“How long does it take to fix a dumb tire,” I mumbled to myself. I had been driving along I-70, trying to get home, when my tire blew out. Cursing liberally, I had pulled over to the side, then spent the next half-hour cursing while I put the spare tire on and threw an occasional thank-you to my dad, who swore all his daughters needed to be able to change their own tires. He said there was no sense waiting for someone to help you, and you couldn’t trust that just because someone stopped meant they knew what they were doing. He also slipped a few comments in about how lug wrenches could majorly fuck up someone with little effort in self-defense.

I sighed to myself. The tire shop in this small town had said it would take a couple hours to get to my car, what with their current workload and a couple guys out. I had already wasted as much time as I could eating lunch at a greasy diner and really didn’t want to just sit on my phone at the shop for another hour. So here I was wandering their main street, hoping for something that would pass the time.

I spotted what had to be one of the oddest store signs I have ever seen. One half was an old-school movie theater marquee that proclaimed “Mary’s Antiques”; it looked like someone had chopped the rest of the marquee off. Slightly overlapping the sign was an atrociously pink neon sign reading “And EXTRAS”. Obviously not relying on subtlety or curiosity what these extras might be, the neon sign showed the lower half of, presumably, a woman, legs in the air, ankles crossed, thong not covering any of the ample cheeks, sensuous lines of her back cutting off just before an adolescent might hope to see a boob.

Well, I wanted something to pass the time. Whatever this place was, it had to be more enjoyable than smelling tires. Or if not, at least I tried.

As I opened the door, I was surprised to feel what smelled like an ocean breeze whip by me. It couldn’t have wholly been my imagination as I felt my hair flow behind me before settling. I was prevented from thinking about it more as my cane snagged on the leg of a chaise that was right next to the door. A yelp forced its way past my lips as I felt my leg, now unexpectedly, bereft of its support, crumple. I saw the floor rushing up towards me, and as I had fallen slightly sideways, my ribs bounced off the hard, wooden back of the chaise on the way down.

Rather than my head hitting the bare, stained tile, I felt my head suddenly cushioned and my vision obscured by something purple.

“I got you.”

The voice was right above me, but I was still trying to catch up with what felt like far more than could possibly have been crammed into just a few seconds. I raised a hand to whatever had cushioned my fall and started to push.

“Hehe, most people ask first, but I won’t tell if you don’t.” I heard the same voice giggling just above me.

Whatever the purple fabric was, it was extremely soft and warm. It almost felt like bamboo fabric, but not quite. That was about the same time I realized there were arms hooked under my shoulders, and they were pulling me up as I pushed my head away from the pillow. Or not a pillow.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. I just fell and. Thank you.” I stammered out while trying to separate myself from the woman who had caught my head with her boobs. I could feel myself blushing hard enough my face was burning, and I wanted desperately to be anywhere else but there. It’s embarrassing to have someone catch you from falling, and some unintentional body contact was a given. I had breasts too. I just normally didn’t massage and stroke a stranger’s trying to figure out what they were.

I was standing upright now and separated from my rescuer fully. She was a blonde woman with an innocent happiness to her smile. She was holding my cane out to me and didn’t seem at all perturbed at my groping.

“Thank you”, I said, taking my cane back. I could already tell that while she had saved me from actual injury that my leg and ribs were going to hurt tomorrow.

“Of course. I’m sorry you fell. I’ll move the chaise out of the way so it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

I appreciated her making it sound like it could have happened to anyone. But inside, I hated myself yet again. 33 years old and using a cane daily just to get around, but not just that, using it poorly enough to fall over practically nothing.

The woman gave me an extremely wide and kind smile like she knew what I was thinking. I felt myself perk up just a little seeing it. How could anyone not be at least a little happy when every gesture of hers was infused with childlike innocence and glee?

“If you need anything, let us know. Kendra will be happy to help.” She waved towards the side of the store where I could just make out a counter and cash register through haphazard piles of what must pass for antiques here. I nodded my head and smiled back, but I really didn’t want to spend more time there. I thought for a moment about just walking right out the door, but that seemed rude, even for how embarrassed I was. I resolved to wander just for a few minutes to be polite.

Almost immediately, I realized I would not be buying anything. The vast majority of items were anything but antiques. I wondered if this place frequented garage sales and thrift shops for their inventory. Cracked plastic mirrors, mismatched silverware that was definitely not silver, a gold magnifying glass that didn’t actually magnify- none of this was worth anything. I sped up my pace a little, feeling less and less like I had to be polite. I should have guessed from the sign out front that the antiques were not the main priority. Obviously, the money maker here was the sex shop.

I did pause briefly, looking in the women’s clothing section. Improbably, there were some used pointe shoes, which brought back a rush of memories. There was even a tutu. I moved on swiftly, convinced this had all been a bad idea. I was hurrying towards the door when I brushed against a clock. Before I realized what was happening, my momentum carried me forward, and my sleeve, which had snagged on some type of door on the clock, pulled it open.

The doors opened, and a ballerina danced out. Literally danced out. I paused in shock. I turned fully back to the clock to see if I had broken anything. Compared to everything else in the shop, the clock was an oddity. I had never seen anything like it. This was gleaming bronze that shone like new. Two armored figures on each side faced each other, each holding a sword aloft that crossed above the clock face. One held roses in the other hand, while a book was clasped tightly by the other figure. The clock face itself was white but had been painted to show a beautiful background of grassy hills. The doors sitting just below the face appeared impossibly small to hold the beautiful ballerina that now twirled in front of me.

I was entranced as, after far too short a time, the platform where she danced retracted, and the doors shut. I stood still, just looking at the clock. It was like nothing else I owned, was far too ornate for my style, and yet I wanted it. I couldn’t see a price tag, so I decided I would just take it to the counter and ask. Picking up the clock, I was surprised both by the instant warmth I felt and also the weight. I was half-expecting it to turn out to be painted plastic, but this felt like solid metal.

I set the clock on the counter and was distracted by the cash register. That thing must be worth more than everything else in the shop combined. Or at least it was older than everything else in the shop. How long ago did they stop making wooden cash registers? Before I had more than just that brief thought, I was interrupted by a woman’s voice.

“Did you find everything you needed?”

Needed? I looked at the clock. This wasn’t a need. “Yes, I think so”, I heard myself respond.

“Perfect.” The woman, different from the one who had saved me before- so I assumed this was Kendra- smiled and pulled a lever on the side of the cash register. She then wrote for a moment in a book next to the register.

“Hmm, what would you call this?” she asked.

“I don’t know, ballet clock, I guess?” I said, slightly confused why she was asking me what her merchandise was.

“Perfect. Ballet clock it is.” I saw her write that down, hit two buttons on the register, pulled the lever again, and then looked up at me happily. “Enjoy your new life.” She turned around and walked into the backroom out of sight without another word. That seemed weird and like something was missing, but I couldn’t figure out why.

It was only as I was back on the road after a solid hour of driving that I realized what was wrong. I had stolen the clock. Not only had I never asked how much it was, but the lady never even asked for money. She just wrote in the book and then walked off. I looked at the clock in the passenger seat, I was tempted to turn around and pay for it. Then I decided I would call them tomorrow, apologize, and I could give them my credit card number over the phone. I nodded and got back to the monotony of driving in a straight unwavering line that was I-70. By the time I arrived home a little after midnight, I had forgotten about my theft.

“Nope, nothing exciting for me this weekend. I told you that I had to go to Kansas for a family thing.” I was sitting in the breakroom at work, talking with several of the other medical billers. “So hour after hour of driving through nothing, smiling at family I don’t know, then I blew a tire on the way back. I didn’t even get home until midnight.”

I shared my tidbit about the weird antique shop with the naked lady sign, but as I didn’t actually go into the sex shop half no one lingered on it. Jen told us about every little thing her seven kids did and wanted to show us pictures documenting every 30 seconds. Liz, as always, said she spent the day with her husband doing chores. Ty went to the gym and played basketball. Only Heather had exciting gossip, and she waited to tell me until we were back at our desks. To the group, she just said she went out with friends.

“Ok, who was it this weekend?” I asked wearily once Heather and I were alone again. Heather grinned. Apparently, it had been a couple who were looking for a third. She had been getting to know them for a couple of weeks and had finally agreed to sleep with them. I shook my head. Heather went through bed warmers every few months, but her bed had been supposedly empty for the past two months. Now I knew why. At least she hadn’t gone to their house the first time she met them.

“So, are you their unicorn now or just a fun weekend?” If I had asked anyone else that question, it would have come across as judgmental, but with Heather, it was just something I had to know. The 28-year-old was determined to try everything possible in regard to sex and relationships. She was willing to try anything at least once, and she said usually more than that. Just because the first time wasn’t good didn’t mean it would always be bad. Thankfully, despite her aggressive curiosity, it seemed like she did try somewhat not to become another murder or STD statistic.

“I don’t know. They are super nice but also in their 40s. I mean, I hadn’t had a threesome in a while, and it was so different with a couple. It was like I was a toy to them. They enjoyed watching me make their partner feel better, but I was definitely not on the same wavelength as them. You know they’ve been together for years.” She shrugged. “We talked a lot yesterday afterward, but I’m not sure they were really ready for a full-time, and I don’t know how I feel about it after the sex.”

“Well, if you go back, will you at least send me their names and address? I don’t want to have to be interviewed a bunch by the cops when you go missing and then deep-dive your dating apps. I’ll just point to the swinger couple, and then its case closed.” I was joking, but also a little serious. I liked Heather and didn’t like that the rest of her friends seemed to let her wander off with whatever man or woman looked interesting to her.

“Sure. Maybe they would be up for a foursome.”

I almost threw a pencil at her. “Not going there, Heather. Besides, having a fifth wheel cane is the wrong kind of wood, don’t you think?”

Heather was grinning and leaned in closer to me. “I don’t think Brent thinks so. He came by Friday afternoon again, but you missed him since you left early.”

“I’m sure you were able to flirt plenty for the both of us to keep him happy.”

“Kim, look at me.”

Her voice had gone serious, so I sighed and spun my chair around to look at her. Not like I really wanted to deal with this rejection letter from Medicare anyway.

“That’s almost three months he has been dropping by. You know it’s not chance. I mean, when do you ever see any other doctor in this part of the hospital?”

“Exactly. Three months is a lot longer than you normally make guys work. He is obviously your type, right? Plus, come on, isn’t it the cliche dream to marry a nice doctor and be a trophy wife?” I spun my chair back around and picked up the letter again. Looked like someone used the wrong charge code; easy enough to fix.

I felt my chair spin roughly around again. “Hey, what are you doing?”

“He is gorgeous. Kim and I would sleep with him in a heartbeat if he asked, but he stayed about 30 seconds after I told him you had left for the weekend and were out of town. Can’t you at least bring yourself to talk to him? I asked a couple of the nurses on his floor, and they all love him to death. They say he’s super sweet and kind, asks how they are, actually remembers their names, he even buys lunch sometimes.” She was looking at me with a mix of pity and frustration.

“Cool. Then he’s probably banging at least one of them. Good for them.” My voice was cold even to my own ears. Heather’s face had shifted and now had nothing except frustration in it. We had a brief staring contest before she sighed and turned back to her work.

I turned my own chair around and went back to the mindless work of dealing with the American Healthcare System. This is not at all what I had ever pictured myself doing. Actually, the thought of sitting at a desk all day would have made me want to puke for most of my life. It still did, if I was honest, but at this point, I couldn’t really do much else. Not a lot of jobs for a cripple even if I was still supposed to be in the best years of my life. I looked over at my cane resting next to my desk. Wrong fucking wood didn’t cover it. Wrong everything. I hated the look of it, the feel in my hand, the looks I got from other people.

Heather didn’t get it. I knew Brent was actually the perfect dream doctor. Tall, dark, handsome, smart, kind, and funny. He was literally the cliche dream. Only problem was I had realized that dreams weren’t for me. It hurt too much when you woke up.

I woke to the chiming of a clock. It was pitch black in my room, and this had never happened before. I stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was happening. I didn’t own anything that would chime. Oh wait, the antique store clock. What had I called it to the lady? Ballet clock? Yeah, that was new, but I hadn’t heard it chime any of the other hours since I came home from work.

I grabbed my phone from beside me. Midnight. Of course, the antique store sex shop would sell a clock that only chimes at midnight. I was just about to try and get back to sleep when I heard another sound. That was not a chime. It didn’t stop either. I felt blood drain from my face as I recognized it after only a few seconds. That was impossible. It was midnight. In my house.

I threw back the thin sheet covering me, grabbed my phone in case I needed the police, and then my hated cane. At least the cane might be useful if someone had broken into my house. I shook my head. This wasn’t the sound of a break-in, but it was terrifying in a completely different way.

I tried to carefully and quietly make my way towards my stairs. The closer I got, the louder the sounds got. It got my attention when it was just string instruments. As I moved down the hall, it moved into the sounds I knew too well. From pensive, it paused, and then the brass joined in as the mood swelled and the music became full of promise. This couldn’t be happening.

At the top of my stairs I couldn’t see anything. Even peering over the railing looking back towards the front room and kitchen where the sound was coming from, all I could see was pitch black. I stood unmoving, rooted to the spot with fear. I knew this song. I knew the tempo. The feel of it. The emotions it was meant to evoke. When I heard it temper yet again and become softly whimsical, I finally got the courage to start moving.

I tried to move as quickly as I could down the stairs, which was not quickly at all, especially in the dark. Even half-way down, as I peered over the railing, it was perfectly pitch black. Unnaturally so. It was like being in a cave underground, I couldn’t even see my hand as I pushed it past the railing.

Finally, I got to the bottom of the stairs. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen as I set my foot down where I knew the floor was, but I still could not see anything beyond the stairs. My foot found the floor, thankfully. Only when I had both feet planted on the floor and my hand left the rail, the blackness was suddenly gone.

What I was seeing was not my front room, not my kitchen, not even my house. It was a study. An actual study. Walls of bookshelves. A globe in a brass stand, dirty from use. A massive, ornate, dark wood desk dominates the room. Dust motes shining in the sunbeams stabbing through tall windows. I knew this place. I knew the music.

I sank to my knees. No. No. No. This wasn’t. Where was the music coming from? I found myself trying to peer around nonexistent corners, trying to find a light shining through the floor. I knew it had to be there, that sliver of light where the stage ended and music poured forth. There had to be a symphony playing. I, of course, found nothing.

A man entered the study. I didn’t see where he came from. I knew he had been off-stage, but somehow tonight he was just suddenly there, in the study. I felt the blood drain from my face. I knew those clothes, that face, the movements.

He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge my existence at all, but his movements broke me from my stupor. I fled. I all but ran upstairs back to my room. The music kept playing. It hounded my unsteady steps up the stairs. Biting and tugging at me. I slammed the door of my bedroom shut, but that didn’t deter my attacker.

The sounds followed me. Flowing around me, taunting in their familiarity. I buried my head under my sheet and clamped my pillow around my ears. I was crying and begging for something, someone, anyone to make it stop. It didn’t. Don Quixote, for all his chivalry, would not stop. I suppose that made me the monster.

At some point, exhaustion overtook me, and I woke to the hated sound of my alarm. I debated calling in sick as I felt like shit. Actually, that’s not the right description. I felt like I had come down from a panic attack. I was shaky, my nerves felt ultra sensitive and raw, and my head felt sore and bruised like I had been hit with a baseball bat yesterday. Looking at myself in the mirror, I tried to convince myself that the haunted look in my eyes was just my imagination.

I was almost 30 minutes later than usual when I got to work. We didn’t have a set time that we had to start work, but you knew pretty much when each person would get to work. Jen and Heather took one look at my face and hustled me away from my desk. They all but stuffed me in an empty conference room and shut the door.

“Kim, what happened?” Jen had adopted her best mother voice.

“Just woke up late and got stuck in traffic.” I shrugged in what I hoped was a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. Totally normal to sleep in on a Tuesday.

“Is that why you only have mascara on one eye and your shirt is the same one from yesterday but is also inside out based on the tag showing?” Heather’s voice was much less motherly and more teasing. “Was there a fun reason you woke up late?”

“Heather, shut your damn mouth!” I stared in shock at Jen. Jen, who tried not to say stupid because she didn’t want her kids hearing that word from her, just swore. She was looking at Heather like she was about ready to snap her in half.

“Kim, are you ok? You look like something bad happened. If you need to go home, it’s fine. We all need mental health days.” Jen was my supervisor and so the role of group mom suited her. Right now, it was just annoying. I was fine. Ok, maybe I had spent nearly an hour searching my house for any sign of what happened last night. Then I tried to figure out how I might have inadvertently ingested drugs because that was way too vivid for a normal dream.

“Look, I just had a rough night, ok. I guess I rushed out a little faster than I thought and was more than a little distracted. I’ll clean up and maybe grab an extra strong coffee. Thanks for checking in though, especially since it’s more obvious than I thought.”

I tried to immerse myself in work, but it was not like this was a thrilling job or even one I liked. It paid the bills, but I don’t think anyone has ever said they have a passion for reviewing insurance rejections when the hospital billed for services. Heather kept trying to talk to me throughout the day, and I answered as normally as possible, but I think it was obvious my mind was elsewhere.