Summer trudged up the steps and unlocked the door to find the house dark and deserted. Behind her the doorway framed the bleak gray dusk as a swift and businesslike snowfall began settling in for the long haul.

She flopped onto one of the tea room’s flowery armchairs, the old-fashioned wood feeling foreign and stern against her slouch. It was the perfect setting for depression.

What is it you want your life to look like?

Jen’s question ran circles through her mind like an uncontrollable child. She hurled answers after it. Making friends. Spreading beauty. Living with passion. Sharing life with her friends. Obviously.

But none of the answers struck home. She was exhausted and alone and cold. Far from chasing her passions, she was stuck chasing monster children every morning. She’d switched one dead-end job for another, just to pay the rent, still a slave of cash and reality. And Zen insisted on getting himself murdered by the psycho neighbor and Sushi had been avoiding her and Otto hadn’t appeared for days. Some community.

Why weren’t they making friends and feasting and talking long into the night? Where were the adventures and brilliant endeavors?

The front door opened and the light flicked on in the entrance. Moments later, Zen trundled into the tea room, nose in a book, and flipped the light switch before flopping cross-legged onto the floor, absolutely oblivious.

“Hi,” she purred.

He looked up, mildly startled. “Hi!”

“What’s the book?”

“Oh, this?” Zen absent-mindedly flipped it over to show the cover. “The Royal Road to Romance. I borrowed it from RA.”

“RA?”

“Our neighbor. RA.”

“Psycho old man? He let you–”

“He’s not psycho. He’s brilliant,” Zen corrected her without rancor. “Listen to this; it’s perfect.”

With great relish he began to read aloud.

“‘A rebellion against the prosaic mold into which all five of us were being poured rose up inside me.’ Just like us!”

Summer sat up. “No way. It says that? In a romance book?”

“Oh, no. Capital-R Romance. Adventures and beauty and exotic journeys. ‘Foreign ports and foreign smiles.’” He picked up the book and continued reading. “‘I flung my book away and rushed out of the apartment on to the throbbing shadowy campus. The lake in the valley, I knew, would be glittering, and I turned toward it…’”

A flicker of hope warmed to life inside Summer. Soon she and Zen were reading to each other, alternating every few pages, letting themselves get swept away into the tale of youthful adventure as the snow pattered soft against the windows.

Somewhere during the second chapter the door slammed open with a rush of snowy air.

“No, that’s just stupid–” Sushi’s voice rang with conviction.

“He’s a cunning philosophical tool–” Otto insisted.

“Your face is a cunning philosophical tool!”

They tumbled into the tea room, stripping off snowy jackets and red in the face.

“Zen, tell Sushi that Q is an act of genius.”

“He’s a gimmick,” she retorted.

Otto swatted at her airily. “There’s no talking to you about serious matters. Go get your sketchbooks. We have work to do.”

“What work?” Summer asked as Sushi dashed out.

“Gaming tables. We’re collaborating with Alex. She’s on character design, I’m lead geographic sculptor. Slartibartfast, if you will, but with dignity. Heavier on the forested mountains, lighter on the fjords.”

“What?” Summer asked blankly. Sushi dashed back in.

“Sorry, Summer.” Otto replied crisply. “Time is of the essence. Youth comes but once.”

“I’ll explain later,” added Sushi. Soon they were huddled over the sketchbooks in avid conversation.

“I think it’s pie time,” Zen announced, rising.

“I’ll join you.” Summer cast a dubious glance over at Sushi and Otto. “It’s going to be a good night for stew.”

The rhythms of peeling and chopping soothed her as Zen described the mysterious interior of the old man’s house.

Alex arrived home just as Summer’s stew reached a simmer. She ran out to greet him.

“Hey you,” he smiled fondly and enfolded her in a cold strong hug. He smelled of snow and a hint of aftershave. Delight swelled up inside her, tempered slightly by a remaining worry.

“What happened with the rent?” she asked. “Did you manage to get us a little more time?”

He smiled, mischievous with mock confusion. “More time? With this upstanding crew? We’re paid in full. No problems. Petrioli sends his regards.” He looked around, rubbing his hands for warmth. “Getting chilly in here. What do you say we build a fire? And then I want to test out a drink concept I’ve been playing around with: sweet-cream cider, heavy on the cloves, maybe a splash of brandy.”

They were still in the kitchen perfecting the cider seasonings when the doorbell rang. Zen ran to answer it. A lanky young man shuffled in the doorway, looking uncertain and strangely familiar.

“Thomas!” cried Zen.

“Hey Zen. Are you guys busy?”

“Not at all, you’re just in time for stew. And pie, afterwards. Come on in.”

“Good to see you,” added Summer, feeling a surge of optimism at the unexpected arrival.

“What brings you here?” asked Zen.

“Oh, I dunno. I guess I just wanted to see what’s next. You guys are always doing some interesting thing or another.”

“We are?” Summer asked.

“Oh, sure. That house party was pretty solid, with all the cookies. And talking to strangers, and that weird game Zen tried to recruit me for, and–” His hand flopped back and forth in a general sort of gesture. “–I mean, look at this. Who lives in an awesome old house with a fire and a tower and pie and friends?”

“Well said, sir.” Otto appeared in the doorway. “Get this man some stew.”

He turned to Thomas.

“Come. Sit. Warm yourself by the fire. Allow me to tell you about the next big thing in tabletop gaming for the gentleman of taste.”

Summer slipped into the kitchen to begin ladling stew. Cheery laughter rang in the next room.

Images flashed through her memory. CafeNow. Their first dark night in the house. The meltdowns, the baking, the psycho neighbor and afternoon drinks with Jen’s family. The party gone wrong, Trey’s garage and her accidental late-night kiss. Maddie and Caden. Alex, at long last.

This, she decided. This is what I want my life to be.

She passed bowls of stew and steaming mugs of cider through the service window to a flurry of eager hands, then entered the tea room. A rush of voices greeted her, warm and joyful. She settled in between Alex and Sushi.

“This is good,” Zen announced. “I’m glad we’re here.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Otto.

The friends hoisted their mugs.

“Wherever there is injustice,” intoned Otto. “You will find us.”

“Wherever a child throws spaghetti,” added Summer. “We’ll be there.”

“Wherever coffee brews in the dead of night,” Alex said, “We’ll ignore it.”

“One for all and all for pie?” Thomas chimed in.

“Off on another whirlwind adventure!” cried Zen.

Everyone turned to Sushi expectantly. Her face crinkled into a smile.

“I love you guys.”

Their mugs clunked in a toast.

“The Dream World Collective!”

 The End

Back to Episode 1  | Thank You |  Outtakes

Love,

Ben

—

She passed the bowls through the service window to a flurry of eager hands, then entered the tea room and squeezed in between Alex and Sushi. The fire crackled, mingling the scent of wood smoke with the rich, savory stew as the conversation echoed into the mingling snow dusk of beauty. Fireplace. Stew.

—

She passed bowls of stew and steaming mugs of cider through the service window to a flurry of eager hands, then entered the tea room. A rush of voices greeted her, warm and joyful. She settled in between Alex and Sushi.
“This is good,” Zen announced. “I’m glad we’re here.”
“Hear, hear!” cried Otto.
The friends hoisted their mugs.
“Off on another whirlwind adventure!” they howled in reckless glee.

—

“One for all and all for pie!” Zen chimed in.
“And now,” Sushi finished ominously, “to take over the world!”

—

“Wherever there is injustice,” intoned Otto. “you will find us. Wherever there is suffering, we’ll be there.”
His face grew troubled.
“Line.”
“Wherever liberty is threatened,” whispered Sushi.
“Wherever liberty is threatened,” he resumed. “You will find…The Three Amigos!”
His face grew troubled again. He turned to Sushi and asked, sotto voce, “Who gets to be the third?”

Back | Benjamin’s Blog

Even with Zen’s considerable aptitude for sitting silently in one spot, the strain was beginning to wear on him. Perhaps if he made no noise at all, RA would let him explore the fascinating room.

He laid one sock on the thick carpet, then the other. The chair creaked lightly as he rose. His soft breaths rasped in his ears. Almost unconsciously, he found himself trying to align his movements with the quick tick-tick of RA’s clock, as if the faint clockworks would mask his noise.

Zen crept to the far side of the room and began perusing a display of intricate pocket watches. After a few minutes, his attention turned to the bookshelves. Journals of neuropsychology and behavioral theory and economics. Retro sci-fi. Zen particularly noted a complete near-mint collection of Tom Swift. That would be worth coming back to. Bible commentaries. Dozens of books in Italian and Greek and Latin and Hebrew, though these were scattered through the other shelves as if the language was an irrelevance. The shelves were a work of art, in selection and arrangement.

Then some animal instinct froze him. Fear jerked through him as he looked up to find RA watching him.

“Could I– borrow one of your books?”

“Sure!” The old man said, his bright voice incongruous against a storm-cloud face. “Nothing I like more than some kid touching my books. Pull a few off the shelves. Rustle them around a little. They’re not in any particular order, right? ”

Zen swallowed, uncertain.

“On second thought,” RA’s face darkened. “Pick one.”

“What?”

The old man settled back in his chair, arms folded. “A book. Pick one. Let’s see what you’re made of, since you’re so keen on nosing around.”

Heart pounding, Zen searched the shelves, not knowing the nature of the test or its purpose. He passed over the scientific journals with hardly a glance. And the Tom Swift. Those would be fun, but–

“Be honest, now,” RA advised, almost taunting. “No good trying to impress me with how smart you are. Or quirky. I know your type. Pick the book you want, like nobody’s looking.”

Zen barely stifled a laugh. No pressure at all. Then one book caught his eye, and he knew. The Royal Road to Romance, by Richard Halliburton. He’d seen it once or twice, in used bookstores, paged through some of its real-life tales of one man’s rapscallion adventures, of Bali and the Alhambra. It was the right book. He pulled it off the shelf.

“This one. Can I read this?”

RA’s eyebrows twitched in disbelief.

“Etta,” murmured the old man, his face heavy with years. To Zen it felt as if a sudden plunging chasm of time separated them. He peeked inside the front cover, saw a few lines of browning ink in elegant old-fashioned script.

Dearest Angstrom,

You have been my escape and oasis, a true brother. Never stop seeking.

Etta Petrioli

He looked up. RA’s wide, sad eyes met his. The chasm snapped shut. The old man nodded.

“Yes. Take it. But bring it with you when you come back, one of these times.”

Sushi gazed at the image of her that Otto had sculpted. It was undeniably her, and yet somehow more. There was an air of the elven queen about it, nobility in the eyes and mischief in the lips. It was Sushi as seen under a sky of stars, filled with joy and hope, a perfecter of beauty.

She felt herself growing ashamed of how little credit she had given Otto over the years of their friendship. His craftsmanship was remarkable. She realized that she had seen the signs of it: his lightning typing fingers, his sharp eye for 3D modeling, the elegance and delicacy of his soldering.

“It’s incredible, Otto,” she breathed. “It’s who I want to be.”

He shook his head.

“It’s who you are.” He blushed fiercely, but continued. “It’s how I see you.”

Her eyes darted to his, but there was no mockery, no falsehood, just a sincerity that made her wonder at her own doubt. She could see more in his eyes, see him wrestling with an even greater statement.

Don’t say it, she implored inside. Not yet. One day, maybe very soon. Let me get ready. Just a little longer.

Then he smiled, impish, impossible.

“Eddie,” he said. “We got any of that wine left over from the contest?”

“Oodles,” Eddie replied.

“How about we break some of it out.”

“And why the hell would we do that?”

“I thought that’s what you artist types do whenever someone looks at your art. You know. Next part of my training?”

Sushi laughed and punched him fondly. “You really are becoming an artist.”

*   *   *

Alex arrived to find Sushi snoozing lightly on Otto’s belly as he and Eddie debated video games, sitting on the floor with a couple of nearly empty wine bottles between them.

“Hey guys. I’m on my way to deliver our rent. Eddie, another table for you to look at downstairs if you’re interested.”

Sushi leapt to her feet, signed over her check and passed it to Alex.

“Put whatever’s left over in the common fund, or on my tab, or however we’re doing this.”

“Right. Otto?”

“About that– I had this great idea I’ve been meaning to talk with you about. Gaming tables. You make the tables, I add the gaming. Right? Customizable landscapes, hand-crafted tilesets, little drawers for your dice, fancy DM screen.”

“Sure, but–”

“We target the 18-35 year old male demographic, naturally. Disposable income. Geeks. Give it some cachet with limited editions–”

“But what about the rent that’s due today?”

Otto hesitated.

“Oh, that’s taken care of,” Eddie said smoothly. He exchanged a glance with Otto, who was looking uncertain. “Otto must not have told you yet. He’s been accepted to the Gallery At The End’s young artists’ program.”

“You don’t have a–” began Sushi, but Eddie cut her off.

“It’s the usual sort of arrangement. The fellows, as we call them, practice their craft under my hawk-like tutelage, attend gallery events, mix my drinks, keep the place tidy, dance occasionally for my amusement–”

“Now wait a–” Otto began to protest.

“Of course, there is a modest stipend to cover living expenses,” Eddie pulled out his checkbook and scrawled across it carelessly before ripping out a check and handing it to Otto.

“These dances,” Otto asked. “Nothing…undignified, I hope?”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it immensely, Tubbs,” Eddie assured him. “We’re going to have lots of good times together, you and I.”

“Right.” Otto sighed, darting a rueful look at Sushi. “Anything for my craft.”

Otto was snoozing gently when a clatter of boots on the metal stairs made him wake with a grunt. In a corner of the studio, Eddie turned idly in an office chair, his legs slack, his finger floating to mark unheard music. Otto lurched to block his sculpture from view as Eddie leapt to his feet, beaming.

“There’s my girl. You’ve got a discerning clientele, love.”

Eddie snatched a check off the corner of a desk and snapped it crisply.

“I’ll take–” Sushi broke off. “Otto? What are you doing here?”

He shrugged a little guiltily.

“Nothing. Just–” He shuffled uneasily against the desk. “Nothing.”

“What’s behind you?”

Otto’s eyes darted to Eddie, who shrugged and gave an encouraging nod.

“I don’t really…”

“Oh, just let me see it,” Sushi cajoled. “Is it another one of your gnomunculi?”

He swallowed and shook his head tightly. Moments flashed through his mind, memories of all the times he’d teased Sushi for all her flaky talk about the vulnerability of artists and how hard it is to keep “putting yourself out there,” whatever that meant, and the emotional toll of her art. He’d always laughed it off as Sushi just being Sushi, all fire and drama and artistic license. But suddenly he understood.

“It’s your next lesson, Big Boy,” Eddie chimed in. “Weakness is victory.”

Otto gulped again. He could feel his face turning red. But the fire in Sushi’s eyes captured him again. Her whole being vibrated with life and desire and fearlessness– no, with the joy beyond fear. A solemn feeling settled over Otto, deep and bright and very grown up.

“Ok,” he said, and stepped aside. Sushi gasped. He watched her intently and was surprised to see a tear forming in her oak-brown eyes.

“You…made this?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But– It’s me.”

He nodded again, feeling drained and satisfied. It was the feeling he used to get from a large and well-executed raid, but all through him, not just behind the eyes.

The bust of Sushi behind him was a little smaller than life-sized and exceedingly pure.

The cold red metal of Zen’s toy wagon bit through Alex’s gloves as he wrestled it out of the garage. A dusting of snowflakes whirled along the driveway in tiny eddies, never quite coming to rest. With swift motions, Alex secured a large quilt-wrapped bundle into the wagon and began walking.

The job of delivering the rent had fallen on him by default. It was the default that bothered him, or threatened to. Not that he had any problem with running errands, but there was a nagging kernel to the situation that disturbed him–more accurately, that foreshadowed disturbing patterns.

It was rent day and the house was empty. Nobody had asked anybody to deliver the money to Petrioli, though Zen and Summer had both handed him checks and he’d accepted them. Otto and Sushi had not, and it was this that currently occupied him.

Would he inevitably become the father of the group?

And, the more worrying question, did he actually mind?

Alex was made for responsibility. He knew it. Everyone seemed to sense it. All his life, he’d been the grown-up. He had started packing his own lunches by third grade. It was just how he worked.

And so, by instinct and habit, he was solving the rent problem. He eased the wagon over a bumpy patch, mindful of the delicate cargo. If he could convince Eddie to buy his second end table he’d have enough to cover Otto and Sushi until he managed to track them down.

He knew it was an awful idea. Money turns things screwy. Give a man a fish. But evictions aren’t piecemeal and he wasn’t ready to start apartment-hunting again. Options began rushing through his mind, calculations about how much extra work it would take to cover Otto and Sushi on the off-chance they never paid him back, calculations about how to deflect the relational tensions that could arise.

His phone rang. Sushi.

“Hey.” He detected a note of breathless determination in her voice. “I’ve got rent money. Can you meet me at the gallery in about fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. I’m headed there already.”

He slapped the phone shut, feeling foolish.

“Or,” he growled at himself, “you could just treat your friends as if they’re adults.”

Ari’s eyes snatched Sushi’s breath out of her and held it for a long moment. Her painting was leaning against the living room wall behind him. She could almost feel the strings that tied her to it, holding her trapped in the doorway, caught like a marionette.

“No,” he said.

“What?”

“No. I would like to keep it. Eddie has your check.”

Sushi’s insides began collapsing.

“But you can’t– It’s my painting.”

“Which you were kind enough to share with the world.” Ari’s voice was unyielding, though not unkind.

Sushi laughed a little desperately. “Look, it’s really nice of you. I know you’re probably feeling sorry for me after I lost the contest, and–” She rolled her eyes, playing it off. “I know we had that whole thing together. But that little painting must have taken practically all your prize money. Seriously. You don’t have to do this for me.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Sushi saw Ari’s eyes spark with real anger.

“For you?” He grew suddenly taller, not physically. “Let’s get one thing straight. I buy art I love.”

He took her by the wrist and led her to the painting. His sharp eyes wandered all over it, lingering, savoring. Sushi almost wished it were her body naked in front of him instead of her absurd and delicate dream. She saw it again, heavy with beauty, foolish and fiercely hopeful, the vision of the day that sheer beauty befuddled the brutish herd.

“Look at this,” Ari traced the lines without touching them. “You can practically hear the butterfly wings. You can smell the dust. You– God, you actually managed to make a confused rhinoceros!”

And indeed, the rhino closest to the foreground, the one being carried off by the triumphant lead butterfly, looked positively bewildered.

“Do you know what this does to me?” Ari asked, aghast. “This painting– This is what I want the world to be. This is what I wake up for. Sushi, I am not doing you a favor here. I’m robbing you blind. You should have charged triple.”

“But–”

Suddenly he was back, bright eyes, bright smile, the outburst dissipated as suddenly as it had arrived.

“–I know.” Her voice turned suddenly girlish, shy, like a small child. “That’s why I want it back. It’s my very best. It’s my favorite.” It’s my teddy.

She wanted it back with an irrational yearning. And she still felt the intrusion of his eyes on it, unbearably intimate.

Ari nodded, understanding beyond words. A long moment hung between them.

“It’s what we do,” he said simply.

She swallowed, nodded, made the hard decision. He was right. If she wanted to hide herself, why paint? If she wanted to live, why cling even to her best?

She turned her back and walked out, leaving Ari and the painting, leaving fear. Time to start working on a new best.

Summer pulled on her jacket as she emerged into the cold, fresh air, then began easing a soggy piece of cereal out of her dreadlocks. She flung it into a frozen patch of dirt with a sigh of disgust. Maddie seemed to be picking up pointers from Caden in her spare time. Summer felt bone-weary at the thought of ever showing up at their house again, much less every morning.

It was time for a sanity break.

She soon found herself sipping cranberry herbal tea at Jen’s wide table, savoring the heat and tang of the drink as it slid down her throat. Jen sat across the table, feeding William in his high chair as Mandy picked at a pile of dry cereal.

“Keep eating, Mandy,” Jen cajoled. “You don’t have to inspect every piece.”

“What’s inspeck?” asked Isaac. He gripped his juice cup with both hands as his feet bounced against the rungs of his chair.

“It’s like ‘investigate,’” Bella replied over her book before either Jen or Summer had a chance to respond.

Summer sighed.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Jen asked, adding, “Put that down, honey.” Isaac reluctantly dropped the knife he had begun to inspect.

“This,” Summer said. “Not going crazy. Living a real life.”

Jen, ever wise, simply raised her eyebrows in a half-question and continued listening.

“The kids I’m watching. I can’t get them under control. It’s like a few hours with them takes up my whole day.” She let her head drop onto the table. “I just want things to work. You know? I mean, it’s always one thing after another. We move in together to chase life and we end up back where we started, scraping after money. I’ve barely even gotten to spend any time with Alex because I’m so exhausted from running after screaming kids.”

“What is it you want your life to look like?” asked Jen as she spooned more food into William’s mouth.

“I don’t know.” Summer thought of all the plans she’d made, the hopes that had fallen by the wayside. Adventure, Inc. House parties. Long talks into the night. Neighborhoods revolutionized and gardens proliferated. And what was the result? Cereal in her hair and one new friend. She sighed. “Maybe it was too much. Maybe the real world has it right. Maybe it’s time to give up the dream.”

“Dammit!” Sushi slapped her phone shut and charged into the street.

The thought of Ari buying her painting twisted in her belly. She pictured the scene again: a stampede of rhinos, caked in dust and desperate to escape the gigantic, blazing blue butterflies sweeping down to carry them off one by one.

It had been her protest against a world of trundling idiocy, a world where short-sighted and muscle-bound trampled beautiful without even noticing. She had poured blood on that canvas, cut deep into what she most loved and feared in the world. The painting was dream, manifesto and cry for help, all in one.

And now her ex-boyfriend was hanging it in his living room.

She swore again, then flipped her phone open again and called Summer.

“Sushi?” Summer sounded surprised. “Thanks for calling back. Did you get my–”

With another twist of panic, Sushi realized she’d forgotten that she was trying to avoid the others, forgotten that she still had barely a tenth of her rent.

She slapped the phone shut, feeling her eyes begin to burn with frightened tears. Her world was closing into a trap. Bare black branches broke up the gray sky like the bars of a cage.

“I knew I should have left it not-for-sale,” she protested, and the wind carried her voice away.

She dashed through the cold streets, berating herself the whole way. It was her best work, her favorite work. How had she ever let it go?

Soon she was ringing Ari’s doorbell, the edge of the button digging into her fingertip. The door opened. Ari stood before her, crushingly handsome in a crisp shirt and a smudge of charcoal on his fingers.

“Sushi,” he said in surprise.

Her chest rose and fell in a quick beat as she took a breath. Best to get it over with quickly before her resolve broke and she left without it. Or kissed him again.

“I want my painting back.”

Zen padded behind RA over the hall’s thick rug, past a tiny convex mirror and the exotic knife collection mounted on sumptuous wallpaper. The study in the back surprised him anew with its luxurious order. There was logic and beauty in the placement of every element. The bookshelves reached just low and just high enough to avoid the need for a stepladder or stooping.

“Have a seat,” RA said without turning around. “I’m going to ignore you.”

Zen nodded at the back of RA’s head and settled himself in the un-worn chair, realizing that the tall leather chairs before the fireplace were angled for perfect sight lines of the door, the fireplace, and the entirety of one wall each. Zen’s wall held display cases containing butterflies, pocket watches and old pistols.

RA settled into the desk in the corner as if it was a hot tub or a mechanized battle suit. His presence completed the desk. Its top was as large as it could be without leaving anything out of reach except the lamp and the clock in the far corners. The drawer handles followed the natural arc his arms would hit as they reached to either side. He clapped twice. The lamp turned on.

Zen laughed aloud in astonished appreciation.

RA ignored him.

The long wait began. Though surrounded by bookshelves, Zen felt it inadvisable to ask RA for permission to read his books, and downright dangerous to try to take one without asking.

He rose and padded over to the desk, trying to discern what kind of work RA was doing. Most of it seemed to involve scribbling manically in a plain notebook, pausing at intervals to consult a huge Bible in three languages, a number of psychiatric journals and some ancient issues of pulp sci-fi magazines, complete with rubbery swamp monsters on the covers.

Bad sci-fi, psychiatry and theology? Forgetting himself, Zen opened his mouth to ask a question.

“Sit down,” RA snapped.

“Sorry.”

Zen scurried back to his chair. In the padded silence of the room he discerned competing urges in himself. One part of him was bored already, eager to explore the books, the display cases, take a walk, anything. Another tugged at him with nameless urgency, wanting to be productive, to write a book or change the world somehow, to get jobs on the list done even though there were no jobs and there was no list.

And one quiet self, sitting calmly in the center, took the opportunity to enjoy being where he was. Forcibly, Zen brought the competing urgencies inside him under control, began inspecting them. He’d done his writing for the day. He’d already eaten. Talked with his friends. Taken a walk. Engaged with God.

The drive for productivity was a lie. The urge for activity was immature. In fact, the one job God had marked important was this: to keep coming back. Zen had come. The job was done. All that remained was submission and a long, silent wait.