I can see that his clear air tubes look sorta fogged up, and I wonder if that is bad.

"What are all those papers on your wall?"

"Haikus."

"Hi-whats?"

"Short j.a.panese poems."

"You can read j.a.panese?" he says.

"They're written in English," I say.

"By you?"

"No, by Private Jackson."

"Who's Private Jackson?"

"He was in 'Nam back in the day. Now he writes haikus. He's my favorite poet."

"I'm not going to get into all that, kid," Old Man Linder says, adjusting the nozzle on his oxygen bottle, which produces a hissing sound. "I know you've suffered a horrific, senseless, and cruel loss, and while I won't pretend to know what that must feel like-I will say that I'm old enough to know that life throws you a few nasty blows before she's done with you, but each time you're knocked down, you have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps, and-"

"Please don't," I say to Old Man Linder. "Please."

He looks confused.

He's wringing his hands.

He's so old school.

He's so out of his league.

"I was nineteen years old when I lost my best friend in World War Two. I never did feel the same-"

"Please stop."

He shakes off my request, smiles knowingly, and says, "We miss you down at the home. Joan of Old wants a rematch. She's still contesting your last battle. Stating that the kiss was a violation of the d.a.m.n rules, not that Old Man Thompson will ever side with her." Old Man Linder forces a laugh. "But some of the older feebleminded broads have taken Old Joan's point of view. If we don't make some sort of public statement quickly, the fans will think-"

"It was just a stupid game. It wasn't real."

"The Wednesday Afternoon Battles are something to look forward to and-"

"I'm retired. Joan of Old can have the t.i.tle by forfeit."

"Forfeit? Retired? Are you kidding me? You haven't even begun to peak and you-"

"I'm done making old people smile. It's over."

He pauses for a second, gathers his thoughts.

So softly, Old Man Linder says, "Amber."

When I look into his eyes they are moist, and I can tell that he loves me like I am his own granddaughter, but I can't play that game anymore for him, so I look away.

"Life goes on," he says. "Whether we choose to enjoy it or not. So you might as well find a way to enjoy the parts you can. You can't just give up on life, Amber."

"Why not? Everyone else does. Everyone. Why don't you get up there this Wednesday and tell jokes? Why don't any of you take on Joan of Old yourselves? I'm tired of carrying all you people. I can't do it anymore. I can't be the Princess of Hope for you, because I've got no hope left! Didn't you read the papers? Don't you remember what happened to my mom? How can anyone have hope after something like that? And yet you expect me to snap out of it and carry on for you? Give you a laugh once a week? Get well just so I can play some stupid game with old people every Wednesday afternoon? For what? Why should I?"

And then I break out in tears.

I sob for minutes.

"I shouldn't have come," Old Man Linder says. "I was just trying to-"

"Just leave, okay?" I scream.

It takes Old Man Linder a long time to stand, and from the sounds he is making, I think he is crying now too, which makes me feel even worse, but I don't try to stop him from leaving and I don't say I'm sorry.

I just want him to leave.

I can't be what he needs me to be anymore.

In fact, I was never really who he wanted me to be-I was a fake.

For the next few minutes or so, I listen to him take one step at a time, setting down his oxygen tank with heavy clunks-Old Man Linder sucking air like a madman.

I hear Donna apologizing for me downstairs, and Old Man Linder says he shouldn't have come again, which is when I realize that I crushed him-that I kicked him square in the metaphorical b.a.l.l.s and knocked what little hope he had right out of him, the lightweight. It's so easy to crush men like him. I pity Old Man Linder. How did he ever make it to old age?

After I hear the front door open and close, Donna comes up to my room and says, "You should be ashamed of yourself. This isn't you, Amber. You're better than this."

"f.u.c.k you," I say-still sobbing-shocking myself.

Donna looks at me for a second or two-like I had slapped her-and then her bottom lips starts to quiver, which is something I never even thought was possible.

I see a tear slide down her cheek, and then she is gone.

So even the mighty Donna can be crushed, I think.

CHAPTER 30.

WRITING HAIKUS ONE.

AFTER THE OTHER, KNOWING.

ONLY THE MOMENT.

CHAPTER 31.

"Father Chee?"

"Amber?"

"What is it: is man only a blunder of G.o.d, or G.o.d only a blunder of man?"

"So you are quoting Nietzsche now?"

"You know his work?"

"Yes."

"Does reading Nietzsche ever make you doubt your faith?"

"Yes."

"But you still believe in G.o.d?"

"Yes."

"How do you keep believing?"

"I have faith."

"Why?"

"Because when I asked Him for help, G.o.d sent me a young, hopeful girl who was able to convince a group of shy Korean women to sing The Supremes-making ordinary women into divas-doubling my church's membership. This was a great miracle that I saw with my own eyes. It boosted my faith much."

"What if that young, hopeful girl never recovered from the blow G.o.d sent her way? What if she never sang with those Korean women ever again, and people stopped coming to your church and the Pope fired you and then you got sick and were about to die all alone feeling like your life meant nothing-and then some mentally insane man appeared and killed you in a strange and bizarre and terrifying manner? Would you still have faith in G.o.d then?"

"I don't know."

CHAPTER 32.

THE SUN IS NOT A.

BALL-IT'S AN ENDLESS WHITE STREAK TIME'S AN ILLUSION

CHAPTER 33.

"Father Chee?"

"Yes, Amber?"

"If I had followed my mom on the night she was killed, do you think I might have been able to stop that man from doing what he did?"

"I don't know."

CHAPTER 34.

FOUR-LEAF CLOVER: A.

MIRACLE, MUTATION, OR.

HAPPY ACCIDENT?.