Visitations by Jonas Saul

to point them up and out of the room. I push and prod them into the living room.
     
    The redness in the man’s face is diminishing. It looks like everyone’s going to be fine.
     
    Except if the police come. Then I will have to explain things. And I don’t want to talk. I just want to pick leaves and go home. I only want my leaves.
     
    Why can’t everyone just let me be?
     
    When I saw the odd woman in the window on the phone she must have been calling the police. Especially when she saw her man being guided to the house, his face a mask of tears and red. With me holding the strange man’s gun, it might have made her think I was hostile. Wow, why didn’t I realize this earlier? I shake my head back and forth and smack my temple.
     
    The living room has a long couch where I get them to sit. I use shoelaces to tie up their feet. I don’t want hostages, I only want them out the way while I do a field press on my new-found leaves. Then I will exit this strange house in a strange land owned by strange people, by way of the back door and disappear.
     
    They will never see me again.
     
    I found the Honey-Locust tree. My job is done.
     
    I figure the cops will take at least fifteen minutes to get to this remote setting. I had spent ten here already. That means I will need to hurry.
     
    I am happy with all my clear thinking. This is becoming fun in a way. I haven't been in control of a crisis for a long time. Neat how it all comes back to you, dealing with issues that are unpleasant.
     
    I run to the kitchen. I set the long gun on the counter, locate the wax paper and rip a strip off. I flatten it out on the kitchen table and place my satchel down. I carefully take the leaves out of the magazine pages and set them gently on the wax paper. I make sure they are flat and ready.
     
    Now I need newspaper. After a frantic minute of running around the house I can’t find any. I walk into the garage and locate a recycle bin. There’s enough in it for my purpose.
     
    When I get back to the kitchen something’s different. I place the newspaper on top of my leaves and look around. For some reason I can’t figure it out.
     
    It’s time to leave. But first I want to check on the strangers in the living room. I go to the counter to pick up the gun, but it’s gone.
     
    That’s what was different. The gun’s missing.
     
    My stomach rolls. My shoulder still throbs. My head feels like it’s an egg that got cracked. But I need to do what I don’t want to do. I need to check on the strangers in the living room.
     
    I’ve run out of time. I need to hurry so I choose to not be stealthy.
     
    When I get there the living room is empty.
     
    Why are they doing this? I just want my leaves. I just want to go home. I wish everyone would leave me alone. I didn’t ask for this.
     
    It’s the same when Jimmy followed me into the woods that day. We walked and walked, looking at all the trees and their wonderful leaves. We marveled at the colors, shapes and sizes. After about three hours on our own, Jimmy wanted to head back to the teacher and the rest of the students. I didn’t.
     
    We argued. I remember walking away from him. He grabbed my arm and spun me around. I was shocked. He yelled at me. He said we had to return to the group. We had to go back to school. We were supposed to go home.
     
    He touched me. He yelled at me. Those two actions made me run. I always run when people touch me too much or when people yell at me.
     
    Jimmy was found dead a week later. He got lost on his way back to the school bus.
     
    It wasn’t my fault.
     
    I ran from my dad. He always yelled. He died from yelling when I was twelve. Yelled and yelled and yelled. Then his heart blew up.
     
    I come back to the room in my head. The strangers are not where I put them. Maybe they left the house. I’ll get my leaves and go.
     
    I turn and discover the strange man has the long gun. It’s pointed at my midsection.
     
    “Get down,” he