Together, their world ended. In the last moments it played over and over in his mind. The cars, whirling around him. Miss Parker catapulting out, her gun ready, and this time, no hesitation, no remembering old friendship. This time her bullet flew. And it struck Sydney. Sydney, who threw himself in the way to save his life. Her scream still echoed in his ears. “Sydney!” And they were there together, lifting him up, and Broots was standing still and shaking. And it was all too late, because the bomb he had been trying to defuse went off, and the shock hit them. Sydney, weak with blood loss, died instantly. Broots died just a moment later, no longer recognizable as their old Broots. And Miss Parker, lying next to Sydney, sobbed blood and gasped, “Oh, Sydney, I’m sorry.”

            Secretly, Broots loved Bach. The old man had been sprightly, and something about his sprightly music always cheered Broots up. Those orchestral suites, with their old harpsichord and oboe techniques…sometimes they were just what he needed during a long, late afternoon of Centre tedium and terror. With Bach on his earphones, he could almost face Mr. Lyle with equanimity, smiling with the knowledge that he had resources Lyle knew nothing of. Bach. He was a life-saver, that old composer.

“I’ve never danced with anyone,” Jarod said. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“It’s easy,” said Miss Parker. “I’ve taken lessons. Take my hand, and put your other one around my waist. Now watch my feet.”

“Oh, I get it. That’s easy. A simple geometric pattern.”

“It’s more than that.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure,” she admitted with a laugh. “But that’s what they say.”

Jarod laughed too, and they went round in circles.

From above, Sydney watched the two children, wondered if he ought to stop them. But Jarod was laughing. He laughed so rarely. Let them dance, Sydney thought. Just this once. Let him be a kid.

Jarod and Miss Parker danced.

            Jarod liked churches. There always seemed to be people in them who were happy. There always seemed to be people in them who had goodness and kindness in their eyes. Maybe that was why it was so devastating when someone in a church turned out to be the kind of person who hurt others. You went into such a place expecting people to trust, and sometimes you find people who destroyed trust. That wasn’t the sort of thing churches taught.

            He listened to the words of their songs. “You alone I can depend on You alone are true and just You alone are hope eternal in You alone I place my trust You alone are my provider You alone took all my sin You alone I give my life to You are my best friend.” If it were only true! Inside he cried out for someone to say that to. Someone, please answer! Let there be Someone I can depend on. Someone true and just.

            Bagpipes got inside you. They made something rise up and thrill inside you. Sometimes Jarod thought he might be Scottish. Bagpipes did that to you.

            She remembered going to the butterfly house with Mommy and Daddy. All the little fluttering things, so bright and cheerful. Mommy had laughed. Daddy had seemed a little bored.

            Sometimes Broots loved his job. Sometimes it was rather jolly, striking out on a journey with Miss Parker and Sydney, not knowing what Jarod was going to throw at them, knowing it was going to be interesting and mysterious, perhaps a little dark, perhaps merely silly. Sometimes he felt the thrill of the adventure. He often felt the thrill of the companionship, with Miss Parker, with Sydney…even with Jarod. They had grown close over the years. They were…family. Even Jarod.

            The children playing. That was what got him. Everywhere there were children playing. Laughing, loving life, being what children ought to be. Being what he had never been. He loved to watch them. He hated to watch them. It made him happy. It made the pain rise up in him. He smiled and welled up with tears at the same time. So much he had missed.

            Classical music was one of the great discoveries of his life. Now as he stood on the podium and raised his baton, a new sensation arose in him, a deep delight he relished. Beethoven had been able to express such emotion and depth in his music. It could contain joy and pain, delight and sorrow at the same time. Jarod was becoming familiar with this dual sensation. Each new experience was a thing of wonder, like the music swirling around him at his first classical concert, the musicians now responding to his every movement. And always in the background was the sorrow, I’ve been missing this my whole life, and the anger, They took this away from me. What might he have been if they had not taken away his world? But for the moment nothing could replace this moment of standing on the stage and conducting the orchestra.

            Debbie practiced her piano faithfully. She was going to be very good. Someday she would play that delightful sonata by Scarlatti she loved so much. Broots wondered where his child had managed to get such a talent for music. Goodness knew he had no musical talent, as Miss Parker reminded him each time he hummed in her presence. Debbie’s mother, maybe. If so, she had squandered it. Such a waste. She could have been here to teach their child and enjoy her dedication to practicing. Sometimes Broots missed her. Did she miss him? Did she miss her child? Did she wonder if she ever played the piano? Debbie played beautifully.

            Sometimes walking around the Centre felt like walking around a cemetery, and not one of those wonderful old historical ones, either. And sometimes it was like going over a massive waterfall with sharp rocks at the bottom. Sometimes it felt like monsters might chase you down the corridors. It was an ominous place, the Centre. Levels and sub-levels, secrets lurking in corners and in DSAs. Sometimes it felt like it was alive, with some monstrous, hidden heart beating down in the deepest sub-levels, like in “The Tell-Tale Heart.” Other times it felt like a place of ghosts and zombies, some set from a horror movie, some shadowy lair of shadowy beings doing shadowy tasks. Sorrow and pain seeped through its corridors. The farther down you went, the deeper grew the sensation of a history of horrors and lives destroyed.

            Miss Parker sat anonymously in her mother’s favorite pew in her favorite church, listening to the choir of boys and adults singing “Es ist eine Ros’ ensprungen.” Her mother had loved music like this. She had loved Christmastime, all the lights and color and joy and music. It was Jarod’s first Christmas. A man in his thirties, and it was his first Christmas. She had been forbidden to tell him about Christmas as a child. She almost wished she had disobeyed. A child deserved better. A child deserved a Christmas.

            Carousel horses went round and round and came nowhere. It was like their lives. Run and chase. Go round and round. Never get anywhere. Never escape. Tethered to the carousel, attached to a pole, going up and down, pretending like something was changing, something was going, and it never was. You run, I chase. Nothing changes.

            The violinist played his jolly little tune to the background piano accompaniment. The patio of the restaurant was full of light in the dusk, candles and fairy lights, and the music swirled around. A happy occasion.

            Miss Parker stared into her drink and waited. Daddy had actually promised to celebrate her birthday with her this year. She couldn’t help hoping. She never could. Sometimes she knew it was a weakness, but hope still drew her to her many broken engagements with Daddy.

            A tall form dropped into a seat. She looked up, smiling. For once! He had come!

            “He’s not coming.”

            It wasn’t Daddy. It was Jarod. And she hated him for not being Daddy and for the look of intense sympathy on his face. Don’t pity me!