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He allowed all his weight to rest in the harness. He could hear the joints and screws squeak as they all worked in tandem to support the pressure. It felt good. He’d been standing long enough.

The therapist entered with her forehead down, and well into the room. Her eyes fixated on a device hugging her wrist. This wasn't a smartwatch. No, he knew what that looked like. This was something much bulkier, and expensive. He never understood how people could walk around everywhere with their heads down. Even blind people kept their eyes up. She stopped in front of him, finished her business, and put the bracelet device to sleep.

“How are we today, Mr.George?”

“Better now that you’re here.”

She gave a genuine smile as she set up. George was an old flirt, and he still had it.

She took a container from a variety of bottles stored on a rack and spilled the contents on the floor in front of him. This was his cue to stand.

“So, how’s your son?”

George frowned. He hated when she got him mixed up with her other patients. It reminded him of their actual connection compared to the one he thought they’d had in his mind. Maybe if she wasn’t so focused on that damn computer bracelet…

“I don’t have any sons, Lisa.”

She looked up at him as she spread the liquid out on the floor. It dawned on her. “Oh."

She stood and waved him onward to come to her. His movement was always awkward in the giant child harness. He’d always felt like a baby in a walker pushing himself forward with barred legs and the stability keeping him upright. He stood directly in the spill. It was odorless this time. Looked like some kind of oil.

“Alright, now, Mr.George, I’m gonna have you walk to me and do your best to try and keep your balance.”

“Alright.”

Lisa backed away a few feet behind the spill and opened her arms. “C’mon!”

George began to walk. Slowly. It took a few steps to get the momentum rolling and have full control over the harness. He stepped in the pile— SLIPPED! His legs went wayward under him, split into two different directions. It was the net nestled on his back, through the groin, and secured on his chest that saved him. The harness exhaled with a creek again as he allowed his weight to suspend in the air.

“Mmm,” she started, “Looks like you’re not ready for expert mode.”

He sprung to his feet with all the uncoordinated strength he could muster. “Are you kidding me? I was just showing you my moves.”

“Your moves?”

“Yeah!”

George bounced in his harness and kicked his legs out like some out-of-practice Russian dancer. Lisa let a laugh escape her body. An obnoxious one.

“Please, stop!”

“What? It can’t be any worse than the dance moves you kids got today.”

She cleared her throat. Recomposed herself. "Let’s take a step back…”

“Can’t we just say I walked over it? I don’t even use cooking oil anymore.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I’ll buy slip-resistant shoes.”

“And you’re gonna have ‘em glued onto your feet 24/7?”

He shook his head, and not in any way to humor her question. She got down and cleaned up the spill with a specialized rag then retrieved a basic beach towel to throw at George’s feet. He reluctantly stood on it.

“Now, remember to distribute your weight evenly and be ready to shift your weight where you need to, Ok?”

He nodded.

She pulled the towel from under him.

***

They were almost thirty minutes out from the city, traveling along one of the only roads headed in that direction. The further they drove, the thicker the forest got on either side. Most of the passengers lived in or near the city, leaving George as the last passenger on most trips.

“So, I guess this my last time seeing you, huh Mr.George?” Chris said.

George looked up and found the young black driver looking at him through the mirror.

“No, I don’t think so. Couldn’t pass that last test.”

“Sorry to hear that, but look on the bright side, you get to hang with me more.”

George grinned through his disappointment. “Now, who on God’s hastily made earth would want to hang out with you?”

Silence.

“Yo mama…”

They laughed. Chris always made George laugh. It was a forty-five-minute trip from the clinic to George’s house after all, so the pleasantries tended to turn to sheer stupidity.

“My mother was a saint!”

“Only on Sunday, I hear…”

The laughs died down. They could hear the whining of the wheels against the road again.

“Did they ever catch that guy?”

“No.”

“That’s still some wild shit, man. How many times can someone get away with that? And at the same place?”

“Maybe it’s time to take matters into my own hands.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means I grab my cannon next time and blow that fucker away!”

“Hold on, now, Mr.George. I don’t want to see your old ass in prison.”

“I think my chances are good. I’ve called the police at least a dozen times. Even caught the fucker on camera. Still no arrest? Next time, they’ll be scooping his ass off the driveway with a spatula.”

“Yeesh. Good thing for him you can hardly see the time on your watch, let alone see anyone in your crosshairs.”

Chris tried to alleviate some of the tension with that one. He knew George was serious.

“You get what you get and you don’t act like a bitch is what my daddy taught me.”

“That the same guy that beat you with the flat side of a combat knife?”

“The very same. I was disciplined.”

“You were a victim…”

Chris slowed at the road that branched off to the side and curved deeper into the wilderness. George unbuckled the seatbelt and tried the door. Locked.

“There a reason I can’t get outta this can?”

“Hold on. Child lock’s on.”

Chris threw the can in the park and shuffled around to the door. He opened it and followed with a bow. “Sir,” he said, holding his hand out.

George hopped out with a grin, trying to disarm a not-so-tolerant joke dancing on his tongue. Chris could tell it was coming by the look on the old man’s face.

“Don’t even say it.”

***

He was staring at her picture again. The one framed atop the dresser on his side of the room. The one she’d sent him during his basic training. Those curves in that two-piece. That long blonde hair draped over her shoulders and covered her breast, accenting the cleavage. His superiors were damn close to confiscating it because it was guaranteed jerk material. But George knew they just wanted it to themselves.

He kept this photo well into their forty-year marriage until she could no longer stand to look at it. Until the person in the photo was so far removed, it acted as a painful reminder of one’s mortality and the fleeting nature of beauty. She requested he pack it away and not long for the beauty she once was. George assured her, he still saw that same country girl wearing the USA flag-print bikini. He tucked it away and wouldn’t display it again till after her passing. This is how he wanted to remember her. Forever immortalized in her beauty.

He took his ring from his pocket and slid it on his finger. it seemed to him that his wife's expression in the picture changed.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

***

Hours later, when the sun began to sink, George awoke on the recliner in the darkness of his living room. The TV in front of him cast a slight glow- the news highlighting a trial of some black businessman that people were interested in. As he stood, his body swayed like a weight had anchored him from his side. He quickly regained his footing and took a moment to plant his feet. His balance was off, and his night vision wasn't much better. Bedtime, he thought.

He looked up the staircase. It seemed to climb into an abyss, or if he stared long enough, downward. He reached for the switch that would dispel the image but was met with a flat surface all around. There should've been a light switch here, he thought. He planted his foot firmly on the first step, grabbed a tight hold of the railing, and began his ascend.

He was staring at her picture again. The one framed atop the dresser on his side of the room. The one who… He couldn’t remember who gave it to him. In fact, he couldn’t remember who was in the picture. The darkness had disfigured the woman’s face, twisted it into a baleful stranger. That smile. It chilled his spine.

He shuffled over to the wall for the switch, sliding his hand frantically across the surface. Nothing. He looked over his shoulder; the dark figure in the frame was staring right at him, the smile growing sharper. His heart rate broke free of calm as he staggered into every corner of the room, clamming for light!

“Where’s the switch!” He cried.

The darkness seemed to close in, engulfing everything but the picture frame, highlighting that smile. His heart rate was now strong enough to beat his eardrums and pump blood to his body with the force of an ocean current—

BOOM!

A noise downstairs.

His attention shifted as the darkness receded into the corners again. It’s him, he thought. George opened his dresser, overlooking the picture that plagued him a minute ago. There in the drawer was a little gleam of light offered by old chrome. George's piece.

He looked down the staircase that seemed to unravel downward into an abyss, or if he stared long enough, upward. He heard rustling coming from the black of the downstairs. Someone was definitely in the house, but George was widowed, had no kids- lived miles away from the city, and the days of company were long gone. He was alone and knew of only one person who took advantage of this. He planted his foot firmly on the first step, grabbed a tight hold of the railing, and began his descent.

It was surely that man. Sometimes he came in the middle of the day, sometimes at night, but he always came while George was alone. He’d always wear a mask and a backpack and never stayed long enough to be caught. He’d steal things from the fridge, the garage, and the bedroom, slowly chipping away at George’s belongings. When George interfered with the stranger’s looting, it always ended with him being knocked unconscious.

The police were called. Several times. Always after the fact and not much could be done but sit and wait to catch him. The traps were set, but he never came. It was shortly after the police withdrew from the case that the stranger returned, and the police seemed none too interested anymore. He'd appear and then disappear. George came to call this man "The Geist".

He peeked around the corner of the stare case. Someone was ransacking the kitchen. Mask. Backpack. It was The Geist. His back was turned- too busy seeing what was in the fridge. George knew there wasn’t much in there, and there was little time to act. He'd go on the preemptive.

George rolled off his cover and stealthily placed one foot in front of the other, leading with his gun, closing the distance between him and The Geist. Scratching and clanking came from the kitchen as The Geist rummaged through the fridge, looking for something edible. A grin smeared over George's face as his heart fell still. It was too late for The Giest now. Even if he turned around, George was too close a distance to miss.

He placed the gun into the back of The Geist's head, pushing him further into the fridge.

“Find anything good?”

The Geist snapped his gaze over his shoulder, realizing he was caught.

“Put the gun down,” he said through his mask.

George pointed the barrel right in between his brow “No. You won’t be getting away this time.”

"What?" The Geist took a step forward.

“Keep your hands up! It’s up to you if you want to ride in cuffs, or a body bag.” George reached for the phone in his pocket— The Geist lunged at him!

BOOM! The kitchen was illuminated briefly with a brilliant light. The Geist fell flat on his back. Eyes wired open.

George took it the scent of simmering chrome, much like a baker does his pastries. He was familiar with this scent. And always knew what followed its pungency. A worse smell...

A faint grunt sounded off from under him. George looked down. The Geist was alive, checking himself. He'd missed. That damn Chris, he thought, he said this would happen.

George stood over him. This time he aimed directly at his eye.

"Wait!" The Geist cried. He pulled down his Covid mask. "It's me!"

George swallowed an ice cube as The Geist's face slowly morphed into one he'd seen before. His features aligned like a jigsaw puzzle. He looked just like him...

"Son?"