Joe sat in his gray Corolla at a traffic signal, listening to a Neil Young song. He had the windows rolled up and the air conditioner whirring. Nevertheless, he heard a shout from outside his cocoon. He looked around to find its source. He heard it again.
     "Somebody please! Save my baby!"
     A woman rushed back in forth in front of a nearby well-kept two-story house. The house had a colorful flower garden in front, a pristine lawn, and smoke curling out of its open front door.
     "Jesus!" Joe exclaimed. Forgetting the traffic light, which had turned green, he elbowed his door open and dodged traffic to get across the street.
     The woman saw him and grabbed his arms as he rushed up. Anguish on her face, she begged, "Please, save my baby."
     He pointed at the house. In disbelief, he asked, "He's in there?"
     "Yes!" she screamed. "It's my daughter, Heather. She's in her crib."
     "Oh my God!" he exclaimed. He did not voice the question that occurred to him: how could she leave her daughter in a house that was on fire.
     He heard sirens in the distance. Peered through the smoke curling at the front door, he saw orange flames deep in the rear of the house. With the woman tugging on his arm, he recoiled.
     Heather was the name of his daughter too. The thought of her alone in her crib in a house full of smoke made him wince. He looked down the street and saw no sign of fire trucks. Apart from the still distant sirens, all he heard was the crackling of flames from within the house.
     A sudden wrenching in his chest told him that his adrenalin had cut in. His mind zoomed in on the child in danger. Everything else seemed to go out of focus. He grabbed the woman's arm and demanded, "How do I get to her?"
     The woman pointed to a second floor window on the right side.
     "She's up there. In her crib. Please?"
     "Where are the stairs?" he demanded.
     "Right inside the door."
     He peered into the house. "I don't see them."
     "It's straight ahead. Please hurry!"
     He dashed to the door. A wave of smoky heat washed over the bare skin of his face. Smoke seared his eyes worse than any barbecue flash back. He drew back, saying "Oh man. This is nuts."
     He looked up at the second floor. I can't do this, he thought. He turned and looked back at the woman. The anguished look on her tear-streaked face wracked him with guilt.
     He wished that he still carried the handkerchiefs as his mother always insisted.
     A child's muffled cry from within the building broke his reverie.
     He sucked in as much air as he could and put his arm over his mouth. At least, if he had to breathe, he could do it through his shirtsleeve, not that it would do much good.
     He clamped his eyes shut and broke for the door.
     Blind, he found the stairs by smashing his foot into the first step. The pain drew the impulse to curse. He dared not voice it for fear of losing precious air.
     He darted up the stairs. At the top, he tried to orient himself to where the child's room should be. He turned right and crept along, sweeping along the wall with his free arm. There had to be a doorknob. He dared to crack his eyes enough to see the smoke-shrouded glow of a window at the end of the hall. But he was rewarded by more pain.
     Something exploded on the first floor. The house shook. "Oh shit," he said.
     His hand hit a doorknob. Before he grabbed it, he remembered a first aid class that he'd once taken. If the knob was hot, it meant that there were flames on the other side. It wasn't. From behind the door, he heard another cry, more like a whimper. He grabbed knob, thrust the door open, lunged into the room, and slammed the door behind him. Without thinking, he let out a gasp and drew in a deep breath of clean air. Thank God it was clean, he thought.
     Drops of salty perspiration dripped into his eyes as he scanned the room, which was dark. However, but there was enough light from the window to see a small child standing in a crib against the wall. Tears ran down her cheeks.
     "Heather!" he exclaimed.
     He rushed over to her. He marshaled his best Mr. Rogers voice and said, "Hi Heather. I'm going to bring you to Mommy. Do you want to come?"
     She looked at him, held her hands up, and cried, "Mommy?"
     Something on the first floor collapsed.
     He scooped her up and ran to the only window in the room. Looking out, he saw it was a 20 foot drop. He could hear sirens, but they still sounded far away. How the hell long does it take for them to get here, he questioned.
     He entertained the thought of throwing the child from the window, but the mother was nowhere in sight. People were gathering at the road's edge. With his free hand, he tried to open the window. Perhaps he could throw Heather down to one of the onlookers. He couldn't get it opened. Apart from that, he realized that there was a grate on the outside. It must have been somebody's idea of making it child safe. Great idea, he thought.
     He had no choice. He had to go back down the stairs and out the front door.
     Heather whimpered.
     Another crash came from below. The crackling of the flames was getting louder. Grey smoke curled from under the door. His already pounding heart increased a notch.
     He looked at Heather and realized that she would breathe the poison air outside of the room unless he did something. He tried to be calm as said, "Heather, we're going to play undersea diver. I want you to hold your breath until I bring you out to Mommy. Can you do that?"
     She nodded.
     "Good," he said. "I'm going to help you. I want you to close your eyes and pretend that my hand is a diver's mask."
     She nodded again.
     "Okay, here we go! Take a deep breath!"
     She did as she was told. Looking at her pumpkin-like cheeks, he knew in that moment that he would bring this sweet child to safety, if it was the last thing he did. He hoped it wouldn't be the last thing he did.
     "Okay, here we go. Undersea divers."
     He put his hand over her mouth and pinched her nose. She protested by twisting away from him. He ignored her efforts. As he took his own deep breath, he drew a quick mental picture of the path he had to take. The doorknob was warmer than it had been moments ago. He pulled the door open. A wave of heat and noxious smoke burst at him.
     A quick left and some hurried steps brought him to the top of the stairs. He reached for the banister in mid stride and started down. So far, so good, he thought. I think we're going to make it.
     The stairs felt spongy and hot. Before, they had been firm. As he rushed down, he tried to imagine himself as light as a feather. He fought putting all his weight on each step.
     Heather began to whimper and struggle. It compelled him increase his pace. Too fast. A weakened step near the bottom collapsed under his weight. He reached out with his free hand as he tumbled. He twisted as he fell, trying not to land on the child in his arms. His hip hit the floor hard. It felt like a Mack truck had just crashed into him. But the floor held. He grunted in pain and realized that he'd just run out of air. Heather was crying. She would be out of air too. He held his hand tighter on her mouth.
     "Don't breathe," he urged, knowing that he couldn't afford the breath to say it.
     His lungs begged him to breathe.
     He opened his eyes and saw the smoke-obscured rectangle of the open door. It was close. Fighting off the waves of pain that coursed through his hip, the stinging in his eyes, and the sudden numbness in his free arm, he dragged his leg out of the collapsed step and crawled toward the light. He was getting lightheaded. The world was spinning. Now he wasn't sure where the door was.
     The image of his daughter flashed in his mind. He didn't want to leave her. He marshaled his last bit of energy and threw himself at where he thought the door would be. The child in his arms squirmed, cried, and coughed.
     Where was that damn door? He should be there by now, he thought. Frustrated, he thought, here I go again: doing something totally stupid.
     He felt something grab at his shirt. Startled, he tried to shake it off. It wouldn't let go. A strong hand grabbed his other shoulder. For a moment, he thought it was the child. He felt himself dragged across the floor as he clung to the now limp child in his arms. Please be okay, he prayed.
     He sensed rather than saw light burst around him. Something tore Heather out of his arms. He reached for her, but she was gone. Panic and despair overcame him. Waling, he called out her name. He'd lost her. Tears washed his dry, burning eyes. He knew that he'd failed.
     Something was slapped over his face. He tried to push it away, but stopped when sweet, cool air filled his lungs. Somebody was cutting his trousers on the leg that had crashed through the staircase. They were now applying a dressing. His arm had gone from numb to throbbing. He didn't feel his hip any more.
     "You've got a nice burn there," a woman, said. Odd, he didn't remember getting burned.
     "We'll take care of it," she said.
     A dry cough overcame him. As he finished hacking, he heard a child crying. Crying "Heather," he opened his eyes, but everything was a blur.
     A strong arm clasped him around the shoulder. He realized that somebody was on his other side too. A fireman's voice said, "It's okay. You're going to be all right."
     He turned to the voice, which now addressed somebody else.
     "How is she?" the owner of the voice called.
     Joe didn't hear the response.
     The fireman said to Joe, "She's going to be okay. You saved her."
     He pounded Joe's back, saying, "You're a hero, Dude."
     Joe's first thought was, I am never, ever going to do anything this stupid ever again. Ever. His second thought was, hey I'm still here. It was a good thought, one of his best.
     Things around him started to come into focus. He turned to the fireman and asked, "I'm a dude?"
     The woman ministering to his arm laughed and said, "Hey. I know my dudes. You are the dudest dude there is."

     The huntress approached the watering hole with an insatiable appetite and the expectation of a certain conquest. It was an expectation born from experience. The best prey are those who think themselves predators, she thought. A grim smile flickered on her face.
     At her destination, she circled to look for the position with the best vantage point.
     "What'll it be?" the bartender asked.
     "Bailey's over ice," Deanna nodded and smiled.
     She had little doubt that it would be the last drink this evening for which she would pay. Glancing down the bar, she saw three men, any one of whom she could have within the hour.
     The bartender brought her drink. As she reached for her purse, he held up a hand to stop her. She'd been here before. She was good for business. Men came around for a few drinks on the hope that they would find her here. He could tell by the hungry look in their eyes.
     "Complements of the bar," he said, winking.
     She raised her drink and tilted her head to toast him, saying, "Let's see what happens."
     He nodded and moved on to another guest. As she watched him walk away, she noticed all three of the men checking her out. What interested them, she wondered. Was it her form-fitting black lace blouse. Was it her long, curly, auburn hair? Her dark, doe-like eyes? It didn't matter. Men were all the same.
     Whom would she pick? A woman walked behind her and went up to the man in the middle. He rose to greet her. That leaves him out, Deanna thought. Maybe next time. He wouldn't have been her choice anyway.
     Man number two was in his 30's. He had the chiseled features of a Marlboro man, right down to the three-day beard that was oh so fashionable. Even from this distance, he oozed the attitude that he could have any woman he chose. When he saw her looking his way, he raised his glass to her. It would be fun to shoot him down.
     Man number three was short, balding, and pudgy; he was about her age. She caught his eye, then lowered hers, feigning shyness. Was that enough bait? Or would she have to chum a little. She looked his way again and cast him a sheepish smile. Then she ignored him while she finished her drink.
     The bartender returned with her second drink. She looked at him with an unspoken question. He nodded in the direction of Mr. Pudgy.
     Gotcha, she thought, smiling to herself. She looked at her donor and lifted her glass. He picked his up and walked over.
     "Hi I'm Frank."
     "I'm Deanna. I wasn't sure I wanted another drink, but thanks anyway." Make them think that they're in control, she thought.
     "May I join you?" he asked.
     In answer, she flashed him her trademark smile. She cast a look at Marlboro Man and suppressed a chortle when she saw his look of disbelief.
     "So, do you come here often?" Frank asked.
     She glanced at the bartender who was cleaning a glass nearby. "No, it's my first time. I was supposed to meet friends. I don't know where they are."
     "I'll keep you company until they get here. How's that?"
      "That would be nice," she answered, acting delighted.
     "What do you do, Frank?"
     "I'm a lawyer. I'm in town politics."
     "Oh, really? That's fascinating. Are you a man of power?" Butter them up, she thought.
     "I do okay," he responded. The modesty and assurance in his voice told her that he was - or at least he thought he was a powerful man, or that he was trying to convince her that he was.
     "Are you ready for another," Frank asked.
     "Not yet." He held his empty glass up to the bartender. Deanna noticed that there was no ring on his finger. On second glance, she noticed a telltale, untanned indentation on that finger. She smiled behind her glass as she took a sip. Better still, she thought.
     Frank reached into his pocket to get money for the drink. He pulled out a key ring engorged with keys. They jangled as he laid the ring on the bar. He reached into his pocket, groping for his wallet.
     "You have a lot of keys," she observed after he paid the bartender.
      Frank looked down at the keys, then at her. "Yeah, I'm a busy man. Lots of responsibilities."
     He put the keys back in his pocket.
     "Is it true what they say about a man with a lot of keys?" she asked.
     "What's that?"
      She looked away, again feigning modesty.
     He pursued, chuckling, "Come on. You started it. What do you mean? Tell me."
     She smiled and blushed. She was enjoying her performance. God, she was good.
      He looked at her, expecting an answer. "I heard that the more keys a man has, the bigger, um, certain parts of his, um, anatomy are."
     Frank was taken aback. But he was quick on the recovery. He laughed and said, "Well, I guess you'll have to find that out for yourself."
     She looked down at her drink, finished it and looked away.
     Frank motioned the bartender back. Turning back to Deanna, he said, "You're pretty direct, aren't you?"
      She locked eyes with him and said, "I know what I like. And I like what I'm seeing."
      There comes a moment when a man realizes where things are going. Deanna had just presented that moment to Frank. She hadn't even made him work for it. She could see it in his face: the flush cheeks, the dilated pupils. She bet that his throat had just gone bone dry. He was probably complementing himself on his seductive skills, the poor schmuck.
      Frank took a big sip from his glass. Gulping, he said, "I like you too."
      Beaming up at him, she thought, is that the best you can do?
     Frank put his arm around her shoulder. She nuzzled closer.
     "It's chilly in here," he said.
      "Yes, but you warm me," she replied, nudging her shoulder into his chest.
      "Are you married," he asked.
      "No. I was. But not any more. How about you?"
      "Me neither," he lied. He looked away to avoid looking into eyes that might see through his deception.
      Most of them can't look you in the eye, she thought. This one's just like the rest: lying, cheating bastards. Once again her theory was proven: all men are the same. Well, there had been one exception: the one who told her that he'd fallen in love with her. The altar boy - or at least that's how she remembered him. What a loser he was.
      Frank interrupted her reverie. "So, what do you do?"
      She asked, "Do you mean for work or play?"
      "Work," he began. "No, play!"
      She chuckled, "Let me just say that I'm one of the rare women who enjoys sex like a man. There aren't many of us."
      The rest was simply waiting for the right number of minutes to pass - enough time so that Frank could tell himself that the alcohol had clouded his judgment.
      "Do you live nearby?" she asked.
      "Yes," he stammered. "But we can't go to my house. I'm having it renovated."
      "Of course," she said, thinking, we couldn't let the wife and kiddies know what Daddy is up to, could we? Someday Mrs. Frank will learn, just like I did.
      "I know a place," she said.
      They spent the remainder of the evening in a motel room, in a sequence of simulated passionate embraces of an unremarkable kind. There was a moment when something Frank did, or something he said, or the way he said it brought to mind her ex-husband - the one who'd taken a mistress and started a second family while still living as husband and wife with her. To quell that memory, she delighted in the pain that she administered to a sensitive part of Frank's anatomy.
      After spending themselves, they fell asleep back to back among rumpled sheets.
      Some time later, she awoke. She nudged Frank. When he roused, she questioned him. "Are you still here?"
      "Whu?" he responded.
      "You're still here. Did you expect to stay the whole night?"
      "What are you talking about?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"
     She pressed, "You've had your fun, why are you still here?"
      His mind clearing, there was disbelief in his voice as he asked, "You want me to go?"
      "We're done," she said, "Why are you still here?"
      He flicked on the light. Getting the message, he struggled from the bed to collect his clothes. "I can't believe you're kicking me out," he snapped. "I paid for this room."
      "We're done, aren't we?" she asked. She pulled the sheet up over her naked shoulders, conveying the message that the property that he'd held hours ago was no longer available to him.
      "I don't get you," he said. "Was it something I said? Something I did?"
      "No," she said. "We're just done."
      Frank finished dressing. "Can I ask you for your phone number? I'd like to see you again."
      "You can ask," she snickered.
      Frank kidded, "Come on. We had a good time. Let's do it again."
      She replied, "If I want to see someone again - if they're good enough - I ask them for their number. I never give mine out."
      A wordless moment passed. The lull in the conversation became awkward.
      She suppressed a chuckle, thinking, you poor, confused boy. You weren't ready for me, were you?
      Frank broke the silence as he buckled his belt. "You're not going to give me your number, are you?"
      She shook her head and said, "Sorry."
      "You're a piece of work," he spat.
      "And you're not?" she shot back. "Aren't you supposed to be home with your wife and kiddies?"
      Frank's face reddened.
      She raised her voice. "You got what you wanted. Isn't that what all of you men do? Screw the woman, then leave."
      "Well, let me tell you something, sister," Frank hissed, feeling in his pockets for his keys.
      "Don't give me that victim crap. You knew exactly what you were doing."
      She flashed her best innocent smile at him. It was the one she'd used in the bar.
      He continued, "Do you want to know something?"
      "What?"
     "When we were done, I did more than leave something in you. I took something away too. Did you feel it?"
      "What are you talking about?" she snapped.
      "I know your type. You give it up willingly, like you did a hundred times before. Do you know what I took, what I'm going to walk out that door with?"
      She shook her head, uncertain of the point he was making.
      "It was a piece of your soul."
     "Get out," she shouted.
      He plodded toward the door. Before slamming it behind him, over his shoulder, he shot, "As if you had any soul left."
      Then he was gone. She looked at the clock. It was too late for another run at the bars. She had to get up for work in two hours anyway. But the next evening wasn't far off.
      She felt something cool on her cheek. Swiping at it, her finger came away wet. Was it a tear? No, it couldn't be. She had stopped crying a long time ago.