“That’s actually none of your business,” I said. I was an asshole. I wanted to get my ass kicked, wanted the same guys from that evening months earlier to come in and beat me up.

Another twenty minutes passed. A woman came in. I was fairly certain she was a prostitute, but I really didn’t know. I had no street smarts to speak of. Whatever she was, she showed absolutely no interest in me. Perhaps I looked like a cop. Not likely. It was more likely that I appeared to her as a khaki-and-Oxford-shirt-wearing serial killer. She parked herself in a corner booth without ordering anything.

I slapped a sizable tip on the bar and waved to the bartender. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole.”

“It’s okay, buddy. That’s why we’re open.” He was smarter than I had given him credit for.

Walking the hot and dirty three blocks back to the outdoor lot where I had parked my car, I felt a sense of dread about going home, a dread different from the standard, run-of-the-mill dread. I found I was fidgeting. I seldom if ever fidgeted. I tapped my car keys inside my pants pocket, played with my watchband, pulled the flesh of my thumbs away from my nails with the sides of my index fingers. I sat behind the wheel in the sauna that was my Jeep until the elderly attendant apparently took note and, afraid that I would die and stink up the place, called the police.

scio nomen meum

Basil was barking. Basil never barked. I hurried across the drive to the back door. There was no sound but Basil’s barking, a high-pitched complaint that made him sound younger. Inside, I very nearly collided with Meg’s back. Beyond her, facing her, was Sarah, wild eyed and shaking, holding a carving knife by the blade. Blood was pouring from her palm.

“Daniel,” she said to me, “who is she?”

“It’s your mother, baby,” I said.

“Daniel?”

I walked toward her. I could feel Meg trembling as I brushed past her. “Yes, Sarah. It’s me, Daniel.”

“Why?” she asked. There were so many levels to her question. I was asking why as well. Was she asking why she was fading? Why she was dying? Why her parents were strange to her and so afraid?

“I don’t know why, baby.” I stepped closer. I needed to get the knife out of her hand.

Meg was audibly crying now.

“Let me have the knife, Sarah. That belongs to me.”

She spaced out. She was having a seizure. I moved quickly to her, pried open her fingers, and removed the blade. “Get a towel,” I said to Meg.

Meg moved quickly.

The blade had gone nearly halfway through her index, middle, and ring fingers. The blood was flowing freely. Meg handed me a towel and wrapped the hand up. “I’ll hold her hand. You drive.”