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told at that first meeting – I anticipated an awkward reunion, and I wasn’t wrong. There was a lot of unproductive coughing, embarrassed looking away. One by one they stepped outside for a smoke and didn’t come back. As I spent time with those who remained, I was struck by how the class of ’96 found something to say to more recent graduates. They matched, somehow; their edges were cut to fit. They made plausible claims to kinship.

      But enough, already. Too much, already. Story collections shouldn’t need forewords to sustain them. Typically, me, I never read them; forewords, I mean. The only reason I hope anyone has had the patience to have endured this far is so she/he/they will know how truly thankful I am to Talonbooks, a venerable Vancouver publisher, for giving these stories a second chance at life. To Kevin and Vicki Williams, to andrea bennett, both for her editorial and graphic acumen, to Charles “Eagle Eye” Simard, and to all and sundry at the house, my gratitude. I acknowledge my late agent, Esther Poundcake (?–2018) who never did anything during our years together to get me a big advance or tout my name in London or Frankfurt but was one hell of a poodle. I loved her and I miss her and I will fulfill the promise I made during her last hours on Earth, when she was unable to rise from the floor and the vet was on her way, that I would allocate her 15 percent cut of whatever the proceeds from sales to the purchase of meat.

      —B.R.

      December 18, 2018

      On Christmas Eve –

      Dishes done, stocking hung, spiced wine mulling. Kitchen-counter radio tuned to the all-carol station. Sing, Bing, sing.

      Rosellen’s ready. Set to go. As soon as J.C. deigns to appear, they’ll begin. It’s hard to say when that might be; consistency has never been the cornerstone of his charm. Rosellen doesn’t mind, just as long as he turns up before eleven. That’s when “quiet time” starts at the Santa Maria. It’s right there, in black and white, written in the agreement everyone signs but nobody reads when they move in; all anyone cares about is whether they get their damage deposit back with interest. Also, whether pythons count as pets.

      Quiet time is from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. Repsect your neighbours.

      Rosellen’s knack for flagging typographic missteps revealed itself in the earliest days of her literacy. It was a savant’s gift, freakish, lavishly praised by her convent school English teachers, nuns who encouraged her to repay her debt to God – how else to explain it? – by taking up a career as a proofreader or copy editor.

      Over the ensuing years – December 1984 through December 2018 – Rosellen knowingly, flagrantly presented this flawed document to hundreds of incoming Santa Maria novices. She watched them inscribe their names – sometimes ploddingly, sometimes with a flourish – then appended her own witnessing signature in the adjacent space. Not once in all that time did anyone arch a critical brow, tsk tsk, or otherwise call out repsect.

      Rosellen allows that it might not speak well of her, the surge of stupid glee

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