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“Webster.” Rojas raised her voice just a hair above a whisper. They felt fairly sure they were the only ones on this complex tonight, but they still had to count every word. On a night this quiet, their every sound would carry like an echo. “Are you all right?” He stared blankly at the wall. And Webster was never interested in distractions of any kind. “Hmm? I’m fine.” After a moment spent blinking at red bricks, he faced her, but his gaze was still unfocused. He shook his head a couple of times. “Just trying to remember if I’ve been here before.” “Didn’t you go to flight school here on Victoriem?” Rojas asked. “My flight school is halfway across the planet.” He cocked his head to the side, his curls falling over his eyes. He squinted at nothing for a long moment. before exhaling. “No. I’m pretty sure it was just a dream.” Rojas frowned at him. “What was just a dream?” But from the way he’d straightened up and scanned their surroundings, Webster looked like he had

My father used to say that the world is made up of two kinds of people: those who sought their own destiny, and those who didn't. Truth be told, I never really bought into it. Sure, it sounded romantic - forging your own path, dictating the terms by which you would live and die... but this was real. I remember telling him as much, and I remember the way he would laugh and say that someday, I would see it for myself. By the time I was an adult, I'd all but forgotten he'd ever said such a thing. My father got sick, you see, and somewhere along the line he came to the realization that his life - or more precisely, its ending - was not glorious. (I never did like the sound of someday.) It's a hard truth to reckon with. Outside of our family and small circle of friends, no one was going to mourn him. He would become another name, another stone, another tally on the score card of that beautiful gift we call life. He would die, and the world would go on. The sun would rise, and a new

there's something about stillborn static and low tones like city parks at night when the stars don't want to come out and play -- and all i've got are 3 am memories flashing by at the diner on highway 80; so, i guess i'll toast to the art of breaking