LITMIR.BIZ

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now too late to become invisible.

      At the first gunshot, birds rise and clatter through the branches above. Sticks rattle down. Animals startle and slip through the underbrush.

      There’s only the sound of the truck after the second shot, the engine roughly idling. Dave, pressing himself harder into the ground, tastes the dirt on his lips; he can feel the wild children close around him—quick, seeing in the darkness, sensing that he is no threat.

      A dark shape moves beneath the truck, an arm reaching through the open door and into the light. It’s Henry, his long body sliding up, low, flat on the seat now so he can’t be seen through the windshield. Dave holds his breath, watching, hoping Henry will make it.

      He does not hear the shift, but slowly the truck begins to ease backward, sticks cracking beneath the tires. Another shot, a bullet tearing into metal, and Henry sits up straight, the truck accelerating. It sideswipes a tree, and a brake light shatters. The open door wrenches back and is torn off, left behind. The whole thing lunges over the ditch, onto the road. The headlight stares through dust.

      Tires spinning, finding the ruts, the truck slams forward. The cab is alight, and Henry is visible, inside, still hooded, sliding away with the sound of gravel, gone.

      A thick silence rises, multiplying in the darkness, the stars held out by the trees overhead. Then Melissa’s voice sounds, startling him, closer than he expected.

      “David?” she says. “Are you here?”

       SHAKEN

       for Motoko Vining

      ASADA LOCKS HIS CAR and turns away, leaving it parked on the shoulder of the highway. He crosses the low ditch and begins climbing upward, following a stream. It’s early autumn; these days, the sun stays low and cool, rolling along the horizon for hours. Most of the leaves on the ground are last year’s—dried and bleached out, the same dull white as bones.

      Walking under the trees, he breathes in, then exhales, the air cool in his throat. He has a sweater tied around his waist, a canteen on his hip, an energy bar in his pocket. In his hands, he carries only his fishing pole. A year ago was the first, the only time that he’s been to this place. An engineer where he works told him it resembled Japan, and that drew Asada here, stirred his curiosity. His family had moved to the States when he was fourteen, and now he is forty-four; while he doesn’t recognize the similarity in this landscape, he hopes it might startle memories from inside him. He has put off his return all spring, all summer. He had to come before his hesitation stretched out into the first snowfall, before the trip was delayed into next year.

      His breathing is already coming faster; he slows, but does not stop. This slope climbs for miles, even beyond the timberline, far beyond his destination. He is hiking to where an old stone mill, gutted and abandoned, sits beside the stream, where the remnants of a dam still collect a shallow pool. The stillness there is only disturbed by the gentle slapping of leaves; aspens circle the water.

      The year before, standing beside the pool, he had seen what he believed was a shadow on the stone wall of the mill. It folded, though, then spread, and he could not see what might have cast it. Climbing along the wall, twisting higher, the shadow moved as if it held weight and was expanding, growing arms and legs. Asada’s chest had gone cold. He had fled down the mountainside, stumbling, not looking back. This time, he won’t run. He’ll stay. He has not been surprised for a very long time, and he feels a desire to be shaken.

      The bank is rough and torn where, months ago, the swollen stream ran. He crosses the stream, trying to follow the clearest path, and fish dart from stone to stone, abandoning the shadows along the edges. Bending, he tightens the laces of his leather boat shoes, the most casual footwear he owns. He wonders if this would be easier with hiking boots, and whether people often hike alone. Perhaps it’s usually done in groups, or in couples. He tries to imagine a woman walking beside him. There is a movement in his peripheral vision, to his right. A deer, standing only twenty feet away, raises its head and stares. It’s a doe, slightly darker than the leaves on the ground, ears out like funnels, light showing through them so Asada can see the red veins forking there. He can smell her, also, sweet and rank, tight in his nostrils. Lifting his fishing pole, he points it like a gun; the cork grip presses against his cheek as he sights down the round, metal ferrules, straight at the deer. She only snorts at him, unimpressed. She walks away slowly, her white tail switching back and forth.

      Asada also walks on, in the other direction. He is disappointed in the deer for not running, and in himself, somehow, for not making her afraid. This is not a marked trail; he is probably the only person for miles. He wonders how she became so accustomed to people.

      Again, as he climbs, he thinks of women. At the computer company where he works, there are several he’s friendly with, yet the ones he’s pursued have rarely wanted to know him better. White women realize he’s not as exotic as he looks, while Japanese women consider him slow to assimilate, to adapt to life in the States. None of these women work in his department, so they cannot understand, cannot know how it affects a person, translating technical correspondence. He uses Japanese words that most Japanese would not know, English words that Americans would never encounter. Together, these two groups of words are like a third language—one beset by redundancy, with two words for every single thing, with almost no one to share it.

      Tree branches cross like latticework overhead. He holds his fishing pole in front of him, clearing spiderwebs. Today, he doesn’t mind being by himself. He doesn’t want to explain his expectations to anyone and, besides, he feels things are more likely to happen if he’s alone. The bushes thicken. Parting them with his hands, he looks down just in time to avoid stepping on a dead bird. A crow or raven, its black feathers still shiny while its dull eyes stare. Asada holds his breath. After a moment, he hears a car on the highway, distant now, somewhere below. He leaves the dead bird behind.

      He has been walking under the trees, in the shadows, for over an hour when he steps into the clearing. The side of the mill facing the pool is lit by the sun. The white stone wall looks cold and bright; the three windows—two low, one above—are squares of darkness. For a moment, it seems that the mill has moved closer to the water, and then he realizes it’s the breadth of the pool that’s changed.

      The pool is all reflections. The tips of the aspens bend inward, stretching there. Birds dart low across the surface, doubling in the water, folding their wings to plummet, opening them to rise. Asada stands near the low dam, where all the earth has been washed from between the white stones. He looks into the mottled gray trunks of the aspens, at their bright yellow leaves in the sun. Behind the mill, a broken fence stretches, wooden rails down in some places; farther along, a whole section has collapsed.

      He notices that there’s no lure on the end of his line, not even a hook. It doesn’t matter. He casts out his bare leader and the pool ripples and settles. Little trout rise, curious, holding themselves steady in the clear water. He watches until they lose interest, and then he reels in the line. A breeze rolls down the mountain and the aspens’ leaves slap and clatter. Asada shivers, sweat drying inside his clothes. His legs and feet are sore from the hike.

      Then it begins. Ten feet from where he stands, where the pool drops off into slightly deeper water and he can no longer see the bottom. It’s as if something is rising from below—an indistinct shape, its edges finding clarity, different shades verging on colors. A round face, almost, a darker body, flickering, trailing off. Asada’s heart accelerates, his scalp tightens. A cloud’s reflection slides across the pool, blurring the surface, and the image does not return. He looks up, then, toward the mill—it seems a dark shape moves in one of the low windows, as if someone was standing there and has slipped behind the wall, beyond where he can see.

      Asada unties the sweater from his waist and sets it on the ground, in case he has to move quickly. He reminds himself that he is more curious than afraid. Attempting to appear calm, he again casts out his line; this time, the trout don’t even bother to pretend they’re interested. He looks away from the pool, squinting into the aspens, the shadows between them. What he thought were natural marks are actually letters,

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