On the Edge of Twilight: 22 Tales to Follow You Home by Gregory Miller

shook his head. “I don’t know, Dad. I guess that’s what I wanted to ask you.”
    “Just do your best.”
    “Because… because, well, I want to see her. I want to know what she’s up to. See what she looks like. See what she’s done with her life.”
    “Bonus question, then. When you think of Mary Swenson, what comes to mind?”
    “I don’t get what you mean.”
    His father grunted. “I mean just what I said.”
    Michael gazed at the scarred surface of the bar for a long time. “The Fourth of July,” he said at last. “When we sat on the hill at the top of the street and watched the fireworks. And Senior Prom. And the dress she wore. And the smell of her favorite perfume. And me giving her a ten-dollar locket with a rose. And us walking by the stream in Spring Creek Park. And, oh, God, that whole summer . And she was beautiful. It was all so new. Anything was possible. It was all perfect.”
    He fell silent.
    His father looked at him steadily. “And then, at the end of that summer, you broke up. You went away to college and she stayed behind, and you started dating someone else and so did she.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And you never saw her again.”
    “That’s right.”
    His father leaned in close. “I’m sixty-seven years old. I’ve done some stupid things, but I’ve learned a bit along the way, too. So here’s what I’ll do, for what it’s worth. I’m going to give you two quotes by two of my favorite writers. You can take them or leave them, and then I want you to go home to your loving wife and cute little kiddo. Got it?”
    Michael nodded.
    “Then listen close…”
    And the older man spoke, paused, and spoke some more.
    * * *
    There was a sleepless night, a restless morning, then late afternoon gave way to evening again.
    After a tense dinner, Michael clomped downstairs, plopped down in front of the computer, and checked his email.
    No new messages, save one.
    The note was from an old high school friend, Andy Collins. Michael faintly remembered sending him a brief line a few weeks before. The reply read:

    Hi, Mikey!

    It’s good to hear from you. So you’re trying to track down Mary, huh? Believe it or not, my wife works with her in Sagaponak. She gave me Mary’s email address to pass along to you. So here you go. Hope this helps and that all’s well.

    Andy
    Below the note was the email address.
    Michael, cold sweat beading his brow, clicked it. A blank email opened, addressed to Mary. He could write anything he wanted. Anything. And then seventeen years of silence would be broken by a thunderclap click of the mouse.
    He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
    “‘You can’t go home again,’” his father had told him. “Thomas Wolfe. Ever read him?”
    Slowly, his fingertips descended. They rested lightly on the keys. I can try , he thought.
    His father’s voice again: “Remember, ‘This moment and all moments last forever.’ Kurt Vonnegut.”
    Michael closed his eyes. His fingers trembled, knuckles white. Electric fire flowed through his nerve endings.
    Time slowed.
    “You can’t go home again,” he murmured, the words measured and cadenced, “but all moments last forever.”
    With a deep push, he exhaled.
    His hands drew away from the keyboard.
    He leaned down and turned off the computer.
    “She is seventeen,” he said softly. Upstairs, the baby began to cry. He headed up to help Zola tend him.
    “And somewhere, to someone,” he added, clicking off the light and closing the door, “so am I.”

Miss Riley’s Lot

    How bout when my big brother Chris took me up on Uncanny Hill during hunting season and let me watch while he and his buds shot a woman?
    I was fifteen, and it was the day after Thanksgiving, and Chris, he was nineteen that year, a real bruiser who liked to drink and get in brawls around town, but he got along with me bettern most.
    Well, he and Jim and Dale, that’s his friends, they took me up in the woods above town, and further in, deep in,