I was running late as usual. But I made the train to Eny Way Lane. That's the name of the town; it's also the name of the street I was looking for. The whole way there I wondered if I would have the nerve to look at her. Thank God the conductor's voice broke in, because I was getting sick of hearing myself think. "Please take your seats, we are coming to a stop." As the station slid in view I realized I had not paused once to look outside my window.

With my small carry-on bag I exited the car. At the information desk I asked for directions. Without looking at me the large man behind the counter printed something from his computer and tossed a sheet of paper in the air. It floated my way as though a breeze had swept through the place, though the air was still and musty and close as it always is in train stations. ENY WAY LANE, the sheet read. "You can't find it on Mapquest," he said, still not looking in my direction. I didn't ask where he had found it.

Some essentials at the snack bar. A Butterfinger, M & Ms, and a Coke. My plan was to take a taxi but I walked instead. Keep going, I told my feet, for after a while it felt as though cement were hardening around them. A Butterfinger, M& Ms, and a Coke later I stood on a deserted street corner, beneath a sign that said Eny Way Lane.

All up and down the narrow, dusty street the front lawns needed to be watered. Her house was in the middle, set back from the sidewalk between towering masses of holly. The address was 1973316 Eny Way Lane. No white picket fence, no kids playing in the yard. It was a brown A-frame, fiercely dilapidated, the roof dripping moss, crumbling black debris into the yard where beer cans lay scattered, some of them older than cable TV to look at their broken pop tops. The numbers -- 1973316 -- had been spray-painted on the warped shingles. Darkness stared at me from the dirty windowpane in the front door.

It was like looking at a face with dead eyes.

On the way back I sat under a walnut tree not far from the station. I thought about the people who had told me not to go to Eny Way Lane. Maybe they didn't look like me, maybe they couldn't unlock the secrets of my blood. But they could tell me what I looked like at a week old, and what they had given me on my birthday when I was two -- more than she could ever do. Thank God the conductor's voice broke in, because I was getting sick of hearing myself think. "All aboard in ten minutes, those departing Eny Way Lane."

All the way home I watched the scenery outside my window.

I have never been back to Eny Way Lane.

Shelly R. Muir lives in Portland Oregon.  She is one of two adopted children in her family.  An animal lover, she has professional experience in vet clinics.  She is also addicted to  true crime T.V.  Her first published poem, "Wait Your Turn," appeared in the June 2006 issue of Static Movement.  She enjoys wearing three layers of clothing in 100-degree weather.


Charles A. Muir is the second of two adopted children.  He has a degree in
English and lives in Oregon with his wife, cat and dog.  He is proud that he
no longer wears a mullet and tight Polo shirts with unflattering patterns on
them.  He has cleaned the toilets of grocery stores, worked in a gym with a
smelly parrot, made Star Wars designs out of flow chart software when no one
was looking and written obituaries for a living.  His first fiction sale was
to www.byzarium.com .  His second is featured in No. 25, Vol. 2, of Cthulhu
Sex Magazine.