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Episode 6: Little Texas Rides Again

            I could tell you were wondering how we dealt with the Teddy Roosevelt problem. It was the way you tapped your chin with your pen.

            Well, you crossed your arms, I’m just wondering how you kept them under wraps for so long when Mr. President kept leaving the house without any supervision.

            Fair point. To be honest, he seemed to keep himself out of the view of the public, for the most part. Also, being a President, or at least the wax embodiment of one, requires a strong sense of responsibility. Teddy wasn’t going to put the Robins in any danger.

            But I just didn’t trust him. I guess that was my fault. But how can you trust a living wax figure? One that stepped out of a dead Blockbuster Video somewhere in the middle of Nowheresville, USA, nonetheless.

            The house found its rhythm again, though it wasn’t fully healed from Ash’s rejection. At least the Robins made their wonderful, joyous noises again. Life wasn’t the same without the penguins running Fender over so he could break apart into a million pieces. Parry was starting to try to convince Popeye that Noah’s Ark had crash-landed somewhere nearby and that they had to find it and commandeer it for the purposes of holy questing. Vladimir Ivanoff was still a man of few words and many notes, but now he played his saxophone melodies with an energetic vigor that made Leslie Zivo’s toys groove together in a conga line.

            Still, we couldn’t help but notice that Teddy Roosevelt was absent throughout the day and would pop in at random moments to pretend he knew what was going on. Over the next few weeks, he missed Armand’s big Etsy haul fashion show (I’m assuming he rubbed Genie’s lamp and used one of his three wishes for a credit card with no consequences), Prof. Brainard’s Flubber copy machine debacle (Flubber had been copied a million times in miniature form, and Brainard thought he’d give each Robin a baby Flubber of their own, but unfortunately they were unstable and couldn’t take the laughter levels in the house and… well, RIP baby Flubbers), and Alan Parrish’s house-wide de-creaturing (he was sure there was rhinoceros in the back of Peter Pan’s closet, but no one else saw it). Teddy even missed Jack’s homemade pancake buffet.

            One morning, I was minding my own business, organizing the mounds of laundry in our hallway, when Prof. Keating approached me with conniving confidence.

            “Tsk, tsk, Nora,” he wagged his finger, “You’re starving your muse.”

            “Excuse me?” I asked, entirely confused.

            “Oh, Nora,” he shook his head, “When I first met you, I didn’t take you as a… procrastinator.”

            I blinked. “Oh.”

            “You secured that Hamlet role weeks ago, yet you haven’t practiced your lines, once.” He frowned in benevolent disappointment. “Nora. You’re one of those kids who skips sleep to cram the night before the test.”

            I laughed. “No, Keating, I’ve practiced my lines alone,” I clarified.

            “Why?” he immediately countered. “You’re going to have to perform those lines in front of a crowd of strangers. Wouldn’t it help to gauge how effective your delivery is in front of people who care enough to tell you how to do it better?”

            If he weren’t an incarnation of theatrical genius, I would have rolled my eyes. But, Keating had a point. Maybe I was avoiding the responsibility of putting myself out there. I was kind of afraid. Ok, I was really afraid.

            “As a matter of fact,” Keating gasped for measure, “You’re a writer, but I’ve never read your writing.”

            “Ok, Keating,” I huffed, “You’re not my professor.” I tried to escape him down the hall, but he caught up to me and blocked me from the staircase.

            “But I am your roommate,” he smiled. “See? I’ve just lowered the stakes.”

            “No thanks, Keating,” I said, maneuvering around him.

            “Your tenant!” He tried.

            “You’re not going to see my work, Keating, no one does,” I chuckled as I made my way down the stairs. “I’ve accepted that maybe my work isn’t for anyone else to see.” Still, Keating wouldn’t relent. He followed me step for step throughout the house, bounding after me down the stairs.

            “Ok, what if you write something new?” he suggested. “Something that was meant for me to see. For the whole house to see!” His eyes lit up and a bright smile spread across his face. “A poem?”

            “Oh, brother,” I groaned.

            “Yeah, a poem,” he beamed, “And everyone else can write poems, too, and we’ll all share them so no one’s left out.” I paused, turning to look at him as he hugged a trapper to his freshly pressed white button-down. His enthusiasm was irresistible.

            “Ok, fine,” I said. “How much time do we have to write it?”

            “Let’s say the poems should all be done by the end of the weekend at sunset,” he suggested.

            That’s when Teddy burst into the room, a clueless smile spreading beneath his thick moustache. “Afternoon, fellas, ladies, penguins,” he announced, “This rug looks spotless! Wonderful vacuuming, Andrew!”

            Andrew tilted his head. If he could have smiled, he would have beamed brighter than a spotlight on Venus.

            “Thank you, Mr. President!”

            Adrian Cronauer bounded in from the backyard. “Mr. President,” he saluted. Teddy saluted in unison, then they both stood relaxed with a perfectly synched stomp. “Welcome back to HQ. The Oval Office has been prepped, totally removed of dirt and dust, SIR.”

            “Thank you, Captain!” Teddy smiled.

            “That said, Parry went through there a minute ago. He was looking for some sort of key to Golgatha? I don’t know… he may have left tracks.” Adrian muttered.

            “What’s going on here?” I asked, stepping between the President and his loyal soldier. “Teddy, did you leave again?”

            “Whoa, mamacita,” Adrian put his hands up, “Nora’s seeing red.”

            Teddy sighed. “You caught me,” he admitted. “I’ve been on an expedition into the wilderness.”

            “Oh, Teddy,” I groaned, slapping my forehead. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t just wander off into god-knows-where. It’s dangerous. What if someone sees you?”

            “I’ll be ok, Nora,” Teddy clasped both his hands in front of him, doing his best impression of an innocent toddler. “Really, I can take care of myself.”

            “I mean, he has run an entire country,” Genie added as he floated by in a puff of blue smoke. “And he took on the banks. And won!”

            “I didn’t take you as a history buff,” Adrian nudged Genie in the elbow.

            “No, he didn’t,” I said. I crossed my arms. “This Teddy is a wax figure of the real president. A replica. The most he has run is a museum with insomnia and unresolved trauma.”

            Adrian blinked at Teddy. “You’re not the real Teddy Roosevelt?”

            Teddy tilted back on his heels. “No, she’s right. I am just a wax figure from a museum.”

            Adrian shot a shocked look at Keating like he’d just seen a possessed doll spring to life.

            “What? You didn’t know that?” Keating asked.

            “No!” Adrian shivered. “He’s not exactly… waxy. Or stiff.”

            “Why would you think the real Teddy Roosevelt would just wake up with us in Pinebluff, over a century after his death?” Keating tried.

            “I don’t know!” Adrian said. “Why am I here? Why are you here? I was starting to think we were all important historical figures!”

            “Then, please,” Keating gave a sarcastic but loving smile, “explain how the penguins could be historical figures. And the talking bat.”

            At this revelation, Adrian clawed at his scalp and gritted his teeth. “I. Don’t. Know!” He ran back outside, leaving us staring at the door he had left open.

            “Hey, don’t blame him,” Genie chuckled, “Not everybody’s equipped to handle questions of interdimensional purpose.”

            I cleared my throat of the awkward and sudden stillness. “Anyway, Teddy, you can’t just run off. It’s dangerous. What if someone discovers you? What will happen to the others?”

            “She’s got a point, Ted,” Keating shrugged.

            “Oh, Nora,” Teddy sighed, looking down at his muddied boots. “I just… Nature, adventure, the horizon… they call me.”

            “Then put your phone on do not disturb,” I ordered.

            “Yes, ma’am,” Teddy saluted, “You have my word.”

            But, I’m guessing he didn’t keep his word, you laughed.

            No, not at all. Teddy went out on at least five more “expeditions” before he realized I was right.

            At least five? How do you know that?

            You have the right to be curious. And how rude of me… I’ve just realized that up until now I’ve been breaking one of the most important rules of academic integrity. Silly me, I haven’t been quoting my sources.

            Nora, you stuttered, concerned. How could you have sources? This is your story?

            Ok, I get it, it’s confusing, but please, just listen. I ducked under the diner table, braving the underside that was covered in old gum and snot to retrieve a worn, leather-bound book with a presidential seal on the cover.

            This, I explained, is Teddy Roosevelt’s very own journal. Well… the wax figure of Teddy Roosevelt from Night at the Museum… but uh, it’s Teddy’s, so…

            Oh my God. You rolled your eyes. You’re telling me he kept a journal?

            Yeah, what’s so hard to believe about that? He was a President, they have to make all sorts of records—

            He wasn’t really a pres—

            I know! Let me tell you what he did next.

            September 28^th, Year?

            There’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled with adventure. That’s something my gracious landlady, Ms. Nora, cannot seem to understand. I cannot fix it. The wind calls my name, the Earth remembers the rhythm of my steps, the shape of my handshake! I must wander farther out into the wilderness of Pinebluff to quell the stir in my heart. Or maybe the stir’s in my stomach. I haven’t eaten in… oh, ever. I’m not sure I even have a stomach!

            My search for a noble steed worthy to succeed my beloved Little Texas continues. Today, my expedition brought me deeper into the wilderness than I’ve ever gone. It began as usual, stealthily. The talented Dr. Adams was distracted by Mr. Alan Parrish’s need for medical attention. Apparently, he suffered a nasty splinter in the thumb from woodworking. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Anyways, while the house was focused on Alan’s injury, I simply slipped out the front door and walked across the street. I waved to the neighbors; they were quite stunned by my outfit today and couldn’t look away. I was wearing my favorite riding hat! Quite stunning, indeed! I wished them all a good day, but they were too dazzled to reply. I know, meeting the President of the United States doesn’t happen every day, but when it does, it leaves one speechless!

            I continued my journey to the empty fields just beyond Nora’s home. Oh, how I have come to love those fields. Once I reach them, I know I have reached freedom. The smell of it’s in the air, dancing with the spiraling butterflies and buzzing insects, the birds in the wide, open skies. That’s the smell of freedom, of America!

You’d think I had fed him nothing but dog food and made him sleep in the dusty cupboard under the stairs.

            The wilderness is my cathedral, and today its choir sang louder than ever. The air was crisp, sharp enough to wake even the most stubborn soul, and it carried the scent of pine and promise. I marched towards the fields, my boots sinking into the earth like old friends embracing. The horizon blushed with the first light of day, and I felt the thrill of discovery surge through my waxen veins. A lone hawk circled above, its wings slicing the sky with imperial grace. I saluted it, for it too was a Rough Rider, only of the heavens.

            The grasses whispered secrets as I passed, brushing against my sides as I knelt to examine a cluster of wildflowers, petals painted by the hand of God Himself. I thought of Tex, my noble steed of yesteryear (or really, it was only a few weeks ago that I last saw her). Either way, my tongue yearned for the taste of the breeze as she once carried me across plains not unlike these, long ago.

            He’s a wax figure. He’d never been outside before he came to live with us.

            Therefore, I vowed to find her a worthy successor somewhere among these untamed acres of Pinebluff, USA. Perhaps, a stallion awaited me beyond the very next ridge, or maybe a creature unknown to science, ready to bear me into legend. Not today, I thought, as I pulled my trusty sword from my holster and watched the sunlight glint off its edge as if it too could not withstand its mighty slice.

            Adventure is not a pastime; it is a pulse. And though I am but wax and will never hunger nor tire, my spirit gallops endlessly toward the horizon. I smile, for I know tomorrow I shall venture farther, still. The map only ends where courage begins.

            Wow, I’m moved, you scoffed.

            That’s not even the half of it. Listen to this:

            I, waxen yet wondrous, strode into the town square after a grueling battle with the forest’s relentless hills. A quaint, little farmer’s market unfurled before me like a battlefield of abundance: tents pitched in proud formation, banners flapping like regimental flags, and the scent, oh, the scent! Fresh bread and freedom mingling in the autumn air.

            I adjusted my riding hat, plucked a twig from my shoulder, and approached a stall laden with vegetables so vibrant they seemed to have come from a daydream. Behind it stood an elderly woman, her posture regal despite the stoop of years, her eyes sharp as bayonets. A name tag declared her identity: Evie.

            “Madam,” I said, saluting with all the ceremony due to a fellow patriot, “your carrots gleam like the sabers of the First Cavalry!”

            Evie squinted up at me, unimpressed. “They’re two dollars a bunch,” she said flatly, voice seasoned with the grit of a thousand market mornings.

            “Two dollars!” I exclaimed, clutching my chest, struck with economic artillery. “Why, that is a bargain fit for the common man! Tell me, Evie, what sustenance do you recommend for a soldier of fortune such as myself?”

            Her lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement. “Depends,” she said, arranging a pyramid of apples with the precision of a quartermaster. “You want something that’ll keep you marching, or something that’ll keep you humble?”

            I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial rumble. “Madam, humility is the marrow of democracy. But adventure… adventure is its blood.” I swept an arm toward the horizon, nearly upsetting a basket of potatoes. “I seek a meal that sings of conquest, yet whispers of home!”

            Evie chuckled then, a sound like dry leaves stirred by wind. “Well, Mr. President,” she said, and I thrilled at the title, “you take these apples. Sweet enough to remind you life ain’t all battles. And this loaf,” she slid a crusty bread across the counter. “Because even a Rough Rider needs something solid under his teeth.”

            I accepted the offerings with reverence, as though she handed me the Constitution itself. “Evie,” I declared, “you are the unsung hero of this republic! When history writes its pages, let it say on this day, in this humble square, you armed a soldier not with bullets, but with bread.”

            She snorted. “History don’t pay my bills, sugar. That’ll be five bucks.”

            I fumbled for currency, alien paper, flimsy as a campaign promise, and pressed it into her palm with the solemnity of a treaty. As I turned to leave, apples cradled like trophies, I felt the stirrings of destiny in my waxen chest. Today, I had not merely purchased provisions. I had tasted America.

            And it tasted like the crispiest, juiciest apples I had ever eaten in my life. Well, these were the only apples I had ever eaten… but hey, the point still stands.

            What the fuck!? You yelled, throwing your hands up. He went and showed himself to people despite your worries?

            Yep. And he did worse.

            He made scenes. So many scenes.

            Listen to this:

            I was mid-crunch into one of Evie’s apples when the bugle call of destiny rang in the distance, or perhaps it was an automobile’s horn, but to my ears, it was the summons of glory. I followed the sound through a grove of maples until the trees parted like curtains on a stage, revealing a battlefield reborn: tents pitched in proud formation, flags snapping like cavalry whips, and men in khaki drilling with the solemnity of saints. My heart thundered. My old comrade, battle, had risen from its grave for one more charge.

            I strode forward, boots biting the earth, saber gleaming like a promise. I came upon a group of fine, young soldiers. My heart overflowed with the responsibility to defend, to protect, to conquer!

            “Gentlemen!” I cried, voice ringing across the field like a brass fanfare. “Your Colonel has arrived!”

            Heads turned. A hush fell. Then, from the center of the camp, a young man burst forth, a man dressed exactly like me. Same Rough Rider hat, same fringed gloves… but his moustache was haphazardly glued lopsided to his ill-experienced upper lip, whilst mine bristled with authenticity. His eyes blazed with righteous fury.

            “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, voice cracking like musket fire.

            “I am Theodore Roosevelt!” I announced, saluting with the vigor of a cavalry charge. “Colonel of the First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry! Former President of these fine United States!”

            The man’s jaw dropped. “No, I’m Theodore Roosevelt!” he jabbed a finger at his chest, puffing up like a belligerent pigeon. “I’ve been playing this role for two years! I am the Rough Rider!”

            “Sir,” I said gravely, “you are a thespian. I am the truth, waxen and eternal.”

            Gasps rippled through the ranks. A private dropped his rifle.

            Someone whispered, “Is this… method acting?”

            The actor’s face flushed crimson. “You think you can just waltz in here and steal my role? My spotlight!”

            “Spotlight?” I bellowed, scandalized. “This is not theater! This is history’s heartbeat. And today, it gallops!”

            “Whoa,” one of the soldiers breathed. He seemed a bit young to be in the troops, his face pockmarked with acne scars and hairless. “This guy’s good, Trevor.”

            “Aha!” I yelled, pointing my finger at the overzealous fake. “You’re not me! You’re Trevor!”

            “No! Not today, I’m not—” he tried.

            “No, seriously,” his confidant added, “This guy’s regalia is pristine. Totally accurate. No errors!” He leaned in to admire my jacket’s shining, gold buttons.

            “Doug, what the fuck?!” Trevor threw his hands up in an un-presidential showcase of confusion.

            “I don’t want Trevor to be Teddy, again,” another young man announced, pushing his black bangs out of his view and back under his hat. His name tag read ‘Calloway.’ “He’s too much. This is supposed to be for fun.”

            Trevor and I gasped. “War isn’t fun!” we declared at once. We stared at each other in disbelief.

            “Wow,” yet another young man began poking at my face. I stepped back, a little afraid that he’d fear the waxen texture of my skin. But he only laughed, his thin eyebrows arched in delight. “You even used prosthetic makeup to get Teddy’s cheekbones right? Guys, I think we found our new Teddy.”

            “No way, Frank,” Trevor sneered as his finger plunged into my face’s admirer’s chest. Trevor’s eyes went dark and heavy. “I’m Teddy Roosevelt. That’s that. I’m the leader of this reenactment group. I’m the Colonel of the Rough Rider Revival!”

            “Not anymore,” yet another young man piped up. His brown hair frazzled with passionate disagreement. “You’re kicked out.”

            Frank gasped. “Harv, no!”

            “You—” Trevor stuttered. “You can’t do this! I formed the Rough Rider Revival! You can’t kick me out of my own club!”

            “Oh, we can,” Doug sneered.

            “And we just did,” Simon added.

            “Yeah,” Harv stepped up, right into Trevor’s reddened face. “Now that we have a new Teddy, there’s no reason to keep you around. You’re an asshole. You bring us down. The Revival is about history and fun. It’s not supposed to be another form of sitting bored in class.”

            “You—” Trevor sputtered, “You—you!”

            “Hey, so what’s your name, fella?” Doug wrapped his thin arm around my shoulders.

            “Teddy,” I smiled, embarrassed. “But you shouldn’t oust your friend. Sure, he might be a bit… much. But still, he matters, too. Besides,” I teetered on my heels, folded my hands in front of me. “I’ve got some exploration to catch up with.”

            A resounding “Aw…” came up from the group.

            “Hey, are you sure you can’t stick around and ride for just a few minutes?” the one called Calloway asked.

            I gasped. “Ride? Ride? Really?” Perhaps this was the moment destiny had been pushing toward. Perhaps this would be the day I met my precious Little Texas’s successor!

            “Yeah, of course, ride,” Calloway chuckled. “What kind of Rough Riders reenactment group would we be if we didn’t ride horses?” I was practically bursting with glee as the young man led me around the corner. The sun shone bright through the trees, illuminating the fields where the rival army awaited. And between us lay… a bucket full of… hobby horses. Made of stuffing, wool, and a rainbow of yarn manes. Cute, stupid smiles were stitched into their bright faces, mocking my trusting nature.

            My expression must have fallen as Doug handed me a hobby horse. Its googly eyes rattled in place as it rested in my hands. His mouth dropped into an o-shape.

            “Yeah… we couldn’t rent out real horses,” he explained. “Turns out you need to sign a ton of paperwork for that.”

            “Yeah, we get enough of that at the university,” Harv chimed. “You should come by sometime. We can get you into Greek row!”

            “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Harv,” Frank groaned.

            Real horses or not, the rush of battle still lay before me. Perhaps, these were not my Rough Riders, but they were mine as of this moment. Ah, but it was never really I who led the… oh, never mind! Doug, Frank, Calloway, and Harv rallied around me, their expressions laced with youthful expectations. I looked on as Trevor rounded the corner, arms crossed.

            “Come on,” I motioned to him. “You too.”

            “Me?” he whispered, suddenly soft. “Really?”

            “Yes,” I sighed. “Your heart calls for you to serve your country. Fight for our freedom. There is no nobler cause than that, my friend, despite whose name you falsely claim.”

            “But…” was Trevor shaking? “But… I don’t know who I am,” he was SOBBING? “if I’m not Teddy.”

            I turned to look at the boy’s friends. Doug coughed, Harv traced his boots in the earth, Frank watched a bird cross the blue skies above, and Calloway shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth forming a thin line across his face.

            “Oh, uh,” I approached Trevor and wrapped my arm around him. “You can be… Teddy’s son…” I tried. Invention is the American way. “Yes! Um… his son Timmy Roosevelt!”

            Trevor sniffed. “H-he had a son?”

            I could see Frank begin to shake his head no, but Calloway smacked the back of his neck.

            “Yes, of course!” I grinned. “Timmy Roosevelt was a great man. He was a Rough Rider through and through.”

            “What happened to him?” Trevor asked, voice wobbly. “How come I’ve never heard of him?” At this, his friends began to walk away.

            “Er…” my eyes darted around for the answer. Aha! The war! “He perished quite bravely in the War. A true, heroic, American sacrifice.”

            “Oh,” Trevor smiled and rubbed his nose. “What war?”

            “The most important one!” I assured him.

            “Ok. I’ll be Timmy,” he sniffed.

            I slapped his back. “That’s the spirit!”

            We marched onto the battlefield, lined up, side by side. Soldiers united, our hobby horses’ eyes wiggling as we balanced them between our knees. The opposing army lay just beyond us, upon hobby horses of their own. But theirs didn’t have as many stickers on their faces and weren’t as pretty as ours! I gripped my steed, a valiant creature of stuffing and yarn, with the solemnity of a man about to relive history.

            “Men of the Rough Riders!” I yelled, voice ringing across the field like a bugle call. “Give ‘em hell!”

            A cheer erupted from my ranks, Doug, Harv, Frank, Calloway, and even Timmy Roosevelt (formerly Trevor, now reborn in patriotic purpose). Their eyes gleamed with the fever of freedom, or possibly the sugar rush from Evie’s apples. No matter. Today, we were soldiers.

            The opposing army shifted nervously on their rainbow steeds, their yarn tails flapping limp in the wind. The breeze swept the field, carrying the scent of autumn and impending glory.

            “Charge!” I roared, thrusting my fist skyward. My men surged forward, hobby horses clutched between their knees, boots pounding the earth in a thunderous approximation of cavalry.

            The first clash was chaos incarnate: yarn manes tangled like dueling cornets. Doug leapt over a folding chair, landing with a war cry that could wake the dead. Harv executed a flawless barrel roll, emerging with a stolen flag clenched in his teeth like a wolf of democracy.

            “I HAVE THE POWERRRR!” Calloway shrieked, swinging his hobby horse like a mace. Just then, Timmy Roosevelt, bless his fragile heart, charged valiantly into the fray, only to be struck in the heart by a stray paintball bullet.

            “Dammit!” he yelled. “Is this at least washable?” he asked. Then gasped. He had forgotten the sacred rite of reenactment—keeping in character. Timmy Roosevelt clutched the bright red paint stain on his costume and crumpled to his knees, then collapsed into the grass. I galloped over, kneeled to his vision.

            “F-father…” he rasped, quite convincingly, “Avenge… me…” just then, Timmy Roosevelt kicked the bucket—er—met his maker. I sniffed, saluted him. Sacrifice is the marrow of liberty.

            The army fought back with glitter bombs, their laughter sharp as musket fire. But my men were holding the line. Timmy’s ‘death’ stirred something in the depths of my heart. We were Rough Riders, wax and flesh united under the banner of absurd glory.

            At last, I spied the enemy general, a lanky youth brandishing a super soaker. I met his gaze across the chaos. Time slowed. History leaned in.

            “For honor!” I roared, “For Timmy!” I vaulted over a picnic table with the grace of a man who has never known fear (or gravity). I drew my saber, the blade caught the sunlight and sang like a hymn to valor. I approached the general and swung my sword high over my head. Then, he gave a panicked little yelp.

            “Oh—w-we’re not supposed to have real weapons.”

            I blinked down at the young man’s terrified expression. “Oh,” I chuckled, “It’s just plastic.” I took both sides of my saber and bent it gently. “See?”

            “Oh, yeah,” he giggled, “Sorry, bro. Go on.”

            My saber clashed against his rubber blade in a symphony of squeaks. Sparks did not fly, but imagination did, and that was enough.

            When the dust settled, well, the glitter, we stood victorious. The opposing army lay sprawled across the grass, giggling in defeat. My men raised their hobby horses high, yarn manes dripping with triumph.

            “Gentlemen,” I declared, chest swelling with waxen pride, “today we have written a new chapter in the annals of Pinebluff! A chapter of courage, camaraderie, and questionable athletic choices!”

            A cheer thundered across the field. Someone popped a confetti cannon. Timmy Roosevelt limped back into formation, clutching his wounded dignity like a medal of honor. And as the war settled into a party, I knew this truth: Adventure is eternal. And so, by God, am I.

            “You rock!” Frank cheered on my face.

            “We’re meeting again on Saturday,” Doug offered, “Will you come back?”

            “Yeah,” Calloway smiled, “You can be Teddy again.”

            “Oh,” I said, “What about Trevor? I’m sure he’d like his old role back, now.”

            “Actually,” Trevor sighed, smiling. “I think I’ll be Timmy from now on. I just… feel like I really connected with him, y’know? Like I could… step into his very soul… or something…”

            “Oh, well, then, that works for me,” I shrugged. “Saturday it is, then.” I hoisted my sack of Evie’s apples over my shoulder and began to walk off to find my next adventure.

            “Hey,” Harv called after me, “Wait! What did you say your name was, again?”

            I turned around to face the boys once more. “Teddy,” I smiled. Their content laughter rang louder than the chatter of the crowd as I walked away.

            I began to check the town square’s announcement board. Usually, if a farmer had some sort of sale of land or cattle, they would post it there. Finally, Lady Luck had made her ever expected appearance! Suddenly, an advertisement for a horse for sale nearby caught my attention. I bellowed a laugh that made the crowd turn and view me in appreciation. Their open-jawed stares followed my path into the woods. I’d have to cross the forest plains to get to the ranch. I thumbed the wad of cash in my pocket. I’d have to be sure to thank Armand for using one of his three wishes on a never-ending supply of money for shopping, and for lending me some of his stash. Of course, it was under the false pretenses of my finding a newer, more ‘hip’ wardrobe, but hey, I can always apologize to him later. After all, when I show him my noble new steed for the first time, he’ll be sure to perk up immediately.

            The forest path was indeed a treacherous one. It was unmarked and wound like a serpent seeking its prey. The hills rose and fell sometimes in an instant, and the footing was uneven and unsure. I was minding my own business at the top of a small incline when the edge of the path crumbled and gave way. I tumbled head over caboose into the brush, catching vines and thorns in my uniform as I hurtled down the ravine. I thought of Little Texas back in my beloved museum, lost, cold, and alone somewhere in some unknown time. I thought of my friends that I’d left behind for Pinebluff, Jedidiah and Octavious, Dexter and Cecil, and Gus, and who could forget the lovely Sacajawea? I tumbled more and more, and I thought about what would happen if I were damaged: how would my new friends find me? How disappointed Nora would be that I had not heeded her advice, broken her rules, put the entirety of us displaced people in danger of the public eye? I thought of little Maggie, poor little Maggie, after having gone through the whole house’s plunge into the depths of the melancholia brought about by someone having left. How could I have done this to her again? And oh, what would Captain Cronauer think of his President making such foolish decisions? Would his fealty to his beloved country waver? Must his gusto be quelled by worrisome, little, old me? And that Robin… I’m not sure what his deal is, but I can tell he is at the heart of this odd—

            Impact. Then nothing.

            I awoke to the sound of chatter surrounding me. Low, chuckling voices full of youth and dilly-dally. The outlines of their figures began to fade into my vision, along with the tops of the towering trees surrounding us. I was lying on the forest floor, and they were… wearing odd helmets with lights attached to them.

            “…Doug? Calloway?...” I guessed. “Are these my very own Rough Riders?”

            The new group of young friends stared at me in confusion and shock.

            “What the fuck?” the one with coiled hair piled high over his dark complexion laughed.

            “Wait, who does this guy think he is?” a woman with long, red curls giggled.

            “Oh,” I sighed, remembering I should introduce myself. “I-I’m Teddy Roosevelt—” but I forgot that I should not reveal my identity as a man of power who has indeed, likely long passed away. The group released a loud laugh, and the next thing I knew, a slew of small, electronic boxes with lights were shoved into my face.

            “What’s up, dogs?” a short man wearing a camouflage hoodie announced to his box. “It’s J-Dog, here with the Dog Fam. Y’all know Eli Skatercam, Miles Your Philosophy Bro, Tech Guy, and Zekey Chaos Gremlin.” Each person made odd gestures with their hands and weird, silly faces at his box. “So, we were just riding around the Maple Hollow Woods bike trail and this guy just fell out of the bushes.”

            “I think he was knocked out,” Zekey Chaos Gremlin shook his stringy blonde hair and adjusted his round glasses. “But he’s wearing some weird clothes and saying some wack shit, like he’s Teddy Roosevelt, or some shit.” The group laughed again.

            J-Dog shone his light in my eyes, and I squinted. “Real weird. His eyes ain’t normal, Chat,” he said. Apparently, the box’s name was Chat. Pretty sure it’s French for cat. Oh, is this what cats have evolved into? What a sad, sad world. I hope horses are still the same. “They’re all glassy.”

            “Maybe he’s got a concussion,” the girl, whom I came to understand was Eli Skatercam, offered.

            “Oh, no,” I laughed. “Thank you for your concern, but that’s not possible.”

            Miles the Philosophy Bro gave Tech Guy a concerned look. “What the fuck?” he crowed, “Can’t have a concussion? Bro!”

            Tech guy threw his head back in a wild, loud laugh. His eyebrows were not the same color as his hair. How is that possible?

            “Bro,” J-Dog said to me, “What’s your name? Your real name? Do you remember?”

            “Teddy!” I asserted.

            Miles the Philosophy Bro laughed. “Yeah, and I’m Lebron James.”

            “Quandale Dingle, here,” Zekey the Chaos Gremlin said in a low, husky voice. The rest of the group bellowed in laughter.

            “No, really,” I said. “You’re mocking me! My name is Teddy!”

            Eli Skatercam made this high-pitched noise that sounded like “Oh, sheeeee!” She turned to J-Dog with a grin, “That’s not skibidi!”

            “W-what are these nonsense words you’re saying?” I asked. Suddenly, it dawned on me. I remembered how my roommate Mork said odd things sometimes because he was from another planet. So, naturally, I had to ask, “Oh, are you from Ork?”

            Then there was silence. Dead silence.

            “Oh,” J-Dog said, slapping his forehead, and then running a hand through his curls. “I think I know what’s going on. You’re one of those weird historical re-enacter guys.”

            “Huh?” Eli Skatercam asked. “He’s a LARP-er?”

            “What’s LARP?” Zekey the Chaos Gremlin asked.

            “Live action roleplay,” Eli Skatercam scoffed. “My ex used to do that. He had this dorky mafia guy costume and wanted to wear it in public and pretend he was Al Capone. In front of everyone. He was, like, super into it.”

            They all turned to inspect me. “Yeah,” J-Dog nodded. “He’s probably a LARP-er.”

            “So fucking weird, bro,” Miles the Philosophy Bro shook his head. “Dude, we need to know your real name so we can get you some help.”

            “It’s Teddy!” I insisted.

            “Oh no, he’s gone,” Zekey the Chaos Gremlin sighed. “He’s gone, gone. He don’t remember his name, he don’t remember nothing.”

            Tech Guy started to lift my hat off my head, but I snatched it back. He jumped, J-Dog let out a small yelp.

            “I’m fine, thank you,” I said, standing and dusting myself off. “I really need to get going. I have to meet a farmer about purchasing a steed worthy of succeeding my Texas’s legacy.”

            “What?” J-Dog said. “Nah, bro, you’re coming with us. You ain’t feeling too good.” He tried to grasp my wrist, but I pulled away with great vigor. The group jumped and started to run away.

            “I’m calling the cops!” Zekey the Chaos Gremlin announced. “I’m calling the cops! I’m calling the cops!” I began to run, boots covered in dirt. I never thought I’d be on the opposite side of the law. But which police precinct would believe me? My only hope was to flee before they arrived.

            Luckily, the clearing into the very fields I had been searching for was nearby. The trees parted way just enough to let a little more of the golden sunlight in. I stepped out into an empty field, the tall grass nipped at my waist. This field was reminiscent of the one just beyond Nora’s street. I looked to my left, where the sky met the dip of the rolling, green hill. To my right, where a dilapidated, gray farmhouse lay tiny in the distance. The wind rustled the reeds, carried the faint scent of corn shucks and dust, and the faint whinny of a glorious steed. I pictured Little Texas in all his chestnut glory, the sun bringing out the red shine of his coat as we flew across these wide, open plains. The wind whipped around my face so realistically that I let out a bellowing laugh as if Little Texas truly was riding again. But alas, I opened my eyes and the dream was gone. But its possibility lay just beyond the horizon. I marched on.

            I came upon the quiet of the waxing farmhouse, its skin of white paint chipping and peeling until all that was left was its exposed, decaying, brown bones. The front door was enveloped in the shadow of the abandoned porch, at the end of a long, winding path that was infiltrated by weeds and thorns. I shivered, wondering how long it had been since someone had come here. Perhaps I had arrived at the wrong abode. But no, I checked the flyer I had torn from the message board, and the addresses matched. Just then, I heard the whinny of the horse once more.

            I turned, and there it was, trotting in playful circles from within a picket fence, kicking up dirt from under its hooves. It was magnificent, mighty, and copper in color. If I didn’t know better, I would have said it was my Little Texas. But as I approached the wonderful creature, slowly, full of reverence, I realized it was not. For this horse was of flesh and blood, and thundering hooves and heart. Not of waxen flesh and synthetic hair. I met its dark glare, its eyes open and full of knowledge. How could that be? Had it ever left its pen? Had it ever even dreamed of what could lie beyond this little ranch? Its glare said ‘Yes. I, too, have dreamt of the rolling winds and the dark of night, the mists of an open morning, and the low rumble of my body becoming speed.’

            “I’ve been calling her Little Phoenix,” said a rough voice from behind. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

            “Oh,” I beamed. “Little Phoenix. That’s just perfect.” I had come to the ranch with the intent to name this horse Little Texas Two… but looking at Little Phoenix, I could tell she wasn’t a plagiarized version of a steed I’d once known. I don’t truly know why I was looking for a horse that was just like Little Texas… nothing could ever truly take his place in my heart. But, now, here before me was a new friend, a new adventure to be had. A new companion to share my adventures with. “My dear Little Phoenix,” I chuckled. “You and I are not so different.”

            “She’s a bit of a menace,” said the crackling voice behind me. It sounded as if it spoke from an ancient phonograph. I whirled around to see a thin, frail old man. His face threatened to suck itself in from under the brim of his navy baseball cap. His lips smacked when he opened his mouth to speak, as if dry with want for water. “Don’t get me wrong,” he spoke with a heavy twang. “She’s a good girl, but she’s pretty quick. A bit too quick for me to keep up with anymore.” He smiled, showing his yellowing teeth. “She thinks she’s queen of this place.” He tried for a laugh, but it came out thin, frayed at the edges.

            I turned toward him. “A spirited horse is no shame to keep company with.”

            “Mm.” The old man adjusted the brim of his navy cap. “Maybe once.” He rubbed his chest, a small, discreet motion, as if smoothing out a pain he didn’t care to name. I pretended not to notice. “You ride?” the man asked, though he seemed to already know the answer. “You seem like someone who’s shaken hands with every horizon you’ve ever met.”

            “I do,” I said.

            “Well,” the man sighed, “good. Someone should.” He began to step back towards his dark porch with slow, deliberate care. His stiff movements didn’t match his voice’s rough practicality. “You want coffee?” he asked. “Got some on the stove. Burnt to hell, but it’s hot.”

            I brightened. “I would never turn down hospitality.”

            The old man snorted. “Hospitality. Haven’t heard that word in a long time.”

            “I have a few of Evie’s apples left, too,” I added. “They’re likely best shared.”

            The old man stopped in his tracks. Looked up at the sky like he was remembering something soft.

            “Yeah, I knew Evie,” he groaned, climbing up the last step to the house.

            “You live alone, out here?” I asked.

            He shrugged with one shoulder. “Reckon I do.” His words were so simple… too much so. Just that simple truth, spoken with the eventuality of weather hid so much bitterness. When we reached the front door, he paused to catch his breath, which had quickly grown ragged. He covered it by fussing with a chipped mug on the railing. “Name’s Silas Boone,” he said at last. “Gosh, I ain’t heard my own name in a long time… used to be other folks around this here house to say it. Not so much anymore.” He held the mug out to me. “I don’t know about Evie’s apples, but coffee tastes better with company, for sure.” I accepted the mug with both hands, as if Silas had handed me something even more delicate than ceramic. Little Phoenix tossed her head out in the field, watching us. Silas watched her back, eyes softening just a fraction. “Seems the whole world’s faster than me now,” he murmured. “But she… she stills remembers I’m here.” He didn’t look at me when he said that. And I didn’t ask anything I wasn’t invited to. We stood there a moment, just two men, one old, one ageless, sharing burnt coffee and an apple split in half, while the mare flicked her tail in the late-sun dust.

            We talked for a long while, longer than I expected, longer than Silas probably meant to. What began as a simple exchange over coffee turned into one of those meandering, unhurried conversations men only have when neither is ready to stand up yet. Silas spoke in the way old ranchers do: half-stories, half-weather reports, dropping pieces of himself only when the wind took them. He talked about the land, fences he never got around to mending, a storm that split his favorite cedar tree last Spring, the way the soil started to turn stubborn in its old age. Every so often, he’d pause to sip his coffee, letting the silence fill in what he didn’t say outright. I found myself answering in kind. Not about museums or magic, or the strange, fragile life I’d come from, but about horses I’d known, trails I missed, men I’d ridden beside who lived now only in stories and memories that weren’t my own… merely my dreams. Silas listened without judgement, without disbelief, letting me speak as if everything I said made perfect sense. It was the first time in a long time I’d felt truly heard.

            At some point, Silas drifted from talking about the land to talking about the people who used to live on it with him. His words softened around the edges, turning careful. He spoke of a daughter who sent postcards now and then, of a son who always promised a visit “next month,” of grandchildren he hadn’t met yet but hoped would have his late wife’s eyes. He said those things like they were facts, not wounds. I recognized the difference. I had known plenty of men who survived by pretending their hearts were the outlines of maps, not beating things. Silas tried to hide the ache behind the jokes. I let him.

            We laughed a little, quietly, about the stubborn horse watching us from the field, about how Silas claimed she was “too damn smart for her own good,” though his voice warmed every time he said her name. And as the hours slipped by and the sun sank deeper into the sky, I noticed something else. Silas kept holding his mug with both hands. Not for the warmth, but for steadiness. He shifted often, like the chair pressed against something tender in him. Once or twice, he drew in a sharp breath mid-sentence, then covered it with a cough that fooled no one. I never pointed it out. Silas never explained. We simply kept talking.

            By the time the last of the coffee cooled, I realized it was time to go, lest I be caught outside after dark. Nora would surely have a fit. I didn’t want to leave yet. And, Silas, for all his worn-down quiet, didn’t seem eager to send me off. It felt less like two strangers sharing a porch and more like two men keeping each other company on a long stretch of road neither wanted to walk alone.

            When I finally stood, Silas nodded to me with something like apologetic hurry. “Yes, of course, you’re here to buy the horse. I’m so sorry to keep you with all this talking mumbo-jumbo.”

            I looked at Silas. I didn’t want it to be the last time we’d ever see each other. I felt the wad of cash in my pocket and ignored it. I pretended it wasn’t there.

            I put my hand up. “No, I’ll be back tomorrow with an offer,” I said.

            Silas sighed something like gratitude, or relief, or maybe both. “Yeah, come back tomorrow,” was all he said. And, without hesitation, I promised I would.

            So, Dear Diary, concludes my recounting of today’s adventures. Tomorrow, I look forward to meeting with Silas and Little Phoenix once more. And, before I forget, I must also reunite with my Rough Riders for another round of imaginary conquering. Once again, adventure has shown me its greatest reward: new and ever-cherished friendships.

            I wish I could say it stopped there.

            Why, Nora? You asked. That’s kind of sweet.

            I don’t disagree with you. It’s just that the world makes it impossible to have this sweetness of adventure without its bitterness, as well. Despite my warnings, Teddy continued his escapades in Pinebluff. I flipped through the pages of his journal, reading small snippets of the events:

            Sept. 29^th, Year???? As soon as I awoke, I prepared for my day out. If today turns out to be anything like yesterday, then it will be a successful one. I slipped out the garage while Professor Keating was discussing the difference between a metaphor and simile with Parry and Alan. I can’t imagine why they would need to know the distinction so badly, but they were adamant on the impromptu lesson in literary techniques. … I met with Timmy Roosevelt, Calloway, Frank, Doug, and Harvey. We reenacted the same battle, the one where Timmy Roosevelt so bravely sacrificed his life for the victory. This time, we celebrated with Ring Pops from the local bargain shop. I also made sure to pick up more apples from Evie for Silas …

            Silas was already outside when I walked up that dirt road again, this time carrying a small tin of ground coffee under my arm along with the apples. It was my offering to his broken heart. Silas didn’t call out to me. He didn’t have to. He just tapped the empty lawn chair beside his with two fingers. I sat.

            Silas nodded toward the tin. “You bring contraband?”

            “Only the finest roast Miss Nora keeps hidden behind the flour tin.”

            Silas gave a low, dry chuckle. “You’re a braver man than most.” Then, quieter, “Thank you.” It was the kind of thank-you said by someone who hadn’t had much to thank anybody for in a long while.

            Silas took his time with the kettle, moving slow but stubborn, like every motion had to be negotiated with his body first. I pretended to admire the skies while Silas caught his breath leaning on the stove. When the cups were full, Silas pushed one toward me.

           “Don’t get used to this,” he muttered. “I don’t usually make coffee for strangers.”            I lifted the mug. “I had hoped,” I said gently, “that we were no longer strangers.”

            Silas’s mouth tightened, not in annoyance, but in the kind of softness he never let stay long. “Well… company’s company. And you ain’t bad company.” We sat quietly for a moment, the steam rising between us. Little Phoenix trotted near the fence line, tossing her mane like she was showing off. Silas watched her the way people watch old photographs, fondness dimmed by something else.

           “She gave you trouble last night?” I asked.

           “She gives me trouble every night,” Silas said. “And every morning. Damn horse thinks she’s my keeper.”

           I smiled. “Sounds like she cares for you.”

          Silas scoffed. “She cares about apples.” But the way his eyes followed her said otherwise. I reached into his coat and pulled out two of Evie’s apples, striped bright as sunrise.

          Silas stared. “Where’d you get those? Thought she’d be out for the season.”

         “She hides a few,” I said conspiratorially. “For emergencies.”

         Silas huffed. “And you told her this was an emergency?”

         “No,” I said. “She saw it on my face.”

         Silas went still, just a flicker, but enough. I didn’t push, just held out the apple. Silas took it with both hands, as if it might bruise under anything less. He didn’t eat it right away. He just rolled it in his palms, breathing in the scent, eyelids lowering for a moment as if he were somewhere else, some time when someone else used to hand him apples on cool mornings.

        “You ever lose something, Roosevelt?” Silas finally asked quietly. “Something you can’t get back?” The question wasn’t a test. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a spill, accidental, heavy, unguarded.

        I set his mug down carefully.

        “Yes,” I said. No explanation. No story. Just truth. Silas nodded, like that was all he needed. He finally bit into the apple. Closed his eyes. Chewed slowly, deliberately.

        “Damn,” he whispered, voice breaking in a place I pretended not to hear. “Forgot what real fruit tastes like.” We didn’t speak for a long while. The sun climbed. The horse grazed. The coffee cooled. Then Silas said, barely above a sigh: “You come back tomorrow, Teddy Roosevelt?”

        “If you’ll have me.”

        Silas pretended to think about it, rubbing his thumb across a bruise in the apple’s skin. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon that’d be alright.” He didn’t look at me. But he didn’t hide the small, weary smile that settled into the wrinkles around his mouth.

            Sept. 30^th: … Silas insisted I take the saddle first.

            “Show her you’re ready,” Silas said, resting one hand on the fence rail. Little Phoenix responded to me like we’d known each other longer than a handful of dawns. Silas watched, chin tilted in pride he tried to stifle. “Look at that,” he murmured. “She’s picked you.” Then, I thought he meant the horse. As I’m writing this, I’m not so sure.

            Silas rode, too, only a short stretch. I pretended not to see how hard Silas gripped the horn of the saddle, how his jaw tightened on every exhale.

            When I said, “You ok back there?”

            Silas snorted. “Rode bulls nastier than her.” But his voice shook.

            We rode far that day, past the cedar stump Silas always skirted around. Silas spoke more than usual, those stories in half-sentences, that laughter in half-breaths. About the wife who’d taught him how to braid a mane. About the boy who broke his arm falling off a pony named Tumbleweed. About Evie’s apples,

           “Sweetest thing left in this county,” he’d said. I listened. Silas breathed like each memory stole some small piece of him. A piece he could reach out for as it drifted, far, far away, but couldn’t follow.

           We rode out past sunset, the world gold, the air gentle. We rode until the sky went lavender, then violet, then something dark and close to silence. As we came back upon his little ranch, Silas leaned forward on the horn, forehead nearly touching it.

          “You alright?” I asked softly. Silas didn’t answer. He dismounted slowly, slow enough that I finally offered a hand. Silas didn’t accept it. He also didn’t refuse. He suddenly stiffened. A sharp, broken breath escaped him, nothing like the polite coughs I had been pretending not to hear. This one tore out of him, raw, uncontrollable. Little Phoenix froze, ears back.

          I reached him just as he swayed. “Silas—”

        “I’m fine,” he rasped. He tried to straighten. But he couldn’t. His whole body seemed to fold around a pain he could no longer outrun. I placed a steadying hand on his back. Silas didn’t push it away. For the first time, the old man looked afraid. Not of death. Of being seen. Silas’s voice came thin, thready, almost lost to the wind. “Don’t… don’t make a fuss,” he whispered. “Just—help me to the porch.” I helped him. Silas leaned against the squeaky, wooden railing, eyes squeezed shut, breath shallow. Fireflies danced in the tallgrass fields before us. His gaze swayed with their dance. His eyes stared at the lights, unblinking, as they lit and then disappeared, over and over and over again.

         After a long silence, he spoke. “It’s in me deep, Roosevelt,” he said quietly. “Doctor showed me the truth months back.” His hand drifted to his ribs, then fell away, trying to stifle a sob. “It’s eating me from the inside.”

        My chest tightened. Silas kept his gaze on the horizon, as if embarrassed to look anywhere else.

        “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I didn’t want you… or anyone… seeing me like this.” He swallowed. “That’s why… I didn’t tell anyone. My kids… they don’t know. I don’t want anyone seeing me like this,” he shuddered again. Another breath. Another wince.

       I shook my head. “But you keep showing up.” I paused to dry my tears discreetly. I knew Silas would never forgive me if I showed him. “And, I—” I added, soft, weary, “I’m glad you do.”

       Little Phoenix nuzzled Silas’s shoulder, then, gentle, careful like she knew.

       Silas’s voice cracked. “Damn horse always knows before I do.”

       I said nothing. I didn’t need to say anything. We stood there in the dimming light, one man too old to pretend anymore, one man too loyal to walk away, and one copper mare pressing her nose into every broken piece of the truth. And for the first time, Silas didn’t hide.

      And I… I am honored to be the one he showed himself to.

     “She’s yours,” he said, motioning to Little Phoenix. “No purchase necessary.”

     I sniffed. “No, Silas. You keep her as long as you can. After all, bartering is the perfect excuse to keep coming back here, even when you push me away.” We both gave a small laugh. The night leaned in to listen.

            Ok, Nora, you sighed. How is any of this bad for you? You dabbed your tears on a napkin. Silas is the one who’s suffering.

            I leaned forward, linking my fingers together. Frankly, I’m not proud of what I did next…

            The day Teddy had his long ride with Silas, I was teaching a weekend class at the university. One of my students, none other than Jayden Brooks, was watching a video on his phone as he was walking out. I recognized the confused man’s voice anywhere.

            “Teddy! That’s my name! I’m not lying!”

            I was horrified.

            “Hey, Jayden,” I asked, “what’s that video about?”

            “Oh,” he said, shrugging, “yeah, it’s just something me and my friends recorded a couple of days ago for my YouTube channel. It’s called Got That J-Dawg In Me. Wanna subscribe?”

            “Er… who’s the guy with the moustache?” I tried.

            “Oh man,” Jayden laughed, “That’s just some creepy dude we found in the woods. He thought he was a president or something.”

            I was already about to keel over when another one of my students, Simon Calloway approached us. He leaned over to look at Jayden’s phone.

            “Hey, that’s the guy who joined the Rough Riders Revival a couple of days ago,” he announced.

            “No shit, bro,” Jayden giggled.

            “Oh, you had a meeting this weekend,” I sighed. “I guess that’s why Trevor Roswell didn’t show up to class.”

            “Yeah… and a quick heads up, he goes by Timmy, now,” Simon added. He turned back to Jayden. “Yeah, that guy played Teddy Roosevelt. He was pretty good at it, too. He’s a regular in our group, now. We invited him to all the meetings.”

            “Dork shit,” Jayden sighed as he shook his head, his black curls bouncing. “I think your dude’s probably dead or something, ‘cause he got all violent and we left him in the woods. He really, really believed he was a president.”

            “Uh…” Simon looked away from us, adjusting his black fringe. “Well, he didn’t tell us his name, either. He was wearing a lot of heavy prosthetic makeup. He’s probably someone from school and just doesn’t want anyone to know he does—”

            “Dork shit!” Jayden howled as he left the room.

            Simon shrugged. “It’s a shame, really. He was pretty good at acting. Really got in character.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his gray hoodie and hurried away.

            As for me, I packed my bags and rushed home.

            That night, Teddy didn’t return until late. He trudged through the back door while the rest of us were sitting in a circle and reading the poetry we’d written for Keating’s challenge. I know he did because his muddied boots tracked against the pristine, white carpet Genie had just magically cleansed ten minutes before. Teddy tried to tiptoe up the staircase as Prof. Brainard was finishing his poem about lab safety:

            “And if it blows up, don’t despair—

            I keep spare lab coats everywhere.

            After all, what’s genius—what’s art—

            Without a little smoke alarm at heart?”

            I didn’t want to interrupt the applause that erupted from the Robins, especially when surprise tears began to prick the wordless Vladimir Ivanoff’s eyes. But I had to confront Teddy about what I’d seen that afternoon.

            “Where’ve you been, Ted?” I announced. He winced, hesitating in his dirty tracks before he turned to us with a distrustfully large grin.

            “Hello, fine friends,” he said. “What a wonderful night it is for some…” he scanned the room quickly, “…improvisational theater!” he decided with unwarranted confidence.

            “Actually, Mr. President,” Prof. Keating said gently. “Tonight’s poetry night. You remember our little house-wide challenge, don’t you?”

            “Yeah!” Genie announced, waving his hands excitedly. “And Maggie decided that whoever wins gets THE GOLDEN SPOON OF POETIC SUPREMACY!” He gestured to the old wooden spoon Maggie had decorated with tin foil and a single googly eye and set out on the coffee table earlier. He wrung his hands, coveting the craft as if it were an Oscar. “So far Osric’s in the lead for ‘An Elegy for Peace, Rudely Interrupted by Improper Indoor Horseplay,’” Genie sighed. Osric adjusted his lapels with a prideful smirk.

            “That’s lovely,” Teddy tried. “But I really am tired, now,” he feigned a yawn. “Goodnight, my lovely citizens!” he began to march up the stairs, once more.

            I cleared my throat loudly, and once again, Teddy stopped in his tracks. “This is a house-wide competition.” His eyes went blank as he turned toward me again. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have anything to read,” I said with false shock. Teddy’s eyes darted around. “You had no idea we were going to do this, tonight, did you?” I asked.

            “I may be the presi—former president of the United States,” he began, cautiously. “But even I don’t know about everything that occurs within this household, Madam.”

            “That’s because you’re not here half the time,” I pushed. The bottom had dropped out of the whole room. Leslie Zivo picked up a stuffed rabbit and pressed it to his heart for comfort. Adrian Cronauer crossed his arms. I tried not to pay attention. I had to stop Teddy’s wandering nonsense, now. It may have already been too late. “May we have a moment, alone?” I asked him.

            “But Miss Whitcomb,” Osric tittered, “You haven’t read your poem yet.”

            “I will,” I promised, “but I need to speak with Teddy right now.”

            “Well, then,” Keating waved at the stairs. “You’re excused.”

            Teddy took the walk of shame up the stairs. I followed.

            I thought I heard Patch Adams chuckle, “But won’t they need a hall pass?” as I shut the door to Teddy’s bedroom.

            Teddy’s room looked like it was a runaway exhibit from The Smithsonian. The walls were a sweeping mural of Yosemite Park, complete with a single, winking eagle and a moose whose antlers stuck out of the wall and doubled as coat hooks. Teddy lit a lantern that hung beside his huge, oak desk. Genie claimed he carved from a ‘fallen historic tree.’ The light flickered like a campfire over a leather armchair that Teddy motioned for me to take. It squeaked like a saddle as I settled onto it. Teddy sat facing me on the edge of his massive log-frame bed. He folded his hands like a child who knew he was in for it.

            I couldn’t find the words. All I could do was lift my phone so Teddy could see the video my student had shown me. As soon as he heard the voices, his brows creased. He adjusted his little, round glasses as if there was a possibility that somehow, someway, this Teddy Roosevelt was not the same Teddy Roosevelt in his waxen form before me. But no, there was no denying this.

            “Nora—” he muttered.

            “No,” I began, feeling my rage finally bubble up from within me. “No, you can’t just go galivanting out into the world and being seen like that. Being exploited like this.”

            “Exploited?” he tried, his pitch wavered, “From simply having been witnessed?”

            “Yeah, that’s what the internet’s for,” I sneered. “Now people know you exist. Now they’ll come looking for you, and for the others, too—”

            “Nora,” Teddy sighed, the softest in his tone carrying my words out like the tide. “My goodness, that won’t happen to us.”

            “You don’t know that!” I threw my hands up. “You don’t know who’s going to track you down, who’s going to find a dead—” I felt my eyes water, but I couldn't show it. I pulled at the roots of my hair, let my hands rake down my face, instead. “You don’t know how many people would want to take advantage of all of you.”

            I was shocked to see a gentle smile spread across his face, lifting his moustache just so. “Nora,” he shook his head, as if fighting the urge to laugh. “I’m alive.” He leaned forward. “I’m alive even when the sun comes up. That’s new. That’s amazing.” He shook his head, looking up at the ceiling. “Before coming to Pinebluff, I hadn’t felt the sunlight on my skin,” he gave a small chuckle. “Oh, well, wax. I’m alive, Nora. Really alive for the first time. Alive like Maggie, and Evie, and Timmy, and J-Dawg, and the real Theodore Roosevelt. Alive like Silas. Alive like you for the very first time. And, oh… is that a wonderful thing to be. I just can’t waste it staying in one place. I know who I am, Nora,” he sat back. “I’m a traveler. An adventurer.”

            His words were beautiful, and I understood them at the core of my soul, but the fear rose up from within me. I had to protect him, to protect them.

            “I can’t let you—”

            “Oh, please don’t take that away from me,” he interrupted.

            “Teddy, I can’t let you roam around the world as a wax figure of a former President from a m—” I tried not to let the movie news slide. All I could do was yell out of frustration, “You’re grounded! You’re not allowed off my property unless you want to end up getting all of you kicked to the curb, you got that?” I stood and pointed to the door. “Do you want to tear Seymour out of that basement? How are you going to explain to Alan that he’ll have to wander in the woods to find any shelter? And what about Patch, huh? How do you think he’d like to be homeless?”

            Teddy’s face became more solemn now. “Have you ever considered,” he said slowly, “that we haven’t met our purpose, yet?”

            “What the fuck are you talking about?”

            “We don’t know much about what’s going on with us,” Teddy shook his head. “But we can tell that we’re all here, here together, for a purpose. We must meet it.”

            “You did. You found Maggie. She needed a friend, and now she has Mork. There, you met your purpose,” I dismissed.

            “No, Nora,” Teddy spoke gravely. “We wouldn’t still be here if we did. We know. We can feel that much.”

            “Bullshit,” I spat.

            “Our purpose is out there,” he grumbled, frustration beginning to overcome him. “There are people who still need us, and they aren’t tucked up safe and sound under your roof, Nora. That’s why we haven’t disappeared.”

            “NO!” I yelled over him. “MY DECISION IS FINAL! I SWEAR TO GOD, IF I CATCH YOU SNEAKING OUT ONE MORE TIME, YOU’RE ALL GONE!”

            We both paused, silent save for the sound of my struggle to catch my breath. “And good luck trying to find anyone else who’ll put up with you,” I finished. I couldn’t take the betrayed look in his eyes. I turned on my heel and opened the door to leave, only to be met with the sight of Mrs. Doubtfire with a glass up to her ear and the whole house trying to act nonchalantly in the hall. They weren’t doing that so well.

            I stomped down the hallway, but halfway to my attic room, I caught a pair of blue eyes watching from the shadows. Robin. Torn, worried, unbearably gentle. His face was open, raw in a way I’d never seen, not disappointed, not judgmental. Just… hurt. And for one terrible heartbeat, our eyes locked. I felt something in me split. I tore my gaze away and fled before it could finish breaking me.

            The attic had never felt smaller. Usually, it was my sanctuary, the one room untouched by penguin feathers, bubble residue, paint splatters from Armand, or the sonic booms of Genie’s enthusiasm. But tonight, the rafters pressed close, like the whole house had quietly climbed the stairs to ask why I’d snapped.

            I sank onto the edge of my bed, the quilt Mom made me years ago bunching beneath my fists. A low ache hummed through my ribs. I was too hard on him, I thought, hoping the sound of my regret would pierce the shadows. Instead, I was left without an answer, nor an echo. Teddy’s bewildered face flashed before my eyes, the way he’d tried to explain himself, earnest and eager, like a boy caught sneaking cookies and not an ex-President on unsanctioned expeditions. And God, he looked as if he were about to salute when I scolded him. Like he trusted me. Like he thought the authority I borrowed from exhaustion and fear was meant to protect him. I pressed my palms to my eyes. I shouldn’t have yelled. The guilt settled heavy as dust on the skylight. It clouded the light of the rising sun that leaked in.

            Suddenly, there was a soft knock at the door, and Keating’s voice on the other side: “Nora? May I trouble the sanctity of your solitude for a moment?” Of course, he picked the exact moment the universe cracked open in my chest.

            I sat up, wiped my cheeks, and muttered, “Yeah. Come in.” He opened the old, wooden door with a creak, and the faint smell of chalk dust and candle smoke followed him in. He sauntered up to the side of my bed where I was sitting, the moonlight illuminating his silhouette.

            “Running again, Ms. Whitcomb?” Keating asked in that playful, ‘gotcha’ type of voice.

            “Excuse me?” I scoffed. “Running from what, exactly?”

            He smiled, eyes soft and annoyingly perceptive. “Don’t you know I only appear when someone is about to lie to themselves?” he teased.

            “Great,” I sighed, “Just what I needed: Pinebluff State’s patron saint of inconvenient truths.”

            “You haven’t turned in your poem,” he said simply.

            “Oh.” I had indeed neglected to read my poem aloud for the house. I told myself it was a simple mistake to make, that I’d just forgotten to do it because of the chaos of Teddy’s arrival. But the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks forced me to confront the truth; I had wished that everyone would just forget that I had yet to share my work. All I could do was cross my arms. “I got busy. Couldn’t you tell?”

            “Yes, with chasing after wax presidents. With parenting a dozen strange men, one elderly woman, a couple of animals, and robots, certainly. But with yourself?” He tilted his head. “You haven’t been busy at all lately. If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve said you’ve been off on sabbatical in Tahiti.”

            I rolled my eyes to cover the half-smile that had invaded my expression. “I’ll read it later.”

            He clicked his tongue. “Nora…” he said in that disappointed professor voice I’d come to love and hate. “You do know that later is the enemy of the living?” Before I could retort, he added, too gently, “And so is fear.”

            My pulse stuttered, but I tried to keep cool. “I’m not afraid.” I lied like I was just breathing. Keating just lifted an eyebrow. A whole dissertation hid in that one raise of an eyebrow.

            “You know,” he continued, “you were rather fierce with Teddy today.”

            “He keeps leaving—” I began.

            “Yes,” Keating nodded, “he does. And that unsettles you.”

            “He could get seen,” I sneered, the emotions roaring again. “He could get caught or—or taken or someone could—”

            “Nora.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. Somehow, that single syllable froze me in place. “You reacted as though he were not wandering from home,” Keating said softly, “but abandoning it.”

            My stomach caved in on itself. Yes. Yes, of course. That was this awful feeling that submerged every fiber of my being. And of course, Keating named it before I ever dreamed I could.

            “You keep confusing risk with loss,” he continued. “Every time someone steps out of view, Teddy, Maggie, your students, us, you brace for impact. You grip harder. You scold louder. You tighten your orbit.”

            I folded my arms tighter. “Well excuse me for not wanting my household to be snatched away by… by the U.S. government, or something.”

            Keating smiled sadly. “Ah, yes. The government.” He sat beside me on the bed, leaned in slightly. “Tell me, Nora… is it truly Teddy you fear disappearing? Or is it everything you love leaving the moment you stop watching them?”

            My breath sputtered. “That’s not—I’m not—” But the words tangled in my throat. My eyes burned. “That’s not fair,” I finally whispered. “I’m doing my best.”

            “And your best,” Keating said, “is costing you pieces of yourself.” Something inside me trembled, a beam rattled loose. “You were asked to write and read a poem,” he continued. “A simple act of expression. But instead policed Teddy’s wanderings. You monitored Maggie’s moods. You put out fires in a house made of unpredictable—”

            “Morons,” I butted in.

            “—miracles.” He finished. “And you never once turned inward.”

            I stared down at my hands, clenched so tightly my knuckles blanced.

            “You are a teacher,” Keating said. “A writer. An actress. A sister. A caretaker. You pour and pour and pour, but never refill. You chase after beings who cannot truly be lost,” he said, “while avoiding the thing that can be lost: your own voice.”

            Silence folded between us like a blanket. Like Mom’s quilt.

            “If your poem is messy,” he said, “let it be. If your delivery of it is messier, great, so be it. It would never be better. Let it tremble. Let it leak the truth you’re afraid of. That is why it was written, and why it must be shared.”

            My throat tightened. “Keating, I don’t want to think about it anym—”

            “That,” he said, “is precisely why you must.” He placed a hand lightly over mine. “Nora, your fear does not make you fragile. It makes you human. But the cage you keep building around yourself, that is optional.”

            I looked away, trying not to crumble under the weight of his kindness.

            “Read the poem,” he whispered. “Not because it’s homework and we’re playing school. Not even because I asked. Because you deserve to hear yourself.”

            For a moment, I couldn’t speak. And then, “Ok,” I breathed, barely louder than a thought. “I’ll try.”

            Keating smiled, the kind of smile that felt like sunrise on a page. “Good,” he said. “That is all art ever asks.”

            But when I reached for the wrinkled paper folded in my pocket, I felt my throat tighten. I let out a sob, “Keating… I can’t do it. I can’t do it in front of everyone. Not yet.”

            “That’s ok, Nora,” he said, seizing me by the shoulders. “But you must try.” His eyes softened. “Perhaps I put too much pressure on you by making you read to everyone. Maybe you should just start by reading it to me.” He looked me in the eyes. I felt like a scared child lost in the dark. I unfolded the paper, and his gaze darted to my messy, scribbled handwriting.

            But when I opened my mouth to speak, the unmistakable thunder of approaching hooves and a sharp whinny pierced the night. Keating and I looked at each other in knowing confusion. We both dashed to the backyard.

            October 1^st (I give up on the year)

            So far, I have spent nearly ten hours in captivity. It is a lifetime for an adventurer like me! I could not sleep through it. I could not fathom never again meeting Evie, Calloway, and his friends, and dear, sweet, old Silas. I could not bring myself to wrestle with the longing for the wind that whipped my face as I rode upon Little Phoenix’s back. My heart stirred, for while I knew my purpose was beyond the gates of the Whitcomb household, I could not endanger my friends of homelessness. I would have to obey Nora’s orders to the letter. Oh, how far the commander in chief has fallen!

            I decided that I wouldn’t miss the outdoors so much if I stepped out onto Nora’s rear patio. I breathed in the morning mist, took in the rays of the rising sun. The horizon was painted in a brilliant set of golden hues, but I would not taste what she had to offer today, nor ever again.

            A tear must have slipped from my eye because Mrs. Doubtfire appeared beside me and wordlessly offered a floral handkerchief. I honked my nose into it, and she retrieved the rag with a look of disdain.

            Regardless, she pursed her lips and her eyebrows met in concern. “My love, whatever is the matter?” she asked.

            “Nothing,” I said, puffing out my chest to show my emotional power. “I want for nothing. I am Theodore Roosevelt, Rough Rider, and President of these fine United States—”

            Mrs. Doubtfire’s hand clasped mine. “Oh come now, dear boy,” she said. “You look like a popsicle someone dropped on the ground, still sweet, but covered in grit and gravel.” She sighed dramatically. “Tell Mrs. D what’s troubling your patriotic little heart.”

            I cleared my throat, but spoke softly. “I fear… I may have disappointed Nora. Gravely.”

            “Oh, pish-posh,” she waved, already rummaging through a tiny purse that she seemed to have gotten from nowhere. “When in doubt, darling, bribery! Nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like a baked good the size of your own head.” She lifted a literal, over-sized spatula from her bag. “I know! Bake a pie! A massive one. Preferably in a flavor she cannot object to. Apple? Blueberry? Something guilt-flavored.”

            I blinked. “I… I’m sorry, but I don’t believe pies are the answer to this here conundrum.”

            “Nonsense!” Mrs. Doubtfire insisted. “And if a pie doesn’t work, try an interpretive dance. Or a grand romantic gesture. Serenade her! Ride a horse through the living room! Sing her favorite ballad just the tiniest bit off-key so she knows it’s heartfelt!”

            I recoiled. “Madam, that seems… ill-advised. A romantic gesture would result in confusion… and the living room covered in horseshit.”

             Before she could suggest juggling flaming kitchen utensils or composing a love letter in calligraphy, Robin rounded the corner holding a fresh mug of tea. He paused, took in the scene. He narrowed his eyes.

            “Oh no,” he said, “Nope. Don’t listen to her.”

            Mrs. Doubtfire gasped. “I beg your pardon!”

            “Absolutely not,” Robin repeated firmly, setting the mug down on a table. “Teddy, buddy, listen to me.” He gestured toward her like she was a gremlin that had gotten into the sugar bin. “Her advice is ninety percent chaos, ten percent arson.”

            “I do not endorse arson!” Mrs. Doubtfire huffed. “…unless it’s metaphorical. For passion.”

            “See?” Robin said. “This is how houses burn down.” Mrs. Doubtfire retreated inside with a huff and a swish of the sliding, glass door. Robin stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t fix hurt feelings with theatrics. You talk to someone. Honestly. Quietly.” He placed a steady hand on my shoulder. “Just… let’s breathe for a minute. Clear your head.”

            Mrs. Doubtfire poked her out from an open window in the kitchen. “Or, we could bake her a pie—” she muttered.

            “NO PIE,” Robin barked over his shoulder.

            “Honestly, if she wants a pie, she should just have one for herself—” I said. Robin raised an eyebrow at me. “Right, I shall seek clarity.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Robin said, nudging me gently toward the door. “And if Mrs. D tries to hand you anything flammable, you run.”

            I stood there, stiff as a monument, jaw set, eyes fixed somewhere far past the skies, as though I were waiting for the real version of myself to walk out of the treeline and take over my life for me. It was clear Robin could see the way my hands trembled, the way I kept trying to stand taller, broader, braver, as if posture alone could fill a hollow. “I don’t know what to say to her.” I turned back to my mentor. “To Nora. I know you feel it too… that staying locked away in this beautiful, safe home is working against our purpose.” Robin’s expression fell. “How could we abandon Nora… and Maggie… and still accomplish our goal in this world?”

           “Whatever that is…” Robin said softly. There was a sharp pause. Then he looked up. He stepped closer, slow, gentle, the way approach someone who’s already flinching from a blow that hasn’t landed yet. “Teddy,” he said softly. I, the wax president, didn’t look at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” Robin murmured. “Or, well, I know the shape of it. That ache in your chest that feels like it might swallow you. That fear that if you slow down, if you stop marching for even one second, you’ll hear something inside you whisper ‘You’re not the real thing.’” I felt my throat work, but still couldn’t bring myself to turn. Robin exhaled, quiet, steady, warm. “You’re wax,” he continued. “A wax president. A wax explorer. A wax hero. You were never carved to be Roosevelt the man. You were carved to be Roosevelt the meaning.” That finally made me turn, look at him, eyes wide, glassy. “And you know what? That makes you something no flesh-and-blood person could ever be.”

           I blinked. “Which is?”

          “Singular,” Robin said. “Utterly, unfairly, beautifully singular. There’s only one you in any universe. The real Roosevelt can’t be you. I can’t be you. The world has one wax Rough Rider with a heart that somehow learned how to beat. Just one.” He reached out, rested a steady hand on my arm, warm against my cool sheen of wax. “You keep asking who you’re supposed to be,” he said. “But maybe the braver question is: Who do you get to be now that you’re free from who you were modeled after?” I swallowed, breath shaking. “You are the only you that exists,” Robin whispered. “And that’s enough. More than enough, that’s a miracle.”

          “I don’t feel like a miracle,” I whispered.

          Robin chuckled, soft and fond. “Buddy, most miracles don’t feel like miracles on the inside. They feel like confusion with really dramatic lighting. And as for the question you asked… Purpose.” He chuckled, paused. Looked into the sky as if it were reading the answers to him during a test. “Purpose doesn’t vanish when you stop moving,” he finally said. “You don’t choose between Nora and destiny. You choose who you stand beside when destiny knocks.” He laid a steady hand on my shoulder. “You’re allowed to stay because you matter here. And you’ll be allowed to wander because that’s who you are. The trick is learning when each part of you needs to breathe.” He gave me a small smile. “So maybe stop choosing between Nora and purpose… and start choosing with them.”

         I blinked up at him. His eyes were full of some sort of secret truth that not even I, the eternal waxen president, could speak of. How did he know that Nora would allow me to continue wandering while under her roof, that she would allow us all to stay anyway? I wanted to thank him. I wanted to wrap my arms around my friend and tell him that whatever magic he just worked… whatever words he received from the heavens, I heard them. He got the message to me. But I didn’t get the chance to speak to him at all.

        That’s when I heard it—the call of destiny on the wind. The sound of familiar hooves pounding the asphalt driveway, the whinny of a friend in great need.

        Nora and Professor Keating burst out of the door and joined us on the back lawn. “Was that a horse?” she asked. Just then, Little Phoenix’s copper muzzle popped up over the fence and Nora jumped back in shock. “THERE’S A FUCKING HORSE!” she yelled. I folded my hands and lowered my gaze in shame.

       But there she was, my beloved Little Phoenix. A lovely vision of whom I had considered to be nothing more than a ghost of memories past, never again to grace my sight. Nevertheless, my fingers wandered to her velvety chin as my mouth fell agape. The deep, dark pools of her eyes burned with auburn urgency.

       “WHY is there a FUCKING HORSE IN MY YARD?” Nora screamed, clutching at her long, black hair.

       “No…” I whispered. Little Phoenix threw her head back. “Something is wrong,” I said aloud.

       “Of course there is!” Nora grumbled, “Where did it come from, Teddy? What did you do?” I shrank back. The accusation in Nora’s eyes made me shiver. I watched Professor Keating place a calming hand on her shoulder, as if reminding her about a secret deal they had made. Nora’s shoulders immediately slumped. She clasped her hands in front of her pursed lips and took a deep breath. “Ok, I’m sorry,” I was shocked to hear her say. “Teddy, I’m sorry. What’s going on?”

       I turned to Nora, Robin, Keating, and Mrs. Doubtfire, who had just poked her head out the window again. “Everyone,” I smiled a gentle smile, “this is my friend, Little Phoenix.”

      “My, isn’t she just darling?” Mrs. Doubtfire cooed. “Would she like a piece of apple strudel?” She pushed a plate out the open window, and Robin gently pressed it backed toward her without looking. He and Keating exchanged shocked expressions.

      Little Phoenix gave another sharp whinny and reared. Nora jumped back a bit.

      “Listen,” I said, “I think she’s here because something is wrong.” I realized she was dressed with a bridle, but no saddle. I shivered. “Oh no… Silas…”

     “Who’s Silas?” Professor Keating asked.

     “Another friend of mine,” I explained, quickly, “Little Phoenix’s owner—I’m afraid something is terribly wrong!” I stared up at Little Phoenix, who was beginning to buck like wild. “I think… I think I have to go.”

     “Oh no,” Nora gave an angry chuckle. “Oh no you won’t.” Keating passed her a disappointed glare.

     “Please,” I begged, “Please, I think Silas is in trouble. He dressed her, look, but not completely.” I stepped closer to Nora. “Please, he could be hurt, or worse. He’s in a fragile state.” Nora stared at me, torn. “Please, Nora,” I said, voice trembling. “He needs help.”

     A quiet moment passed. Then, Nora mumbled, “I’ll go with you.”

     “Count me in,” Robin said. Keating nodded like he’d tag along, too. I climbed up on Little Phoenix’s back and grabbed the bridle. I was shocked when Nora seated herself just behind me. She nodded.

     “Um,” Keating sighed, “there’s not enough room on the horse.”

     “Take my Corolla,” Nora said.

     “Nora, I doubt she’ll follow the roads,” I said. “She doesn’t exactly follow the rules.”

     “Neither do the best of leaders,” she smiled. She turned to Robin and Keating and commanded like a true Rough Rider, “Just try to keep up.”

     They nodded. Little Phoenix gave a sudden turn, and we were off. Nora grasped onto me for dear life, digging her nails into my sides as we flew over the plains across the street. The wind blew cold against my face, but the sun shone brightly, warming my scalp. The reeds swayed violently, but Little Phoenix was undeterred. She was the wind. Her steps thundered against the grass like a machine, her gaze focused on the horizon. She leapt over a boulder that lay in the middle of a patch of wildflowers. I turned to check on Nora, expecting to see her terrified or full of disdain. Instead, her eyes flickered with happiness. She gave a hearty laugh. The spirit of adventure was indeed beginning to seep into her veins.

     Little Phoenix carried us through the town square, past the tents where the Rough Rider Revivalists were setting up base. Many of them stopped to shout their hellos at me. I saw Calloway begin to try to run alongside us from the corner of my eye.

    “Hey, Teddy!” he cheered, “You got a real horse! I can’t believe it!” His footsteps faltered when he caught sight of Nora. “Ms. Whitcomb?!” came his shocked cry, and then he fell behind.

    “You know him?” I asked Nora.

    “He’s a student,” she explained. “AND SO ARE THEY!” she yelled. The group of young hikers I’d met in the woods had been walking in front of us, and now they dispersed every-which-way to get the hell out of Little Phoenix’s path. Good thing, too. I’m not so sure she wouldn’t have paved them over.

    Our noble steed expertly carried us through the hills in those treacherous woods, and out again into the plains just before Silas’s farm. She screeched to a halt at Silas’s porch steps. I leapt off of her in a hurry and ran inside. I couldn’t mind Nora climbing gingerly off Little Phoenix’s back. There was no time.

    I opened the flimsy screen door to the farmhouse. Inside, the old television flickered on some black-and-white film I didn’t recognize. And between the television and the couch lay poor Silas, shivering and pale. He was curled on the rug, his clouded eyes stared out at nothing, until they landed on mine.

   “Teddy,” he rasped. He could barely breathe. His lungs rattled with exhaustion. “Not much time…”

   My eyes began to fill with tears. I darted to my knees beside my friend. I clasped his frail, spotted hand in mine.

  “I know, Silas,” I sobbed. “But I’m here. It worked. Little Phoenix got to me. I’m here for you.”

  “Oh, Ted…” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to… see me like this…” he coughed once more.

  “Please, hang on a little longer,” I begged. “Don’t speak. Let us call a doctor. Maybe they can help you, give you some more time—”

  “I don’t want more time…” he wheezed. “I’ve had my adventures, Teddy… I’ve completed the race… It’s been… a long life… It’s time for me to go…”

  “No, please,” I tried, tears spilling down my face. “No. You’re the first person I’ve had to come back for. You’re the first person to ride with me, the last to stop speaking to me. You treat me like I’m real, you hear me?”

  “I’m an old man… who lost everyone…”

  “No.” I wept. “You’re my friend, Silas.”

  Silence. Silas gripped my hand a little harder.

  “You… Mr. President… have made my final days… something I will treasure… as long as the fates allow…” he whispered. “I am honored… to have a friend like you.”

  “The honor is all mine,” I tried to smile. But then, Silas began to lose energy. The subtle shaking in his limbs began to slow along with his breath, which sounded more like pained, shallow gasps. He rested his head on the carpet.

  “Teddy… tell me one of those famous… campfire adventure tales…” he requested, quietly.

  “Yes, sir,” I complied, voice wavering. “There was once a cowboy who lived alone in the west,” I began. The sound of Silas’s struggling breath carried me through the moment. It was a reassurance that he was still here with me. “He was one of kind, I’ll tell you. The only one of his kind. Because this cowboy, oh, he was one with the wind and the plains, the forests and the stars in the skies. He could run faster than a horse, outsmart any man anytime. But he was alone. Still, he showed up to every town in the west,” I blathered, unable to stop. “He was trying to solve his one dilemma. And boy, did he do it. He did it by helping others. He would catch criminals, return lost children to their mothers, and feed and clothe the needy. He did it all because he knew that if he could touch one life for the better, comfort just one person, make one person smile, just once…”

  Suddenly, Silas’s hand fell limp. The sharp, hollow sound of his breath ceased. He was gone with the sunrise, his spirit rushing away with the wind, I’m sure of it.

  “… then it wouldn’t have mattered how lonely he ever felt,” I finished. “He would have always had a friend somewhere… even if they were very far away.” I reached out to close the good man’s eyes. He’d fought a good fight. And so, on this day, October 1st, the year lost to time, Silas Boone passed on into the greatest adventure yet to be had. And my world went silent, until I felt Nora’s cool, small hand on my shoulder.

  I looked up at her. Her eyes were red and puffy with tears. We embraced.

  “I get it, Teddy,” she whispered. “I get it, now.” I didn’t let go. I sobbed into her shoulder.

  The old Corolla rattled as it pulled up to the house. I staggered to the front porch. My palm lingered on the door longer than I meant. Robin and Keating stood a few steps back, both of them quiet in a way that made the space feel more sacred than solemn. Keating’s eyes traced my face with that deep, listening calm of his.

  “Some people,” he murmured, “leave a bigger silence than their noise ever was.”

  Robin swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, was soft enough not to disturb the air.

  “Was he alone?”

  “No,” Nora said. “Not at the end.” My throat tightened.

  “He didn’t want fear to be the last thing in the room. So… we had to make sure it wasn’t,” I croaked.

  Keating stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on my shoulder. Not a dramatic gesture, no teacherly flourish. Just steady warmth.

 “Grief,” he said quietly, “is the price we pay for depth of connection. And you, Nora,” he turned to our friend, “you let him connect.”

  She blinked hard. “I didn’t do anything special.”

  “You stayed until the very end,” Keating replied.

  Robin’s expression changed then, something like recognition, or remembrance.

  He rubbed his thumb across the edge of one eye and whispered, almost too softly to hear, “Sometimes staying is the hardest thing.” None of us spoke after that. We didn’t need to.

  I had Robin, Keating, and Teddy take the Corolla home. I stayed behind to call the coroner. They took care of Silas, carried his body gently into a silent ambulance as Little Phoenix watched from a corral. The police assured me they would contact Silas’s kids for us.

  “But I don’t know…” Officer Hensley sighed, his heavy brow casting a shadow over his eyes. “His kids moved far, far away from here after their mother died. He once told me they’d never return his calls. Man used to chew our ears off… must’ve been real lonely…” he sniffed. “I can’t believe it. We weren’t that close, but I think I’m going to miss him.” He looked around the ranch as the sun hung high in the sky. “This place will certainly never be the same.”

  We were about to leave in the squad car when Little Phoenix gave a sharp whinny and leapt out of her corral. Officer Hensley and I braced ourselves as she was about to charge our car. But at the last moment, she pivoted, kicking up dirt and hitting something that made a small metallic thud as it met the ground.

  Officer Hensley hopped out of the car to see that Little Phoenix had knocked over Silas’s mailbox. “Goddamn horse,” he sighed. But when the officer picked it up, a small, yellow piece of notepaper slid out of the open door. It was a note Silas had handwritten:

  Proof of Purchase: One copper-colored, mustang mare by the name of Little Phoenix. This note hereby certifies that Mr. T. Roosevelt had completed his purchase of said mare as of 10/1/ (the year was slightly smudged) and is now her owner and caretaker.

  Signed, Silas Boone.

  My jaw hit the floor.

  “Lady,” Officer Hensley sighed, “Whose this Roosevelt fella? Another friend of yours and Silas’s?”

  “Yeah,” I said, breathlessly, “He’s my tenant.”

  We made a small place for Little Phoenix in the backyard, for now. I wasn’t sure if the HOA was against having stables on the property, but there would be no way we could turn Little Phoenix away now. She was an official part of the family. Maggie loved her and took the time to brush and braid her tail.

  So… there were 22 strange men, a couple of robots and penguins, a talking bat, and now a horse living in my house. And yet, I had never felt more complete.

  But then there was Teddy. I caught him spending some time alone in the sanctity of his room. He sat in his big leather chair as he smoothed the cover of his presidential journal. He peered up at me with a sideways glance as I crossed through the door.

  “Alright,” I said, voice trembling with the weight of the last few days. “You can go. You can have your adventures.”

  Teddy immediately brightened, a huge grin spreading across his mustached face. “Really?” he gasped.

  “Yes,” I sighed. “If all this has shown me anything, it’s that you were made to touch people’s lives.” I gave a small chuckle, “More people than just me and Maggie, of course.”

  “Oh, Nora!” Teddy exclaimed, leaping up and wrapping his excited arms around me. “Thank you! Thank you for understanding.”

  “But,” I added, “There are ground rules. I want you to stay away from phones, cameras, and be home by nightfall. And that’s just the start of it.”

  “Thank you, Nora,” was all he could say. “I think you’ll come to find that you’ll love having adventures, too.”

  And I knew that I already had, and that letting these goofballs into my house was already shaping up to be the biggest one of my life.

  That’s wonderful, Nora. You smiled. But you didn’t get to read everyone that poem.

  Actually, I did. Bravery is the battle cry of freedom, after all. And Teddy loved my poem so much that he saved it in the back of his journal.