A small rattle plays in rhythm as wind flows through an open window, carrying along with it the scent of moistened sand and chlorinated water from the Heart of Cactus Park. Rays from the slowly setting sun found their way in too, bringing along the familiar dotted lines and glowing arrows. They, like the light, fall in and scatter across the wooden floors. But they, unlike the light, never stop. They travel up onto walls, onto furniture, into different rooms. Some even linger in the air. A few find home permanently in Stanley’s vision.

Stanley tries his best to ignore those, squinting past at the ones that mark his home. “The new candle being sold at the Wal-Mart doesn’t actually get rid of moles like it advertises” one says in its language of lines and heads. “They’re lying. They’re making it all up. Trust no one, trust nothing.” says another. “Stay away from the abandoned division.”

Of all that he can understand, none of it is new or unusual. None of it is useful. He sighs, frustrated, and takes a long sip of his coffee. It’s overly sweet, and he cringes at the taste. Anabella has told him he should stop putting so much sugar in it, and to stop drinking so much in general, but he hasn’t been very good at it. He’s come to rely on the energy it gives him and the comfort of familiarity. He never slept much, and there was never much that stayed the same. The jitters and taste were worth the price to him.

They would never let him rest, the lines and arrows, and he has come to accept that. They live all over Cactus Park: painted on every wall and scuffed into every floor, shaped in every cloud and grown in every patch of grass; they’re carried in every breeze and are etched on every person. And, maybe in the most concentration, they live inside of him. Everything is connected- everyone said it, but none of them really believed it. The lines are him and they are the town; the town is the lines and he is the town; he is the lines, are the town, is everyone, is everything. Everything is connected.

If only other people could see that. Instead, they deemed him cursed. Plagued. Stanley Krelborn: He Who the Universe Has Forsaken. Couldn’t they see? He isn’t forsaken, he was chosen. He at least wishes Kaleb hadn’t gotten that name to catch on. It’s an awfully long phrase for passersby to hiss at you.

As he takes another sip of his awful coffee, an arrow glides towards the front door, directing his attention to it. Only about a minute later, the door opens, and Anabella steps inside. She’s holding a couple reusable grocery bags, struggling a little to close the door with them. As he hobbles over to help her, she grins at him, and it’s like his coffee: sweet, warm, and familiar.

“Thank you, Stan. I picked up a few extra ritual candles, and there was a sale on the himalayan salt doughnuts that you know I couldn’t resist.” She joked, handing him some of the bags.

Stanley took them from her and chuckled. “Where’s Jaiden, by the way?”

“Hamilton’s house for the weekend. I have an appointment with them Sunday afternoon and I’ll pick her up then. Estelle wants the living room redone. She says she’s tired of it, but, between you and me? I just think she’s lonely.”

Anabella continues to talk about her day- and gossip- as they put the groceries away. They’re done before they even know it. Anabella dramatically wipes nonexistent sweat off her brow, then claps her hands together and looks at Stanley.

“You look stressed, darling,” she says, inching closer to him and gently grabbing his hand, “Dance with me.”