And somehow the night seemed darker after her father died, but at the same time, the days seemed a bit more fresh.

I heard a story the other day. But I'm not going to tell you about it. Anyway, this guy came up to me and whispered in my ear "avoid the artichoke dip." I thought he was crazy, but the thought gave me pause. Had I eaten any artichoke dip in the past day or two? Come to think of it, I ate something at that party the other day: artichoke dip, maybe? My stomach was a wee bit upset, after all. But no, it's all in my head.

So I started crossing the street when I noticed someone on the other side gazed intently at me. Then, in a gasp of seeming recognition, his face became sickly and pallid, and he shook his head gravely. I stopped in the intersection, wondering what it was he was warning me about. Did he know about the artichoke dip too? Surely not. But then again, what if?

Suddenly, a car hit me and I went flying into the air. Guess that guy across the street saw it coming. Maybe paranoia is unhealthy after all.

Zachary whispered anxiously into the telephone, knowing well that if anyone heard his voice outside of the cubicle, well, there would be trouble.

His cube neighbors knew what was going on. They thought they did, at least.
(they didn't have a clue)

The person on the other end of the phone was in the same dilemma. Well, a similiar one. Ha! If his parents found out, he'd be so grounded.

Three days later, a box arrived at Zachary's house. Neatly packaged in entirely too many packing peanuts was another, smaller package. Zac smiled, picked it up, and looked around suspciously: not that it made a difference, of course, he was--and he knew this--always being watched.

Main Street at noon is always filled with people, but this particular Thursday was parcticularly busy. Christmas comes earlier every year, he reminded himself.

There is a small shop on the corner of Main Street and Riddington Avenue, a small shop that most people don't notice: it didn't have any fancy new signs, dazzling lights, or even a modest window display, just a battered old sign that read "Open" and another one with the name of the shop.

The shop smelled old. Although, of course it was old: that was half the point. Zac crinkled up his nose a bit to ward off the scent, and plunged into the gloom of the ancient and poorly lit shop.

A gnarled old man hobbled from the back of the shop, supporting himself on a cane. His eyes twinkled gently after he recognized Zac, and his hobble "miraculously" disappeared.

"Do you have it? The package? What we've been waiting for?" he asked anxiously.
"I do, but, Sal, I'm a bit nervous about this. I mean, really, what if we get caught?"
"Bah! Who cares! It's worth it, isn't it?"
"I suppose so, but still. I'm just worried, that's all."
"A little worrying never hurt anyone. Now where is it?"

Zac produced the box, and set it gently on the counter. The gleam in Sal's eyes grew stronger as he carefully sliced the packing tape, and peeled away the flaps that closed the box. He reached his thin, speckled hands into the box and retrieved a small plant. He carried it as a mother would carry her newborn child into the back room. Zac followed.

"Sal, should we be doing this? Plants are still illegal, the reformation laws haven't been passed yet, you know."
"I know, I know, but they will be passed. And even if not, the law is wrong anyway."

Sal set the plant on the window sill and opened the blinds. He squinted in the bright light.

"Do you suppose," Zac asked, "that we'll ever be allowed to breathe real oxygen again?"
"Perhaps, young one, perhaps. Times change, as we know quite well, and a little can go a long way."

They sat in the room silently, waiting, watching, listening, while the plant produced that precious, ancient chemical.

What happens when the wind sweeps a soughing wave across the valley? Do the Breathing Ones even notice? Perhaps they wait. Perhaps.