By the time I’m home, the day’s dust settles but my racing pulse does not. The photo feels like a hall pass for scrutiny. The issue isn’t just the photo—it’s the kind of spotlight it brings.
Walkinghome from my subway stop gives me too much time to remember how many times I’ve felt this way. In so doing, I have little recollection of actually getting there.
I thought I was safe, tucked in the anonymity of the crowd, but the old feeling crawls back, its presence insidious. It harkens back to playground taunts, those years framed by the merciless spotlight of attention twisting into ridicule. The jibes about my size, transforming me into a spectacle. Back then, invisibility equaled safety. I learned quickly: the less you stood out, the better protected you were from the emotional gutting of a judgmental audience.
But I've grown. Or so I thought. I carry myself with quiet confidence. Or I did.
Until today.
My phone has been ringing since the subway, and I know it’s Jess calling to try to cheer me up. We texted earlier, and she is the only one who knows how devastating this really is for me. To everyone else, I’m stoic. I’m strong. I could care less.
Jess knows better.
I finally answer her call on the seventh ring as I’m walking up the steps to my front door.
“I think you should take some time off and just get out of town for a while,” she says without preamble. “I know you’ve got loads of unused vacation days. You could be off until Christmas. Next year. And still have time left over.”
“I will not be chased out of town,” I say through gritted teeth. “Besides, what about our girl’s night? I owe you drinks, right?”
“No one’s chasing you anywhere. This is about you, and we can do drinks another time,” Jess is pushing hard. I love that she’s concerned, but this is the last conversation I want to have right now.
Still, she is relentless.
“In between rage texts from you this afternoon, I came across this blurb online about a small town in Massachusetts called Moonhaven. It’s supposedly shrouded in mystery due to some weird disappearances that have occurred over the years. Plus, the town sheriff could melt ice in Alaska.”
“So you want me to go talk to another man who doesn’t want to give me the time of day?”
Jess let’s out a dramatic exasperated sigh. “Oh, don’t act like men don’t find you attractive. When we go out, you get hit on more than I do. I’m just saying that a change of scenery could do you good with the added bonus of a cute sheriff to look at if you get tired of fall foliage.”
“I don’t know,” I really want this call to be over. “Maybe. Probably not. I’ll think about it, okay?”
Once in the door, solitude’s embrace is flawed but familiar.
Who am I kidding. I’m definitely a sideshow now.
No mirage of ambition to mask this fracture. I've clawed up from erasure only to find myself framed as a horrific caricature. I've unknowingly scripted my open discomfort for an audience more fascinated by clumsiness than actual revelations.
I’m hit by a suddenly agreeable urge to follow Jess’s advice. More than anything I want out. Out of this drama. Out of this city. Out of this microcosm of scrutiny.
I pack quickly, and—at the same time—I do a quick Google search on Moonhaven’s so-called mystery. I’m intrigued enough to use this as an excuse to go.
To flee, you mean.
As I step into the elevator, I’m surprised to feel relief. New York is the epicenter of my professional origin, but Moonhaven speaks of new beginnings.
And peace. Glorious… invisible… peace.
2
CALEB
The first light of dawn sprawls across Moonhaven with a languid grace, painting the streets in hues of warmth not yet reflected by the chilly air. The town's awakening is punctual, predictable—just like my patrol. Boots solidify each step; their echo swells through silence, pushing forward thoughts I’d rather ignore.
Today though, the air feels different—a tension barely perceptible, like a note in a melody just out of tune. It tugs at instincts honed through years of guardianship. A sharp disturbance ripples through me, unexpected but undeniable.
It isn’t fear. Fear has edges. This is softer, more invasive — like a pressure change before a storm that hasn’t decided whether it wants to break yet.
I stop mid-step without meaning to. The street is empty. No cars. No voices. No reason for my pulse to hitch the way it does.