrow, this was typically done in the confines of my yard and there over short distances. Needless to say the potent mixture of these three elements, sun, robe and physical exertion were beginning to wear on me and presently I began to feel the need for a rest.

I set myself down on a particularly bright patch of grass and used the sleeve of my robe to blot the sweat from my forehead. Weary as I was I began to think in earnest that I had made a mistake in choosing Azarias as my companion when my thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“You alright buddy?”
I looked up into the silhouette of a biker. “I’m fine,” I said, standing.
“What’cha have that wheelbarrow for?”
“Nothing, I…” I looked over my interrogator. He was tall, in his mid fifties perhaps, and thin, to the point that you could see skin wrapped over tight muscles that hugged his skeleton. He was balding, wearing dated exercise shorts, the kind you might find in a thrift store. His bike was new. In good shape. You could tell he hadn’t ridden it much, and on the seat was taped an oversized red cushion. “What’s that?” I pointed at the cushion.
“My cushion? I have a low sperm count.” He said matter-of-factly in a way that made you think that red cushions were the solution to fertility problems the world over.
“Oh” I said, “I didn’t know they helped.”
“Didn’t either” said the man, “But Mama insisted, and I want to keep the ol’girl happy, if you know what I mean.”

He smirked and made a kind of half wink. I bared a smile as if to say, “yes, yes I do” but what I really meant was “No.”
“I was wondering if you’ve seen anyone else come this way with a wheelbarrow?”
“No. No thought it was a might odd you sitting here, but then I thought maybe you were stealing it from the construction site up the path.”
“Construction site?”
“Yeah, the Pavilion they call it, or something like that. It looks like a giant castle. It’s supposed to be some kind of mall, but I don’t think they’ve rented many spaces. Construction there is all but halted. It’s no business of mine if you did steal it mind you. But you should know these trails are patrolled and you might find yourself in a lot of hot water.”
“Thanks for the tip.” I said. “I’m actually looking for something someone stole in another wheelbarrow, thinking I might need mine to recover it.”

He looked at me rather pitifully. The same way I was probably looking at him. He didn’t seem to notice though and climbed back up on his bike. “Well you might try looking there. Lots of wheelbarrows and shovels there.”

“Thanks again” I said as he began to peddle away. The red cushion bulged out behind him. His torso rose and swayed over the mass causing the bike to lean and pitch from side to side making his departure both comical and mesmerizing

Chapter 3

As I rolled Azarias drown the drive I felt a renewed sensation of anxiety wash over me. My head turned from side to side as I scanned both lawn and ditch for my precious cargo. Not knowing which way to go I made an arbitrary left and followed the curb downhill, as it was the easiest direction to push. Frustration mounted as I passed first one house and then the next in my futile search. At one point I even stopped at a nearby storm drain and bent down to peer into the inky blackness to no avail.

The search continued until I had made my way down the length of the hill. Ahead of me lay a small bridge that spanned the neighborhood creek. Approaching, I saw with horror in my mind’s eye the possibility that the thief had dumped the cargo into the shallow water below. If that were the case, the soft current almost certainly would have washed away the remaining traces by now. I leaned over the rail and gazed into the mirrored reflection of the water below. Is this the end of my search, I wondered?

My thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of coughing coming from under the bridge. Curious, I rolled Azarias into a clump of nearby bushes and made my way gingerly down the slope of the embankment. Standing at the water’s edge, I glanced cautiously back up the line I had descended making note of my path, then turned and looked into the darkness beneath the bridge.

“Is there anyone in there?” I asked, cautiously. My echo was greeted with silence. “Hello?” I said again more firmly. Still, if anyone was there they were not going to reveal their secrets easily. “Look, I know someone is down here. I heard you just now coughing.” The stretched out silences were perturbing. “God damn it, I want someone to answer me!” I shouted the frustration of the morning beginning to spill in fury.

“’God damn it’ you say? ‘You want’ you say? That is a fine way to call someone.”

I turned. Not three feet away from me was a man dressed in dirty brown clothes. Startled, I said “What did you say to me?”

“No matter” said the man, pushing past me with my wheelbarrow in hand.

“Wait, where did you get that?”

“Some fool pushed it into the bushes. It’s mine now.”

“No” I said matter-of-factly “it is not. It’s mine, and I will have it back.”

The old man turned and looked at me “You have some kind of fire in your belly to be shouting curses and telling strangers what’s yours and what’s theirs.”

“And you” I looked for some clever retort “have no business taking what isn’t yours.”

He looked at me rather pitifully, then shrugged his shoulders and dropped the wheelbarrow where it lay before walking into the darkness beneath the bridge. Stunned, I watched him take several steps before I realized that this man was a potential witness to my crime, and needed to be questioned further. “Hey, wait!” I shouted. “I want to ask you something!”

“Suit yourself” came the voice from the dark.

Numbly I walked forward, pausing momentarily at the line between light and shadow before passing under the bridge. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim. The old man was sitting on a small ledge of concrete busily piling small branches and twigs.

"I need to ask you a question." No response. "Look if you help me there could be a reward involved." Again, no response. I glanced uncomfortable at my feet only to realize I still had my house shoes on. "You see, I've lost something. Actually, it was stolen."

From somewhere in his pockets the man produced a small lighter. He bent over the pile of wood and attempted to light a small fire. The flint made a shower of sparks but produced no flame. Several quick successions of strikes produced the same result. "Impotent" the tramp said.

"I could help you" I offered producing a matchbook from my pocket. "But I need some information. You see someone has stolen my fertilizer."

Faster than lightning the man hopped up. "What did you say?"

"I said someone has stolen something from me, and I will help you..."

"Not that" he said eyeing me suspiciously "After. Did you say fertilizer?"

"I did."

At this the old man seems to go insane. He began to hop about muttering the most indecent obscenities I have ever heard. "And you, you little slut, think you can march in here and make accusations of me? Of me! How dare you come into my home and try to steal from me!"

"I don't think you understand" I stammered, I am not stealing from you, I was stolen from. I am the victim here."

"You? A victim? Don't make me laugh" he barked. "It is obvious you are here to steal my bucket." he pointed to a small tin pail by the side of the stream.

I knew immediately that I had made a mistake venturing to talk to this man. Clearly he was not playing with a full deck. Any minute now, I imagined, he would be upon me and I would have to defend myself. "Don't be absurd." I said, backing away. What have you got there? Nothing of value I bet. Probably just a bucket of fish heads."

There is absolutely no way to describe to you how stunned I was at his responce.

Who told you!" he raged advancing towards me with eyes blazing. "Who have you been talking to? That is my precious fertilizer. Mine! And no one can have it. Do you understand?"

I mean, how does someone guess someting like that? Your standing under a bridge talking with a crazy person and they say "what have I go in my bucket" what is the right anwer here? Your marbles?

I cursed my luck as I looked at him. "You can't be serious" I said bending down and picking up the closet rock I could find. "If that is fertilizer then I am a monkey's uncle."

Picking up the stone was poorly timed. My gesture of self defense was undoubtedly interpreted as one of attack. With a howl he launched himself at me. Instinctively I flinched and hurled the rock. Missing him the rock skidded across the pavement and into the bucket, knocking it into the water. The splash seemed to freeze time all around us. Then, a small bubble of fish entrails rose momentarily to the surface before being washed away by the current.

Turning on his heel the man seemed to forget about me and desperately chased after the the pale floating upside down in the creek. Without a moment’s hesitation I used this distraction to turn, and with one deft motion slammed into my wheelbarrow and used this motion to propel both I and it up the hill.

"No!" came the howl from below. Then all was silent.

Canto II

It is no exaggeration to say that there is nothing I think I can’t do. My father would tell me as a child that I could earn a B average in basket weaving and particle physics. I like to think that my ability to apply myself equally well to whatever occupation calls comes from my prodigious intellect, but the truth is perhaps more that I lack a sense of modesty that would prevent others with less formal training from continually embarking into areas of which they have no knowledge.

What would I need in order to find what was stolen from me? One thought rose through the fog of questions and feelings. Clues, I needed clues. Isn’t that what every good detective starts with? I scanned the ground for incriminating evidence that I felt I was sure to find. A piece of cloth, a bit of hair, a crumpled business card would have been nice. But my search revealed nothing other than the damage evident to my property, the loss of my wheelbarrow, and a single tire track etched in the mud outside the garden gate.

With a mounting sense of frustration I followed the little specks of telltale earth down the drive and into the alley where they became more obscure and difficult to read. Eventually I discerned that the culprit had made his way towards a nearby park, but a thorough search of the park revealed neither more tracks or any further evidence that might be useful to my search. Deflated, I sat on the park swing and gently rocked back and forth dragging my heels though the gravel. The grating noise of the loose stone against my feet made a pleasant, albeit distracting sound, that lulled me into a state of restfulness.

Am I so easily defeated? Where had I gone wrong? Are the so-called professionals more suited because they have the most advanced technologies and training? Wouldn’t they do as I had done and comb the area for clues, canvas the neighborhood for witnesses, and make inquiries of the occasional passersby? Was I being too impatient? Giving up too quickly. Perhaps I needed to broaden my search and begin going door to door. Every thought seemed to offer both possibility and an equal probability of failure. Surely my neighbors had been asleep, or else they would have dialed 911, and no one could have been around to see anything, save the thief himself, and they weren’t bound to offer themselves up freely. So where had I gone wrong?

The answer presented itself so suddenly and with such a sense of profundity that it nearly rocketed me off of my seat. There is one thing that a detective has that I don’t, and it isn’t technology or training, it is something far simpler and more obvious. A detective has a partner.

Now let me just say at the onset, that I am not unaware that the casual outsider might at this point be looking upon my situation with a curious suspicion. “So you are going to chase after this guy who stole your…dirt?” They might say. My retort would be both simple and direct. To quote to poetess Sappho whatever one loves, is the best noblest thing in the world. If you were a stamp collector would you not love stamps? If you were a sports fan, would you not know with the greatest minutia the stats of every team, no, every player that walked the field? Then do not judge me too harshly, for while I can do many things I love my garden, and am passionately devoted to it. This theft is no less a desecration on my love than the fires that swept the great library of Alexandria would be to a bibliophile.

So where would my partner come from, who would this guide be; my Hermes, My Gabriel, my Sancho Panza? This would take some deliberation and even as I was pondering this thought another occurred to me: What if I am mistaken and in my assumption that the thief was after my fertilizer? What if he or she was a mere brigand of opportunity and simply stole what appeared to be the most valuable tool in the shed? In that case the thief may have not been interested in my fertilizer at all.

Could it have been hubris to assume the thief was after my precious mixture? My mind buzzed with incredulity. Could they have instead only been interested in the wheelbarrow itself? In that case why would they have not simply dumped the cargo and made off with the tool? Perhaps my early morning rise had somehow tipped the burglar’s hand and forced a hasty departure. That would account for the scrapes and marks left in their wake. But if that were the case, where would my fertilizer, my black alchemist’s gold be now?

These two near simultaneous thoughts collided in my mind in the most strange and unpredictable way. With a flash of insight I knew who my guide and companion would be. I hurried back to the house with a newfound sense of urgency. I climbed the steep slope of the drive and pushed my way though the garden gate.

Some guides are chosen others are thrust upon us. Of those that are chosen there are fewer in life, perhaps because it is difficult to ask for help, or perhaps because I am reticent to allow just anyone into the circle of trust. Of those that are thrust upon us we are seldom grateful. They are our parents, teachers, camp counselors, yoga instructors and the like. They come into our lives of necessity and usually depart without great fanfare, only to be appreciated later, though the lens of memory. But there is a third group of companions, born neither of necessity nor choice but some queer marriage of the two. Those guides come to us in moments of sheer desperation. Neither expected nor entirely welcome, they seem to possess the uncanny ability to cut though veil of our ignorance and reveal life in some new and altogether unexpected way.

Cutting across the path I made my way directly to the shed. I hadn’t yet repaired the door from this mornings vandalism and merely pushed it aside. In the grey interior I could make out the contents within. Buckets of seed and tackle, tools of various shape and size, a rake, a how, a shovel, and of course the red wheelbarrow.

The wheelbarrow itself was not immediately visible, rather its two yellow handles stuck out from beneath a heavy canvas tarp that had originally covered both wheelbarrows. Dutifully I removed the tarp, shook it gently, folded it and set is aside.

Grasping the two grips I pulled the slumbering wagon from its rest through the shed doors and out into the sunlight. Looking down I could see the manufacturers name and logo stamped into the center of the basin: Azarias Industries Inc. I have for years joked that this was my shepherd, the guardian of all the tools I used to prune and sculpt my various plants. This would ever be the partner I would need, faithful, fleet, and sure. I rolled the cart down the path, through the gate, and onto the drive beyond. I had yet to canvas the entire neighborhood, and on the of chance that the perpetrator had unloaded my precious cargo into some neighbors lawn or gully, Azarias and I would most certainly be ready to recover my stolen treasure.

Chapter One

I awoke in the night, as if from a dream, where everything around me was strange and unfamiliar. It was as if the world had grown stiff and course in my slumber or perhaps refreshed I was only now seeing it for the first time.

Tossing the sheets to one side I rose and walked to the sliding glass door that over looked the garden. Staring into the grey for a brief moment I could recall a part of my dream, a mere sliver of some much larger tale of which I had no recollection. I was lying in a kind of wheelchair. I had no use of limbs or faculties, and my eyes bulged in my sockets like great watery orbs. Without, I was a vegetable, but within I was capable of such great imaginings that light of the world paled in comparison.

I stared into the garden again. The dream had all but faded. I flicked the lock, slid the door open, and walked out onto the brick terrace. The cool stone felt refreshing against my bare feet. Almost at once I stepped on a nettle. Wincing with pain, I bent over and pulled the thorn from my sole. Cursing my luck I threw the barb into a nearby bush and slid my feet comfortably into the gardening shoes I had discarded nearby the night before.

Armed with a newfound sense of confidence, I strode out into the lawn and surveyed the wonder of creation. I took pride in my garden. Each part neatly manicured with confidence and precision. It was important to me that nearly every part of my garden was edible, chives and rosemary, quince and blueberry. The whole layered spaciously to look slightly wild and unkempt but with an order all its own that made the gazing at it so much the richer.

I kept my tools in the shed along with two wheelbarrows. One red for collecting cuttings, weeds and debris, and the other green for fertilizer; an organic mulch made of compost, mulched leaves and cow waste. This was my favorite tool and I would spend my hours endlessly winding along the garden path sprinkling my mulch in the various beds of flowers and shrubbery, turning the soil into an alchemist’s black gold.

As my early morning walk through the yard progressed I found myself nearing the shed when I noticed something was not right. The shed door, which should have been tightly shut and locked was stilling slightly ajar. The right door had come off its track and was sitting wedged between the earth and the frame at a disquieting angle.

Quickly I walked over to inspect the situation. As I drew closer I could smell the sweet earthy scent that emanated from within. Peering into the darkness I could see my tools in disarray. For a moment I imagined some wild animal burrowing its way between the doors and disheveling the contents within, but as my eyes leveled on the vacant spot where my green wheelbarrow should have been I knew that I had been robbed.

My foot moved back, almost in impulse, as I hesitated. Was the thief still here? No, that is nonsense, the wheelbarrow is gone, and the thief has taken it and departed.

I turned and scanned the yard. This time, ignoring the vines and the flowers, looking instead for the telltale signs of intrusion. A wheelbarrow full of dirt is not an easy item to simply scamper over the fence with. There must be some other signs of entry. I hastened to the gate, and found it closed, but by narrowing my eyes I could see a slight scrape in the paint indicating that the thief had passed this way. I opened the door and looked beyond. There was nothing. Only the still of the morning, the slight rushing of the breeze against my face, my wheelbarrow was gone. “Gone” I croaked with utter despair “Gone.”

As I walked back to the house my mind was filled with conflicting images. On the one was the thief, executing with midnight bravado the daring theft. On the other me, patiently explaining to the patrolman the value of my precious mulch.

“Dirt?” he asked questioningly.
“A special blend of organic fertilizer” I replied. “It is the secret of my garden’s success. Everyone knows this. It was highly prized.”
“This” he said, searching for the term “dirt?”
“Yes” I said patiently.
“An when you say ‘Everyone’ whom do you mean exactly?”
“Oh, well, the neighborhood, I suppose, and my church group. Don’t be fooled there is more than one or two grandmothers that would like to have gotten their hands on my mulch.”
“A grandmother” he said, then paused and continued “wheeled a truck load of dirt across the garden, unlatched the gate and then sauntered down the alley with cargo in hand without so much as breaking a sweat?”
“Of course not” I said indignantly “there could have been accomplices. Look isn’t there supposed to be a detective or some such person here to take this information down.”
“Oh I’ll be making a report,” he said “don’t you worry. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. These things aren’t usually resolved as quickly as you might hope.”

He looked me in the eye and I knew at once what he meant. No one was going to investigate a stolen wheelbarrow. There would be no crime dogs, no team of forensic investigators to document tire tracks and fingerprints. Mine was not a high priority case and would, in all likelihood be brushed aside and forgotten, dismissed as a teenage prank or as a simple case of vandalism.

Weary and broken, by this imagined conversation I turned and trudged back into the yard and stared down at the latch on the gate. How can so small a thing make the difference between serenity and insanity? Why had I not given locking the gate the same precious care that I had given concocting my fertilizer? Leaning against the fence post I rubbed my fingers deep into the corners of my eyes.

I stand there motionless, like some caricature of myself. I want to weep, but feel to tired, too emotionally drained. I want to shout, to rage against the injustice of the smirking police officer, against the thief, against the world, but none of it seems to matter enough to muster even the most inaudible groan. I feel lost. The mechanisms I had grown to trust, friends, neighbors, even civic law enforcement, had let me down. The paths that I had trusted would not be the ones that would lead me away from this place.

From this paralyzed pose I suddenly had a lucid, singularly inspired thought that had not occurred to me before. What if I track down the thief? My hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Could I do it? Would there be any danger? What would be the cost? This thought made me pause for a moment before I settled on the cost of getting my wheelbarrow back, I decided. But would it be intact. Would my mulch still be there? It seemed impossible to know. Night was departing and dawn was rushing forward. “I must do this,” I said, standing. “I must.” I launched myself forward towards the gate and the drive beyond. “If only to put an end to the unknowing.”