Andrew leans up and peers over the backseat and begs her to come back, but the trees’ autumn colors smother him and his request as he can’t hold himself up and retreats into his fear of her telling them what he is. His teeth grind, he pushes up, but his neck cannot support him turning toward the lobby. He faces the window and, across the street from the hotel, the stores and their decorations, and none of their fantasies can free him—not the pumpkins carved and gutted of seeds; a skeleton bursting from the grave; the mummy’s cracked tomb; or the superheroes soaring above it all.
William Auten – “One Swift Effort”