Prose

Che Conta

Valentina Allegra

Le mani di mio nonno sono tinti con il succo di melograno — di ‘pomegranata.’ Ha novantadue anni, scarsamente può camminare, ma le frutte del suo amore vengono nella forma della frutta del suo corpo. Ogni mattina Nonno si sveglia alle sette del mattino a lavorare nel giardino, mettendo il suo marchio effimero nella terra nell'unico modo che lui sa di fare.

Nonno è nato in una Sicilia anteguerra, in una famiglia con più bambini che speranze. Ha lasciato la scuola al terzo grado, lavorando nelle fattorie italiane e miniere tedesche. Quando ha immigrato negli Stati Uniti, con un figlio giovane e una moglie piena di sogni, ha cominciato a lavorare due impieghi — sulle piedi quattordici ore al giorno. Non ho mai conosciuto un nonno chiacchierone; ha sempre detto più con le mani che con la bocca. Quando parlava era in un modo differente da come ha fatto la mamma — senza eleganza, senza una finzione falsa, ma con una mente che voleva dire più della lingua può fare — qualcosa che mi ha sempre legato al mio nonno.

Per imparare la lingua italiano ho attraversato mille delle fonti sparpagliate: l’accento educato e milanese della mia mamma Dominicana, canzoni romanesi su come va il coccodrillo, una professoressa fiorentina al liceo. Ogni volta che ho fatto il viaggio sopra l’Atlantico, ogni volta che ho tornata alla terra dove lacrime salate di generazioni passati hanno cadute e asciugati, ogni volta senza fallire un cugino o due mi chiedono dove ho imparato la lingua che viene con questa cadenza inposinzionabile. Ed anche con tutto i media italiani che ho bevuto voracemente, sempre penso del mio nonno, con le sue parole seghettate, fatto di un mischio de rumori siciliani ed inglesi con un gusto del spagnolo che ha permeato i suoi giorni recenti nel sud della Florida. Le sue parole sono quelle che sono diffuse nella mia mente; anche se dice ‘furnitura’ invece di “mobile” o ‘veni ca’ al posto di “vieni qua," i suoi toni mi guidano tra il mare della comunicazione italiana.

Quando sono arrivata a New York, ho pensato che parlerò più di cosa mi piacerebbe considerare la mia lingua nativa; dopotutto, ci sono montagne più Italiani a Brooklyn che a Miami. Ma purtroppo, ho trovato che devo cercare delle morse di stimolazione invece di piatti di conversazione. Parlando con la guida albanese al Museo Metropolitano, chiedendo il professore italiano della neuroscienza come lui practica la lingua, rianimando quando sento “allora” in pubblico; sono questi frammenti che desidero, qualsiasi opportunità per sentire quelle parole romantiche lasciando la gola mia.

Quest’anno passato ho cominciato a temere quel frase che veniva inevitabilmente: “parli bene... per un’americana.” Potrei dire che non so perché mi da paura, ma in realtà capisco exactamente perché: sono orgogliosa, troppo orgogliosa di dove i miei sono venuti e orgogliosa del cibo, del carattere, della cultura, di tutto che è stato radicato dentro di me per tutta la mia vita. Se dico qualcosa di sbagliato, non voglio che realizzano che sono un’impostora, qualcuno che non ha mai vissuto all’Italia e perciò non merita quella designazione di “italiana.”

Ma quest’estate, ho notato qualcosa che mi ha cambiato la mente, qualcosa che ho saputo tutta la mia vita ma si è solo fatto chiaro recentemente: Nonno sta diventando vecchio, anziano anche. Non gioca più con le bocci. Quando vuole dire qualcosa, si mette più sforza che mai ha fatto prima. Lui non può più camminare da solo, e solo oggi lui è ricoverato in ospedale. Quegli dottori, le stessi che un giorno voglio diventare, gli hanno trattenuto — lui non sapeva che stava succedendo, scarsamente può comunicare in italiano, tanto meno in inglese, ma ha provato a farsi sentito con tutto che ha, ed anche se non se ne andato come lui voleva, non fatica a fare cosa porta soddisfazione a lui.

Quando lo vedo giocando a briscola, creando una rima che io considero poesia, o quando lui si strascica in cucina per tagliare un’altra ‘pomegranata’ per il mio fratellino ed io, ricordo che non è la perfezione che porta l'amore. Ciò che conta è la prova in qualsiasi cosa che fai: è questo che mi ha imparato mio nonno. Anche con le sue varie malattie, ancora fa la cosa che mi convinca che lui ci ama lo stesso: cammina piano piano alla cucina, prende il coltello, e lentamente sbuccia un’altra frutta.

Ed allora, anche con i miei errori grammaticali o mancanze di eloquenza, anche se uso WordReference, provo a parlare, a praticare la mia lingua, la lingua che mi ha mostrato più amore che le parole potrebbero dire. Magari mio papa può sbucciare il melograno più veloce che mio nonno, e forse mia mamma può parlare l’italiano meglio di me, ma so adesso che nelle atti di cura, la velocità ed efficienza non sono le cose che sono importante: è il sforzo che conta.

what matters

The hands of my grandfather are dyed with the juice of pomegranate — of ‘melegran.’ He is ninety-two, can barely walk, but still the fruits of his love come in the form of the fruits of his body. Every morning Nonno wakes up at seven in the morning to work in the garden, making his ephemeral mark in the ground in the only way he knows how.

Nonno was born in a pre-war Sicily, to a family with more kids than hopes. He left school in the third grade, working in Italian farms and German mines. When he immigrated to the United States, with a young son and a wife full of dreams, he began working two jobs — on his feet fourteen hours a day. I have never known a chattering grandfather; he has always said more with his hands than with his mouth. When he talked, it was different than how my mother did — without elegance, without a false pretension, but with a mind that wanted to say more than the tongue could muster — something that has always tied me to my grandpa.

To learn the Italian language, I traversed thousands of scattered sources: the educated and Milanese accent of my Dominican mother, Roman songs on what the crocodile says, a Florentine high school teacher. Each time that I made that journey across the Atlantic, each time that I returned to the land where salty tears of generations past had fallen and dried, each time, without fail, a cousin or two would ask me where I learned that language that came with this unplaceable cadence. And even with all the Italian media that I greedily drank, I always think of my grandpa, with his jagged words, made with a mix of Sicilian and English sounds with a taste of the Spanish that permeated his recent days in the south of Florida.

His words are the ones that diffuse within my mind; even if he says ‘couch-a’ instead of “sofa” or ‘com heer’ instead of “come here,” his tones are the ones that guide me through the sea of Italian communication.

When I arrived in New York, I thought that I’d speak more of what I’d like to consider my native language; after all, there are mountains more Italians in Brooklyn than in Miami. But unfortunately, I found that I had to search for morsels of stimulation instead of dishes of conversation. Talking with the Albanian guide at the MET, asking my Italian neuroscience professor how he practices the language, reanimating when I hear “so” in public; it’s these fragments that I desire, whichever opportunity arises to feel that romantic language leave my throat.

This past year, I began to dread that phrase that inevitably came: “you speak well... for an American.” I could tell you that I don’t know why I fear it, but in reality I understand exactly why: I am proud, too proud of where my parents come from and proud of the food, the character, the culture, of everything that has been rooted within me for all of my life. If I say something wrong, I don’t want them to realize that I’m an imposter, someone who has never lived in Italy and so does not deserve that designation of “Italian.”

But this summer, I noticed something, something that I have known all of my life but that has just been made clear recently: Nonno is becoming old, ancient even. He doesn’t play with the bocci anymore. When he wants to say something, he puts in more effort than he ever had before. He can no longer walk by himself, and only today he was admitted to the hospital. Those doctors, the same ones that one day I want to become, they restrained him — he didn’t know what was happening, can barely communicate in Italian, let alone English, but he tried with everything that he had to make himself heard, and even if it didn’t go as he wanted, he didn’t struggle to do what brings him satisfaction.

When I see him playing briscola, creating a rhyme that I consider poetry, or when he shuffles to the kitchen to cut another ‘melegran’ for me and my little brother, I remember that it is not perfection that brings love. What matters is the effort in what one does: it is this that my grandfather has taught me. Even with his various ailments, he still does the thing that reminds me that he loves us the same: he gradually walks to the kitchen, grabs the knife, and slowly unpeels another fruit.

And so, even with my grammatical errors or lack of eloquence, even if I use WordReference, I try to talk, to practice my language, the language that showed me more love than words could say. Perhapsmy father can unpeel the pomegranate faster than my grandfather, and maybe my mother can talk Italian better than me, but I now know that in acts of care, speed and efficiency aren’t what is important: it is the effort that counts.

Schwarzer Tag

Lara Waas

Töten oder getötet werden. Bills Atem stieg in grauen Wölkchen in die dunkle Nacht empor. Er atmete zu schnell. Aber wie lang dauerte ein normaler Atemzug? Vor vielen Jahren hatte sein Vater es ihm gesagt. Damals hatte er ihn das erste Mal zur Jagd mitgenommen. „Man merkt einem Tier seine Angst an seinem Atem an. Und sie merken uns unsere Angst an. Deshalb müssen wir immer gelassen weiter atmen, selbst wenn wir überhaupt nicht gelassen sind. Mach es mir nach: Acht Sekunden einatmen und dann zwölf ausatmen.“ Oder waren es sieben Sekunden ein- und elf ausatmen? Obwohl er das Bild seines Vaters noch genau vor Augen hatte, wie sich sein Brustkorb kontrolliert hob und wieder sank, konnte er sich nicht an die Anzahl erinnern. Er probierte verschiedene Kombinationen, doch keine davon half, und am Ende ging sein Atem noch schneller.

Wie lange stand er nun schon hier? Die Hände, die einst das selbstverständliche Ende seiner Arme gewesen waren, spürte er wegen der Kälte kaum mehr. Seine Füße schmerzten. Am liebsten wäre er sofort losgerannt, hätte sich einfach in den Dschungel gestürzt. Töten oder getötet werden. Er konnte die Anspannung kaum mehr ertragen. Hier draußen fühlte er sich wie von tausend schwarzen Augen beobachtet, die ihn für seine Torheit auslachten. Doch er musste noch warten, nur noch ein bisschen. Immerhin kannte er das Revier nicht. Obwohl er die Karte zuvor gründlich studiert hatte, wäre sein Unterfangen im Dunkeln zum Scheitern verurteilt.

„Das erste Mal hier, was?“, hörte Bill eine Stimme sagen und zuckte zusammen. Er hatte ganz vergessen, dass er nicht allein war. Was für eine Art von Jäger achtete nicht auf seine Umgebung? Als er herumfuhr, sah er neben sich einen Mann stehen. Der Fremde grinste und seine Zähne erinnerten Bill an die Fangzähne einer Raubkatze.

„Ja“, murmelte er. War das denn wirklich so offensichtlich?

„Lass mich raten – die Kinder?“ Wieder richtig! Bill konnte spüren, wie das Blut ihm in die Wangen stieg. „Kein Grund sich zu schämen, ganz im Gegenteil! Ich bin auch für meine zwei hier.“ Der Fremde kramte in seiner Hosentasche und zog einen Geldbeutel daraus hervor. Als er ihn aufschlug, konnte Bill die glänzende Fläche eines Fotos und darauf die Umrisse von zwei düsteren Gestalten erkennen.

War der Fremde etwa ein Seelenverwandter? Bill hatte auch zwei Kinder, die gerade zu Hause und in Sicherheit in ihren Betten schliefen. Nur für sie war er um Mitternacht losgezogen. Nur für sie begab er sich in das Unbekannte, das auf ihn im Dschungel lauerte. „Ich gehe schon seit Jahren auf die Jagd“, fuhr sein Gegenüber fort und zwinkerte ihm zu.

„Und jedes Jahr ist die Beute besser als im letzten.“

„Irgendwelche Tipps?“, fragte Bill.

„Nur einen: Lauf so schnell du kannst!“ Das Lachen seines Gegenübers erfüllte die Nacht wie das lechzende Heulen eines Wolfs. „Ach ja, und im Zweifel kann sowas nicht schaden.“ Er zog den rechten Jackenärmel hoch und entblößte den Oberarm. Seine Muskeln waren so gewaltig, dass sie die Adern an die Hautoberfläche drückten und den Arm wie eine Landkarte mit vielen Flüssen aussehen ließen. „Wir sollten uns zusammenschließen. Du siehst schnell aus. Wenn du vorausläufst und ich uns die Horde vom Leib halte, sind wir unschlagbar.“ Bill war noch nie in irgendeiner Sportart gut gewesen, aber seine Ausdauer war ganz passabel, da hatte sein Gegenüber recht. „Ja, in Ordnung.“ Der Muskelprotz hielt ihm die Hand hin und Bill schlug ein. Dabei simulierte er einen möglichst starken Händedruck, doch sein Gegenüber drückte stärker.

„Es kann jetzt nicht mehr lange dauern“, sagte Bills neu gewonnener Gefährte und nickte gen Himmel. Dort ließ sich ein erster blau-grauer Streifen erkennen – das Versprechen eines neuen Tages.

Die ganze Nacht über hatte Bill hierauf gewartet und jetzt wollte er am liebsten wegrennen. Während des Gesprächs hatte er seine unregelmäßige Atmung ganz vergessen. Nun war er so nervös, dass er beinahe komplett vergaß, Luft zu holen.

„Wie ist eigentlich dein – “, wollte er gerade den Namen seines Gefährten erfragen, doch er wurde von einem lauten Knall unterbrochen. Ein Schuss? Ja, jede Jagd begann mit einem Schuss. Es war das Signal dafür, dass die Jagd eröffnet war.

Vor ihm taten sich die Tore zum Dschungel auf und durch das sich langsam anschleichende Morgenlicht konnte Bill ihn in seiner ganzen Schönheit erkennen. Doch er war gar nicht wie er ihn sich vorgestellt hatte. Er hatte mit einem undurchsichtigen Dickicht gerechnet, mit einem Durcheinander von nicht zuordnungsbaren Lauten, einem unheilvollen Loch, das drohte, ihn zu verspeisen. Stattdessen war er so… ruhig. Das Grün der Blätter glitzerte im Tageslicht und von irgendwo her hörte er Wasser plätschern. Für einen Moment fragte sich Bill, ob er falsch gelegen hatte. Vielleicht traf das Mantra „töten oder getötet werden“ doch nicht zu…

Aber er wurde gleich eines Besseren belehrt. Die Meute hinter ihm schob ihn vor. Sie alle wollten die Ersten im Dschungel sein, um die besten Chancen auf die Beute zu ergattern. Wie ein einziger Schleier verdeckten sie den Eingang, sodass das Morgenlicht nicht mehr hindurch kam und es vor ihm wieder stockfinster wurde. Der Tag färbte sich schwarz. Und hier war er, der Dschungel, vor dem Bill eine solche Angst gehabt hatte: düster, bedrohlich, tödlich. Doch nun gab es keinen Weg zurück. Er musste der Horde hinter ihm gehorchen, die ihn weiter und weiter hineindrängte. Alle rannte er los.

Er rannte vorbei an der riesigen Palme, die Eindringlinge in den Dschungel direkt an dessen Eingang in Empfang nahm. Vorbei an dem Wasser, das nichtsahnend dahinplätscherte. Vorbei an den vielen Pflanzen, die ihn auf beiden Seiten umringten. Während er rannte, vergaß er den Schmerz in seinen Füßen, die Kälte seiner Hände, die Unregelmäßigkeit seines Atems. Alles, was zählte, war das Ziel: seine Beute.

Obwohl er der Jäger war, fühlte er sich wie ein Gejagter. Hinter ihm konnte er das Grölen der Meute hören. Sie waren wie er. Sie wollten auch nur jagen. Vielleicht für ihre Familien, vielleicht für sich selbst. Doch er war schneller. Und sein Gefährte hielt sein Wort. Wann immer jemand Bill zu überholen drohte, rempelte der Muskelprotz den Überholenden von der Seite an, woraufhin dieser erstmal anhalten musste, um nicht hinzufallen.

In der Ferne konnte Bill einen Mann mittlerer Statur erkennen, der zwischen ihm und seiner Beute stand. Die Leuchtstreifen auf der Jacke des Mannes blendeten Bills Augen. Wo war der

bloß hergekommen? Er musste sich schon in der Nacht in den Dschungel getraut haben. Da er Bill den Weg nach vorne hin versperrte, würde sein Gefährte nichts gegen ihn ausrichten können. Töten oder getötet werden.

„He, etwas lang –“, rief der Fremde ihm zu. Daraufhin rannte Bill noch schneller. Kurz vor der Kollision sprang der Mann zur Seite. Bill rammte ihn im Vorbeilaufen mit der Schulter, woraufhin er ein dumpfes Krachen hörte. Er hatte den Feind zu Boden gebracht.

Nun waren es nur noch wenige Meter. Er würde es schaffen. Er würde es tatsächlich schaffen! Schon sah er das strahlende Grinsen seiner Kinder vor sich. Wie sehr sie sich freuen würden!

Plötzlich spürte er einen harten Schlag in die linke Seite. Mit einem Mal wich ihm die gesamte Luft aus den Lungen und er stolperte. Während er versuchte, sein Gewicht aufzufangen, sah er die blitzenden Fangzähne seines Gefährten. Sie grinsten ihn feindselig an. Was tat er denn? Er sollte ihm doch den Rücken freihalten! Da fiel es Bill ein: Töten oder getötet werden. Dann schlug er mit dem Kopf gegen eine harte Oberfläche und ging zu Boden. Um ihn herum wurde es finster.

Als er wieder zu sich kam, schmerzte sein Schädel höllisch. Er blinzelte ein paar Mal. Versuchte, seine Orientierung zurückzugewinnen. Der Trubel war ein wenig abgeklungen. Dennoch konnte er nicht lange bewusstlos gewesen sein, denn es kamen noch ein paar Nachzügler hinter der Meute her getrottet. Sie waren zu spät, genau wie er. Sein vermeintlicher Gefährte war längst verschwunden.

Dann sah er sie. Seine Beute. Oder dort, wo seine Beute hätte sein sollen. Aber das Regal war leer. Es war nichts mehr da. Die Geier hatten kein Staubkorn übriggelassen. Über dem leeren Regal hing ein riesiges, zuckerwattenpinkes Banner, auf dem in schwarzen Großbuchstaben stand: „BLACK FRIDAY SALE – Die ersten 10 Exemplare kostenfrei!”

Bill rieb sich den schmerzenden Kopf und stand auf. Er durfte nicht mit leeren Händen heimkehren. Also kaufte er ein, bis er die Tüten kaum mehr tragen konnte. Die Ausbeute ist immer noch groß, versuchte er sich selbst zu trösten.

Als er das Einkaufszentrum verließ, war es draußen wieder dunkel. Er ging vorbei an den Kunstpflanzen, die rechts und links die Eingänge der Geschäfte zierten. Vorbei an dem Brunnen, der immerwährend weiter plätscherte. Vorbei an der riesigen Palme, die ihn am Eingang verabschiedete.

Immerhin wusste Bill nun, was für eine erfolgreiche Jagd zu tun war. Töten oder getötet werden. Bestimmt schaffte er es im nächsten Jahr.

The Hunt

Kill or be killed. Bill’s breath rose in gray clouds into the dark night. He was breathing too fast. But how long did a normal breath take? Many years ago, his father had told him, back when he had first taken him hunting: “You can tell an animal’s fear from its breath. And they can sense our fear, too. That’s why we must always keep breathing calmly, even when we don’t feel calm at all. Follow my lead: Inhale for eight seconds, and then exhale for twelve.” Or was it seven seconds inhale and eleven exhale? Although Bill could clearly see the image of his father’s chest rising and falling, he couldn’t remember the count. He tried different combinations, but none of them helped, and in the end, his breathing only went faster.

How long had he been standing here? His hands were cold as ice. His feet ached. How long until the wait was finally over? Until he could plunge himself into the wilderness? Kill or be killed. He couldn’t stand the tension anymore. Out here, he felt like he was being watched by a thousand black eyes, mocking him for his foolishness. But he had to wait a little while longer. After all, he didn’t know the territory. Although he had studied the map all day, his quest would be doomed in the darkness.

“First time here, huh?” Bill flinched at the sound of the stranger’s voice. He had completely forgotten he was not alone. What kind of hunter didn’t pay attention to his surroundings? He turned around. A man was standing next to him, bright-shouldered, at least a head taller than himself. The stranger grinned, and his teeth reminded Bill of a wildcat’s fangs.

“Yeah,” he muttered. Was it really that obvious?

“Let me guess—the kids?” Right again! Bill felt blood rushing to his cheeks. “No need to be ashamed, quite the opposite! I’m here for my two as well.” The stranger rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a wallet. He opened it and held it up to Bill’s face. Through the dark of the night, he could barely make out the outlines of two short figures.

Maybe the stranger was an equal. Bill also had two children, currently sleeping at home in their beds, safe and sound. Only for them had he left the comfort of his house at midnight. Only for them had he ventured into the unknown lurking in the dark.

“I’ve been participating for years now,” the man continued. “And every year the haul is better than the last,” he winked.

“Any tips?” Bill asked.

“Just one: Rrun as fast as you can!” His laughter filled the night like the hungry howl of a wolf. “Oh, and just in case, preparing for the unexpected doesn’t hurt.” He rolled up his right jacket sleeve, exposing his upper arm. His muscles were so massive that they pushed the veins to the surface. “We should join forces. You look fast. If you run ahead and I keep the horde off our backs, we’ll be unbeatable.”

Bill had never been good at any sport really, but his endurance was decent, that much was true. “Sounds good.” His newfound companion held out his hand and Bill punched in. He tried for as strong a handshake as possible, but his counterpart squeezed even harder.

“It can’t be much longer now,” his companion said, nodding toward the sky. In the distance, Bill could make out a light blue streak—the promise of a new day. He had been waiting for this moment all night, and now he wanted nothing more than to run away. During the conversation, he had forgotten all about his irregular breathing. Now, however, he was so nervous that he almost forgot to breathe altogether.

“I totally forgot to ask you about—” Bill wanted to inquire about his companion’s name when he was interrupted by a loud bang. A gunshot? Yes, every hunt started with a gunshot. It was the signal that the hunt had begun.

The gates swung open before him, and in the slowly dawning morning light, Bill could behold the splendor that was unfolding before him. It was not at all what he had imagined. He had expected an impenetrable thicket, a jumble of indiscernible sounds, a menacing pit ready to swallow him up whole. Instead, it was so… calm. The green leaves glistened in the morning light, and from somewhere he heard water splashing. For a moment, Bill wondered if he had been wrong. Maybe ‘kill or be killed’ didn’t apply after all.

But he was proven otherwise. The people started running at once. Everyone wanted to be the first in the jungle to get the best chance at the prey. The horde covered the entrance in a singular veil, blocking out the morning light, and darkness swallowed him up once again. The day turned black. And here it was, the jungle Bill had been so afraid of, dark and deadly. But now there was no turning back. Bill had to obey the horde behind him, pushing him further and further in, and so he started running.

He ran past the giant palm tree that welcomed intruders at the entrance, past a never-ending sea of plants encircling him on both sides, past a water place that looked temptingly inviting. But Bill wouldn’t be distracted from his mission and kept on running. As he ran, he forgot the pain in his feet, the cold in his hands, the irregularity of his breath. All that mattered was the goal: his prey.

Although he was the hunter, he felt like the hunted. He could hear the roaring of the horde behind him. They were just like him, here to hunt. Maybe for their families, maybe for themselves. But he was faster. And his companion kept his word. Whenever someone threatened to overtake Bill, the muscle-head jostled the overtaker from the side, forcing him to halt to avoid falling.

Suddenly, Bill saw a creature only a dozen feet in front of him. It was black with some yellow stripes on its skin. An animal? He didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop running if it was a leopard or a giant cobra. But it was neither. As Bill came closer, he realized it was a man. And he was standing right between him and his prey. The yellow stripes on the man’s jacket blinded Bill’s eyes. Where had he come from? He must have ventured in earlier that night. Since he was blocking the path forward, Bill’s companion couldn’t do anything about him. Kill or be killed.

“Hey, a little slo—” the man in the jacket with the yellow stripes called. In response, Bill ran even faster. Just before the collision, the man jumped aside. Bill had defeated him.

Now it was only a few more feet. He would make it. He would actually make it! He could already see his children’s radiant smiles. How happy they would be, how proud of their dear, old father!

Then he felt a hard blow to his left side. All air escaped his lungs at once, and Bill stumbled. As he tried to catch his balance, he caught a glimpse of his companion’s fangs. They grinned at him. What was he doing? He was supposed to have his back! Then it occurred to Bill: Kill or be killed. In that moment he hit his head against a hard surface and the world around him grew dark.

* * *

When Bill woke up, his head was throbbing. He blinked a few times, trying to regain his orientation. The commotion had subsided a little. Still, he couldn’t have been unconscious for long as a few stragglers were still trotting in. They were too late, as was he. His ‘companion’ had long disappeared.

Then he saw it. His prey. Or where his prey should have been. The shelf was empty. Nothing left. The vultures hadn’t left a speck of dust behind. Above the empty shelf hung a huge, cotton-candy-pink banner that read, ‘BLACK FRIDAY SALE—First 10 copies for free!’

Bill rubbed his aching head and stood up. He couldn’t go home empty-handed. So he went on a shopping spree until he could barely carry the bags. Still a good haul, he tried to console himself.

He left the mall just before closing time. On his way out, he passed the fountain that still looked inviting, the artificial plants that adorned the doors to the stores on both sides, the giant palm tree that bade him farewell at the entrance. Outside, nighttime had fallen over the mall once again.

At least Bill now knew what it took for a hunt to be successful. Kill or be killed. Next year he’d be ready.