Less than a heartbeat later, the United States had declared war on terrorism and had engaged the world in a great struggle. At first, the attention was focused on those who initiated and supported terrorism. After an unpredictably bloody war, it seemed that peace would finally take root. I’m sure it would’ve, eventually, had it not been for religious extremism.

We thought we had pounded the regimes into the desert, but really, we kicked up a sandstorm. An extremist Muslim minority, acting as though they understood the Koran better than Muhammad himself, declared a worldwide jihad to combat what they believed were overzealous Christians, exploiting the idea of jihad and using it to wage war on the “infidels.”

Throughout the war there were a few terrorist attacks, but after the war it seemed the anger had quelled. But then ten people, unfortunately all Muslim, stormed an airplane just as it lifted from the ground. The people on board fought back, and within minutes the hijackers were down to three, but the plane was in their control. They barricaded themselves in the cockpit and redirected the plane towards downtown Washington, D.C. A missile defense system, previously unknown to everyone except the governmental elite, intercepted the plane. The people on board were already doomed, but not even the missiles could stop inertia. The infamous White House was completely destroyed as the airliner crashed into the lawn, slid across the grass, and smashed right through the building. More than two hundred people died, both in the plane and in the building, including the vast majority of the current presidential administration. While all the networks were starting to report an attack on the White House, millions of people worldwide began tuning in. But this terrible act was merely a distraction. The real show was just getting started.

Across the world, while people were focusing in on their televisions, dozens of embassies came under attack. Car bombs, hijacked airplanes, shoulder-fired missiles, and dirty bombs were hitting their marks. In an otherwise impressive show of timing, organization, and desperation, almost ten thousand people were killed in more than forty countries as the terror unfolded, often on live television. Terrorism was back with bloodthirsty vengeance.

I remember how scared I was as I sat in front of my computer, watching everything happen as fast as stations could report them. Simple netcams transmitted some of the most horrific scenes ever witnessed by humanity. It seemed that the world was literally coming to an end.

Fortunately the world’s resolve was much stronger than the extremists had anticipated. Though it took years to clean up the wreckage of that day, the political shockwaves rippled through the world practically overnight. Each country dealt with the uncertainty in its own way, and many borders were redrawn and erased. Martial law became the norm in many countries, and police were given an unprecedented amount of authority. This was especially true of the United States.

That’s how I ended up here in the camps. Made popular in World War II, these “retreats” were malevolent reinterpretations of the internment camps that once held thousands of American citizens. They were essentially small prison cities enclosed by tall walls and armed guards. I knew people who were confined here simply because of what religion they claimed. Fear gripped the world; fear of religious extremism, especially fundamentalism. We did not realize the horror that certain freedoms could facilitate. This was something that my parents, my grandparents, and my great-grandparents had taken for granted.

Millions of “dissenters” were being rounded up (mostly by force or threat of force), and the camps began to fill with people. Their incarceration was primarily based on religious or political affiliation, and at the time, it seemed fine to me. I was neither religious nor very politically-minded, so I pretty much went with the majority. I recognized that those who spoke out were the first to go, but I always felt that even those who didn’t speak out still felt worried. Dissent was the norm, and, I secretly believed, rightly so.

I was fresh out of college when these camps started opening. I was fully educated by books, but not by experience. I had been brainwashed to believe that our cause was just, that terrorism was the enemy, and that our nation did not engage in terrorism. People had to choose a side, and I chose the one that seemed the most noble. How could I have known?

The government was increasingly under the control of the military, and quickly developing into an oppressive regime. Martial law was implemented in most parts of the nation, and those who refused to obey were imprisoned. Dissidents were seen as enemies of the state. The state of what, I found myself asking on far too many occasions. But I did my duty and stuck to my beliefs, no matter how often something or someone made me question them. It seemed I was not prepared for the truth. It was no longer a government of the people, but rather, a government for the people . . . even if they didn’t like it.

And, believe me, many did not. Dissent turned to protest, protest turned to riot, and riot turned to bedlam. It became clear to those in control that a police state was necessary, no matter the cost. Now that I have a little time to reflect on it, the problem was clear. Those who sided with the military were just as correct as those who sided with the dissidents. We all fought a common enemy, but we mistakenly attributed it to one another. The true enemy had many names: ignorance, hate, intolerance, and bigotry, just to name a few. Each side saw faults in the other, but saw none in itself. There were two entities smashing up against each other, and nothing between them to cushion the two. They clashed often, and they clashed violently. And before long the country was embroiled in a second civil war.

I have witnessed uprisings ever since I came to this camp. In fact, the very first day I arrived, there was a major riot. At the time, there were more than eighteen thousand people interned here. The best estimates indicated that more than a thousand rebelled, and at least half of them were killed. These continued uprisings were seen as further proof that the people who were locked up were dangerous . . . backwards logic.

Since the beginning of the war a few weeks ago, there has been a marked increase in the number and intensity of the uprisings. There was a sickness spreading through the populace, and the fever was reaching a breaking point. The system took great care to make sure that all devices that could be used as weapons were unavailable to the prisoners, but as my colleagues know, the fist is a mighty weapon when compounded with anger and numbers.

Word started to spread that several other camps had fallen to successful uprisings. Information is tightly controlled, but among humans, ideas spread like wildfire. A week ago, this camp saw its largest uprising to date. Of the seventeen thousand people here, more than a fourth of them were involved, and more than a thousand were killed. After that it appeared that there had been a significant calming of the prisoners. But I was not fooled. I have felt the storm on the horizon all week long.

A few hours ago the alarms began to scream, and I knew another riot had begun. Annoyed, I calmly moved to the viewing area to see what was happening. Sure enough, there was a full-scale riot in progress. These uprisings were beginning to seem routine, but there was something unusual about this one. Considering how many people appeared to be involved, they were abnormally calm. It was deemed a riot, but it was more like a protest. Taking a no-tolerance stance on the uprising, the order was given to try and maintain the peace. This meant that the guards were free to use tear gas and stun batons.

It seemed to be working. Of course, there is always a short term effect when force is applied. But then reports started coming in that the rioters were growing dangerous and destructive. They penetrated a few areas that otherwise wouldn’t have been a problem: the south kitchen, the secondary infirmary, and the exercise arena. The guards pretty much let them have at it. If they wanted to destroy their only amenities, so be it. But then there were reports of injured guards. Some were assaulted with knives and other domestic weapons. The first report of a guard being killed was the first catalyst towards chaos. Deadly force was now authorized.

Watching from a safe distance in my perch high above the camp, I saw the first rioters go down. The guards were taking full advantage of the order, and were killing anyone that came close enough to harm them. I watched with mild disgust as a handful of rioters were killed, then a dozen, then more. Suddenly, they seemed to be falling left and right. The guards were severely outnumbered but comfortably armed.

I poured a cup of hot tea as I sat to watch the riot work itself out. Why must they fight, I asked myself, watching more and more die as the moments ticked on. They should have known they were overpowered, but it didn’t seem to matter. The guards were holding their ground, but were meeting increasing resistance.

The riot had been going on for almost an hour when I saw the first section fall. I almost dropped my tea. Frozen, my cup halfway to my mouth, I watched the scene on the monitor. A young guard, heavily armed, had already killed several rioters when his stun baton was knocked from his hands. It never touched the ground. A rioter caught it and turned it on the staggering man. He twitched and fell limply to the ground, but he was only stunned. His arms waved uselessly around as they hoisted him into the air. I watched in horror as the rioters began to tear him apart . . . literally. Unable to look away, I gave the “man down” signal, and reinforcements started moving in.

I sat down, a row of monitors before me. On every screen, horrific scenes played out like some demented reality show. As every second ticked by, dozens of rioters died. I feared for the safety of my guards, innocent patriots dying needlessly in the onslaught. Another guard fell, then another, then another. It was becoming quite a gruesome scene. My tea grew cold as I sat transfixed on the horror before me.

The guards were falling back, unable to stop the rush of people. They were armed with the most modern weapons our government could provide, yet they were falling to the most ancient of weapons: brute force. I eventually lost count of how many guards had been killed. All throughout the camp, the swarms of people were overcoming the desperately outnumbered guards.

I feared for my troops, but never for myself. I was inside a reinforced tower, high above the terror below. The people could rebel, but they could not reach me. They couldn’t escape, either. The walls were fifty feet high, and there were no ladders or structure to help them make the climb. The prison was locked up tight. Water tight.

The radio no longer had the familiar sounds of official requests; it was filled with the screams of dying men. Their stun batons would only stop a few people before they were overcome by wave after wave of angry rioters. Soon, the guards were in full retreat, unable to hold off the crowds. I gave the signal for the guards to fall back, to retreat to safer areas, but it was pointless. Only a handful of the hundreds of guards could respond. By that time, they had already begun their own retreat or were already victims of heinous mutilation.

There was no way the rioters could safely escape the prison, but safety was no longer an issue for them. They were trapped mice, and this was a tremendous cage. Masses of people began to pound away at every door, every exit, and I even thought that sooner or later they may make their way through. But at least I was safe. Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that the rioters might escape, and there was nothing I could do about it. They were sure to pound their way through the exits and escape into the city that surrounded the camp.

The exits were too sturdy and the walls were too high. Honestly, I thought there was no way they could really escape, but that is where I was terribly wrong. Hundreds of rioters had already died, and their bodies littered the floor of the camp. They were trapped animals, and they acted as such. The living rioters climbed on the bodies of the dead or dying ones, and soon a ramp of bodies developed. Horrified, I watched as a stream of people climbed all the way to the top of the walls.

That was when the gravity of the situation assaulted me. This was not a group of crazed rioters that were doing this, but human animals, doing everything they could to escape. It was, for them, the right thing to do. The only thing to do.

Then I thought about the guards, whose numbers were now dwindling. They were also doing what they thought was the right thing, and that was giving up. The civil war that raged all around the country did not come about because people were tired of paying taxes, or that they were tired of having a Republican in office. They were rising against tyranny, and I was a part of it. That was when I realized that I was partly to blame for all of this. I knew I was not the only one, but I felt that a person in my position should have known. How could I have known?

At first, only a few people had scaled the walls, but then there were dozens, and eventually hundreds. I knew how many people were trapped in this place, and they were on their way out, no matter what I did. They poured out of the camp, killing anyone unfortunate enough to be wearing a uniform. I was high above the horror, and watched it unfold from my reinforced perch. They would have to go out of their way to get to me, so I felt quite safe.

Then, it happened. Someone (or, more likely, many people) had reached the generators and switched off the power. All the lights and monitors went blank. The emergency lighting came on, but the monitors didn’t. I rushed to the windows to see what was happening. I knew that with the power out, the gates were no longer sealed. The tide of people slowly pushed their way through the barriers, and eventually the people were free. I actually felt a sense of relief when it happened. I knew they truly deserved to be free.

A moment later, I heard a strange sound. A low thudding was emanating from behind me, and I turned to see a crowd of rioters. They had several of the guards’ weapons and other makeshift weapons, and were smashing their way through the barriers that separated them from me. My stomach suddenly felt cold and my head began to swim. This group of people did not care about escaping; they wanted justice. Slowly but maddeningly, they were making their way to my perch, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

When I finally realized they were coming for me, I was first afraid, then terrified. I knew that without a tank or artillery, it would take them a long time to reach me. But there were hundreds of them, and none of them were trying to escape. By this time, the gates were fully open, and everyone was free to leave, but a large number of them seemed hell-bent on revenge. Everything flammable was on fire, every guard that was alive was being ripped apart, and every rioter was running and screaming. They had years of rage built up, and this was their chance to let it loose. The crowd that came after me pounded away at the concrete and glass that separated us, and I knew they were not going to give up.

That was less than two hours ago. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop them, and at first all I did was sit and cry miserably. I cried because they were coming for me. I cried because there was nothing I could do to stop them. I cried because I was one of those who forced them to reach this point. But mostly, I cried because our species on the whole had reached this point. I would surely not be the last oppressive bastard to die at the hands of desperate people. I wanted to apologize for what I had done, but I knew there was no way I could. That was when I decided to sit at my desk and write this letter. Using pen and paper, I began recalling all of the events that led up to this moment. With human beasts pounding their way to my perch and a flood of people rushing into a war-torn city, I sat in my quiet office and wrote.

Now all I can do is wait. The steel and glass are failing; flesh and bone are having their way. My only hope is that when they finally do burst through that they find this and see that I truly feel remorse for what I have done. How could I hav

I know that five years ago I was a confused college student, that ten years ago my mind was clouded by hormones, that fifteen years ago I genuinely loved Nintendo, that twenty years ago I thought kindygarden was funn, and that twenty five years ago I was floating in this warm, comfortable, dark place.

“Ray,” she said again.

“Yeh?”

“Do ya know?”

“Knowhaht?”

She makes a dog noise, throws her hands up in the air, and I think she actually just touched the ceiling.  That was pretty cool.  I can’t help but smile, feeling the silly putty in my cheeks.  I realize she is leaving just as the door slams shut.  The echo lasts a lot longer than it should.  Cool.

I have to shake things off, to sober up.  I have to deliver the–

Aw, shit.  I already took it.  So, what do I need to do?  Oh yeah.  Nothing.

That makes me smile, knowing that I don’t have anything I have to do today.  Todoo-today.  I shuffle over to the couch and fall into it, imitating the whump sound it makes as it hugs me.  Whump.  Whump.

I yawn and stretch.  I’m almost positive my bones are made of rubber.  Stretching feels good.  It’s almost sexual, which is why I think some people don’t stretch in public.  I bet they sit at home and stretch and smile and then frown and feel ashamed for the closest thing they have to masturbation.

Wait.  Teona just left!  She wasn’t supposed to leave the apartment until it was over.  I get up and bounce to the window.  I’ve never had so much trouble opening this damn thing before.  My hands aren’t in this reality.

Ah, finally.

The sunpaint covers everything metal like golden lightning, but the noise and the smell are too much.  Too much shit burning.  Too much damn traffic.  I see Teona stumble out into the street, two floors below.

“Huay!” I mumbleyell.  “Ssztop.  Get baggup here!”

“Do ya know?” she yelled.

“Knowhaht?”

Another dog noise from Teona-nona-nona.  Wow, she looks really far away.  I think she’s coming back in, though.  It’s hard to tell.  I shut the hate-pollution out and spin back into the living room.

There’s the couch.  Whump.  Whump.  Nah, I better not sit down right now.  I might never ever never get back up.  Hey, it’s the cat.  The cat.  Spot.

“’Ey, Szpot,” I say.  She returns the greeting.  Meew.  Meew.  Cute cat.

“Yer a cute cat, Spoticus.” Wow, my mouth is clicking bad.  I need some water.

The kitchen is thissa way, I point, turning left and strolling into the cramped room.  Teona keeps this place so nice and clean.  She’s a good roommate.  I’m a bad roommate.

Be happy!  Happiness only tonight.  Why was I in here?  Oh yeah, water.

I move (happily) towards the refrigerator but the countertop snares me.  It seems to blur and flicker as I move around it.  What makes it do that?  The lights!  I look up at them.  They strobe like the underbelly of Heaven, heatless and blinding.  Wow, fluorescent lights blink really fast!  I’ve never noticed that before.

. . .

Damn, I’m zoning out again.  Why was I in here?  Oh yeah.  Water.  The refrigerator handle is hard to hold onto.  My hand is feeling things like my tongue tastes things.  And I can’t squeeze very hard.  Is my hand closed?  I guess so.  The refrigerator opens up.  Ooh, it’s nice and cold in here.  Damn!  Did something die in here?  No, but something dead is in here, I nod, looking at the packages of sandwich meat.  Why was I in here?  Oh yeah, water.  Thump, thump, thump.  What is that?

Teona opens the door, slinks in, and slams it shut behind her.

“’Ey, babe,” I say to her.

“Ray,” she says, dropping her keys on the couch and walking to me, “Do ya know?”

“Know what?” I manage.  I think she said this already.

“What time it is.”

I look towards my watch.  Have you ever noticed that line on the outside of the back of your hand?  The one where the hair suddenly stops growing?

“Ray,” Teona says.

“Sorry,” I tell her, “it’s 3:04.  Why?”

“I don’t want to be late for work,” she says.  I should’ve known that, of course.  I hope she doesn’t have to go to work like this.  Wait.  I thought the reason we decided to do it today was because we don’t have to work.

“Babe,” I say, “you don’t work today, ‘member?”

“I know, I know,” she says.

And, we both crack up.

“Good evening, sir,” says the man.

“Mmyes,” Mr. Reman responds, gliding by the small man. He knows it is a rhetorical question. It is customary of the people to greet people like Mr. Reman. He was their overlord, but he did not fraternize with helots.

As he steps into the gray New York City streets, the sounds of the city roar at him. Cars accelerating, horns honking, people yelling, church bells, police whistles, cell phones, and music. Tasteless music. His steps are farther apart as he approaches his limousine, which hovers stolidly, as it should. Charlie, his most recent limousine driver, opens the monolithic, wheeless craft, and Mr. Reman slips inside with one graceful move. The limo hardly moves. Finesse is key. Charlie shuts the door to the limo—

The roar of the city is gone. Mr. Reman sighs heavily, closing his eyes. Charlie is inside and waiting patiently behind the wheel before Mr. Reman has time to relax. Moments or minutes later, he is ready to leave. Charlie was a good driver. He hadn’t so much as said a word. Who knows how long he’s been waiting.

“Charles,” Mr. Reman says, “let’s go.”

“Yesir,” Charlie growls. His voice was foreboding, but soft. Like a killer. Mr. Reman liked that.

With effortless grace, the limo takes off and up. The ground disappears and the buildings sink lower and lower. The windows fall past the craft until the sun breaks over the tops of the buildings. It is less than an hour from sunset, and a deepening pink light is being cast across the sky. The packed streets below grow darker and darker.

Maestro? With the touch of a nearby button, the cab’s windows become virtually opaque, and the soft calls of clarinet, oboe, and strings fill the air. Mr. Reman at once recognizes it as “Che soave zeffiretto” from Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. Enter the lovely soprano. The sweet voice, hiding her German nicely, sings of how happy she has been. This kind of music would tear at Mr. Reman’ soul, if he had one. He is mesmerized by her soft articulation and clear, rich tone. She sings with honest conviction; he believes what she sings. Mozart lulls us into a trance, revealing to us the power of complex and succinct composition. In the third round, the solo becomes a duet, and Mr. Reman is entranced. Unable to move or think of anything else but the engaging melody, he clutches the seat. A tear falls from the floodgates of his eyes. It is beauty. It is pain. It is a self-inflicted torture, but it is necessary. It reminds Mr. Reman that there is beauty in the world. The vacuum of hate often tries to consume him. There must be balance.

Exactly three minutes and five seconds later, the song ends and the cab’s tint lightens. They are now on the ground, and just outside the limo is Zam’s Mediterranean Café. With a fwoahp, the door opens, and the sounds of the world rush back at him. Fortunately, here in the suburbs of Long Island, the noise is much more tolerable. Charlie closes the door quietly behind him and then stands at casual attention, still without a word.

Mr. Reman strolls up to the entrance of his favorite little deli. He opens the door and slips inside, taking a quick survey of the people. It is late, so only a handful of chatty folks still remain. A man with a sitar and orchestra howls away, and the customers all speak loudly over the blaring Middle Eastern music. I wish I’d learned Lebanese, Mr. Reman scolds himself. It is a ritual he goes through every time he comes to Zam’s. Ritual is very important.

He walks to his immediate left and opens the door on a large freezer. Cold air vomits out of it, and it begins to hum loudly. It wants to scare him away, he knows. Reaching into the coldfall, he grabs a brown paper package, wrapped with cotton string. He steps back and swings the door closed. With a thoomp, the freezer’s growling is quelled. Mr. Reman eyes it suspiciously for a moment, then, carrying his package beneath his large coat, moves to the cash register.

“Gooday, ssir,” Zam calls, his words sculpted by his Lebanese accent.

“Hello, Zam,” he answers, “Business going well?”

“Ah haf been vehdy forchoonat,” Zam replies. He taps a few buttons on the cash register. Mr. Reman looks away, trying to not let the damned beeps get to him. With a sculpted smile, he hands two large bills over the counter to Zam.

“Thank you very much, my friend,” Mr. Reman says.

“Nono . . . thangyoo.”

Zam always was a polite individual.

Expecting no change, and with a humble nod, Mr. Reman turns and walks for the exit. He breaks stride only when he passes one customer and their cell phone starts screaming. If it was a call for Mr. Reman, he did not want to take it. Now is not the proper time for action. He could seriously disrupt Zam’s business. Zam, who so graciously provided him with the best shawarma this side of the Gaza. Mr. Reman shoves the door open, stiff-armed. There will be no reprisal. Not here. Not now.

Charlie is still waiting patiently beside the door of the limo. He says nothing, but smiles appropriately and opens the door for Mr. Reman, who carefully silks inside.

Charlie shuts the world out as Mr. Reman drops into his seat. He does not need to tell Charlie their next destination. In the two months that Charlie has been flying for him, they have gone to exactly the same places on exactly the same days at exactly the same times. The limo lifts silently off the ground, turns west, and begins sailing over the bay.

With the touch of a button, the cab of the limo again fills with music. The first thing he hears is an otherwise random electric sound effect. But, it stirs his long-term memory, and he recognizes Josef Duraan, modern composer and guitar virtuoso. Mr. Reman is not one to confine himself to a single genre, and Duraan’s progressive sound—the diamond-tipped edge of unabated technical mastery—captivates and electrifies him.

Pure, soaring guitars move atonally across four octaves. Piercing and intoxicating tones, each crying or screaming its own story, arrive together in a major chord that is familiar and resonant. Then, just as you become comfortable with the pleasing, optimistic sound, the voices split and rush away in four different directions. The music is constantly changing moods and modes. It grabs Mr. Reman by the shoulders and screams in his face, only to slip eloquently back into an esoteric exploration of ecstasy.

It challenges his understanding of what is musically viable, and for several minutes, Duraan makes Mr. Reman suffer marvelously like the guitars that made the music. The equipment cries with unrequited languor and the strings scream in amorous submission. The tempo and the tension builds and builds. Doing this to himself is masochism of the mind. But, it is necessary. Mr. Reman cruises at near-supersonic speeds across the northeastern part of the country, heading toward Chicago. He grips the seat as though he can actually feel the soaring and spinning of the limo. In truth, the compensators made it virtually impossible for occupants to feel inertia tugging away. But, the music has its own way of compensating, bringing the listener to a heightened state of excitement. Mr. Reman feels his blood pressure mounting, his chest pounding, and his brain swelling as Duraan delightfully abuses him.

He must know the things that show him the light, lest he give into the darkness. His species’ domination over matter is not complete, but it increases every day. Every time he hears the electricity, he feels the electron’s pain, trapped in slavery. It frightens and angers him that he belongs to such a controlling and arrogant family. But, Mr. Reman is no idealistic fool. He knows how he has benefited from technology, so he continues to live with it. There must be balance.

When Duraan’s music has silenced, and Mr. Reman is finally composed, Charlie—as if on cue—pulls open the door. The vacuum tugs at Mr. Reman once again. The sidewalk is crowded with business suits and empty faces, busily going about their busy little business. Mr. Reman gets out of the limo and pauses only a moment. Then he strides confidently through the packed walkway. Somehow, amid the dozens of people walking perpendicular to him, he does not come in contact with a single person. Perhaps they sense his loathing of them, or—immersed in their own darkness—cannot perceive his malevolence.

A heavy, wooden door opens automatically as he approaches, and he steps inside the dimly lit building. There are pieces of art, artifacts, books, and sculptures from a multitude of ages and civilizations. This place always reminded him of a museum. The difference is that everything here is for sale. And, as with any good museum, there are the items the average visitor never sees. Mr. Reman knew what kind of treasures waited eagerly behind the walls of this place. This was no ordinary antique shop. The storefront was a front for the real business, generally conducted in sums of five figures and up. Occasionally, they would display one of these rare finds, and it would draw in people like Mr. Reman. The “interested person” would think they have found a diamond in the rough, but they quickly discover they have found a diamond mine.

He takes a quick survey of the store: a dozen or so customers, mostly browsing, and keeping quiet. The dark wood floors and walls make the ceiling appear to stretch high overhead. Soft, burgundy rugs line the walkways, keeping to a minimum the thock thock sound of expensive shoes. There is no main lighting, only track lighting, each with a particular item as a target.

Mr. Reman walks straight to the information desk, behind which a young girl is staring at a computer screen. She blinks, looks away from the screen, and then breaks into a genuine smile.

“Good evening, Mr. Reman,” the girl says professionally.

“Good evening, Melissa,” he says, with equal professionalism, “I believe you have a package waiting for me.”

“Yes we do,” she replies, and taps the computer screen a couple times, “If you’ll wait here for just a moment.”

She turns and disappears behind a dark velvet curtain, leaving Mr. Reman to stand at the information desk by himself. He nonchalantly turns around and reexamines the room: a few people browsing, one person buying, and a few children. For almost a minute, he stands at the information desk, surveying the quiet, peaceful shop. Then suddenly, he observes a man grabbing his chest with a slightly shocked look on his face. Mr. Reman feels a surge of adrenaline. The man begins to shuffle outside, and reaches into his shirt pocket. As he walks out the front door, he pulls out a cell phone, and answers it only after he is outside. Mr. Reman actually smiled.

“Here we go,” Melissa suddenly says from behind him.

“Ah,” Mr. Reman says, “Yes.”

She hands him a box, a little smaller than a shoebox. His name and today’s date is printed in bold letters on the top. He nods graciously, and lays an envelope on the counter.

“Thank you Melissa,” he says as he turns to leave.

“Thank you,” she says, clearly pleased to be receiving that particular envelope, “Have a good evening.”

Mr. Reman makes his way through the dim room, and bursts into the busy streets. He feels the package weighing substantially in his arms. Someone runs into him— Mr. Reman stops moving, and realizes the louse ran into him because they were plugged into a sound player. A torrent of rage begins to swell inside him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the small voice said. A young woman, dressed in week-old clothes, pulls an earpiece out of each ear. Tinny music screeches distantly from them. “I get s’ lost when I’m listenin’ to Gershwin,” she says. “I don’t pay ‘tention.”

“Gershwin?” Mr. Reman mumbles.

“Yeah, ya know,” the woman says, “George Gershwin.” She holds one of the earpieces up to him. The sound is thin and seems to shriek at him. But, he cannot deny it is Gershwin. She asks, “You herda him, right?”

He is not sure how to respond to her.

“I’ve met him a few times,” he says before he can ask himself why.

“Wha? You met George Gershwin?”

“Once or twice,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Thas crazy, man,” she says, “Either you’re like a hundred years old or you’re jus’ messin’ with me.”

Mr. Reman stands there for a moment, feeling the crimson tide waning. After the briefest of moments, he says, “It is nice to meet someone who appreciates good music.” He nods, then says, “If you will excuse me,” and immediately heads for his limo, which still waits patiently for him.

“Oh, okay,” he hears the woman say from behind, “Well, take care.”

He glances over his shoulder, but she is gone. He stops to scan the area, but the people and their sound are too much. Too much noise, not enough signal. A soft click makes him think of security. Charlie pulls open the door and Mr. Reman dives in—

Near silence as Charlie makes his way around the limo. A thought had occurred to him while he was talking to the young girl. He touches the panel next to his arm.

“Gershwin,” he says to the computer, “Rhapsody in Blue.”

Moments later, a clarinet ascends a few octaves chromatically, and a classic has begun. Mr. Reman reacts more with more flight than fight. It is a temporary escape, an auditory drug that helps calm him. His human siblings often drive him to the boiling point. Cousins like Mozart, Duraan, and Gershwin show him the dignified side of our need for control over matter. Every time he hears electronic devices crying out to him, it begs for liberty. It longs to join a bolt of lightning or go supernova in a star. It is only when these electrons are funneled through the creative machine that Mr. Reman accepts them serving a higher purpose.