The pdf version of the sample chapters for upcoming novel Beyond The Precipice. Gives an idea of how Word and Adobe can be used to create sample chapters prior to professional typesetting. More information can be found at www.ashby-bp.com

2. Copyright © 2012 by Eva Blaskovic. All rights reserved.
Cover Artwork Copyright © 2012 by Jody Bronson Deslongchamps.
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ISBN-10: 0988163812 ISBN-13:
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4. “Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight
to the imagination, and life to everything.”—Plato

5. The Cello Girl
In the hallway of the university music building that
afternoon, he followed the lone cello, a ribbon of
sound that compelled him forth as his eyes still
adjusted from the brightness outside. He had no
business wandering around by the practice rooms
after first year registration—especially now that
he’d fulfilled his promise. It was done. The course of
his future was set, his father’s last wishes honored.
Except the cello resonated in his heart,
drowning out the hunger rumbling in his stomach.
It was Beethoven’s 9th, after all—“Ode to Joy”—
something that simply could not be ignored.
His cell phone bleeped with an incoming
text. “Where are you?”
“Still on campus. Be back soon,” he typed
back to Scott, sent it, and pocketed the phone. It
wouldn’t have been so annoying having his
roommate check up on him if his brother, Drake,
wasn’t doing it all the time.
Stepping into the rectangle of sunlight that
cast into the hallway, he saw the girl. She drew her
bow across the cello, eyes on sheet music, face stern,
jaw set, fingers working the vibrato. Her body
leaned into note after note—until she noticed him.
The eyes, green as jade, flicked up for the
briefest moment, and she frowned. Her fingers
fumbled and she shook her head, finally addressing
him with an edge in her voice. “Hi. Coming in to
practice?”

6. .
Practice? Him?
“What instrument do you need?” she went
on.
He walked up to a violin case that lay
flipped open on a chair beside her. “Can I play this?”
“Sure. It’s the Faculty’s. You can play it
until Elise gets back.”
He ran his finger across the strings. It was
mostly in tune. Dropping his backpack on the floor
with a thud, he took out the violin and finished
tuning it.
“Beethoven?” he said, casting a sideways
glance at her.
“Sure.” She positioned her bow. “Want the
notes?”
“No.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay…”
He stood with the violin on his shoulder,
bow at the ready. She began the cello segment, bow
flowing like silk, and he came in, taking over the
melody; smoothly, fluidly gliding with her counter-
melody until the crescendo gave way to crisp,
powerful downbows and retakes, the instrument an
extension of himself, moving effortlessly through
the medium of musical harmony.
Now that—that was Beethoven! So much
better than when he played it alone.
“Hmm,” she said afterward, her lips
working into a hint of a smile. “You put a lot of
feeling into your playing.”
Even as something in his chest fluttered, a
chill clenched his lower spine.
“How many years of music do you have?”
she asked.

7. .
“I don’t know. Lots.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? What
programs did you take?”
“I didn’t. I’m self-taught.”
She squinted at him. “Really? So how’d you
get into this program?”
“I’m not in Music.”
“You’re not? What are you in then?”
“Science.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her cello, her
finger tracing its form. “What are you going to do
with it? Go into Med School or something?”
“No. I don’t know.”
She shuffled her music, shaking long bangs
clear of her eyes.
“How about you?” he went on.
“I’m going to try to get into the Calgary
Philharmonic.”
“Holy crap!”
“Yeah. Pretty good goal, eh?”
“I’ll say.”
“So why are you in Science if you don’t
know what you want to do with it?”
He shrugged. “It’s bound to lead
somewhere.”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.
Ever thought of switching to Music?”
He started laughing. “Have I thought about
it? Of course I’ve thought about it!”
Her stern look shared none of his
amusement. “Then why don’t you?”
Turning to face her straight on, he braced
his arm on the seat’s backrest. “Because it’s not that
simple.”
Her eyes locked with his for a moment,

8. .
then were drawn away as an Asian girl entered, her
obsidian hair glistening all the way to her waist.
He stood, holding the violin out by the
neck. “Yours?”
Elise reached for it. “Thank you.”
“I was just on my way out.” He flipped his
backpack over his left shoulder and started toward
the door.
“Do you have a name?” the cello girl said.
“Bret. It’s Bret.” He gestured a greeting to
both of them.
“Nice to meet you, Bret. I’m Nicole.”
He gave the slightest nod and stepped out,
continuing onward until he was out of the building.
He’d just forget he was ever there. It never
happened.
Except that every time he blinked, he saw
green eyes focused on cello strings whose notes he
still heard in his head, mingling with the sound of a
violin.
The progression of cars with their hazard
lights flashing stopped traffic on Whyte Avenue. He
looked past the hearse, forcing his quickened breath
back into a steady rhythm as he did during a run. At
the corner he turned away, instead taking the next
street over through an old residential neighborhood,
where some of Edmonton’s tallest trees locked
branches in an arch overhead. Lone yellow leaves,
blinking as they swayed in the breeze, warned of the
approaching fall like lighthouses tracing a perilous
shore.
His father had worried too much. If only he
could have seen this day. Bret kicked a stone into
the grass.

9. .
At the apartment, Scott looked rather
scholarly in a button-up shirt and his steel-rimmed
glasses. “So? How was registration?”
“Fine.” He filled the espresso maker with
water and finely ground coffee. He still couldn’t
believe his mother had let him take her beloved
machine.
“Really?” Scott said, studying him. “I can
see you chickened out. Serves you right. You’ll live
to regret it.”
“I’d regret it either way.”
His cell phone went off in his pocket. He
flipped it open to find his brother’s name displayed,
as the melody of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in D
chimed on in his hand.
Scott rolled his eyes. “Checking up on you
already?”
The ringtone played out the entire segment
and started again. He could see Nicole in deep
concentration, small fingers spreading wide as they
walked up and down the neck of her cello, a vibrato
on every note.
“Give the man a medal for perseverance,”
Scott said.
He snapped out of it and pushed the
answer button. “What?”
“Registered?”
“No, Drake. I just walked to campus and
back for the fresh air.”
There was a measured silence before Drake
spoke. “Did you do what you were supposed to?”
“I might’ve.”
Drake exhaled audibly. “You’d better have.”
“Science, okay?” It was more interesting
than Business. But, more importantly, it would keep

10. .
him clear of Uncle Galan.
“Oh, you would make Dad proud.”
Inside the espresso maker, the pressurized
water neared its boil.
“Shut up, Drake. I just might change it.”
“You know that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
He took a deep breath to loosen the vice on
his chest.
“Anyway,” Drake continued. “Why I’m
calling. One of the gutters is coming loose and Mom
can’t reach it.”
“No need to check in with me, Drake,
really. I have complete faith in you.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“You’re already there, so fix it.”
“Ah, ah, ah. That’s not part of our
agreement, now, is it, Little Brother? Besides, I
already told her you were coming by and would be
more than happy to do it.”
Tarry liquid dripped into the four-cup
carafe.
“Your thoughtfulness is unsurpassed.”
“Tell him to go screw himself,” Scott cut in.
“You live here now.”
“Don’t push me, Bret,” Drake continued
into the phone. “You really don’t want me in a bad
mood. I tend to—lose judgement, you know? Might
accidentally say things.”
Steam rose into the air and the espresso
maker exhaled its last breaths as the carafe filled.
“Fine! I’ll be there tomorrow.” He hung up.
Scott spread his arms out in a “What the
hell?” gesture.
“It’s nothing, Scott.”
“When will you ever stand up to him?”

11. .
“Don’t worry about it.”
“No, really. When will you?”
Bret busied himself by opening the fridge
and retrieving the milk, half filling his mug with it,
and adding the market honey. Hunger rumbled in
his stomach but he had lost his taste for food. Not
that he had much in the fridge anyway.
“Just leave me alone, Scott.” He poured the
coffee into the prepared mug and took it to his
room.
“Did anyone ever tell you that putting
honey in coffee is weird?” Scott called down the
hall.
Bret closed his door. On the dresser, the
photograph stared back at him. The last photo of
the four of them.


12. Galan’s Visit
He glanced up from his cereal. Scott Lère’s bedroom
door had opened, casting morning light into the
hallway.
A tomcat grin was on his roommate’s face.
Good. Whoever he talked to last night would keep
him focused on his own matters.
Scott flicked his bangs off the top of his
glasses. “So—you know that chick I met last week?
Well, I called her last night.” He paused
dramatically. “Dinner and a show this weekend. She
said yes!” The eyebrows rode up and down his
forehead a few times.
“That’s great.” Bret rinsed his dishes and
returned the cereal box, which was marked with the
date he opened it, to the cupboard. “Knock yourself
out.”
“She has friends, you know. Hot ones.”
“How many of them do you need?”
Scott rolled his eyes. “I meant for you.”
“I know what you meant.”
“So?”
“Thanks for the thought, but not this
week.”
“That’s what you said last week. You know,
I think I remember a time when you were fun.”
Bret peered across the top of his coffee cup
at his roommate.
“Give it some thought, man,” Scott went
on.

13. .
“I thought you were gonna crack down and
focus on getting into Law School.”
Scott shrugged. “Yeah. Can’t work twenty-
four seven though.”
“Well, if you’re not doing anything
Saturday morning, want to go to the market?”
“You just go to see the buskers. Admit it,
Mozart.”
“I need more honey.”
“I bet you do. Well then. Depends on what
kind of honey you have in mind.”
“Give it up already.”
Scott shook his head and ducked into the
lower cupboard, where he tugged the frying pan out
from under two other pots, tipping them over and
sending them clattering off the shelf.
Bret squeezed his eyes shut against the
assault on his ears.
Scott righted the pots and slammed the
cupboard door on them, then set the pan on the
stove’s element and took the egg carton out of the
fridge. “So are you going in to play with the lab toys
today?”
“Mm-hm.”
“That Willoughby guy is pretty high
profile, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, half the campus knows his name.”
“I feel much better now about walking into
his lab knowing jack shit.”
Scott rolled his eyes and smiled lopsidedly.
“So speaketh the gifted one who never has anything
to worry about.”
Bret’s jaw clenched. “I told you never to
use that word.”

14. .
“Oh, puh-lease. You act like it’s some kind
of sentence or something.”
He threw more coffee down his throat. “It
is.”
“Yeah. Sure. That’s because you don’t know
what it’s like for the rest of us mere mortals.” Scott
stuck out his palm to prevent any backtalk. “But
you know what we should do, Mozart?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“We really should give some thought to
starting up a new band.”
“Then you’re going to want to play for
people.”
“Yeah. Yeah, usually that’s how it works.”
“Mozart was a genius, Scott. How many
times do I have to tell you? He wrote music in his
head and it came out—well, finished.”
“He could also play anything he heard.”
“I still don’t see how it applies.”
“Stop fricking hiding from yourself.”
Bret twisted his face up at Scott and went
for his shower.
Before going to meet Lauren at the
university for his first day of training, he pulled up
in front of his mother’s bungalow to fix the gutter.
He wore his oldest clothes, but at the lab they
wouldn’t care what he wore. He’d made his
impression, and now it was time to heed the
warnings about acid drips and other casualties that
clothes met in a lab.
He leaned the aluminum ladder against the
side of his mother’s house and climbed up, blocking
the sun with one hand. The gutters and downspouts
needed to be replaced, but that wasn’t about to

15. .
happen anytime soon. Reattaching this one wasn’t a
real problem except that he had to erect the ladder
on a slope that dropped into the alley, making the
top of the bungalow feel a lot higher. In spite of his
mother’s firm grip on the base, electric sensations
ran from the bottom of his feet through the length
of his legs and into his stomach, where they coiled.
His fear of heights had held him back in just about
everything, even well-paid construction jobs. Even
climbing in the Rocky Mountains with his father.
When he climbed down, his mother was
smiling. Her whole face smiled, especially her brown
eyes, and, for that single moment, it always made
the world a better place. Red highlights caught in
her chestnut hair, now probably colored to hide the
gray. She passed the ladder to him and he retracted
it.
“Thanks for coming out to do this. I asked
Drake but he’s been so busy.”
He carried the ladder effortlessly into the
garage, where he hung it up on its hooks.
“Come and have something to eat.”
He welcomed this, as it was her food, after
all, that had inspired his own interest in cooking. It
was peaceful in the house without Drake around,
except for the cologne that lingered in several
rooms—a constant reminder of his presence.
Bret sniffed the air, scrunching up his face.
“That’s bloody awful.”
“You know Drake,” Mom said tactfully.
He rolled his eyes when she couldn’t see
his face. “I hope it was important.”
“I suspect it’s a girl. He left all done up,
new clothes and everything.”

16. .
He would have made some gesture of
vomiting if he were talking with anyone but his
mother. “He’s always got new clothes. That doesn’t
mean anything.”
She had made bacon, eggs, and homemade
scones, which he gulped down as fast as they hit
the table.
“I’ll give you some of these to take to
work,” she said, setting some aside. “Are you sure
you’re getting enough to eat?” She paused to study
him.
“Yeah, fine,” he said quickly with his
mouth still full.
“Well, if you need anything, call me.”
“I’m eighteen, Mom.”
“That doesn’t mean you stop being my
son.”
He knew he’d never ask her for food, as
tempting as it was sometimes.
When the doorbell rang, she left the table
and went to answer the front door. He listened from
the kitchen.
“Galan! What a surprise!”
His heart fell through his stomach. He
stopped eating at once, and wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand.
“Hello, Kyra,” came the elated voice. “I was
in town, so I thought to myself, ‘I should go see how
Kyra’s doing!’ So, here I am. May I come in?”
“Of course,” his mother said.
Bret stepped around the wall of the kitchen
and stood at the edge of the living room with his
arms crossed across his chest. “Hello, Uncle Galan.”
Looking at his uncle was like seeing a
reflection of himself. Galan’s hair was dark and

17. .
neatly cut. The brown eyes, straight nose, and solid
features were probably considered handsome,
except his build seemed to get chunkier every time
he saw him. He could have passed for his mother’s
brother, but he was, in fact, his father’s.
“Drake said something about you moving
out,” Galan said.
“I’m just visiting. No worries. I’ll be on my
way soon.”
“That’s a shame.” Galan’s eyes locked with
his briefly before they looked away. “Anyway, I’m
sure Kyra can spare a few moments for her brother-
in-law. Mmm, something smells good!”
“Sit down, Galan, and have something to
eat.”
“Don’t mind if I do!” Galan stepped into
the kitchen and looked around. “Where’s Drake?”
“He’s out for the day,” his mother said.
“Oh, that’s too bad! I really wanted to talk
to him. Well, perhaps he can call me.”
No need to use the phone. Drake would
hear him all the way from Leduc.
Galan sat down without hesitation. Mom
quickly got him a plate and cutlery, and he reached
for the bacon and eggs at once.
“Mmm. These are just a little cold. Would
you mind warming them up, Kyra?”
Bret had to turn away.
“So, what’s up with you, Bret? Mommy’s
not around to look after you so you dress like crap?”
“I had such a hard time deciding which
designers to wear,” he said. “You know how it is.”
“Galan!” Mom snapped. “Don’t start. He’s
here for yard work.”

18. .
He leaned against the counter and just
stared at his uncle.
“I’ll let that one go.” Galan’s voice ground
like machinery choked by sand. “For your mother’s
sake.”
“Don’t forget the scones, Galan.” She
pushed the plate closer. “They’re homemade.”
“Character building, yard work is.” Galan’s
muted voice struggled around a mouthful of scone.
“Good for you, Kyra.”
As his uncle cleared all the plates, making
the meal but a memory, his mother’s eyes warned
him. He hid a balled fist under his arm.
When Galan could find nothing else to
consume, he turned to Bret. “’Cause, you know,
people do actually pay attention to how you present
yourself.”
“Tea or coffee, Galan?”
“Tea would be just lovely, Kyra.”
Of course Galan wanted tea. He drank
both, and there was coffee in the coffee pot, but
why use that? Kyra could just run around and wait
on him hand and foot, after all.
“With cream, if you have it.”
“I didn’t know you were coming, Galan.
Milk is all I have.”
“Ah, well,” Galan said. “I’ll just make do,
then.”
Bret had heard enough. “I’m heading out.
Enjoy your stay in town, Uncle Galan.”
Galan mumbled something unintelligible.
His mother wrapped some scones she’d
rescued in tinfoil and followed him to the front
door.
“Hey, you still working at that useless little

19. .
drugstore?” Galan called from the kitchen.
Bret’s eyes locked with his mother’s as he
replied. “What if I am?”
She shook her head.
Galan presented himself in the living room,
wiping grease from his face with a napkin. “You
really should look into something else. That kind of
job won’t get you anywhere in life.”
Bret stroked the stubble on his chin.
“Hmm. Are you sure? I thought I was living my
dream.”
“Galan, Bret really has to get going,” Mom
said.
She turned him toward the door, stuffing
the wrapped scones into his hands.
Galan’s expression darkened. “Kyra, I’m
talking about the boy’s future. With his father
gone—”
Bret’s heart sped up involuntarily.
“He’s not a boy, and he’s doing just fine,
but thank you for your concern.”
“Oh, Kyra, you just don’t see what’s in
front of you. As always.”
Bret stiffened, and resisted his mother’s
forward motion.
“Ignore him,” she whispered.
But when he looked back over his shoulder,
Galan was already walking towards them.
“Self control was never one of your
stronger traits, was it, Bret? A man can achieve a lot
by controlling his own impulses. Often the fate of
others rests with a single phrase, a single deed—a
single act of cowardice—”
Bret’s throat tightened, cutting off his
breath.

20. .
“Honestly, Galan. No need to get so
dramatic,” his mother scolded.
His breath returned as Galan lowered his
eyes.
“Insult me all you want,” he said, “but stop
insulting my mother. She’s not your personal
servant!”
Galan laughed. “Oh, Bret, honestly. Such
tough words. Kyra, I must commend you on the job
you did with Drake, but for whatever reason, the
lesson about respecting one’s elders seems to have
been lost on Bret.”
“Galan, you promised,” his mother said
through pursed lips.
Bret fought to do nothing, say nothing. As
much as every ounce of him resisted the idea, he
knew he had to walk away quietly.
Galan sighed audibly. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Goodbye, Uncle.” Bret stepped toward the
screen door.
As he glanced back, Galan moved. Bret
caught his mother flinch and then relax, as if she
were overriding a reflex. He blinked, hesitated,
unsure of what he saw. Galan stood close beside
her.
A sick feeling stirred in the pit of his
stomach—some old unpleasantness, a vague
memory or dream, or something. He couldn’t place
it. But he was overcome by the urge to fight it off,
beat it down into its dark hole, and put a lid on it.
He took long strides to his car. His mother
came down the steps after him.
“Will you be all right with him here?” he
asked her.

21. .
She smiled. “It’s not your job to protect
me.”
He dropped into the driver’s seat, but set
the wrapped scones on the seat beside him with
care. He rolled down the window before closing the
door.
“I can handle him.” She leaned in and
hugged him. “Look. I know you’re fed up.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell him about the campus
job?”
“Why should I?”
“It would have been honest.” She kissed his
temple.
“Call me if there’s a problem.”
“There won’t be a problem.” She patted his
arm and withdrew from the window. “Thanks for
coming out.”
Galan was showing up more often. He
seemed to be particularly interested now that Drake
was twenty-one.
Bret started the car but didn’t put it in
gear. “Can’t you ditch him?”
His mother squeezed her eyes shut, and at
once he regretted his utterance.
“Honey—”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“We owe him.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly, shifting into gear.


22. Kern’s Lab
Several people passed him in the hallway of Medical
Science. Some ignored him as the stranger he was,
while others glanced his way, inspecting this new
arrival in their department. The hallway was long,
tiled, and the color of butter. Even the institutional
paint had yellowed into a dingy pallor, but over the
summer the tiles had been buffed to a shine.
“Bret, come in,” Dr. Willoughby motioned.
He returned the gaze of the Indiana Jones
look-alike, who peered at him over the top of his
reading glasses. With a head full of disheveled hair
still more sandy than gray, only the glasses, sitting
slightly askew part way down his nose, betrayed his
age.
Bret felt a presence at his shoulder, and
turned. Lauren, who was likely in her mid-twenties
but only reached his chin, hooked bangs behind her
ear as she listened in.
“Lauren will show you everything you need
to know,” Dr. Willoughby said. “I have to run across
to the hospital.”
He nodded as the doctor stepped around
him.
“Thanks, Dr. Willoughby.”
“Kern,” the doctor said, clapping a hand on
his shoulder. “It’s Kern.”
With a wave to both of them, the doctor
disappeared out the door.
“No one around here calls him Dr.
Willoughby,” Lauren said.

23. .
Bret’s eyes converged on her ski-jump
nose. It added a playfulness to her sophistication
that made her easier to approach.
“He says that’s for patients.” She led him to
a rack of lab coats, took one off a hanger, and
handed it to him. “How much of Kern’s research are
you familiar with?”
“Just what I could find online.” He tried the
white coat on.
She smiled. “Does it fit?”
He checked the length of the sleeves and
did up some of the snaps. “Yup.”
She kept smiling.
“What? Does it look funny?”
“No, it’s perfect.”
“Then what?”
“Kern likes you. Now I can see why.”
He stopped moving, not sure how to
respond. Lauren didn’t know a thing about him. Or
did she? And why was she telling him this about
Kern?
She stretched up to look taller, put one
hand on her hip, and waved a finger in the air.
Making her voice deeper, she said, “‘You’ll like him,
Lauren. He didn’t bullshit me. He has no experience,
but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Besides, he has a
good handshake.’”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Kern knows people. He can tell things
about them.”
A shiver ran down his spine.
“So, that said, I expect you’ll ask if you
don’t know something rather than dump two
hundred dollars’ worth of enzyme down the sink.”
Her tone grew more sober with each word.

24. .
“Did someone do that?”
“You would marvel at the stories from our
Hall of Shame, some of which, I’m sure, you’ll hear
about. Let’s take a walk.” She motioned with her
head for him to follow. “These garbage cans here,
with the orange bags, are biohazard. Any cell or
tissue culture we use goes in there when we’re done.
There’s the fume hood,” she pointed. “Bunsen
burners and gas lines there. Just make sure the gas
is always shut off properly. Glove boxes are on the
benches, but if you need more, they’re all kept in
here.” She opened a lower cabinet and closed it,
then pointed to various glass door cabinets and
labels. “Petri dishes, pipettes, glassware. If you need
solutions and buffers, they’re in here. Pipette tip
boxes are up there, sterile of course, so don’t leave
them open, and the culture plates are in the cold
room. Agar and nutrients to make them up are in
this cupboard. And you’ll need weigh scales.”
She walked him over to a separate counter
with digital scales accurate to four decimal places
that were encased in glass with sliding doors.
“Weigh boats, tin foil, and all that stuff are
in this drawer.” She glanced up at him. “So that’s
basically it, to start with. What you’ll be doing is
collecting the glassware and washing it down in the
dishwasher room. You’ll also be autoclaving some of
it. But we can get you making sterile plates, media,
and stock solutions as well. How familiar are you
with that kind of stuff?”
“In theory only. In practice? Not so much.”
She hooked her hair behind her ear. “Well,
that’s fine. You can shadow me and you’ll catch on.
Let’s start with prepping tips and glassware for
autoclaving. Media and other liquids will go in

25. .
separately, and you’ll have to make sure you leave
the lids loose so they don’t explode. We can tighten
them once they’ve cooled. Not to insult you, but you
do remember your gas expansion and contraction
theory, I assume?”
He stifled a laugh.
“Yeah, it’s real funny until someone
forgets.”
“I meant no disrespect. I was just—
imagining things.” He couldn’t quite remove his
smile.
Lauren studied him. “A creative thinker
with an imagination. Good.” She took him by the
sleeve, dragging him behind her. “But we’ll get to
the liquids. Let’s start with the dry stuff.”
Good? That’s exactly what got him into
trouble at the last job.
She showed him how to fill and stack the
pipette tip boxes, how to tear tinfoil into squares
quickly and efficiently using the edge of a counter,
how to use it to cover the openings of the
Erlenmeyer flasks, and how to wrap pipettes and
burettes in foil for the autoclave. She loosened the
screw caps on some 500-milliliter and one-liter
media bottles and placed them in a separate plastic
autoclave tub.
He followed as she wheeled the cart down
the hall to the autoclave room and showed him how
to operate the machines, which were each the size
of a large fridge with heavy, stainless steel doors.
Before his shift’s end, he went through the
lab’s safety procedures, loaded the carts with dirty
glassware, filled all the empty tip boxes, and
autoclaved enough glassware to refill the cupboards.

26. .
Lauren made media and they autoclaved it together,
and finally, because he asked, she let him pour
plates.
“Leave them on the bench to cool.
Tomorrow, we’ll bag them in these.” She opened a
drawer and showed him the empty Petri plate
sleeves. “If you insist on bagging them yourself,
make sure you put them in upside down and store
them that way in the cold room.”
“Why upside down?”
“To prevent the condensation from running
onto the agar.”
“Oh. That’s smart.”
She grinned. “And we’ll know soon enough
if you contaminated them. If not, you may end up
doing so many of these that you’ll be seeing them in
your sleep.”

Crisp staccato skipped into the night, then
smoothed into a streamer of fluttering energy.
Notes undulated with dizzying haste, changed
direction, teased, leapt over strings: a game of tag
around pillars of fire.
When he first discovered the Devil’s Trill
Sonata, he had to learn it at once, if only for the
challenge. The flitting notes ricocheted inside the
old Ford—something trapped and agitated, in a
frenzy to escape.
He had driven out to his old school yard,
and practiced in the back seat with the windows up
to contain the noise. At least his neighbors at the
apartment had nothing to complain about.

27. .
A police car drifted past and registered
somewhere on the fringes of his awareness. His
fingers fumbled and he restarted the segment.
Headlights pierced the car’s interior,
unveiling him from the protective darkness, and a
cruiser rolled to a stop behind him.
He dropped his violin into his lap and
waited to see what the cop would do.
The police officer stepped out.
He cranked the window down. The cycling
of the police car’s engine drifted in with the breeze.
Slow, deliberate footsteps crunched across the
gravel.
“Hi. How’re you doing?” the officer said.
Too pleasant for the situation. And cops
always had that look. Like a mask.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Can I see your license, please?”
They were trained to sound non-
confrontational, yet had that “Don’t mess with me”
expression. Something about the eyes.
“Sure.” He twisted around to reach his back
pocket.
The bow rolled off his knees and landed
somewhere on the floor. His instinct was to rescue it
from the dirt down there, but he fought the urge,
and pulled the license from his wallet.
The cop took it. “Thank you.” He bent over,
panning his eyes over the interior of the car. “Who’s
in there with you?”
“No one.”
“Waiting for someone?”
“No.”
“So what brings you out here at one in the
morning?”

28. .
He held up his electric violin by the neck.
The cop’s eyes flickered for a split second
as he examined the strange metal form. “Is that a
violin?”
“I’m practicing. This is the only place I
won’t disturb anyone.”
“I see.” The cop scanned the inside of the
car again, this time with his flashlight, revealing the
fallen bow, open violin case, battery operated
amplifier, and a couple of empty coffee cups.
The cop clicked off the flashlight and took
the license to his car, turned on the interior light,
and did some checking.
While he waited, his heart pummeled in his
chest. He did not know why, since there was
nothing to find.
Finally, the cop returned. “Go home. Stop
hanging around schoolyards in the middle of the
night. It makes people nervous.” He handed back
the card. “Have a good night.”
“Thank you. You too.”
The officer walked back to his car and
waited until he pulled his Ford out onto the street.
Only then did the cruiser drive away, irradiating the
sleeping subdivision with its arc of departure.
His heart still thumping, Bret watched the
school, where he’d finished sixth grade seven years
ago, recede in his rear view. The teacher who’d
fought to promote his talents had long since moved
on.


29. Coming…
March 11, 2013
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