Dark Houses

Chapter 2

"Nice kicks." Larry entered my cube with a customer's file, stepping over my gym bag and running shoes. "Are they new?"

"I bought them last year," I said.

"I read somewhere that they pack more technology into a pair of modern running shoes than they did the first astronaut suits. It's the same synthetic materials." He picked up one of the red-and-black shoes. "That's why they're so lightweight."

I took my phone headset off my head and fiddled with it. "Interesting."

"These look bran new. You put any miles on them at all?"

"Did you need something?"

"Yeah, actually, I have to talk to you about this quote because you completely screwed up. It's a mess."

The whole time he lectured me I thought about fishing with my dad, the way the boat rocked underneath us, the feel of wet air on my arms, the cold against my seat and my father's peaceful gaze between coughing jags. When Larry shut up I nodded. "Okay."

"So you really have to double-check your work before you click submit."

"Got it."

By the end of the day my head throbbed and I skipped running. I drove home in the dark, glad it was Friday. Inside my apartment, I dropped the shoes next to my front door. Their soles were black as roofing tar. Not one speck of street dust or mud had tainted them since I bought them with a credit card. How pathetic.

I washed my face in the bathroom. Then I opened a small brown bottle, shook out one pale blue pill and swallowed it with tap water. I hoped it sent me back to Becker Lake. Then I huddled upon my couch.

My writing room is small and crammed with books. I spend the morning at my desk, drinking green tea and writing. Framed covers of my previous works adorn the walls, seven novels, all of them have a gold bestseller seal in the lower right corner.

I'm dreaming again.

And in this dream I'm a bestselling novelist – awesome.

I think about having a cigarette, but dream-me doesn't have any ashtrays around. This life holds too much to live for, I guess. I leave the office, pad through the old house in my socks, admiring old wood molding and paneling. The house fits me like a broken-in pair of jeans. I find the master bedroom. A picture of me and the girl lays on the nightstand. It must be her handwriting on the back, Ryan and Miranda, it says.

I don a sweatshirt, cinch up my red and black shoes and head outside. The screen door bangs shut behind me and I break into a jog. I start breathing deep, but I keep my wind. My chest expands; my lungs feel plump and full of oxygen. I run along the waters edge, then cut through a patch of forest and onto the asphalt road. I walk to cool down, then stroll to her house. She's sitting on the porch below the street address numbers, 667.

"I was hoping you'd come by today."

I hurry up the steps. Her playful grin makes my heart accelerate more than the run did. She stands up and I wrap my arms around her.

I woke up numb. A haze of morning light filled the living room. For a moment I thought I'd slept through the alarm, then I realized it was Saturday. I got off the couch, stiff muscles resisting movement. I headed for the bathroom and something caught my eye. It was not movement, but the realization that something had changed. My running shoes; they were exactly where I'd left them, but they were no longer new. The red-and-black material had faded. The soles had worn down and turned grey. I poked at one with my foot, felt cold against my toes. Then I knelt down. A slow current of electricity vibrated inside me. I snatched them off the floor. The shoes were damp. The waffle shaped tread was heavy with brown sand.