When Stan awoke, only two things in the world were known to him: the empty ache in his chest, and the suffocating, paralyzing fear of living. He lay, twisted in his icy sheets, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the shrieking clock. The gaping, hideous space next to him listened as well. He let the blare of the alarm split the frigid air for a long time. He rose at last, easing his feet to the frozen wooden floor. His numb fingers fumbled with the protesting clock. He was still anesthetized with sleep, and he wanted it to stay that way. To keep the pain away.

While he ate breakfast, sitting alone in his chilled and peeling kitchen at a splintered table, a third truth revealed itself to him—he was going to die. He was not sure when or how, but he knew he would do it soon. As soon as possible. Stan got up and shuffled to the bathroom. He washed his face in the greasy sink, and caught his own eye in the dirty mirror. His pale face was gaunt and lined, his eyes sunken and shadowed, his sandy hair matted. What would she have said?

Her.

The thought thrust Stan from his stupor. He straightened up, stumbled, grabbed at the wall. His heart leapt into throat. His empty lungs screamed for air. He gasped for breath, tasting the trickle of bitter water that seeped from his eyes. He slumped against the bathroom door, moaned and sank to cracked tiles. He closed his eyes and prayed for sleep to come again.

After a while, he staggered back into the kitchen, and leaned over the sink. He told himself that she was gone. He sank into a creaking chair and put his wet face in his hands. It was no use telling himself to move on, to give himself some time. That it had only been a month. It had only been a month, and he had already decided that this crushing wound was never going to heal. His whole life had been taken from him. He was already dead. He rose and walked his apartment like the ghost he was, lingering for hours in the rooms that held the most powerful memories. Some were so strong that Stan could remember every detail: the taste of the air, the smell of the furniture. There was the living room, where a grand piano sat, a present from her parents. It was there that she had sat, and he had practiced his routine, tried out the newer jokes. She was the one who had convinced him he had talent. He could always make her laugh. Stan ran his finger across the dusty keys. If only he had been able to make a few more people laugh, they could have had a real house. Or at least an apartment with heating.

He walked back into the kitchen. This was where she had told him that she was pregnant with a little girl. It was here he had picked her up and spun her around. She had laughed and told him to be careful, that the baby had to be treated gently. And here he had leaned down and whispered that he was sorry. He remembered with stark clarity, he knelt down on the tile and whispered again that he was sorry. He just couldn’t go on alone.

Stan straightened up and eyed the knife on the counter. He could do it here. But he wanted to wait. As much as it hurt to see her in every stranger’s eyes and hear her laugh and cry in his head, he was afraid, so very afraid, of being without even that. He just needed time to say goodbye. Besides, he wanted to do it on top of the mountain. The mountain, where he had confessed his love, his devotion, and his life to her. Where she had said yes, the world was perfect for one moment as they had turned together and watched the sunrise over the bay. It was certainly high enough.
The sun was setting as Stan stepped out of his apartment. The mountain was a long way away, and Stan had sold his car long ago. Sold it for diapers. He stepped into the snowy wind, and felt nothing but the heavy emptiness in his stomach.

Stan trudged up the slushy lane. The stony clouds hurled flecks of swirling snow into his path that stung his face as he marched on toward the main road. The streets were empty save for the odd car probing the snowy haze with headlights, windshield wipers grasping at the air like the feelers of some grotesquely bloated insect. By the time Stan reached the road, his face was numb and his eyes felt as though they were frozen shut. As much as he disliked the idea, he found himself sticking his thumb out as he worked his way up a particularly steep hill.



The first car to stop was a pickup truck, scratched and ugly with a beat up company logo on the side. Stan half-heartedly raised a grateful hand and opened the door. Upon seeing the driver, he thought that if he hadn’t been the one sticking his thumb into the road he would never have gotten into this car. The driver looked like he belonged in a biker club. He was a gargantuan man, with beady eyes and a pudgy face ringed by a heap of black hair. A coarse beard sprouted from his chin. His small dark eyes moved over Stan, who clambered into the vehicle with some difficulty.

The driver said something, incomprehensibly soft. Stan looked up.

“Excuse me?”

The driver continued to eye him dolefully. “The ice,” he repeated in a voice that was just above a whisper, “I said to be careful of the ice. Slippery, see.”

Stan nodded, “ I’m headed to the peak,” he said, and immediately dropped his gaze. The driver didn’t move.

“Night like this? Tha’s a dangerous trip. Lotta ice up there,” he observed Stan doubtfully, “You could hurt yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I’d appreciate it if you could just get me there,” Stan replied irritably.

“You sure about this?” The driver’s eyes, peering earnestly at him, seemed to be trying to tell him something. Stan noticed that the man’s hands weren’t entirely steady on the wheel.

Stan shot him a glance, and nodded again. The driver inhaled and turned his eyes to the hazy road. The truck trundled forward.

It was slow going on the snowy streets, and the driver wasn’t a talker. That was fine by Stan. He found it hard to get along with most people. Not like her. She got along with everyone. Stan looked out the window, his heart rising in his chest and his mind clawing frantically for relief. Just a little longer. Except at this rate, it wouldn’t be just a little longer. They were crawling along a main road at ten miles an hour, and the conditions weren’t improving. They stopped at a light, and Stan watched the snow, illuminated red, spiral into view in front of them. Then the man next to him spoke.

“Name’s Walter, by the way.”

Stan nodded slowly, but remained silent. Walter eyed him cautiously.

“What about you?” Walter asked. The light turned green.

“Stan,” he said hurriedly, so that Walter would look back at the road. He did, and they lurched forward again. Walter chuckled nervously. Stan noticed that the man was sweating inside the frigid truck.

“I probably scare you, huh?” Walter said. “Most people get scared,” he added forlornly. “Thought you might’ve been different, though.”

“Why’s that?” Stan asked disdainfully.

“You got in the car,” Walter said. Stan shot him a furtive look. Walter continued to gaze at the road. “I’ve been stopping for hitchhikers for a long time. Been a long time since somebody got in,” he said.

Stan couldn’t blame them, and was starting to think he’d have been better off in the storm, when Walter made an abrupt turn and pulled to the side of the road. He threw the truck into park.

“What are you doing?” asked Stan.

Walter turned to him. “I have to ask you something, Stan,” he said. There was an urgent quality to his soft voice. “If you felt like they had to do something, something that you were sure you had to do, you would go on an’ do it, no matter what, right?”

Stan said nothing. Walter breathed out and continued, “But what if that something was something that most people would consider very, very wrong? What would you do? Who would you listen to?”

Stan considered his own situation. He felt the cold, clawing emptiness in his chest. In a stony voice he replied, “Sometimes you haven’t got a choice.”

Walter sighed. “Thanks, man,” he said. “We got a lot in common. I-I think we could’ve be friends.”

Stan thought this to be highly unlikely, but he said nothing as Walter turned the truck back on the road. Instead he turned his attention back to the storm, and the mountain looming closer.
The second stop of the night came in front of a run-down gas station on the edge of town. Walter muttered something about diesel and stepped into the buffeting wind. Stan watched him as he made his way to the store, his wide frame highlighted by the neon lights. Walter was shaking against the scathing wind, and as he fumbled with his coat, his key ring dropped out of his pocket and buried itself in the snow with an inaudible jangle. Stan sighed with annoyance. He thought about doing nothing, but then he considered the mountain, silhouetted against the stony grey sky. He did want to get there, so he pushed open the door and fought his way around the truck. The snow crunched under his shoes and crawled down his socks as he made his way to the small round depression in the drifts and fished the key ring out of the snow. He thrust it into his pocket and yanked open the door of the convenience store, and stepped across the threshold into the sterile light. The store was small, with a white supermarket floor bathed in flickering fluorescent lights. Stan recognized Walter’s considerable bulk at the other end of the store, standing at the counter with his back to him. Stan started to make his way toward him, but what he saw stopped him dead.

Walter was towering over the counter. The glint from the gun reflected in the clerk’s terrified eyes. Stan stared. His heart thudded in his chest against his will, sending adrenaline coursing through his limbs. His numb mind, however, apathetically regarded the cruel metal instrument in front of him. Walter was still turned away from him.
Stan glanced behind him. The store was empty save for someone crouching behind the shelf behind him. Stan could just make out the form through the cracks in the scattered food item. He slowly backpedaled until he was in the same row as them. He could see that it was a girl, he guessed her to be fourteen at least, staring wide-eyed back at him, her hand over her mouth. Stan wanted to make a reassuring gesture, but he settled for raising a finger to his lips. The girl rolled her eyes. Stan heard Walter bellowing like an animal, and started to move toward her. Then the gunshot shattered the still air, and Stan felt his eardrum swell against the tremendous noise, heard a soft ringing as the smell of sulfur and smoke pervaded his nostrils. His brain throbbing against his skull, he clutched the cold metal shelf for support, sending cereal boxes tumbling into the aisle. He stumbled on, past the vacant counter, and out into the bitter wind. He swirled on the spot, trying to make sense of the bewildering patterns of coiling snow in the dim neon light. He saw a bear-like figure hurdling away from the store, disappearing beyond his vision’s reach. Whirling around, he saw the girl crouched behind Walter’s company truck. He trudged toward her.
She noticed him and shouted above the howling wind, “Is this your car?”
Stan ignored this. “Do you think we should call the police? You got a phone?” he asked when he had reached her. She looked at him, and her eyes shone with fear.
“Are you kidding? Let’s just get the hell outta here. Is this your car?” she asked. Stan hesitated. For all he knew, the clerk was dying behind the counter as they spoke. He was about to ask for a phone again, when he heard sirens howling in the distance. The girl cringed at the sound. She looked edgy, and on the verge of panic. The police were already on their way.
“I’ve got the keys,” said Stan, fishing them out of his pocket.
“Thank God,” she said, not hesitating to fling open the passenger door and climb in. Stan started the engine and pulled out of the gas station and drove into the night, the police sirens wailing behind them.

Stan thought as he drove. Had what had happened at the station been his fault? The ugly thought settled in his tired head. Before, he had been a victim, blameless, innocent. But now, could it be possible that he no longer deserved the rest he was going to? Stan cast around for something else to think about. He shot a fleeting look at the girl next to him.
“So, where should I drop you off, uh --?”

“Holly. And do you know where the Roscoe Station is?” she asked.
Stan nodded. He knew where the station was. It was far out of his way, but he wasn’t going to leave her in the storm.

“Thanks. And thanks for, you know, not waiting for the cops,” said Holly, shifting in the seat under his continuing gaze. “What?” she said aggressively.

“Nothing,” Stan lied. The truth was she had gotten him to thinking. Gotten him to thinking about his own daughter. He felt icy water was rising from his gut, seeping into his lungs. He took a fortifying breath, blinking back sharp salt from behind his eyes. Keep talking, he thought. Fight it off.

“So why are you avoiding the police?” he asked. “You do drugs or something?”

Holly sighed, “God, not that again. You’re like the tenth person to say that tonight. It’s like anyone alone and under the age of thirty is automatically presumed a hardcore street addict. This one guy at the park offered me weed just because I said it was cold,” she said, letting out a reminiscent laugh. “No,” she continued, “I ran away. From my parents.”

Stan shot her a look. “Ran away? How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” she said, unblushingly.
Stan smiled. She couldn’t be more than sixteen, he thought. He said nothing about it, though. “Why?” he asked instead.
She smiled wryly. “Drugs, funnily enough. My mom floats at least two feet off the ground, and my dad, well, he’s not exactly the paternal type,” she said, her voice a little too off-hand. “I just, couldn’t see a future with them. There wasn’t a life there…”
Holly talked. Stan listened. It took almost an hour to get to the train station. Holly talked the entire way. Stan felt as though a corner of the emptiness inside him had grown warm, like it was cradling a soft flame. All too soon, however, Stan found himself sitting alone, watching the sleek train pull out of the station, leaving wispy snow billowing in its wake. All that remained was the crumpled phone number she had left, just in case (Stan had insisted), on the warm seat. She had never even asked his name. The icy water was gone from his chest, replaced by a stark and engulfing sense of raw nothingness. Stan felt like he had been reminded of his loss, the wound reopened with a sledgehammer. He watched the windshield wipers desperately trying in vain to beat back the snowy onslaught. Stan gave up, and rocked back and forth in Walter’s company car, convulsive sobs wracking his whole body. Finally, he rested his head against the steering wheel. He still felt the soft flame, smoldering away, not quite dead yet.
Stan put Holly’s crumpled phone number in his pocket, and got out of the car. There was an all-night diner across the street from the train station, and he made his way over the slushy asphalt toward it. He ordered strong coffee and sat at a corner table, drinking and thinking. He figured he might not make it the mountain before daybreak. And even if he got there, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore. His thoughts were muddled and confused, his head aching.
“Man, you look like you need that drink.”
Stan looked up. A portly man was standing over him, looking jovial, and slightly concerned. He had chocolate skin, and a patchy black beard that was streaked with silver.
“The name’s Nick. Nick Manwell. Mind if I take a seat?” The man’s brown eyes darted around merrily. Stan nodded.
“Much obliged. Now, I tell you, I’ve been working at this place a long time, and I ain’t never seen a sorrier picture than you paint right here in this corner. No offense, pal, but you look like you need a friendly face,” said Nick. Stan grunted. Nick crossed his arms. “I see you’re not in a position to talk. Heh, that’s okay brother, I will talk for the both of us. So what was it? I told you, I’ve worked here too long not to recognize a case of the lover’s blues. I’ll bet she walked out on you and took that train outside all the way to New York, huh?” Stan said nothing, and Nick leaned closer, and suddenly his buoyant voice became somber.
“Did she die?”
The question split Stan like a knife. Paralyzed, he raised his eyes to Nick’s. Nick met his gaze, and let out a low whistle. “You are going to need something a lot stronger than that,” he said, gesturing to Stan’s coffee. “Let me get the medicine.” He left the table, and returned a short while later with two frothing mugs of beer.

“That’ll ease your pain, my man,” he said, sliding a mug across the table. Stan accepted the drink, pushing aside the coffee and taking a long draw. Nick eyed him anxiously. He sighed, and he sounded so dejected Stan looked up from his drink.

“I’ve seen it too many times. I remember once, a man sat in your shoes, right here in this diner. His woman had just died, too. I had just started here, and I had never seen such a wretched look in a man’s eyes before, just like I see in yours now. This guy, he was talking about throwing in the towel, right there. Told me he was going to shoot himself, can you believe it? Well, I didn’t have the slightest clue what to say to him. I think I told him some quote from a movie, I don’t know. Next day I heard he’d done it,” Nick choked, and there was a hollow strain in his voice as he continued, “Killed himself. Blew his brains out in some bathroom. You know what the worst part was? Seein’ his daughter. Poor bastard had a family. Came in on that train,” Nick said. He cleared his throat and continued, “I never understood what kind of desperation leads a man to be that selfish. I thought, if only I could have said something else, I-I might have done something that day. I ain’t never done anything like that before, y’know? Save a man’s life, that’s something. But I’ve wasted enough time wishing for a second chance.” Nick swallowed. He regained some of his cheery air as he said, “Just remember you’re not alone, my man. You need a friend, you call.” He smacked a crinkled card on the table. And with that he was gone. Stan slid the worn card of the table, and stuck it in his pocket.
The storm was letting up, slowly and surely. Nevertheless, it took Stan a long time to hike up the icy path to the top of the mountain. When, after what felt like hours, he finally reached the clearing at the peak, he was doubled over and panting. He waited for his breathing to become shallow again, and then straightened up, his own vaporous breath dissipating in front of him. The clearing was painfully familiar to him—a level patch of snow flanked by two gnarly, twisted trees, and, just ahead, a drop off that normally afforded a stunning view of the lake, and the blue tinged forest in the distance. On that day, all it provided was a closer look at the bleak, blank sky. Stan walked toward the cliff, past a snow-blanketed bench, his feet numb, his brain tired. He plodded to the very edge. He looked down. Swirling snow coiled downward into eternity. Stan edged closer. The ice was slippery. Any second he might just—


“You gonna jump?” asked a voice, strained against the wind.
Stan whirled around. On the shrouded bench behind him, looking as frozen as the snow, sat an erect old man. Stan couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed him. The man’s creased face regarded him with indubitable apathy.
“I saw you walk on up here, so concerned with yourself you never even noticed me. It’s alright, I’m used to it,” said the man. Stan squinted through the snowy air at him.
“What are you doing here?” asked Stan.
“Me? I’ve always been here. I come here every day, sit on this bench and ask myself the same question. The same question you’re asking yourself right now,” said the old man. “I’ve been coming up here every night for twenty years, an’ I never jumped. Always a battle though.” His eyes were haggard and worn. He smiled humorlessly, and looked out over the precipice. “Y’know, I thought for sure today was going to be the last day. But then you came.” He looked back at Stan, and this time his eyes were full of contempt. “Came trudging up here, dragging your self-pity behind you. Guess I’ll take it as sign from God,” the old man said with a dry chuckle. He slowly stood up. Stan watched him as he limped away. The old man paused, then slowly turned around.
“I ain’t gonna give you any advice, sonny,” he said, “just know this—I’ve wasted my life on that bench, wishing I had nothing to lose. So you can slip on that ice, or you can come back tomorrow, and maybe I’ll save you a seat.” The old man turned with a smile, and disappeared down the path.

Stan turned back to the abyss. The storm was ebbing away, and the cloud cover was dissipating, shafts of sunlight punching through the seams at the horizon. Stan’s shoes slid a little on the ice. He searched the sky desperately, looking for a reason not to take the last step. The flame inside was burning out. It was out of kindling. Stan stepped away from the edge. He had felt something in his pocket. Two rumpled pieces of paper crinkling against each other. Fuel for fire.