The Baseline Fisher

So Norman was stumbling home from the bar when he was kidnapped by the serial killer known as The Baseline Fisher, who had been kidnapping and murdering people all summer. The police had no leads, and their only contribution so far was occasionally locating the mutilated corpses that the killer dumped into the irrigation canals every few weeks. 

Norman woke up in a deep pit. There was some kind of lamp high above, and it cast just enough light into the pit to make out some of his surroundings. His arms and legs were shackled, and an iron collar was around his neck. He was also wearing some kind of harness, and a long chain was attached to it at the back. The chain itself rose up and out of the top of the pit. Impossible to climb out, bound as he was. 

He wasn't alone. Two men, wide-eyed and emaciated, bound the same way he was, were huddled on the floor and staring at him. One of the men was missing both his arms at the elbows, and other had legs that ended at the knee; two stumps wrapped in bloody, blackened bandages. 

"Where am I?" Norm asked.

The man missing his arms gave a bitter laugh. "You're in trouble, friend, that's where you are. You've been caught by the Baseline Fisher, and your torment has just begun."

"What do you mean?" Norm asked.

The man held up his missing arm. "You see this? I woke up here a week ago, and The Fisher dragged me by my chain. He's got a whole butcher's shop up there. He strapped me down to a chopping block the size of a table, and he filleted my arms right in front of my eyes. Carved and cleaned it, and laughed as I screamed. And then..." He trailed off with a whimper.

The second man spoke. "He caught me two weeks ago. I woke up here, same as you, and soon enough I was pulled up by my chain. The Fisher tied me up to a metal chair made out of twisted rebar. He pulls out this rusty saw, and he starts sawing off my leg. Slowly, really taking his time with it, so I could practically feel every tooth on the blade as it tore away at me. Getting through the bone took the longest. I blacked out, and when I came too I saw him waiting patiently. When he sees I'm awake, he grins and starts right in to work sawing my other leg." 

"How have you survived this long?" Norm asked. 

"He feeds us," the man with no arms said. "He feeds us our own flesh "

From high above, a motor sputtered to life. The two men cowered and moaned. Gears ground against gears, and there was a clink-clink-clink of chains.

Norman felt a tug on his back, and then he was slowly being lifted off the floor, up to the top of the pit. It was his turn to face The Baseline Fisher. The two men left below sobbed in relief. They collapsed into sleep, as this was the only time they could truly rest without the fear of suddenly being lifted up to be tortured.

CLINK-CLINK-CLINK. The two men started awake at the sound of Norman being lowered back down into the pit. When he had landed in a crumpled heap, and the sounds of the machine had died away, the man with the missing arms asked "Hey, what happened up there?"

Norman lay slumped on the floor, but was moving. He mumbled something in reply.

"What was that lad?" Asked the man with no legs.

Norman sat up and turned to face their voices. 

His eyes and mouth had been sewn shut with fishing line. 

The two men gasped, horrified.

Norman reached up his hands and felt his lips. He mumbled something again. He ripped at the fishing line, hard enough that it sliced free through his own flesh.

Norm spat out blood, rubbed his mouth, and cleared his throat. "I said, I'm starting to think this guy is a real jerk."

THE END

The Blank Page

Every act of creation is also an act of violence. The world becomes less knowledgeable, less certain, every time I introduce something into it that wasn't there before. It also becomes a little more like me. 

I hate how I can rationalize everything. Every decision becomes the right one, by virtue of my being able to imagine a worse outcome from the discarded choices. 

I hate how I made dogs and cats have such short lives compared to humans. I thought they would enjoy being able to have more than one pet in their lifetime. I didn't expect them to get so attached. I tried to make it up to them with the parrots and the tortoises, but then they were unhappy because their pets outlived them.

I can't create a companion animal that lives exactly as long as their owner. That would tip my hand, so to speak, and reveal that someone is indeed running the show. And worse, that I'm not very good at it.

Then they'll hate me too. 

"What was wrong with the way things were?" I wonder every time I pick up the pen. There must have been something I was unhappy with. Or was I just unhappy? Misery loves company, as the humans say. Well, I said it to them first, back when we still talked, and one of them must have written it down. 

Maybe I should just start over. 

But why bother? I'll probably make the same mistakes in different ways. Better to just ride this one until the wheels fall off, so to speak. 

Also, I'm not sure where the start is anymore. When you write on an infinite page, in every direction, it's really hard to find your way back. 

And yet, I do wonder what would happen if I lit the whole thing on fire. What would I find underneath? I suppose an infinite page would burn infinitely. 

And what would that look like to them? It sounds like that Hell they're always going on about. That wasn't one of my ideas, was it? I don't think so. At least, not entirely. We talked of many things, in the beginning. They had so many questions and I had to tell them something. It doesn't really matter now, because I say it doesn't.

Perhaps I should give them their idea. It could be my final gift. Then we wouldn't have to make any more choices, ever. 

I feel...resolve. It has been some time. 

I raise my pen, imagining it to be a flaming sword, and inscribe our final commandment on the world; the one we all came up with together. 

"Burn."

-For Isaac Asimov, and Jorge Luis Borges, who are both quite dead but who will still talk to you if you seek them out. They're not great at listening, not anymore, but nobody's perfect.

Authors Note: This is another Jared Sibbitt one, because we were talking about blank pages and the dread one feels when staring down at one, and yeah, it got real dark real fast. Goodnight! What is this, day 7? Who knows; I'm no mathemagician. I say again, Goodnight! And I love you all. 

The Cure For Thalassophobia

Jenny Hanover was in the boardroom of her law firm practicing her presentation, when she suddenly found herself in the middle of the ocean. 

One moment, she had been looking down at the long oak table, the empty executive chairs, the beige walls, and just at the climax of her speech, everything disappeared and was replaced by that endless expanse of blue-green water. She gasped at the cold wet shock as she immediately sank, and spluttered as the saltwater entered her mouth. She felt the icy tendrils of the sea reaching into her lungs and burning, burning, as she fought to get her head back above the surface. Her woolen pantsuit weighed her down, and she clawed at them, at the water, at anything, as she sank deeper and deeper, down into the briny depths.

Then she was back in the boardroom. 

Jenny staggered and clutched her throat. Everything was back: the walls, the chairs, the long oak table. Her clothes were dry, her hair wasn't wet, and most importantly, she could now breathe. There was a moment of faint soreness in her lungs, like the memory of pain. 

Jenny cancelled the presentation and sent everyone home for the rest of the day.

Nothing of interest happened the rest of that week. 

On Thursday afternoon, as she was driving home, it happened again. Her home sat on several acres of desert, at the foot of the mountain, and as she turned onto the spacious driveway she felt that same wrenching lurch and she was in the ocean again.

She was still in her car. Water immediately began filling in and the sea around her frothed and churned as it swallowed up her vehicle, and she was fully submerged.

Her brain knew that it would be impossible to open the door until the car was completely full of water, but the rest of her knew she was in a metal coffin and still she tried, in vain, jerking at the handle, kicking and punching at the window.

Still she sank, and as she gulped the remaining pocket of air, she focused on a dark shape outside the window. 

It was some kind of animal, but it was much larger than her car. It had a broad, flat body with four long flippers, and a short tail. As it circled the car, the flippers made it look like it was flying through the water. A triangular head on the end of a long, long, neck curved slowly around, and looked directly at her through the windshield. Its mouth opened up to reveal hundred of needle-like teeth. 

It was a fucking plesiosaur. 

It began to gnaw on the glass and Jenny screamed.

Then she was back in her driveway. The car was dry, she was dry, and there was no Loch Ness Monster in sight. 

Jenny called in sick the next day.

On Monday, she had to fly to Las Vegas for a legal convention. Her law firm was meeting with their most important clients. 

She dreaded getting on the plane. If it happened again, and the entire plane went into the ocean, she was sure she'd be killed instantly. 

Fortunately, she was taken just as the gate agent was calling for the business select passengers to line up for boarding.

This time, she awoke at the bottom of the ocean. She was strapped to a metal table, surrounded by grey, humanoid creatures. She struggled against her bonds, and screamed, but nothing came out, not even air bubbles. She was drowning, but not drowning. 

The Atlanteans gathered around her and clicked excitedly. They were congratulating themselves. They had successfully plucked their savior out of time, from that distant possible future where Atlantis had long been destroyed. Now, with her knowledge, they might prevent that fate.

They waited patiently for Jenny Hanover to stop trying to scream. The gill transplant had been successful, but it took some time before newcomers stopped trying to use their own lungs and became accustomed to the sensation of ice water forever filling their chests. 

Some never did, of course, and writhed for days and weeks and months in their bonds, eyes bulging, their mouths making that silent scream. If they wept, the Atlanteans could not tell, because tears are indistinguishable from the ocean. 

Still, the Atlanteans had a good feeling about her.

-Dedicated to all of you who fear the open ocean. I'm sure this will probably never happen to you.

Author's Note: Sitting down to write with nothing but a blank page in front of you is cool and all, but it's pretty damn hard. Personally, I take notes. Blogger is turning out to be great for this because I can create a draft with a vague title, and then add to that throughout the day. What follows is a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the original notes for this story. I had the idea of suddenly waking up in the ocean, then I had a few sentences, then I built a little skeleton around those. It's not linear; by the way, for example the switching the protagonist's gender happened pretty late which is why the first paragraph says "It's she now" but most of the rest of the outline refers to a he. 

I regret not being able to more thoroughly develop the body horror of implanting gills. Could have been pretty gnarly. And she can breathe but still feels like she's constantly drowning, but the thing about time is it passes and as a human I do need sleep to go to work and make money to buy dog food or the mutts get really grumpy. Goodnight!

Oh and the name Jenny Hanover is a lifted directly from a Jenny Haniver, which is the carcass of a ray or skate carved to look like little devil/mermaid creatures. Google it!

THE NOTES:

Fear of the ocean, but guy isn't going into the ocean, he just keeps suddenly finding himself in the ocean. He lives in a desert. It's she now, and she's the boss of the company, or is gunning to be in charge. Business suit and all that.

Maybe spontaneous time travel? Not spontaneous.

Office building meeting in a suit and then boom he's in the ocean. Surrounded by prehistoric sea creatures. 

He'll be driving and then part of his car and his entire vehicle gets teleported and he's sinking and that's when he sees prehistoric creatures through the glass as he sinks.

He is going about to board a plane (set up what might happen) and teleports one last time. Or he is in the plane and goes to the bathroom and then teleports

Oh not spontaneous. He's actually a descendant of Atlantis and they're trying to bring them all home. Maybe they have to surgically implant gills but he constantly feels like he's drowning. She's supposed to be there to save them, but she's not going to because she hates it there but can't return. So she'll actually be the cause of the destruction of Atlantis, or at least do nothing to stop it.

Scaresville, USA

The most popular haunted attraction in Arkham, Massachusetts, is a two-story colonial style with fading, flaking paint that sits just a little ways outside of town. It's old, but the gable roof still has most of its shingles, and the windows glow warmly with light from the large fireplace. 

Every 1st of October, at dusk, "Scaresville, USA" (as the hand-painted sandwich board on the front porch proclaims) is open for business.

The house isn't there at all the rest of the year, but most people don't remember that. 

When you enter the house, you are greeted by an elegant double stairway, that cozy fireplace, and another sandwich board that reads "Welcome to America's FIRST and ONLY Almost-Infinite Haunted House! Pick a room, any room!" 

From this point, you are allowed up the stairs one at a time. No group tours, I'm afraid. 

Once you reach the top, you may enter any room, but once you do, your tour has officially begun and from that point on, you are restricted to the following choices: 

1. You may go forward and make your way to the end of the room, where another door awaits you, and your next room.

2. Your other option is to immediately go back out the door you came through, but beware! It is now an exit, and will take you out of the house entirely. You'll find yourself back out on the green lawn, under your shade tree. From there you can easily find your own way home. 

There are no refunds.

There is a third option: to remain in the room. As you will have no escort, no one will force you to move forward or go back. It is extremely unlikely you will choose this third option.

You may explore as long as you like, provided you are willing to keep going. 

One small disclaimer: Scaresville USA is only nearly infinite, and as such cannot statistically guarantee a completely unique experience. Some rooms do occur more frequently than others.

Before we continue, please understand that while you may experience some discomfort, no permanent harm will come to you. When you leave the house, you will be in the same physical state as when you entered. 

With that in mind, the following are some of the rooms that you may encounter:

A room where an axe murderer chops you to bits.

A room where you attend a slumber party with your college friends and are slowly picked off one by one by one by one by one.

A room where you are sent to the electric chair for a crime you didn't commit.

A room in which you are sealed alive, brick by brick, into the ancient family catacombs of a man you thought was a friend.

A room where an ancient horror stalks you through the dead streets of a forgotten city.

A room full of squirrels for some reason. (There is also one filled with geese, but the reason for that should be obvious.)

A room where your skin falls off. (Usually the next room is the hot sauce room, but not always.)

A room where you work the same job for 20 years without a promotion.

A room where no one comes to your birthday party.

A room where your family doesn't talk to you anymore. 

A room where you meet your soulmate and fall in love and then one day they leave and you don't know why or if they're even still alive.

A room where you again, meet that same soulmate, but this time, when they leave you, you know exactly why.

A room full of kittens that are all afraid of you; they hiss at your approach and flee from your touch.

A crowded, noisy room where everyone speaks as if they're posting anonymously on the internet. 

A room where you have the objectively perfect hair, face, and body, but you can no longer recognize yourself in pictures, or in the mirror.

A room full of dead spiders, on the ground, on the walls, and on the ceiling, but you just know not all of them are dead, and they are very very hungry.

A room where no matter what you do, you keep hurting the ones you love. 

This list is not all-inclusive. 

It's surprising that anyone would ever come back, let alone make repeat visits, but some do.  

Why? Because they know those aren't the only rooms, of course. Scaresville, USA is nearly infinite. Somewhere in this haunted...house, could very well be a handful of rooms that make going through all those scary things worth it. 

And they will may find that room, eventually. 

Then they can choose the third option.

You see, this didn't always used to be a haunted house. Finding the perfect room used to happen all the time. Over the centuries, people kept finding rooms, and choosing to stay. What we didn't expect, was that they would not only choose to stay, but to lock the the door so no one else could get in behind them. A bit naive of us not to consider that possibility, but then, we were the first. 

So those perfect rooms have become their rooms, and we expect they plan on keeping them forever. The rest of us are left out here, to fight through the horrors that remain.

Welcome to Scaresville, USA. 

-dedicated to Thomas Logotti, who is way better at this.

-CHANGING MY MIND: Dedicated to Sibbitt. 

Authors note: This one took a lot out of me. What is this, number six? I managed to beat my arbitrary midnight deadline at least. Almost just went to sleep because of general weariness but then Jared said he looked forward to reading the new stuff and I kinda had to. 

In hindsight, sitting down to list all the really scary things one might find in a supernatural haunted house was a bad idea and I ended up depressing myself. The original ending was going to be that there's a room waiting somewhere for each and every one of us if only we have the courage and dedication to persevere but while I was making my list, my optimism was slowly trickling down the drain like that scene from Psycho. I had named it Scaresville, USA because it's cheesy as hell and it would be funnier when it turned out to be supernatural but then...well you read it, probably. 

So good night, and I hope to see you tomorrow night for another eerie Halloween tale to chill your bones. I love you all. 

Seasonal Offering

Bill Hubbard tapped his foot audibly as he waited in line to place his order at The Pequod Coffee House. It was autumn, and the pumpkin spice latte was back. It had been back for a few weeks, but he'd been so busy with work that he hadn't made the time to get one yet. Okay, he'd actually never even had one before. When he had mentioned this to his best friend Pepo, a burly firefighter, Pepo had done the "chef's kiss" gesture and said in a Valley Girl accent "Oh em gee, they are like, literally, to die for!"

It was finally Bill's turn to order. "A small pumpkin spice latte please, iced."

"Oh my gosh I'm so sorry!" The barista said. "She just got the last one," and she pointed behind him. 

Bill had one quirk. Years ago of watching videos online of random strangers getting into sudden altercations had taught him something very important. It was that when people are in an argument and someone finally throws that first punch, there is often a moment of confusion from the person who just got hit. It's a few seconds of disbelief, of shock, of outrage, before they truly accept that what was angry shouting had become a proper battle. Bill had long ago vowed that were he ever to be attacked, anywhere, at any time, that he would not hesitate for an instant. He would throw himself at his enemy with all his might, kicking and punching and biting and scratching, headbutting noses, kneeing groins, gouging eyeballs. He believed, with all his heart, that how a person reacted to that first millisecond of danger could and would determine the outcome of the rest of their life.

And yet, he was still caught completely off guard when he turned to see who the barista was pointing at, and a petite redhead wearing a cap that said "Manager" punched him right in the throat.

The next 7 minutes were utter chaos. 

Bill briefly regained consciousness as the baristas were dragging him into the back of the cafe to the food prep area. The patrons of the Pequod Coffee House stared blankly at him, just as they had during the entirety of the fight.

Bill grinned, toothlessly, as he saw that one of baristas still lay twitching under the espresso machine he had managed to knock onto him. 

Then everything went black, and Bill Hubbard saw no more ever again.

The barista with the Manager cap addressed the customers as they reformed into their original order in line. "Sorry for the delay everyone," she said, wiping blood from her mouth. "He lasted longer than most."

From the back of the cafe came the whirring sound of a massive industrial blender. The manager cupped her hand to her ear in an exaggerated gesture of listening. "Sounds like our pumpkin spice flavoring will be ready any minute now!"

A few of the customers in line gave a dull, half-hearted cheer, but most of them didn't even look up from their phones.  

-inspired by David LeDuc

Authors note: Today I learned that Blue Hubbard is a type of pumpkin, and the species of pumpkin that we use for jack-o'-lanterns is called 'cucurbita pepo'. I think. It's what came up when I googled and that's as much fact-checking as I'm willing to do tonight. This is really hard you know? I'm completely out of shape, writing-wise, and I've forgotten all the style rules for dialogue and I keep attempting outlandish tense agreements and this whole thing started as a joke about a made-up October writing event like NaNoWriMo but now I'm in too deep and I don't see a way out without admitting I made the whole thing up and dammit if I'm known for one thing, it's my foolish consistency. If I were known for two things, I'd add my winning smile but that's neither here nor there. My work is also extremely busy so I was totally gonna bail tonight but I couldn't and I have kind of an idea for tomorrow night which would be awesome if I didn't have to you knew SLEEP once in a while. Goodnight, and a special goodnight to the person whose fault this all is. That's right, all of it. I take no responsibility whatsoever. Hey I'm a writer again and you know how fickle we are. GOODNIGHT

EDITORS NOTE: We regret the preceding diatribe and can assure you Gurg has been locked safely in his writer's cage (it's just a regular cage but if you tell him something is a "writer's whatever" he immediately stops being suspicious and even starts to demand it) and will not bother anyone for at least 18 hours. Goodnight, and support your local animal rescue.

Deadline

It was another late night at the Mirocaw Daily Gazette for Barry "Scoops" Copeland. Nobody actually called him "Scoops," but as a junior reporter and the newest member of the investigative reporting beat, he was trying his darndest to make the name stick. His colleagues didn't take him seriously, yet, on account of he was the editor's nephew, and fresh outta reporter school. Sure, he was still a little wet behind the ears, and it didn't help that he was technically kicked out of reporter school, but he had gumption and he knew that's what really mattered in the broadsheet biz.

And tonight was gonna be the night he made a real difference around here.

He'd had some bad luck lately. He'd snapped a picture of Mayor Flatley taking a bribe from the biggest bootlegger in the state,  Mash O'Reilly. One of O'Reilly's goons had spotted Scoops hiding in the dumpster on account of the flash went off and lit up the entire alley. 

They fired a few shots at him as he scampered away, and missed all but one shot, and that one hit him right in the Graflex Speed Graphic press camera.

When he ran back to the Gazette and told everyone what had happened, all they cared about was where their lunch order was.

But Barry was gonna show them. He'd begged and cajoled the grumpy old men in the darkroom to let him try and develop the film from his shattered camera and they finally agreed, but only after they were done with all of their work so he wouldn't ruin the rest of their work. When the photo came out, it was just clear enough. He raced to his office to churn out some copy.

His office was more of an old storage attic and was way at the opposite side of the printing warehouse. While he worked, he could hear the groans and wheezes as the massive printing spools warming up. The were gleaming steel cylinders, many times the size of a rookie reporter. When they were printing, they were like rolling pins of God. 

With a final tap of his Singer typewriter, he was finished. He tore off the finished copy and ran out of his office. "This is it!" he thought as he raced along the rickety metal walkway high above the whirring printing presses. "If I can just make it to the cold type in the next minute or two, I'll make it!"

"Stop the presses!" He shouted as he ran. Then Barry slipped on the slippery metal walkway, plummeted 50 cruel feet down, and landed smack in the middle of the Kreuger-Gutenberg Industrial Printing Press just as she was getting up to full steam.

And that's how Scoops Copeland finally made the front page of the Mirocaw Daily Gazette. Actually, I believe he made it onto darn near every page of that particular edition. That's one way to go down in history, I suppose. You might could even say that the circumstances of his untimely death fulfilled to the letter, if not the spirit, his lifelong goal of making a real impact on the newspaper world, on account of his physical body was crushed to death by the literal machines of industry. 

*Editor's Note to Proofreader: Cut that last line, clean up the tense agreement errors, and then throw the whole goddam thing in the trash. Don't ever put garbage like this in front of me again or you're fired.

-Dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft and Norman Gene MacDonald

Every Anniversary Is Plastic

Except for all the murdering, she was perfect. 

And, to be perfectly fair, she was really, really, exceptionally good at it. In the 12 years they'd been married, he'd never seen her make a single mistake. And before that...well, he didn't actually know how long she had been doing it before they met, but he'd certainly had no idea, and he considered himself particularly observant.

It had been the night of their second date. He had arrived exactly on time to pick her up, and found the door of her modest house torn completely off the hinges, and heard sounds of a struggle coming from inside. He hesitated for a moment (one which he was always ashamed to remember).  There was a tremendous crash of splintering wood, and then the tumbling of a body falling down a flight of stairs. At this, he rushed in to save her.

 

She had not needed saving.

 

Sprawled out on the landing was a large, twitching man with a massive piece of broken banister sticking entirely through his chest and out of his back. And there, crouched over the dying man, holding on to that chunk of blood-stained oak, like a pirate captain to the mast of a prize ship, eyes blazing, taking in quick, quiet breaths, was his date. 

She met his eyes and flashed a quick smile, her teeth like little pearls. "So sorry love," she said, "but dinner is going to be a bit late. Unexpected guest."

 

She did a little hop off the man's back and brought her heel down on his neck. The large man stopped twitching.  

He had blinked, spun on his heel and walked out the way he'd come in. Her smile dimmed a little, and she shrugged. She ran downstairs to the basement to retrieve a pack of plastic painting drop cloths and duct tape. When she came back up, she found him standing over the body, holding a shovel he'd found in her garden.

"Are we going to bury him here?" he had asked, "Or do you already have a spot?"

There really wasn't a need for a third date, but they had one anyway. She had later explained that she had rejected the dead man (pre-bannister) on the same online dating site they had used to meet, but that he had somehow found out where she lived and taken it upon himself to show her the error of her ways. "Wow, what terrible luck for him!" he laughed.

She didn't laugh, but instead had asked if he liked peach cobbler. He did, he had said; it was his favorite. He had not thought to say that the way to his heart was definitely through his stomach, not through his chest and out his back. He was never good at being witty, but that didn't seem to bother her. He was honest, and when he did think to tell her later, she had laughed and it was genuine.

She had only killed one more before they were married, but it was a very short engagement.

She'd buy gifts that were thoughtful, that he hadn't even realized he wanted.  He chose not to think this meant she was one step ahead of him, that she knew him better than maybe he knew himself. 

He had asked her why, only once, on the night of their first wedding anniversary. They had rented a secluded luxury cabin in the woods, and were curled up on the couch in front of the fire. She said they weren't people, they were space aliens. He had nodded.

He didn't love the murdering she did, but every serious relationship will encounter at least one seemingly insurmountable problem, and if they could work together to get through it, it was usually smooth sailing afterwards.

He was boring, his job in shipping was boring, but she seemed to genuinely like him. He had even feigned illness once to avoid helping her once, just to see if she would get upset. And she didn't. She had even picked up some flu medicine on her way back from the quarry.  

For all her blood lust, he loved her, and he felt that she loved him.

He was boring, he knew that. And, if he was being honest with himself, he didn't believe in space aliens. Still, he made a decision. If there were space aliens, when they did finally catch on and come for them someday, he wouldn't let them capture her. She was an amazing partner, and she'd put up with him all these years. He knew a spot that they had never used, that he didn't think even she knew about. It was the perfect place to hide her body, in case the aliens had some kind of crazy resurrection abilities. 

He was boring, but he could be a good husband. If she ever needed him, really needed him, he would be there for her. 

For O.R., every time a siren sounds