"FUCK!" I bark as the sharp jolt electric pain fires through my skull. I spit pieces of tooth and temporary dental work into my hand before I come to my senses and sheepishly look up across the table. Heath is staring back at me, his eyes large and mouth open, a spoonful of hot cereal hovers just in front of his chin. "Oh... uh... sorry little man, uh, Daddy just... uh," I stammer, but really, I have no excuse. I can hear Kate's voice clearly in my head berating me for my lack of self-control.

"It's okay Daddy," Heath says turning his attention back to his bowl. Almost as an after thought he adds, "What's wrong?"

"Remember when I hurt my teeth a few months ago? Well, I had someone patched them up as good as they could at the time, but I've needed to get them repaired for good but I just haven't found the time to get it done." I push my plate across the table, "here buddy, you can have my breakfast too, if you want."

"Mmm," is all he says as he reaches for my mini powdered donut.

"I'm gonna see if you can spend the day at Peter's house, is that okay?" I ask. Heath nods and shoves another spoonful of hot cereal into his mouth.

It takes me much longer at the Boutros residence than I had planned because Pierre has a problem with his shotgun and needs help getting it sorted. In between stripping it down, losing pieces and putting it back together, Julia feeds us homemade rolls alongside a rather savory rabbit stew. I make every attempt to be gracious, but the hot liquid nearly sends me through the roof when it contacts the exposed nerve in my mouth. Embarrassingly, I have to leave most of the bowl untouched. I hate to waste food.

"I can't thank-you enough," Pierre says, repeatedly shaking my hand. "Without you we never would have made it through the winter."

"Pierre, honestly, we've been through this, I barely did anything. You need to stop thanking me. I should be thanking you really, you're the guy who has been out on the lake day in, day out catching fish. You've practically fed the entire neighbourhood this winter."

"That was nothing. Fishing is easy. What you did... when those people came here and attacked Julia and I... I... I just froze. You saved us, you saved Peter and Miriam, you saved all of us!"

"Pierre, you know I would never let harm come to your family if I can help it, but Jake and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I have to be honest though I don't have fond memories of that night," I admit. It's hard to feel good and be humble about doing something you regret and while the Boutros family survived the night, some of the intruders did not and they were someone's family too.

"All the same, thank-you."

"No problem," I saying terminating the discussion and tugging at my hand that is still clenched in his. "Heath will be over shortly."

"We'll take good care of him."

"I know you will, Pierre. Thank Julia for the soup, sorry I couldn't finish it."

* * * * *

The walk to the dentist is an opportunity to reflect, daydream and observe. Spring has finally decided to show up, better late than never. Snow drifts are reduced to pathetic looking heaps of dirt-ridden icy slush and the sound of water trickling is a pervasive reminder that all of winter's fury eventually succumbs to the Sun's rays. The melt, although welcome, brings with it a big problem for the entire neighbourhood as the threat of flooded basements becomes a huge concern. One could run a generator to power the sump pumps, but gas will run dry in short order. We need a better solution. I dread the idea of having to empty the entire basement.

"Hello there!" a man calls from his porch as I pass.

I turn and see an older fellow in a fur-lined earflap hat and a red and black checkered flannel jacket, his arm is raised high above his head in an emphatic wave. He's rocking slowly in a bright yellow rocker on his porch. Reluctantly, I return the gesture, "Hey there," I answer back and keep walking.

"Hellooo!" he calls again and waves me over.

"I really don't have time--,"I start back, but he cuts me off.

"Oh everybody has time these days," he yells back before breaking off into a rattling cough. Despite my better judgement, I turn and head up his slush-covered sidewalk.

"Good morning," I say stepping up on his porch. He has a double-barrel shotgun across his lap the action is open perhaps as a gesture of peaceful intent. I notice one of the two loaded rounds has a dented primer--he only has one live round. The .45 on my hip is cocked and locked and I have three spare magazines, which I suppose makes me the bigger threat. Then again it really all comes do to who puts the first shot on target.

"Yes, definitely, it is," he answers. "Come sit, it's been a long lonely winter, you must be the first person to walk past in months."

"You live here alone."

"I live here with Elvis," he replies, straight faced.

"Elvis?"

"My cat. He's a helluva mouser, was a great winter for him. Fatter than ever. What's your name?"

"My name is Connor."

"I'm Fred, not my real name, mind you, but people have called me that for so long I really don't recognize my given name."

"So Fred, what can I do for you?"

"Oh, nothing really Connor, if you can just spare a minute to chat with an old man."

It pains me that I would like to tell him that I rather not spare a minute, but I oblige him. "What's on your mind, Fred?" I ask, a bit anxious to appease him and leave.

"Not much these days, things are pretty damn quiet around here, so damn quiet I've had to start talking to Elvis. Good mouser, not much for conversation, I'm afraid."

"I suppose not. So what about your neighbours?"

"Francis next door took ill before Christmas, last I heard she was heading to the hospital. That was months ago. Got a couple of empty cottages next to her and I think the folks across the street moved out when the power failed. Don't know where they went."

"So it's just you here?"

"And Elvis."

"Right, you and Elvis. You have any family you can move in with?"

"Nope, no one nearby, besides no way in hell I'm going anywhere. This is my house, I ain't going anywhere." With that he snaps shut the action of the shotgun and uses it as a crutch as he rises up slowly from the rocker. "Come inside, I have something to show you."

"I really can't stay," I tell him. "I have an appointment to keep."

"Where you going that's so important?" He asks.

"I have to see a dentist."

"That's an even better reason to come inside."

A bit intrigued now, I follow him through the front door and smack into the 1970s. I can see avocado coloured appliances in the kitchen, scores of curios sitting on shelves or sequestered away in glass cabinets and thick but worn carpet lines the living room. A full Royal Doulton tea service sits on a cart nearby, a thick layer of dust betrays it's years of disuse. There's an impression that this was once all curated and meticulously maintain by a feminine hand, a hand which appears to no longer be present. I get a sense that everything has been left exactly where it was ever since that person went away.

"Come through this way," he instructs. I follow him as he hobbles along toward the back of the house. Our short journey ends in a converted Florida room bathed in sunlight full of thriving cannabis plants in various stages of growth.

"Holy shit!" is the first thing out of my mouth. "Fred, you have quite the grow-op here."

"My wife died of cancer." He says, matter-of-fact, not a hint of self-pity, no remorse. "When she was sick we got a single plant. I don't know if it helped or not, I like to think it did. But when she passed, I kept taking care of the plants. Then I grew more. I'm not even sure why. Don't even smoke the stuff. Tried it, but it didn't take I guess."

"You should be careful about who you show this to, especially these days, some people wouldn't think twice about robbing you."

"I suspect word has already gotten out," he says flatly. He doesn't elaborate, but the look in his eye tells me that there is a reason one of those shells in his shotgun has been fired.

"Fred, I really do have to get going. The sooner I get this dental work taken care of, the better. Before I go, is there anything you need? Are you okay for food and water?"

"I'm fine, once the ice breaks up I will be able to fish right off the breakwall." He proceeds back into the house and rummages through a couple kitchen cupboards before finding what he's looking for. "I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me, take this," he says handing me a sizable baggy full of pot. "Maybe you can find some use for it."

"I can't take this from you," I say.

"I insist. There is no point to me hording it. If you can't make use of it, perhaps you can find somebody who can. It's doing no good in my cupboard."

"I have nothing to give you for it."

"Consider it a gift, although perhaps you could drop-in and visit again if you find yourself nearby. Next time stay for a game of chess?"

"Okay Fred," I say, reluctantly taking the bag of weed and stashing it in my pack. "I'll be back for a chess match soon."

"Good luck at the dentist," he calls after me as I slog my way back down his slushy sidewalk.

* * * * *

My mother always told me that hate was a strong word. It was a mantra she repeated every time I used the word in her presence. However I can honestly say that I hate the dentist. Or maybe I hate dentistry as I don't hate the person just the process.

As such, I am presently filled with a dreadful stomach-churning anxiety about what is about to unfold. I'm seated in a barber's chair with an array of mirrors reflecting a half-dozen blinding beams of light into my face.

"Good thing you came on a sunny day," the dentist says. "So much easier to work with good light."

"Yeah," I answer as I squirm in the chair.

"I want you to understand, I have no Novocain--no local anesthetic, which means this could be uncomfortable for you. Did you bring anything?"

"Yes, in my pack, right on top," I say. Luckily Julia, who heard about this dentist through a friend, has also heard that you need to bring your own chemicals to deal with the downside of dentistry. I brought a fifth of cheap Canadian whisky, which I already took a hit of before I even knocked on the door. Now that I'm in the chair, I'm thinking I should have brought a 26er.

"Which one?" the dentist holds up the bottle and the baggy of weed I'd already forgotten about. I haven't smoked pot since high school, never really had the urge to until now. Suddenly I feel like I could succumb to a raging fit of reefer madness.

"Both?" I answer. "But I don't have any rolling papers."

"Not a problem." He leaves through the sliding pocket door that delineates the make-shift exam room. Momentarily he returns with a rather ornate pipe and a pair of small tumblers. "I never make my patients drink alone," he says and pours us both a drink.

I knock mine back immediately then I go back to shielding my eyes with my forearm.

"Here," he says and he swivels the chair 90 degrees with his foot while he packs the pipe with a wad of marijuana. "That better?"

"Much. Now my eyeballs aren't melting."

The dentist, who I feel may or may not actually be a dentist, fires up the pipe and passes it over to me before pouring another drink for me. I take a drag and hold my breath. In short order I exhale and cough and sputter before declaring, "it's been a while."

The dentist shrugs.

At some point thereafter I find myself high as a kite, drunk as fuck and in the middle of a dental procedure. It still hurts, or at least I think it hurts, although I'm not entirely certain that I care if it hurts or not. At least all the anxiety is momentarily displaced by the giggles and a craving for pepperoni pizza. I can't keep my eyes open for the light in my face which causes tears to stream down my cheeks. Or am I crying?

Next thing I know, I'm on a soft velvety chaise, it's burgundy and incredibly comfortable, a small pillow supports my head and I swear it smells like cedar.

"You did well, things look good," the dentist says, who is far less fucked up than I am. "I put what's left of your whisky back in your pack, but you might as well finish this off." He hands me the pipe again. "I wish I could send you home with some painkillers and you likely need a course of antibiotics--it looks like you might have a mild infection--but even the hospital is short on meds and they have some patients in critical need. Crazy what the world has come to."

I can only nod in agreement, I'm well enough aware of the dire condition some patients are in.

"I've heard rumours that some gangs raided pharmacies over the winter," he continues. "The hospital should have got there first, or those army folks, whoever is in charge these days."

"No one ish in charge." I slur.

"Well, someone better take charge then, because people are suffering."

"No one is in charge," I repeat myself, more or less incidentally, peering about at the sideways world through half-opened eyes. My head is too heavy to lift and I just want the doc to stop yapping and let me sleep.

"You're going to be out of in for a while, you can rest here as long as you like and let yourself out, I have some things to attend to. In case you don't quite remember, you and I did settle up for the pre-arranged payment, so we're good. I have left a note in your pack to that effect along with some suggestions for taking care of your infection. Enjoy the rest of your day."

"Thanksh doc." I say before rolling over and falling asleep.

* * * * *

When I awake the Sun is gone and the house is much dimmer. I have a foggy buzz going that isn't exactly pleasant anymore and my mouth is dry and throbbing. The dentist had left a glass of water on the table, I down it in five gulps. Suddenly I sense a driving desire welling up inside of me, a sense of immediacy and I am impelled by this unshakable feeling that I must see Kate and do so now.

The dentist is nowhere to be found, I shoulder my pack and realize how absolutely unfamiliar my surroundings are. In my attempt to leave the house I find myself in the kitchen, a den and an upstairs bathroom before finally making my way to the outside world.

What I should do is go home and sleep, or even return to Fred's house and sleep, but I can do neither of those. My will is bent to the single-minded task of seeing Kate and my feet begin to carry my chemically unbalanced body inexorably toward that destination even before my mind can make the decision.

The heart wants what the heart wants.