T HE WAREHOUSE SMELLED especially fragrant
today, unlike the usual aroma of cardboard, mildew
and dusty cement. Violet used an old comb to brush
her hair straight, using a cracked window as a mirror.
And then she felt it starting again. A slow pulsing ache
began to form in her abdomen. She winced.
John watched her from the corner, where he sat on
the dirty, torn couch. Violet was a few years older so
he’d always looked up to her like a big sister. Orphans
don’t get to have sisters, he figured, so it was like a gift
or something. She told him stories about her life and
he always listened, trying to glean some wisdom from
his slight elder. They shared a sense of kinship and
that bond was strong.
So when Violet began to stumble backward, John
rushed over as fast as he could. He found her on her
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knees, dry heaving against the interior brick wall.
Having seen this a few times, and knowing that it
would eventually pass, John rubbed her back with a
comforting hand and decided to wait it out with her.
Violet cried and growled as the pain grew in
intensity. Whatever tormented her insides did not want
to let go without a fight. And Violet did fight on, for
nearly fifteen minutes. John stayed at her side, saying
things like, “It’ll be better soon, Violet. Just hold on a
little longer. You’ll get through this. It’ll pass. It always
does. I’m here with you.”
It may not have looked like it to John, but his words
did help. Even in her anguished state, Violet could feel
his touch on her back and his soft words of 15-year-
old wisdom and comfort. And he was right, too. It did
pass. Violet sat up straight, caught her breath, and
latched onto her “little brother” with a thankful hug.
They had gone through it together but John feared that
whatever was making her sick might eventually win
out, and he was afraid of losing her.
She saw the fear present in his eyes and took a
purple rubber bracelet off her wrist and handed it to
him.
“What’s this?” John asked.
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“This is a symbol between us. So whenever you look
down at it, you’ll think of your big sister and it’ll give
you courage.”
“It’s girlie,” he said.
“Hey, it’s not girlie! This is special to me, okay? If I
ever see you take it off I’ll sock you.”
John was secretly flattered. He put the purple band
on his wrist and said, “Well, purple is the color of
royalty. So why not?”
Violet smiled at her little brother. He was smart for
his age and she liked to hear his peculiar musings.
“Violet,” John said. “Can I ask a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Can you not steal anymore?”
She was dumbfounded. What a strange request to
make.
“John, you know why I do that, right? It’s for the
group.”
“I know. I know that. But it’s dangerous, you know?
What if someone catches you and you get hurt?”
Violet had trouble formulating a protest. “Nothing’s
going to happen to me. But if it’ll make you feel better,
then I’ll think about it. Okay?”
Violet glanced up and noticed Jack and his matted
beard walking toward them with bulging eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
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“I think someone is trying to send us a message.”
Jack led Violet and John outside the warehouse and
over to the broken steel door that allowed them
entrance night after night. Above the door was an
ominous stroke of black paint — a warning. Below it
were the words: I’m going to kill you all.
Violet’s stomach recoiled. She looked at John, who
was wearing a terrified expression.
“It’s just a prank, Johnny,” she said. “Nobody even
knows we’re in here. Besides, most reasonable people
would just call the cops and have us evicted.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “She’s right, little buddy.
Probably some land developer trying to scare us off.
And last time I checked, they don’t go around killing
folks.”
John’s countenance didn’t brighten.
Jack turned to Violet and said, “Think we should
find somewhere else to stay tonight? Even if it’s just a
prank, John might feel a little better.”
“I’m not scared,” John said quickly. “And I don’t
want to leave. This is my home. And it’s warm inside.”
Violet and Jack shared a look. Jack nodded his
approval but Violet wasn’t quite so sure.
• • •
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It was sunset when Levi left work and stepped into
his car, parked beside a bagged meter near the
entrance. He prayed for a moment, hoping the car
would start once more. And it did. Sounded pretty
healthy for a change, too. Levi stopped to grab a few
items from the corner gas station on the way home: a
cup of Ramen Noodles, some toothpaste, an energy
drink on clearance and a five-pack of car air
fresheners. “That about covers everything,” he thought.
Cutting through the park, Levi saw the protesters
again. This time they looked more energetic, chanting
political songs while making their cardboard signs. A
couple of them, who were warming their hands in a
steel trash can-turned-furnace, gave Levi suspicious
looks as he rolled past them.
Ten minutes later, Levi rounded the corner to his
street and even from a distance, he could see it. Pulling
to a stop, the words were still unclear. What wasn’t
unclear, however, was the black paint scrawled across
the upper part of his door frame.
Levi jumped out, his small grocery sack in one hand,
his utility bag housing the lamp in the other.
When he gained the stoop, the words written on his
door were as clear as crystal, and there were only three
of them. It said, simply: You will lose.
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The street light near his stoop, sensing that nightfall
had arrived, sprang to life and the sudden light jarred
him for a moment. He was soon glad to have that light
as he set his bags down and reached for his key. It’s
not that Levi didn’t feel the threat present in the
message, nor was he unafraid to enter his home.
Rather, he was able to push back the dread because,
and only because, he had the lamp and he had seen
what it could do. He was, after all, its protector. He
also seemed to know that it might also be his protector.
Levi hoped, as he turned the knob and pushed the
door open, that he might have another letter from K.S.
waiting on the table to offer him more sage wisdom or
encouragement. But as he flipped on the lights, he
found nothing.
What a monumental letdown.
Of all days, it was in this moment that he needed
those cryptic words from his seemingly invisible friend.
And yet none were offered to him.
Levi chained his door and fastened the deadbolt. He
also checked the two windows to make sure their locks
were secured. Then he settled in and boiled up a
dinner of cheap, starchy noodles. At least he had salt.
Around eleven that night, Levi found himself in the
middle of a dream. He was standing in an unusually
large boxing ring encased in golden ropes. He felt the
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tape around his hands and the tightness of the gloves
perched on his fists. The untested mouthpiece gnawed
against his gums and he could smell the Vaseline
smeared across his eyebrows. Stepping forward, he felt
the warmth of the stage lights and heard the roar of a
massive crowd. The sounds of chanting marched in
step with the rhythm of his pulse, and Levi knew that
he was going to win this fight. The noise became
deafening as he reveled in the moment.
Then he woke up in a lonely, cold apartment. The
thin sound of distant traffic was the only thing audible,
other than the sound of his own breathing. He arose
and felt some kind of force pulling him toward the
window. Yet he resisted the tug. Levi stood in the
stillness of the apartment, his bare feet gripping the
chilly hardwood floor beneath. And he listened.
The words inscribed on his doorpost came back into
his mind and he felt the clammy grip of fear tightening
around him. Although the window that peered out onto
the front stoop was covered by a small, dark curtain,
he knew something was outside. Something was
waiting for him on the other side, and he didn’t want to
look. He felt it, which was eerie enough.
Levi swallowed, finding it difficult to do so. His pulse
quickened and he began to take deep breaths, just like
he once did before walking out to the ring. This time,
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however, the breathing routine didn’t ease his
pounding heart. He knew, without question, that his
enemy was outside in the street and if he looked out
the window, he would see something that he’d likely
regret having found. But the fear only made him angry.
He was not this guy. He was a champion and one of
the most fearless — feared — fighters to ever step into
the ring. He was Levi the Leveler.
Levi took quick, purposeful steps toward the window
and swept the curtain aside in one fluid motion, the
dark figure once again meeting his gaze from the
middle of the street. Levi had seen the stare before;
that was nothing new. But he’d never seen the figure
hovering a good six inches above the asphalt. That part
was new.
• • •
Violet carried her sack of groceries tightly against her
body as she walked through one of the worst
neighborhoods in the city. “Not the smartest thing to
do at eleven-thirty,” she thought.
Vigilant for any sign of trouble, she found more than
a few. She quickened her steps, reminding herself that
she was the one who had volunteered to grab some
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snacks this time. “Just a few more blocks,” she
assured herself, trying to remain calm.
And then she smelled it. It was faint at first, but the
closer she got, the stronger the smell of smoke became.
Her ears caught the ring of sirens in the distance.
Growing up in the city, she knew well the sound of fire
engines racing to an emergency.
Not yet in full panic mode, but nearing it, she began
to run — as fast as someone holding a sack of
groceries could run. Her legs began to ache and the
bag toppled over but she didn’t stop. The smoke and
the sirens were growing in intensity as she galloped
toward the warehouse.
Violet blasted around the corner and through an
alley. The smoke was now visible above the taller
buildings. She raced on, hopping a chain-link fence
and dashing across a once-bare parking lot, now
teeming with police cars and fire engines. The
warehouse lay in the distance, engulfed in flames.
Insidious black smoke rose into the heavens.
She felt a wave of thick heat as she neared the scene.
Two policemen saw her approaching and grabbed her.
“Let me go!” she shouted. “Those are my friends in
there!”
Fifty feet in front of her were several bodies under
white sheets. Violet twisted herself free, fell to her
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knees and wept. Her trembling lips could only utter a
quiet plea as fresh tears wet her cheeks. “Help.”
• • •
The figure remained on his doorstep. Levi was sure of
it, even though he’d backed away from the window and
let the curtain fall back into place some time ago.
Standing near his bed, he noticed the sound of
scraping wood. Was someone picking the lock? Maybe
trying to cut through the door itself to open a hole? He
hated just standing there, waiting to die like a coward.
He wanted to fight back, like he used to — put his
immense physical strength and natural talent to work,
smashing his foe to the canvas and raising his arms in
triumph.
But he also remembered what K.S. had told him:
Your fists cannot win this fight. Let wisdom be your
strength.
“Wisdom,” he challenged out loud. “What wisdom?”
Maybe, he surmised, it was the wisdom to wait. To
not fight back. To resist the urge to do what he’d
always naturally done. The wisdom to trust his
mysterious partner in crime and hope that he knows
what he’s talking about.
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So Levi waited. And waited. Then he waited some
more. Hours passed. Finally, the first streaks of
morning light peeked in through his window. Levi
began to feel that he’d made a good decision. He
walked to the front door, twisted the knob and let it
slowly fall open. The porch was empty. No one was
waiting for him in the street. All was clear. He stepped
onto the stoop and listened to the comforting sounds of
his neighborhood waking up. A southern wind closed
the front door behind him. He turned, startled, and
saw them — words carved into the wooden door by a
very sharp object.
You will die like the rest. Give me the lamp and live.
Yours truly, Dev
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