An Excerpt From Involved.   1. The house is empty when Thomas arrives home. He puts his briefcase down on the table by the door. He is crushingly aware of the absence of so many things, most abundantly the presence of his wife and daughter. At exactly this moment there should have been many things happening. Kelly should be rushing down the hallway to cling to his knees in a greeting. The smell of dinner cooking should hit his hungry stomach with relief. Naadia should call to him from the kitchen to help her set the table. It takes all of his strength not to fall against the doorframe, huddle up on the floor and bawl his eyes out. It had happened everyday for a month since their deaths earlier that summer, he was just now starting to accept that they weren’t ever coming home. Therapy, he decided, could only do so much. Having spent the better half of his summer in session with a qualified, if not slightly impersonal psychologist. He’d come through his shock from the death of his family, and into something resembling acceptance, that something was still tinged with thick layers of grief and want. At the age of thirty-nine he found that his desires had changed astonishingly from what they were just a year ago. He might have wanted another child, or a pay-raise. He might have wanted to teach his daughter how to fish, or impart on her the wonders of ancient Egypt. He might have wanted to be able to afford to buy Naadia a new necklace, or take her on a second honeymoon to Italy like they’d talked about doing just a few months ago. Now, he mused, as he stopped by his daughters room and stood in her doorway. All he wanted was to have them come home again. The room came to life before him, the pink walls coming alive with light. The twin-sized bed with it’s purple canopy trembled with the force of the wooden fan forcing waves of air against it’s tulle. The opaque image of a curly- haired little girl beading fluorescent colored jewelry on the floor smiled up at him. You might have noticed, if you were lying on the floor observing, that Thomas Nobel’s toes never edged over the line that separated wood flooring from carpet. You might have watched him balance there, his ankle making nervous jerks backwards, and you might have sensed the fear that stole the warmth from the hallways. You would have seen the hand that clutched the door’s frame, the nails that bent in towards the wood till they were white as smoke. How they mimicked the substance that Thomas felt emotions approaching understanding for. Because at that moment, Thomas Nobel felt himself lose his touch with his humanity, if just for a moment, spread out across the border and touched the things that he knew would make him feel whole. Even if he was to afraid they would rupture the adhesive who’s decorum kept him from falling apart completely. And how could life possibly go on, he wondered, when they would never come home again? Dinner was a solo affair. Two-day-old take out and some candy from the bowl on the counter. He was running out and considered just going to the store to get some now. Getting out of the house seemed like an ideal solution to the quiet and stillness that had since infiltrated it, sneaking in the backdoor someday in mid-July and taking up residence in the empty rooms. For a force that should have been unnoticeable, to Thomas it was disruptive, obtrusive and obvious. Yes, going to the store was a good idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter and walked to his car. Once settled in his seat. Once his hands have turned the key into the ignition, once his feet have hit the gas, once his careful movements have led him into the main road he finds he has forgotten where he is heading.   It is either a simple lapse in memory, he decides, or a complete diagnosis of everything he has become.   1. The house is empty when Thomas arrives home. He puts his briefcase down on the table by the door. He is crushingly aware of the absence of so many things, most abundantly the presence of his wife and daughter. At exactly this moment there should have been many things happening. Kelly should be rushing down the hallway to cling to his knees in a greeting. The smell of dinner cooking should hit his hungry stomach with relief. Naadia should call to him from the kitchen to help her set the table. It takes all of his strength not to fall against the doorframe, huddle up on the floor and bawl his eyes out. It had happened everyday for a month since their deaths earlier that summer, he was just now starting to accept that they weren’t ever coming home. Therapy, he decided, could only do so much. Having spent the better half of his summer in session with a qualified, if not slightly impersonal psychologist. He’d come through his shock from the death of his family, and into something resembling acceptance, that something was still tinged with thick layers of grief and want. At the age of thirty-nine he found that his desires had changed astonishingly from what they were just a year ago. He might have wanted another child, or a pay-raise. He might have wanted to teach his daughter how to fish, or impart on her the wonders of ancient Egypt. He might have wanted to be able to afford to buy Naadia a new necklace, or take her on a second honeymoon to Italy like they’d talked about doing just a few months ago. Now, he mused, as he stopped by his daughters room and stood in her doorway. All he wanted was to have them come home again. The room came to life before him, the pink walls coming alive with light. The twin-sized bed with it’s purple canopy trembled with the force of the wooden fan forcing waves of air against it’s tulle. The opaque image of a curly- haired little girl beading fluorescent colored jewelry on the floor smiled up at him. You might have noticed, if you were lying on the floor observing, that Thomas Nobel’s toes never edged over the line that separated wood flooring from carpet. You might have watched him balance there, his ankle making nervous jerks backwards, and you might have sensed the fear that stole the warmth from the hallways. You would have seen the hand that clutched the door’s frame, the nails that bent in towards the wood till they were white as smoke. How they mimicked the substance that Thomas felt emotions approaching understanding for. Because at that moment, Thomas Nobel felt himself lose his touch with his humanity, if just for a moment, spread out across the border and touched the things that he knew would make him feel whole. Even if he was to afraid they would rupture the adhesive who’s decorum kept him from falling apart completely. And how could life possibly go on, he wondered, when they would never come home again? Dinner was a solo affair. Two-day-old take out and some candy from the bowl on the counter. He was running out and considered just going to the store to get some now. Getting out of the house seemed like an ideal solution to the quiet and stillness that had since infiltrated it, sneaking in the backdoor someday in mid-July and taking up residence in the empty rooms. For a force that should have been unnoticeable, to Thomas it was disruptive, obtrusive and obvious. Yes, going to the store was a good idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter and walked to his car. Once settled in his seat. Once his hands have turned the key into the ignition, once his feet have hit the gas, once his careful movements have led him into the main road he finds he has forgotten where he is heading.   It is either a simple lapse in memory, he decides, or a complete diagnosis of everything he has become.   2. He was staring at the soldiers. They all looked so tense, the same unanimous stance; taught shoulders and thick movements as if they were wading through knee-high waters. Their unshaven faces immersed in impersonal, intense looks. It was difficult to ignore them, but Naadia tried anyways. She picked up her pita bread and took a bite. Kelly, her daughter, was illustrating some sort of massacring of blue stick figures on the back of her menu. They were carrying sunflowers and using them as swords. Naadia smiled, picking up her own crayon and drawing a sun blazing down overhead. “GET OUT OF HERE.” Naadia jerked her head around at the shout. Inside the café a middle-aged women, who was partially obscured by a sign in the window, was tearing a jacket off her body. Naadia stood up to get a better view. At the edge of her eye, she could see that Kelly had not put down her crayons, was still drawing carelessly. It was as if the woman had revealed she was a robot; wires were coiled around her waist and thick bulges of metal were pressed against her skin. Thomas was crying out to her on the sidelines. He was begging her to stop. In an instant, Naadia’s heart catapulted into her throat, she barely heard or felt anything as she snatched Kelly’s hand and began to run, knocking over the cafe’s chairs and hurtling down the street at an inhuman speed. Behind them the noise escalated. A ringing, buzzing siren. He thought his ears would fold in refusal. He was scrabbling towards his wife, but his feet would not move--his legs would not ---Before him, a woman mouthed words he could not catch, and the stunned pedestrians all around them waited on baited breath as they tumbled forward into the darkness. Then there was a noise so loud, so horrible Thomas had no time to cover his throbbing ears as Naadia threw Kelly down on the ground, and crushed her into the dirt of the road. Thomas wakes up with half a scream, and for a moment everything is still and dark. He feels a lump of blankets tucked against his side. Is it her? He won’t pull them away just yet. Maybe it was all a dream, and she is tucked up sweetly against him, and she will reach up and wrap her fingers around his wrist, and pull him back down to bed, back down to earth again. And for that moment he believes it, and he waits without breathing--knowing that the second that air escapes, all his conviction will fade out with it. The vivid scenes of this dream, like the dozens he’s had for two months, begin already to crumble in his mind. He regrets, he wants to see her face again. Remember the wispy blonde hairs on her head and thinks they are beautiful, graceful, even as they crush with her body into that depthless dirt. When he has to, he breathes. He was staring at the soldiers. They all looked so tense, the same unanimous stance; taught shoulders and thick movements as if they were wading through knee-high waters. Their unshaven faces immersed in impersonal, intense looks. It was difficult to ignore them, but Naadia tried anyways. She picked up her pita bread and took a bite. Kelly, her daughter, was illustrating some sort of massacring of blue stick figures on the back of her menu. They were carrying sunflowers and using them as swords. Naadia smiled, picking up her own crayon and drawing a sun blazing down overhead. “GET OUT OF HERE.” Naadia jerked her head around at the shout. Inside the café a middle-aged women, who was partially obscured by a sign in the window, was tearing a jacket off her body. Naadia stood up to get a better view. At the edge of her eye, she could see that Kelly had not put down her crayons, was still drawing carelessly. It was as if the woman had revealed she was a robot; wires were coiled around her waist and thick bulges of metal were pressed against her skin. Thomas was crying out to her on the sidelines. He was begging her to stop. In an instant, Naadia’s heart catapulted into her throat, she barely heard or felt anything as she snatched Kelly’s hand and began to run, knocking over the cafe’s chairs and hurtling down the street at an inhuman speed. Behind them the noise escalated. A ringing, buzzing siren. He thought his ears would fold in refusal. He was scrabbling towards his wife, but his feet would not move--his legs would not ---Before him, a woman mouthed words he could not catch, and the stunned pedestrians all around them waited on baited breath as they tumbled forward into the darkness. Then there was a noise so loud, so horrible Thomas had no time to cover his throbbing ears as Naadia threw Kelly down on the ground, and crushed her into the dirt of the road. Thomas wakes up with half a scream, and for a moment everything is still and dark. He feels a lump of blankets tucked against his side. Is it her? He won’t pull them away just yet. Maybe it was all a dream, and she is tucked up sweetly against him, and she will reach up and wrap her fingers around his wrist, and pull him back down to bed, back down to earth again. And for that moment he believes it, and he waits without breathing--knowing that the second that air escapes, all his conviction will fade out with it. The vivid scenes of this dream, like the dozens he’s had for two months, begin already to crumble in his mind. He regrets, he wants to see her face again. Remember the wispy blonde hairs on her head and thinks they are beautiful, graceful, even as they crush with her body into that depthless dirt. When he has to, he breathes.