Stop Here by Beverly Gologorsky Page A

are done. I’ll be back. Can you cover?” Before she can answer he heads out. Great, she thinks he’s crazy. Maybe he is. So what? Crazy or sane isn’t the issue. Something happens to Glory, he’s fucked. In the parking lot, he thumbs down hard on the car keypad; damn door won’t unlock. The car begins beeping loudly. Shit, shit. Take a breath. Try again. The noise is deranging. Someone help. Did he say that out loud, because Ava’s running out the back?
    He hands her the device. She makes the beeping stop, bless her beautiful soul. She’s had her tragedy, losing a husband, but it was a long time ago. She can’t still be mourning. “How about going for a decent dinner tonight before our shift? On me.” See what happens when drink collides with crisis?
    â€¢ • •
    Sunlight brightens the adjacent wall, illuminating the nearly empty bottle. Across the road is a house like his, except it’s yellow with blue trim. Inside there is an intact family, a husband, wife, two children, very American. His house is white with green trim chosen by Glory before she was old enough to determine her life. Glory would not want him going to the State Department for help. Then again, the State Department wouldn’t be sympathetic. Is he going to sit in front of the screen all day? Ava walks into his head. She’s home getting some shut-eye. He wouldn’t mind having an afternoon drink with her. But what would that mean for dinner tonight?
    A distant ambulance siren penetrates the silence. Someone’s life is about to change. It’s what he thought as he lay in a makeshift hospital tent listening to the docs talk about amputating his infected foot.
    He drags himself to the living room and tries Messenger’s number.
    â€œHello,” a woman’s annoyed voice. Does she understand where her son has gone?
    â€œI’m a friend of Robert’s—”
    â€œI clean. He’s not back for months. You call later.”
    But he won’t call later, and he can’t sit in front of the computer another minute without losing it.
    â€¢ • •
    In the car in front of Ava’s house, he tries to talk himself out of what he’s about to do. Fails. He rings the bell with short staccato stabs.
    She opens the door, a queen in a purple robe.
    â€œI’m freaking out.”
    She leads him to the living room where the furniture looks almost as old as his, and he thinks to console her with this observation but finds himself unable to speak. She’s pushing something that smells like whiskey under his nose. Should he drink or sniff it? He drinks.
    â€œWhat happened?” She stands arms crossed, wavy hair falling past her delicate shoulders; her light eyes weary but concerned.
    â€œI could go to the State Department except they’d probably arrest me. It’s a lot of money to fly over, and I don’t even know where she is exactly. It’s stupid of me to barge in like this, but—”
    â€œWe’re friends, right?” She sits beside him, her clean soapy scent instantly calming. “If something bad happened, you’d be contacted. You’re next of kin.” She sounds certain. Except his stories don’t have happy endings.
    â€œShe was e-mailing, so what changed? The thing is, Glory’s never on the same computer. If I’m at the machine, I reply instantly. I told her I have to hear from her.”
    â€œChildren,” she sighs. “Have you slept?”
    â€œCouple hours. I should go home, but I’m too wrecked to drive.” Is that true? Does she believe him? Her face reveals nothing.
    â€œDo you want the couch for a while?” He wants to close his hand around her long, thin fingers.
    â€œSure,” but to his surprise he follows his body to her bedroom. He takes in the yellow daisy wallpaper, the yellow lampshades, sunshine in the dark. A portrait of her husband is on the wall, the face