Chapter 1

Saturday

To open his eyes each morning was to realize his pain once again. The reality of loss stood nakedly and crude in every moment and every periphery reminding him that in another life she would have been there beside him, but not this one. For Henry, letting go was weakness—to forget, a betrayal of her existence. He had grown comfortable in his sadness through the decades, doing what he must to go on, but always living in the state of his loss.

This morning was no different than most others in the past 29 years. He awoke in his bed, imagining her face, lying with her memory. He allowed himself these little moments of bliss before the heaviness resumed. Her hair was long, the color of milk chocolate, and it smelled of honey and vanilla after a warm shower. It brushed up against her cheek as Henry stroked her earlobes sneaking her a morning kiss. She smiled and opened her eyes as green as a wooded fern as she prepared to speak, but as quickly as she appeared in his mind she was gone again. 

Henry preferred these soft memories to the entirety of moments that would follow in a day. But like most mornings that came before it, Henry mustered the strength to lift himself out of bed and carried on weightily to the day’s requirements.

Routine kept Henry focused. Routine was safe. Routine provided Henry with the expected results. After Duncan left for college over a decade ago, the routine kept Henry breathing, getting from the beginning of the day to its end. In the time that filled those days however, little living occurred. Instead, there were pre-determined movements with calculated results. Henry hadn’t realized it, but his supposed survival techniques had actually been killing him slowly over time.

Before dismounting his 60-year-old frame from his bedside, Henry slid his feet into his slippers left intentionally at the edge of his bed. His coffee awaited him in the kitchen as it did every morning—black with a teaspoon of honey. Mary always took hers with a heaping pour of flavored cream. Her delight in satisfying her sweet tooth each morning matched her generally saccharine demeanor. Mary enjoyed mornings and their infinite possibilities more than her wedded counterpart. But mornings had a new meaning for Henry now. The days were now much longer and traversing the expanse of a minute, even harder an hour, was an arduous feat to overcome.

After turning on the news for the morning headlines, Henry looked to his calendar held up by a magnet on his outdated refrigerator. Saturday, October 27th. Though he needed no reminding, the date meant there were two more days. A picture of Duncan, his wife Lindley, and their 1-year-old son Mattias was taped next to the calendar looking back at Henry. Their eyes were bright. The picture was part staged, part candid. Henry took it at Mattias’ first birthday party only months ago. To get him to smile, Duncan tickled Mattias’ tummy, which resulted in a belly laugh that made the whole room follow him in mirth. Even Henry smiled from behind the camera. The party was both a celebration and a farewell. Henry’s son and his blossoming family had moved two states away just days after the party. Following the move, Duncan called to check in on Henry routinely, though not religiously. Religion was not a notion for Henry. Before their move, Henry would have spent Saturdays watching Mattias to give Duncan and Lindley some personal time. But since their departure, Henry had struggled to find purpose in his schedule that was now left exposed.

With his cup of coffee consumed, Henry sat down at the desk in his kitchen where he kept the mail, trinkets that hadn’t found a proper place and a stack of writing paper and several pens. He removed a piece of clean white paper from the desk drawer and placed it on the desk’s mahogany surface. With a pen waiting beside it, Henry looked at the piece of paper for the entirety of a minute. Not writing, just looking. In the background, TV commercials played, though Henry didn’t hear them.  Out of the corner of his eye Henry saw her sitting at the kitchen table. He turned his head abruptly to meet her eyes, but it was the young TV anchor with long brown hair looking back at him reading the morning’s news. His heart raced, but sitting still in the chair at the writing desk, Henry returned his focus to the piece of paper before him. Still looking, he picked up the pen and removed its cap. With careful movements, he began.

“Dear Duncan,” he started.

A loud humming from the other side of the room broke his concentration. Immediately Henry set his elbows down on the table and covered his ears with both hands flinching at the intense din, but the bug’s song continued on loudly without concern.

He looked back at the paper trying to ignore the commotion and placed the cap back onto the pen. After folding the paper, he lay it gently back inside the drawer to revisit it at another time. The noise ceased.

Henry found himself sitting on the old and creaky twin bed down the hall on the west wing of his contemporary ranch home. The walls were covered in posters—mostly basketball and rock bands—a vision of Duncan’s teenage years. The dust that propelled off the bed’s plaid comforter from Henry’s weight had now collected in the air revealing themselves in rays of light that peaked through the open blinds like moving stars in a vast galaxy. On the desk beneath the window, several framed photographs reminded Henry of the time that had passed. Next to photos of Duncan with childhood friends and photos of him and Henry on a skiing trip was a picture of her. She held Duncan in her arms, eyes beaming, smiling back at the camera. Duncan was only months old then. “I can’t wait to see who he becomes,” she would often whisper as she looked down at the small child while rocking him to sleep.

Next to the pillow on the bed lie a small fuzzy stuffed animal monkey tattered from decades of embrace. Henry closed his eyes in pain. In the darkness beneath his eyelids, Henry ran toward Duncan who was in the arms of a female police officer just yards away. The blare of sirens and flashing red lights that surrounded them were accompanied by Duncan’s screams. In the distance, under the canopy of watchful trees, Duncan’s fuzzy monkey lie feet away from his stroller on the black concrete trail.

In the time that passed, the object accompanied Duncan through years of night terrors, school days and sleepovers. There were those times that Henry forgot to pack “Monkey,” inevitably resulting in a feverish and panicked meltdown that could not be extinguished until Monkey resumed his position by Duncan’s side. By the time Duncan had reached the age of 10, Henry finally sought help. After continued appointments with the doctor, they were able to convince Duncan to leave Monkey at home, assuring the boy that the stuffed animal would be there when he returned.

Sunday

The whir of rain against the roof awakened Henry. He looked to the skylight overhead confirming to his disappointment a grey atmosphere and the continuous drumming of precipitation. Henry let out a sigh of discontent and closed his eyes once more in search of some relief. Sundays were his day to run in the Metropark that spanned the Rocky River. The trees had turned a comforting color of auburn and orange this time of year and Henry would run along their company for two hours or more. He ran so far and so long not because he was an athletic man, nor did he even actually enjoy it. It was, however, an activity that granted him the ability to fill time, time with her.

In another life it was Mary’s favorite place to walk. On Sundays they would fill their coffee mugs, park their car at the marina and walk for minutes, sometimes hours. Hand in hand talking about the future. It was one Sunday on a walk in cold December that they decided they were ready to start trying for a baby. It was one Sunday on a walk in July years before that Henry got down on one knee in the middle of the walking path while runners careened by and the sparkle of the sun shone off the river nearby while birds seemed to gather overhead. Mary always thought that a walk could cure any problem, any anger and incite any inspiration one ever needed.

On Henry’s runs it was impossible for him not to visit those memories that kept her close to him. And it was also impossible for him not to revisit the terror that took her away. Henry’s runs were not therapeutic as Mary would have intended them. They were soothing and terrorizing all at once, but there could not be one without the other.  Last year, against anyone else’s better judgment, Henry took his Sunday run during a near freezing rainstorm, not unlike the one that plagued the city today. As a result, the pneumonia that took hold rendered Henry weak and helpless landing him in the emergency department and later in the ICU.

When Duncan was a baby, Mary liked to take him for walks in the Metro Parks. Sometimes she would run, other times she would walk. Some days she played music for the both of them, other days she would tell Duncan stories of how she met his father or how she used to play in the river back in Virginia as a little girl. Duncan was never old enough to talk then, but he ooed and ahhed at the sights of green that surrounded them in the wooded spaces as the sound of his mother’s voice guided him along the path.

Henry quarreled with this place. Others in his position may have avoided it, set it to collect dust in a deep cavern. For to unearth the bliss that was buried in this place, Henry first had to relive its trauma at each greeting. There was a time when Henry did avoid the parks, like one might expect. Henry couldn’t bear to take Duncan near them as a child, afraid that Duncan may remember even from his infancy. But when Duncan left for college, Henry returned. At first his companionship was gradual, but soon Henry was dependent. And like an addiction, the highs he experienced were countered by lows that could bring down even the strongest of men. And his withdrawal was maddening; there were few days in recent years that Henry went without visiting the parks if not to just sit in his car and gaze upon its trickery letting it consume him completely.

Reluctantly, Henry gathered his strength, sat upright and placed his feet into his slippers left methodically in their appointed position from the evening before. Henry sat there for a moment on the bed with a curve in his spine, shoulders stooped. He thought of nothing in particular, lost in a vast darkness. Before him was his own reflection in the mirrored door that spanned his bedroom closet. At first, he couldn’t see himself, as is if he weren’t there at all. But as if some omnipotent hand adjusted a lens into focus, he discovered himself almost unrecognizable to the man he used to be in Mary’s presence.

Years ago, his hair was thick and golden. Mary used to run her fingers in it like a cat kneading a pillow. Now his hair was gray and thinning and he was often mistaken for someone several years older. Truthfully his hair had grayed years before, in his forties to be clear. Like a President in office, Henry aged expeditiously from the internal battle he waged each day since her departure. He wondered what the point of any of it was. Since Duncan moved, he had been asking himself that question more and more and with no one to offer a counter, the question had been left to fester in an open and welcoming space in Henry’s mind.

But acknowledging his Sunday obligations, Henry made his way to the kitchen and poured his coffee, black with a teaspoon of honey. Without consideration, but as a duty to routine, he turned on the TV for the day’s headlines. On the table was a stack of mail. Today was bill day. He would make sure to pay his debts, not to burden Duncan with any loose ends. The TV anchors discussed the top anticipated kids costumes this year and the likelihood of rain on Halloween. Duncan was a chicken for his first Halloween. Mary always called him her “little chicken.” He wasn’t old enough to walk, but Mary insisted that they stride from house to house, Duncan in his stroller and Henry and Mary wearing matching Mama and Papa chicken costumes alongside him. It was as much for Duncan as it was for Mary. Her amusement was infectious. Henry always thought she made holidays more fun. Holidays were especially hard for Henry as Duncan grew up, knowing that Duncan never got to experience the joy and youthful enthusiasm that his larger-than-life mother would have brought to Duncan’s own memories.

Outside the wind blew rain sideways against the kitchen window and the little dog next door barked, pleading to be let in and rescued from the undesirable elements. On the kitchen wall next to the window was one of Mary’s paintings, a cicada. There were many like it throughout the house. This one had wings a vibrant blue with intricate golden detailing. It was a piece from her college days. Mary had always been fascinated with cicadas. Growing up in Virginia she would listen to their song at dusk and sit beneath the trees in her backyard wondering where they were hidden and what they were singing to each other. She always felt there was something deeply romantic and comforting about them, even as a child.

Cicadas may have been one of Mary’s first real obsessions. As a girl, she had boxes of cicada exuviae in her room and she would examine them and draw them in her sketchbook for hours. Some nights she would resist sleep to finish her drawings. By the time she left for college she had dozens of books of her sketches, filled with ornate interpretations of the cryptic creatures. Her obsession was the focus of her college application essay and it was later the focus of her art school thesis, “The Artistic and Religious Interpretation of the Life Cycles and Rebirth of the Cicada.”

Mary always said that nature was the greatest evidence for God. Henry thought that was a nice sentiment, but he was never as convinced as she was. In fact, Henry had never been convinced there was a god at all, especially now. Mary’s outlook on life brought solace and brilliance that Henry couldn’t see with his own eyes. When they met, it would seem as if clouds parted overhead and warm rays of light bathed Henry in her exuberance. Before her, Henry’s life was good, but after it was something altogether different. Since her departure, it felt as if all light had extinguished for Henry, but if only for Duncan, Henry attempted with all plausible effort to exist on something artificial.

There in the kitchen Henry closed his eyes and saw her sitting at her drawing desk. Her hair was especially long that year and she had arranged it in a braid that fell down her back fashioned with a blue bandana tied into a knot on the top of her head. She let out a loud, “UGH!” crumpling a large piece of paper and throwing it at the wall. “Goddamnit,” she said grabbing her lower back as she pulled herself out of her chair. Her belly was large and full of life. Henry snickered in the doorway as Mary turned to glare at her onlooker.

“Are you enjoying the show, Henry?”

Henry motioned to the living room as he squeezed her shoulders guiding her away. “Come lay down and I’ll rub your feet.”

“But I have to finish this piece for the show before the baby arrives. I need to work!”

“And you will! But right now, you’re frustrated and you need to take a break,” Henry coerced.

Henry smiled to himself remembering her stubbornness. He loved that about her. She often needed reminding during her working spells that she should sleep or eat or just take a break. There were many times that Mary would work for hours on end, lost in her mind and in her work. Henry had never been that passionate about anything in his life to forget those basic and fundamental necessities, not until his own obsession was born from her loss. During the pregnancy, Mary revisited her fascination with the Cicada. “There’s something deeply mystical about all of this Henry, I feel it so keenly.” She said one night as they were going to bed. “I wonder if this is how every pregnant woman feels.” Everything seemed so magical to her, Henry thought admiringly.

The night before Mary found out she was pregnant, she dreamed of a boy hugging her tightly around the neck. No words were exchanged, but Mary knew he was her child by the unmatched love she felt. She woke up the next morning with the deep feeling of her son’s introduction. This spurred the second inception of Mary’s cicada captivation. The painting series that she created during her pregnancy made her somewhat of a local celebrity and many of her pieces still hang prominently around the city like those permanently placed in the Cleveland Clinic maternity ward where Duncan was born.

Henry’s memory was broken by the sound of ringing. He opened his eyes to find Duncan’s weekly Sunday call right on time. With his right hand, he answered and with his left he held on to the table’s edge for support. On the other end he could hear Mattias joyfully squealing as he often did this time of morning while likely playing with his endless supply of toys. Duncan sounded tired, but happy. “How are you doing today, Dad?”

“Oh, very well son, very well,” he lied.  “It’s Sunday so you know what that means.”

“It’s chess day!” Duncan said excitedly for his father. As solitary as Henry was, he was even more secretive. He had never shared his hallucinations or obsessions with anyone and this alone was evidence enough that he was aware of its sickness. Henry did play chess as a young man and he was in fact good then, but he hadn’t actually played with anyone for decades. For Duncan, Sundays were his father’s day for chess, as was once explained to him years ago. Henry played with Mr. Andrews, who was his lifelong mentor and now a retired and widowed man himself, aging and alone. Chess and companionship kept Mr. Andrews sharp and he looked so forward to Henry’s visits every Sunday when Henry and he would play several games or more together.

Henry stood by this fiction for years and by all accounts Duncan was comforted to know that his father had a confidante and someone comforting from his past that he could relate to. Duncan often worried that his father had grown too comfortable in his loneliness and solitude. Though, there no longer was a Mr. Andrews and Henry had never played a game of chess with him. Decades ago, Henry had a professor in engineering school that took a special interest in him and who over the years kept in touch, but Henry learned of his death 15 years ago in the newspaper obituaries. Mr. Andrews did die a widower not long after his wife passed earlier from cancer. It was easier to build a lie on someone you once knew, not having to totally manufacture each particle of their history or personality. And so, Henry had carefully constructed a vague and compelling narrative that cloaked his true internal desperation and deterioration to keep his son free from any concern that was surely warranted.

Henry listened to his son’s voice as he discussed his new job and the acclimation to their new surroundings thinking of her face looking down at the small boy in the hospital when he was born. His mouth was shaped just like hers and she rubbed his eyebrow with her thumb as a tear ran down her cheek before looking up to Henry in adoration.

“Dad…DAD?”

Henry’s hand slipped from the table’s edge before he caught his balance. “Yea son?”

“You still there?”

“Yes, I’m here. The reception cut out for a second there. What’s the last thing you said?”

“It’s nothing, Dad. Everything is good here. We’re about to head out the door anyway. Why don’t we talk soon, yea?”

“Son?” Henry’s voice changed.

“Yea dad?”

“I want you to know I love you.”

There was a pause. “I know dad. Is everything alright?” Duncan inquired with reserved worry. Sentimentality was not a trait Duncan recognized in his father.

“Everything is fine Duncan.” Henry forced laughter. “I just want you to know that I love you very much. Your mother loved you too . . . with all her heart.”

“Mom? You haven’t mentioned mom in a long time, dad. You’re sure you’re ok?”

“I’m great son, just wanted you to know. I should have said it more.”

“Love you too dad. Ok, I’m getting the signal from Lindley. Tell Mr. Andrews we say hello!”

Henry put the phone down on the table and stared back at the cicada on the wall. Its eyes seemed endlessly black and they were examining him, seeing it all. Feeling their judgment, Henry suddenly felt enraged and threw his coffee cup at its rounded head. “WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF IT?” He yelled.

The collision knocked the painting off the wall and shattered the glass off its frame. In its place was an empty space with the dusty ghost of the fallen frame and a lonely nail. Henry breathed heavily collecting his balance.  Begrudgingly, he retrieved a paper bag from the pantry to serve as a receptacle and began picking up the crystal remains off the floor, but looking back at him underneath the jagged glass was the cicada. Its lower half began to shake and its humming song pierced Henry’s ears, taunting him. Henry picked up the frame, and ostensibly the cicada, and battered it against the floor till he was sure it was dead and the humming song too, extinguished.

Having enough, Henry retreated to the bedroom where he prepared himself for his visit to the Parks. After the pneumonia scare, he realized that in order to continue seeing his wooded mistress, he would need to invest in proper winterized apparel. The his and hers closet he once shared was now filled with his work clothes on one end and on the other the latest and finest outdoor apparel hanging neatly beside a number of Mary’s dresses that Henry couldn’t discard. Henry disrobed and assembled his garments meant for the day’s conditions. Hanging next to his jacket was a long black dress, the one with the red and orange flowers. She wore it on their honeymoon in Antigua where they listened to a steel drum band and drank rum and danced on the beach with white sand beneath their soles. He could hear her laugh as he twirled her clumsily almost losing their footing. Her hair, long as it always was, flowed freely in the open air before it fell down her back as she stopped to catch her breath. She smiled at Henry with her emerald eyes and he felt warm as he touched the fabric, now decades old.

The Parks

The trip to the grounds was ritual. Like other poor souls enslaved to their addiction, Henry could not turn back, especially now that the fix was so close. Arriving at its entrance brought a rush of adrenaline and the trees that lined the winding and sloped hill that led down to the park’s marina pulled him in and swallowed him until he was immersed in the belly of his own madness. Again, like the times before it, Henry was now altogether lost. He played nothing on the radio, only allowing silence to prepare for the inevitable that would accompany him.

And there she was now in the passenger seat beside him. She gazed out the window at the falling leaves and precipitation with a slight squint in her eye, the look she got when she was deep in thought. Looking back to the road Henry swerved the car in overcorrection to avoid road kill that may or may not have been dead or even ever alive at all. He parked the car in his spot next to the American Beech tree with loose gravel and mud underfoot. 

She wore a white dress. The one she wore most of the summer of 2010, the one with straps and a slight gold ruffle at the shin. She disembarked from the car and waited on the walking path, her back to Henry. With his rain jacket zipped and hood positioned, Henry started his jog and followed her down the trail.

There was seemingly no one else around except a few passing cars on the roadway. Mary had since disappeared from the trail, but Henry knew where she’d gone. Through a wooded clearing he could see her lifeless body drifting aimlessly. With great distress, Henry ran to the edge of the riverbank to meet her, but she disappeared once again only to emerge meters further down the river bend. Though he knew this story—it’s beginning and its end—it felt as new and real each time he visited it. He followed her figure along the trail for miles, running as fast as his body would let him trying to reach her, until the path circled the Marina where only a few boats remained at the dock not yet removed for the winter season. Across the water, her body bobbed against a sailboat, caught by its impasse. Water flowed over her exposed back with little concern like she was a mere branch from a birch tree.

Her body submerged and did not return. Henry’s chest was full, not of air, but of something heavier and suffocating. He gasped to breathe and let out a cry that was drowned out by the wind and rain. He hadn’t been able to shed tears for some time, though he still felt every emotion entirely. The worst of it was likely over and there was nothing left to do but turn around and embark on the return trek. For this, Henry chose to walk. 

Henry’s feet shuffled over fallen leaves that too had not long ago faced an inevitable goodbye. His fingers tingled slightly while his heart worked to restore equilibrium. Meters ahead she waited for him on the bench that faced the river’s edge where, on sunny days, local fisherman would stand in their waterproof coveralls meditating to the river waiting for a catch. Henry picked up his step, but dare not look to the river and return to the treachery all over again. She stood and faced him, holding out her hand. “What took you so long?” She crooned, teasing but gentle. They continued on hand in hand and his heart rate slowed.

She led him steadily, her bare arms untouched by the chilling rain. Meeting the opening to the empty dog park along the wooded path, she turned to face Henry excited and nervous. “I think I’m ready for a baby, Henry. What do you think?” Her eyebrows arching with concern and eager anticipation as she stopped his step to hold each of his hands in hers. He let her wait a little longer to draw out her restlessness before agreeing in grand fashion. She jumped into his arms kissing his mouth, cheeks, chin, all the available parts of his face like a feverish puppy. He laughed and closed his eyes not wanting it to end. “I’ve been ready…just waiting for you, my love.” They continued on, now holding on to each other even more tightly.

They reached the overpass where a fence sectioned off an area better to be left untouched for fear of falling debris. Mary let go of his hand and held one hand on her lower back with the other cupped under her protruding belly. She breathed out heavy puffs of air and squeezed her eyes closed, grunting softly like an animal. Henry guided her out from underneath the bridge coaching her through the Braxton Hicks. Henry was always uneasy with Mary when reaching the overpass. He needed to get her clear of its shadow even as she struggled through the pain. They reached the bench on the other side and she laughed catching her breath, “It’s no joke!” 

If Henry could take away her discomfort he would have. “If it’s any consolation you’re the most beautiful pregnant woman I’ve ever seen.” 

“Well, it’s not! I have loaves of bread for feet and I feel like a whale,” she replied pushing herself up to continue on. Henry laughed and took back her hand.

After crossing the bridge that overlooked the river some distance away, they reached the trail that circled the wide and open baseball field where children often played as parents watched from their folding chairs. The western path was secluded under the secrecy of hundreds of pine and birch trees with the river and her bubbling song flowing past. In his pocket, Henry’s left hand held a small box containing his future. With his right hand he held Mary’s. The sun lit rays on her eyes through the canopy openings causing her to squint in discomfort. Taking her from their trajectory he turned her around grabbing her other hand that was used to shield her eyes from the light. The confusion in her expression soon turned to amazement as the man before her descended onto his left knee holding out an open box while still holding onto her other hand, which was now trembling in excitement. She let out a loud nervous laugh in embarrassment as a runner rushed past throwing up his arms and clapping not to ruin the moment completely, but surely to applaud it. 

To the right of the path their initials were still marked from that day on the tallest of pine trees. HW <3 MW. They continued on in bliss through the winding trail, past purple and white wildflowers secured in a village of green grasses and decaying leaves now serving their purpose for the worms burrowed deep underfoot. Henry was now close to where he started. They stopped on the trail to marvel at a mother goose and her gaggle of goslings making their way to the waterway over harsh gravel to an inviting pasture before the edge of the riverbank. The mother was regal and poised in her black and white feathered garb and her children waddled close, their feathers still yellowed and young with vulnerability.

Mary’s hand quickly released from Henry’s and she hurried toward the fowl. Overhead an eagle shot down from the blue sky attacking the mother who spread her wings wide shielding her babies from the malicious predator. Henry looked past the quarrel to a path on the trail that was heavily shaded and curved out of view. In the distance over the screeching of the birds Henry heard the faint cries of a child. He turned to reach for Mary, but she was gone. He pushed forward toward the cries, as the air seemed to shove him back like wading through feet of unforgiving sand on a windy day. The trail twisted and there were no substantial clearings in the canopy overhead to the light the path. The cries were now much louder. There on the harsh concrete in between the spikey trunks of harrowing saplings was a stroller. Henry could see his feet with the cloth rabbit booties—they were kicking in fear and hysteria. Henry turned the stroller to rescue him, but he was gone, instead were Henry’s own hands, drenched from the sky and red from the cold. It was over now: the bliss, the horror. He’d lived it again, some real, some imagined, for whatever hundredth time. The defeat and the sickness had seemed to rewire his brain to love these trips, hate them and desperately need them all at once. Henry was entirely spent from his knees all the way to his soul.

The car was where he left it two hours before, but she was not waiting for him in the passenger seat. His hands clutched the steering wheel now, not ready to leave. His knuckles were red, numb, chapped, and ready to bleed. Gloves were never a consideration for these runs. His hands needed to be free for her. He backed up the car and noticed the American Beech tree next to the parking lot for its imposing girth. He stopped and redirected the car to face the tree, challenging it.  Closing his eyes and bowing his head as he put the car in drive, Henry listened to the rain flow methodically over the car’s steel roof. A strong buzzing quickly overpowered the rain and Henry opened his eyes. To his surprise, the winged bug peered back at Henry on his dirty dashboard. It faced him squarely and with sure intention spread its wings flying directly at Henry’s head singing loudly. Henry swatted at it in frustration and propelled the tiny beast out his car window. “Leave me be!” He demanded! Angry and annoyed, Henry took the car out of drive and continued in reverse to make his way home.