John Miller - The Last Day

Outside Concord, North Carolina the third Sunday in August

Sitting cross- legged on the cool clay floor, the watcher used the tip of his survival knife to carve another letter into the wall of his hide. After he inspected the letter-an O he ran the sharpening stone against the blade, holstered the knife, and set it down gently by his side.

The midday sun cooked the still air outside the hole. He looked out at the rear of a sleek, modern house through the four- inch opening in the trap door. When the interior lights were on, and it was adequately dark, looking through the large windows reminded him of peacefully watching fish in a tank. The house's two occupants-a man and his wife-swam from room to room like trout. He often watched their big TV screen through his binoculars, over the back of the leather sofa. Rarely were the residents together for more than a few minutes. Their conversations were short ones, and the obvious emotional distance gave the watcher great pleasure.

The sound of a motor's purr caught the watcher's attention as he looked up in time to see the wife's Lexus coming around the house while the garage door opened. He felt a rapidly growing sense of arousal watching the SUV roll slowly into its bay. The woman was not perfect, but nevertheless a beautiful and desirable creature.

Watcher switched off the iPod, opened his rucksack, drew out a jar, and held it up, illuminating six large dark- shelled beetles he'd found under a rotten log that morning on his way to the hide. In the sunlight, their ebony armor had the iridescence of raku pottery. The bugs ambled along, content, creeping like tanks over the bottom of the jar he had brought to urinate into while he was in the hide. The insects would walk around in circles, try to scale the walls, and climb over each other for the rest of their lives, constantly looking for a way out. The man knew this from experience. He knew a great deal about captive behavior. While it was true that the bugs were docile, he had experience with beetles and many other creatures whose demeanor seemed fixed until outside forces intervened.

Finding a drinking straw, the man opened the jar and set the lid aside. He used the end of the straw to jab at the insects, prodding each once or twice before going to the next. After a few seconds a steady hissing sound, like a leaking tire, erupted from the jar's inhabitants. He smiled, knowing that before long the seemingly docile beetles would attack each other and begin using their powerful jaws to dismantle their mates, leaving severed appendages in the jar's bottom. And he would release the victor-the bug with the most limbs left-and crush the losers under his boots. His grin widened as he watched the garage door close, the hissing of the insects reaching a frenzy.

Dr. Natasha McCarty slipped on her reading glasses and gently pressed the abdomen of Josh Wasserman, a four- year- old whose appendix had ruptured early the previous evening. As usual, she'd done a first- class job both on the removal of the defective body part and in the even spacing of the sutures. Across the room, a bright bouquet of tulips stood centered in the window, and Mr. and Mrs. Wasserman sat quietly in chairs on the other side of the bed where the small child lay. Mrs. Wasserman, a petite, round-faced woman, appeared to be about eight months pregnant. She stared at the child as though he might vanish should she blink.

How are you feeling this morning? Natasha asked the bright- eyed boy as she checked the chart hanging at the foot of his bed. His color was good, his vitals strong. She wouldn't know he'd been at death's door less than twelve hours earlier if she hadn't performed the operation herself. Children could be amazingly resilient.

My stomach hurts, he replied sullenly.

Natasha smiled sadly as the small face twisted in on itself and tears streamed down his cheeks. She set the chart down, put her hand under his chin, and sat on his bed, careful not to jostle his small body.

You're going to be fine very soon, she told him tenderly.

You've been such a brave boy, his mother added with forced cheer.

He's worried that his soccer career is over, his father said.

That's not a problem, Josh. You'll be back running around and playing ball in a couple of weeks like this never happened. Natasha handed him a tissue from the bedside table and waited until he wiped the tears away.

What about peritonitis? Mrs. Wasserman asked. Complications.

After smiling reassuringly at Josh, Natasha looked over at the parents.

We cleansed the site and we'll monitor very closely, but the antibiotics he's on are very effective. Josh is a very strong young man. There's no reason to worry.

Can I have it? Josh asked.

Have what? Natasha asked.

The palendix, he said. In a jar. So I can have it to keep.

Josh, Mrs. Wasserman said, you do not need your appendix.

We could use it for bait next time we go fishing, Mr. Wasserman joked.

I'm sorry, Josh, Natasha said. We didn't keep it.

What did you do with it? he asked, curious.

We incinerated it.

A look of confusion grew on his face. What?

Incinerate means we had to burn it up. When we remove things from people, we are required by law to burn them up in a furnace.

You cremated my palendix?

Natasha smiled. Yes.

Like Buster, Josh said.

Buster was our Labrador, Mrs. Wasserman explained.

A vetanarin cremated Buster, he went on. In a hot, hot fire.

He was nine, Mr. Wasserman added.

Mr. Murphy runned over Buster in a car, Josh said with a tiny sneer.

Ran over, Mrs. Wasserman corrected.

He ran over him. I wanted a new dog, but I'm getting a new sister instead. I wanted to bury him, but Daddy said our yard was too little. Our yard is all brown and crunchy because the police won't let us put any water on it.

It's very dry where I live, too, Natasha said.

Where do you live? Josh asked.

I live way out in the country north of here, she replied.

Do you have a dog?

We don't have any pets. But we do have deer, squirrels, raccoons, and possums, and lots of birds.

You live on a farm and you don't got pigs and cows?

We don't live on a farm. We live in the woods.

You got many snakes?

We have a few. Mostly harmless snakes, thankfully.

Do you live with your daddy and mommy?

My mommy and daddy live in Seattle, Washington. That's a long way from here. I live with my husband. Natasha braced herself for the next question.

Do you have any little boys and girls?

No, Natasha said, smiling.

Why come?

Josh, Mr. Wasserman said, you shouldn't pry into Dr. McCarty's personal life.

I'll see you tomorrow morning, Josh, Natasha said, rubbing his head.

When can I go home?

In a few days.

Natasha was near the nurses station dictating her notes for transcription when she saw Dan Wheat walking toward her. One of her partners, Dan had the bedside manner of a mor tician. She didn't know why he'd gone into pediatric med icine, since he seemed to view children as troublesome monkeys. He was rail-thin with a roving eye and a legendary bag of tired pickup lines. Natasha had once overheard one of his young patients tell him he had stinky breath. Dan immediately ordered a spinal tap for the offender before he went off in search of mints.

Natasha, he said, waving her down. You see my new wheels?

No.

I broke down and treated myself to a top- of-the- line Benz SL five- fifty-that's a two- seat convertible-in jet black. It's a bitch to keep clean, so I run it wide open to blow the dust off. I figure, hey, I work hard for my money and I deserve it. You know, he who toots not his own horn risks leaving it in a state of untooted-ness.