Author: Tom Darby

Back before everything got fancy, we made our music the old-fashioned way, by aim­ing a plastic tape-recorder mic at the radio and praying nobody coughed. If you never held your breath through the last ten seconds of a song so you wouldn’t ruin the recording, I’m not sure you’ve truly lived.

I can still see us, two kids sprawled on the shaggy living-room carpet, elbows poking each other like we were tuning a pair of long-range antennas. The radio on the end table crackled with that soft hiss that meant the station was coming in “pretty good, considering,” and the tape recorder sat in the middle of the floor like a tiny, plastic deity we hoped to impress.

“Okay,” I’d whisper, hovering over the red button. “This is the one. Don’t move.”

“You always say that,” you’d whisper back, already shifting because your leg had fallen asleep. “My foot’s tingling like a hornet nest.”

“Well, maybe tell it to quiet down,” I’d say. “We’re doin’ important work here.”

Then the DJ, who must’ve been part villain, would talk right through the intro, give a full weather report, list three birthdays, congratulate someone’s bowling team, and finally shut up long enough for us to hit RECORD. The tape wheels would start their soft whir, and we’d freeze, waiting, listening, hoping the universe held its breath with us.

Most times, something went wrong. A dog barked. Someone yelled from the kitchen. The phone rang with the kind of clattering authority only landlines had.

Once, right as the chorus hit, my brother burst in and announced, “If anybody sees my left shoe, don’t touch it! It’s got a frog in it!”

That frog made the final mix, by the way. We left it in for posterity.

But every so often, we caught a song clean. Those were victories, the kind you feel all the way down in your socks.

We’d lean in close, listening to the playback like archaeologists dusting off treasure.

“Wow,” you’d say, eyes shining. “That sounds…almost good.”

“Yeah,” I’d say, full of pride. “Real professional.”

Truth was, the tape hissed, the room echoed, and the radio drifted in and out like a boat on a lazy tide. But it didn’t matter; what did was how we nudged shoulders, how the floor felt warm from the afternoon sun, how the world slowed down enough for us to catch a song and record it.

These days, playlists build themselves with one tap. You don’t have to wait or work for anything.

There’s something fine about that convenience, sure, but there’s something finer about working for the things you love, even if the work involves a cheap mic, a hopeful heart, and the patience of saints. And sometimes, when I hear one of those old songs, I swear I can still hear that frog.

There’s something about trouble that sneaks up on a man the same way a pothole does, quietly, and right when you thought the road was smooth. It never comes alone, either.

It brings along bad timing, poor judgment, and at least one person who says, “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Take Raymond Tucker, for example. Raymond wasn’t what you’d call reckless, but he had a habit of following bad ideas to see where they’d go, like a cat following a laser pointer.

His best friend, Joey McCall, was the kind of guy who believed that consequences were merely suggestions, which made him an excellent source of both entertainment and regret.

One Saturday afternoon, the two of them stood on the old steel bridge that crossed over Maple Creek. It wasn’t high enough to make headlines, but just tall enough to make your stomach question your brain’s decisions. Joey had that look in his eyes, the same one he got right before talking Raymond into something regrettable.

“You ever jump off this bridge?” Joey asked, peering over the edge like he was considering a real estate investment.

Raymond frowned. “Nope. And I don’t aim to. Last time I followed you, I ended up explaining to your aunt why her lawnmower was in the pond.”

“That was different,” Joey said. “This is water. You can’t break water.”

Raymond wasn’t convinced, but Joey already had his shirt off and was grinning like a man who’d found religion in stupidity. And before Raymond could say, “Maybe we should think this through,” Joey leapt.

There was a splash, followed by a triumphant whoop from below. Raymond sighed.

He knew that sound. That was the sound of peer pressure with a heartbeat.

So, naturally, he jumped.

The water hit him like cold concrete. When he came up sputtering, Joey was laughing so hard he nearly drowned himself.

Raymond looked at him, hair plastered to his face, and said, “You ever notice how trouble always looks like fun right up until you’re in it?”

Joey grinned. “You say that every time.”

Raymond thought about that on the walk home, barefoot, soaking wet, and missing one shoe as the creek had claimed it in the name of poor decisions. Trouble, he decided, was a lot like jumping off a bridge just because your friend did it.

You might live through it, you might even laugh about it later, but somewhere deep down, you’ll know you could’ve just watched from the rail and stayed dry. Still, Raymond figured, life’s a little duller when you never get your feet wet, just maybe not that wet.

The elevator doors sighed open like they’d been holding their breath for years. “Seventh floor,” said the attendant, sounding as though he’d rehearsed that line since birth. “New Horizons Biotech — straight ahead.”

Martha Lindon smoothed the front of her floral dress, which she’d bought in 2027 and still swore looked “nearly new.”

She leaned toward her husband. “Do I look all right?”

“Darlin’, you look beautiful,” Henry said, his voice gravelly but kind.

“Don’t lie to me, Henry Lindon,” she said with mock sternness. “I can see the lines in your eyes from here.”

“They’re laugh lines,” he countered. “You put most of them there.”

Inside, a young receptionist greeted them, her smile bright enough to power a small city. “Mr. and Mrs. Lindon? Dr. Veer will see you shortly.”

They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by polished chrome, soft lights, and the faint hum of artificial air that always smelled of citrus and ozone.

“Smells like a spaceship,” Henry whispered.

“Maybe it is,” Martha said, half-smiling. “Maybe they’ll send us to Mars instead.”

Moments later, the door slid open, and a tall man in a silver-gray suit appeared, looking freshly printed from a fashion catalog. “Ah, the Lindons! Please, come in.”

His office gleamed. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere, though Martha suspected even dust particles would’ve been too intimidated to land there.

“You’re seventy-eight, Mr. Lindon, and seventy-three, Mrs. Lindon?” he asked, consulting a sleek tablet.

“That’s right,” Henry said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. His back gave a soft crack in agreement.

Dr. Veer smiled with professional warmth. “You’ve had several health challenges, I see.”

Henry chuckled dryly. “If by ‘challenges’ you mean my joints have declared independence, then yes.”

“That’s precisely why New Horizons exists,” said Veer. “We don’t treat pain, we transcend it. We offer a new kind of living.”

He leaned forward. “We build living bodies, biological, but enhanced. You would be transferred into them, your mind, your memories, every trace of who you are perfectly preserved. You awaken young again, free of pain, illness, and decay.”

Martha blinked. “You mean we’d live again?”

“Yes,” Veer said smoothly. “Together, if you choose. As if time had turned backward.”

He led them down a gleaming corridor into a showroom that felt more like a temple. Beneath glass domes stood human forms, young, radiant, serene.

One young man lounged in a tracksuit. Another woman wore a shimmering red gown. A couple posed beneath a digital sunset, hands intertwined, smiles frozen mid-laughter.

“They look so real,” Martha whispered.

“They are real,” Veer replied. “Real flesh, real touch, real emotion, just without the frailties of age.”

Henry studied the beach couple. “They look twenty.”

“They are,” said Veer. “And for couples, the transfer happens together. You’d wake side by side. Like the first morning of your honeymoon.”

Martha’s hand trembled on Henry’s arm. “Henry, it’s like a miracle.”

Henry frowned. “And what would it cost?”

Veer folded his hands. “Twenty-five thousand dollars per person.”

Henry let out a low whistle. “That’s not a miracle, that’s a mortgage.”

“I’m afraid we can’t extend credit,” Veer said. “Government regulations. We are, after all, dealing with consciousness, not currency.”

Martha looked down. “We only have enough for one.”

Henry’s heart sank. “Then maybe…”

“No,” she said quickly, tears pooling in her eyes. “You take it, Henry. You’ve suffered more. You deserve peace.”

He shook his head. “Not without you.”

Her hand found his, paper-thin but warm. “One of us has to be free. Please.”

That night, Henry wandered into a bar a few blocks away, the kind that still used wooden stools and neon lights to remind people of simpler times. He ordered a whiskey, neat, and nursed it like an old friend.

“You all right, sir?” asked the bartender.

Henry exhaled. “Not yet. But I might be if I can find a way to double some money.”

The bartender raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward a side door. “Back room. Ask for Reva.”

Behind the door was a haze of smoke and whispered tension. A woman with sharp eyes and a deck of cards looked up as he entered. “You here to play or to pray?”

“Play,” Henry said, pulling up a chair. “And maybe a little of both.”

The game started quietly. Small bets, murmured calls. Henry was careful, cautious. Then luck, fickle creature that it was, decided to flirt. He won a hand. Then another.

He began to hope.

Then came the pain, sharp, deep, gnawing at his chest. His cards wavered in his trembling hands.

Reva noticed. “You sure you’re up for this, old-timer?”

“I just need to win once more,” he said. “For my wife. We wanted new bodies. A new start. But I can’t afford the both of us.”

Reva studied him for a moment, then shuffled the deck slowly. “Your bet.”

Henry pushed all his chips forward. “Everything.”

The table went quiet. Reva raised a brow, then called.

When the cards turned, she had three aces. Henry had three kings. The room stilled.

Then Reva smiled softly and folded her hands. “You win.”

Henry blinked. “I…what?”

She gathered the cards. “Some things are worth more than rules. Go get your new start, Mr. Lindon.”

The next morning, Martha waited in the clinic, her hands wringing her purse as if it might talk her out of her nerves.

Dr. Veer entered, tablet in hand. “He’s ready now.”

She swallowed hard. “Under that sheet…that’s his old body, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Veer said. “But the new one will join you shortly.”

The door opened, and a young man stepped through — tall, strong, smiling like someone who’d just remembered how to breathe.

“Martha,” he said, voice breaking. “It’s me.”

She rose slowly, eyes wide. “Henry? Oh my…you look…”

“Alive,” he finished, laughing softly. “No pain, no cane, no pills. It’s like waking from a long, bad dream. We can start over, Martha. We can do everything we missed.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. “You look wonderful, Henry. But look…”

She lifted her frail, trembling hand beside his, her skin thin and pale next to his smooth, unlined youth. “You see?”

His joy faltered. “I do.”

Veer cleared his throat delicately. “If you’ll follow me, Mr. Lindon, there are some final documents to sign.”

Henry followed him numbly, the sound of his own youthful footsteps echoing strangely in his ears. On the gurney nearby lay his old body, the one that had carried Martha’s groceries, held her through long nights, and reached for her hand every morning.

He stood over it for a long while, then whispered, “If youth must come without her…I don’t want it.”

Later, the attendants wheeled the unused model, the handsome young beach body, back into storage, its eyes closed, its promise unclaimed.

And in the bright office once more, an aged man and woman stood side by side, fingers entwined.

“Martha,” Henry said softly. “If our days come with pain, they still come with you. That’s enough.”

She smiled through her tears. “It always was.”

Outside, the elevator doors closed with a gentle sigh, and the attendant said, “Ground floor and the world as it is.”

And together, the Lindons rode back down, hand in hand, into forever and a morning.

Sometimes you need to cut people off and let them live with whatever lies they’re most comfortable with. Dan learned that one Tuesday morning while trying to fix a leaky hose, and his neighbor, Carl, leaned over the fence with a cigarette and too much advice.

“Thing is,” Carl said, blowing smoke toward the tomatoes, “some people just don’t understand truth. They get allergic to it.”

Dan didn’t look up from the hose clamp. “You talking about me or your ex-wife?”

“Both, probably.”

Dan chuckled. Carl’s ex-wife had become the neighborhood’s favorite cautionary tale.

She claimed she’d been abducted by aliens once, though the only evidence anyone ever saw was a circular burn mark on her back deck from when she’d fallen asleep with a cigarette. Still, she’d tell that story to anyone who’d listen, and Carl, who wasn’t always a picture of mental balance himself, used to try correcting her.

He’d argue, show photos, even call in her sister for backup. But the more he fought her story, the more convinced she became.

“She told me last week,” Carl said, “that the aliens took her up again, only this time they were polite about it. Offered her tea.”

Dan turned off the water and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Maybe she’s happier believing that than remembering she just fell asleep again.”

Carl leaned his elbows on the fence. “Yeah. But isn’t that kind of sad?”

Dan thought about that. He’d spent years trying to “fix” people’s versions of things, too.

Family, friends, coworkers, but it didn’t matter. If someone twisted the facts, he’d come marching in with his big Truth Flag like it was his civic duty to set the record straight, but lately, he’d begun to notice that all it ever got him was an argument, resentment, and a headache.

He’d learned this the hard way with his cousin Rick, who still told everyone that Dan once ran over his fishing pole with a truck “on purpose.” What really happened was that Rick had left it lying in the driveway behind the tire, and Dan, who was more focused on catching the sunrise at the lake, never saw it.

The truth got explained, diagrammed, and even reenacted, but Rick preferred the version where Dan was the villain. It gave him something to be righteously indignant about, and some folks love that feeling more than oxygen.

So, one day, Dan stopped defending himself. Rick told his story at a barbecue, and Dan just nodded and said, “Yep, that was a bad day.”

You could’ve heard the silence drop like a wrench on concrete. Rick looked confused, then triumphant, and after that, he moved on to other topics, like how the government was secretly training raccoons to spy on citizens.

That was when Dan realized that some lies are just emotional bubble wrap. They protect people from the harshness of the truth.

He looked over at Carl, who was squinting into the sun, probably thinking about his ex-wife and her polite aliens.

“You know,” Dan said, “maybe it’s not sad. Maybe she just found a version of life that fits her better.”

Carl flicked his cigarette butt into the dirt. “Guess so. Still wish she’d stop telling folks I was one of the aliens, though.”

Dan laughed. “Well, at least she thinks you’re out of this world.”

Carl rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Dan said, coiling up the hose. “But at least I’m a human impossible.”

As Carl wandered back to his porch, Dan looked up at the sky, which was clear and blue—a typical day. He thought that perhaps the key to living peacefully was allowing people to believe whatever they needed to, while quietly addressing his own issues and maintaining his own truth.

While the truth may set you free, a good lie can help everyone get through the day.

I’ve never set out to “help people biblically.” Honestly, that always felt too big for me, like something reserved for folks who had perfect lives and memorized wisdom ready to dispense at a moment’s notice.

I’m not that person. But somewhere along the way, I realized I could live out the spirit of what I believed without ever sounding religious or quoting anything. I could show up quietly, consistently, and imperfectly.

One of the first times it clicked for me was at a drive-through on an ordinary Tuesday. I noticed the woman behind me counting coins in her cup holder.

It wasn’t dramatic or heartbreaking, just a tiny moment of struggle I happened to see. On impulse, I paid for the woman’s order.

No note, no explanation, and I didn’t stay to watch her reaction. Something about the hiddenness of it felt right, like generosity that didn’t need a witness was the purest kind.

I started noticing that most people aren’t desperate for advice; they’re desperate to be heard. Take my friend Mark.

He called me one night, frustrated with his job, his kids, his everything. Old me would’ve had a five-point plan ready.

Instead, I let him talk. I didn’t fix anything, and I didn’t try.

When he finally sighed, he said, “Thanks, I just needed someone to listen.”

There was the time I showed up at Jenna’s house a week after her mom’s funeral. The casseroles had stopped, the texts had slowed, and everyone else had moved on.

I dropped off groceries and stayed long enough to help fold some clothes. We talked about the laundry, and somehow, that made things easier.

Forgiveness is hard for me. I’m not naturally good at it, but when a coworker threw me under the bus years ago for something she’d done, I forced myself to let it go publicly.

Not passive-aggressively, and not “I’ll forgive but never forget.” I genuinely tried to release it.

And when people asked if I was mad, I just said, “No, life’s too short.”

It surprised them, and honestly, it surprised me too.

One of my favorites is using my skills to help others. I’ve created résumés for neighbors who moved here with nothing but courage, assisted a single mom in getting to work, and babysat for friends who can’t afford childcare but desperately need a night off.

I’ve even helped write obituaries for those overwhelmed with grief. None of it is glamorous, but all of it feels like love with its sleeves rolled up.

I try to give actual compliments, not the generic kind. I told a cashier last week, “You’re incredibly good at making people feel welcome,” and her eyes filled like I’d handed her a thousand dollars.

People hear criticism all day. A sincere word lands like water on dry ground.

And then there are the parties. My table is usually full of “wrong” people, neighbors who don’t fit together, coworkers who don’t like each other, folks who don’t get invited anywhere. But, somehow, the mismatched nights end up being the most joyful ones.

I’m learning to ask for help, too, which still feels vulnerable. But every time someone shows up for me, it stitches my faith in humanity a little tighter.

What I’ve realized is that people rarely remember the things you say. But they remember how you treated them when they are tired, lonely, grieving, embarrassed, or broke.

If I can help someone feel seen, actually seen, then maybe that’s the most quietly biblical thing I’ll ever do.

Douglas Williams had ink in his veins, whiskey in his breath, and regret clinging to him like newsprint on a humid day. The Virginia City Chronicle was down to its last legs, and maybe one of them had termites.

The rival paper, The Nevada Territorial News, was running him out of business, printing in color and paying its reporters with something other than “IOUs” and free coffee. That evening, Doug sat alone in the print shop, staring at the silent linotype machine.

“Well, old girl,” he muttered, “it’s just you, me, and the end of the line.”

He poured another drink and took it to the bridge on the edge of town, the one that looked like it was waiting for a sad man to make a decision. He was halfway through his farewell to the moon when a voice said, “You always talk to yourself, or is tonight special?”

Doug jumped. A tall man in a fedora stood a few feet away, the glow of a crooked cigar lighting up a grin too wide for comfort.

“Name’s Lucy,” the stranger said, puffing. “Mr. Lucy, if we’re being formal. You look like a man who’s lost something.”

“Yeah,” Doug said, “a newspaper, a job, and my last ounce of pride. You seen any of those lying around?”

Lucy chuckled, low and gravelly. “Can’t say I have. But I might help you find one of ‘em, if you’ll give me a lift to town.”

Doug frowned but shrugged. “Sure. Why not? Car’s got room for two and I’m in no hurry to see tomorrow.”

At the Union Saloon, Lucy drank gin like it was holy water and talked faster than a telegraph line.

“You’re the editor of the Chronicle, right?” Lucy said, swirling his glass. “Fine paper. Shame about the competition. I might be just the man to turn things around.”

“You a reporter?” Doug asked.

Lucy grinned. “Reporter, writer, printer, typesetter, and an editor when I have to be. Let’s just say I know how to make words move.”

By morning, Lucy was at the linotype, sleeves rolled, eyes gleaming. The old machine hummed like it hadn’t in years. His fingers flew, letters clinking, metal hissing.

“Mercy,” Doug said, watching the copy roll out. “You some kind of magician?”

Lucy winked. “Trade secret. I like to say I work fast enough to make the devil jealous.”

By week’s end, The Chronicle was back on top. Lucy seemed to have a nose for news. If a mine caved in or a fire broke out, he was already on the scene, sometimes before it happened.

Bee, ever the sharp one, didn’t buy it.

“Doug,” she whispered one night, “that man gives me chills. The way he looks at people, like he’s taking notes in his head.”

Doug laughed. “You’ve been reading too many ghost stories, Bee. Lucy’s just efficient.”

A week later, over drinks, Lucy slid a contract across Doug’s desk. “Just a little inside joke between newspapermen,” he said. “Says I get your immortal soul in exchange for services rendered. A handshake deal, but written down for posterity.”

Doug snorted. “My soul, huh? You’ll have to fight the IRS for it.”

“Then sign,” Lucy said, that grin flickering like a bad lightbulb.

“Fine,” Doug said, scribbling his name. “There. Now you can haunt me legally.”

Things went downhill from there. Lucy made a pass at Bee, and she slapped him hard enough to send his cigar flying.

“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I’ll run you through the press.”

Lucy only laughed, brushing off his coat. “I admire a woman with spirit. You sure you’re married to the right man?”

When Bee told Doug, he stormed into the office. “You’re finished here, Lucy. Get out before I…”

“Before you what?” Lucy said, lighting another cigar. “Shoot me? You’d be surprised how often that one comes up.”

“You think I won’t?” Doug said, pulling open a drawer.

Lucy smiled thinly. “I think you should sit down, Editor. We’ve got business.”

He slid a fresh story proof across the desk. The headline read: Local Woman Killed in Tragic Car Accident.

Doug froze. “What is this?”

“Tomorrow’s news,” Lucy said. “Unless you’d rather change it. You see, her fate’s not written yet. But yours, it’s sealed.”

“Go to hell,” Doug growled.

“Already been,” Lucy said, puffing smoke. “Didn’t care for the editor.”

Doug grabbed the gun and fired twice. The bullets passed through him like smoke through sunlight.

Lucy smirked. “Told you it wouldn’t work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a deadline.”

Doug tore out of the office, desperate to find Bee. But Bee had gone back to make peace, thinking she’d been too harsh.

“Mr. Lucy,” she said, trembling. “Maybe we started off wrong.”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Tell you what, give me a lift to the airport, and we’ll call it even.”

He slid into the driver’s seat.

Back at the office, Doug pounded the linotype keys, sweat dripping down his face. “You want news, Lucy?” he muttered. “Here’s your headline.”

He typed: Mr. Lucy resigned his position and departed Virginia City at 11:59 p.m. His contract is null and void.

At exactly 11:59, a crash echoed through the canyon. Lucy’s borrowed car was a smoking heap. Bee was shaken but unharmed. Lucy, naturally, was gone.

The next morning, Doug dragged the linotype out behind the shop. “No more deals, no more devils,” he told Bee.

She smiled faintly. “So what’ll we print now?”

Doug looked at the sunrise and said, “The truth, I reckon. Even if it doesn’t sell as well.”

Eddie Winston wasn’t the kind of man who went looking for signs from the universe. He was the kind who ignored them until they tripped him flat on his face.

So when he and his new bride, Marjorie, found themselves stranded in Virginia City, Nevada, with a busted radiator and a week’s worth of honeymoon enthusiasm wilting under the desert sun, he figured it was just bad luck. Marjorie, ever the optimist, called it “an unexpected adventure.”

They ducked into the Silver Spur Diner, a place that looked like it hadn’t changed since Eisenhower was in office. Red vinyl booths, a pie case that hummed louder than the jukebox, and a waitress named Lou who could balance three plates and a conversation at once.

And there, tucked into the end booth like a forgotten relic, sat the Penny Prophet, a fortune-telling machine with a carved wooden face and a look that suggested he’d seen a few things.

“Hey, it’s Zoltar, from the movie Big!” Eddie said, already fishing in his pocket for change.

Marjorie groaned. “Please don’t start talking to machines, Ed. I just want a sandwich.”

But Eddie was on a mission. He slid a penny in, leaned close, and asked, “Are we gonna make it to Vegas before our car gives up for good?”

The machine whirred, clanked, and spat out a yellowed slip of paper:
“YOUR FORTUNE: YOUR JOURNEY IS NOT YET OVER. PATIENCE WILL REWARD YOU.”

“Well, there you have it,” Eddie said, waving the slip like a winning lottery ticket. “Patience. We’re gonna be fine.”

Marjorie gave him that look, half amusement, half “what have I gotten myself into?”

But then something strange happened. Not ten minutes later, Lou walked over with the check and mentioned that the mechanic down the street had just received a shipment of parts, including radiators.

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up like a man who’d just found religion.

“See? The machine knew!”

By the time their sandwiches were gone, Eddie had asked three more questions. Each answer seemed vague enough to fit anything, but that didn’t stop him from connecting dots only he could see.

When a pickup truck backfired outside at three o’clock, the same time the Penny Prophet had warned to “beware the noise of travel, ”Marjorie nearly lost her patience along with her coffee.

“Eddie,” she said firmly, “you said three o’clock, not the machine. You’re making this all up.”

He frowned, studying the carved face as though it might blink. “What if it’s trying to tell us something?”

“What it’s telling you,” Marjorie said, “is that you can’t live your life one penny at a time.”

For a long moment, Eddie just stared at the machine. Then he took her hand, slow and sheepish.

“You’re right. I guess I’d rather bet on us than on a box of gears.”

They paid the bill, left a generous tip that made Lou smile, and stepped out into the warm Nevada afternoon. The mechanic was already rolling their car out front, radiator gleaming.

As they drove off, Eddie glanced in the rearview mirror. Through the diner window, another couple slid into the booth beside the Penny Prophet, their faces drawn and tired. The man reached for his pocket, and the woman sighed.

Eddie smiled. “Guess we got out just in time.”

Marjorie squeezed his hand. “Patience rewarded, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. And I didn’t even need a penny for that one.”

Trace Rawlins had a reputation that could outshoot any gunslinger west of Hollywood. He wasn’t just the star of “Rawlins’ Range,” he was the range.

The hat, the swagger, the drawl, or so he’d tell you. His cast and crew might’ve told a different tale, one with a few more four-letter words and fewer camera angles.

On this particular Tuesday, Trace rolled up to the set in his shiny black pickup, thirty-five minutes late, sunglasses on, chewing gum.

“They can’t start without me,” he liked to say, and the thing was, he was right.

The director, a mild-mannered man named Jerry, met him with a half-hearted smile and a fresh ulcer. “Morning, Trace. We’re ready whenever you are.”

“Course you are,” Trace said, tipping his hat and striding past everyone like a conquering hero.

The scene today was another shootout, Marshal Trace Rawlins against that no-good outlaw Sam Brown. The historic Sam Brown, if he could’ve seen the script, might’ve raised a fuss over how he was a buffoon who couldn’t hit a barn if it fell on him.

Trace took his mark, twirled his revolver, and flashed that practiced grin. The cameras rolled.

“Draw!”

But instead of the usual puff of smoke and cue from the sound guy, there came a sudden gust of hot wind. The air shimmered.

The clapboard buildings of the backlot wavered and blurred, and when Trace blinked, the parking lot, crew, and craft services table had vanished. He stood in what looked and smelled like a real old west town, dust, horses, and all.

From the far end of the street came a figure, a tall man in a weathered coat, spurs jangling.

“Trace Rawlins,” he said, voice steady and low. “Name’s Sam Brown. Thought I’d come have a word.”

Trace chuckled nervously. “Nice costume, pal. You with production?”

“Production?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been makin’ a fool of me and my friends from Virginia City long enough. Time we settled this like men.”

Trace’s stomach tightened. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t do live ammo.”

Sam didn’t answer. He just squared his shoulders, hand hovering over his revolver.

The tumbleweeds, or maybe they were just the day’s bad decisions, rolled by.

Trace tried reasoning, joking, bargaining. “Look, buddy, I’m just an actor. You know, pretend.”

“Then pretend you’re fast,” Sam said. “Draw.”

Trace did not draw. He dropped to his knees faster than any stunt double could’ve managed. “Please, don’t shoot! I’ll do anything! I’ll make you look good, I swear it!”

Sam’s eyes softened a little. “All right then,” he said with a half-smile. “We’ve struck ourselves a bargain.”

And just like that, the desert heat vanished. Trace blinked and found himself back on set, Jerry shouting directions, the sound guy swearing, and a brand-new agent waiting by the trailers.

Trace dusted himself off, muttering about dehydration, and went to meet his supposed savior. But when the man turned around, Trace froze.

The clothing was different, but the face was the same, Sam Brown’s. “Morning, Marshal,” the agent said smoothly. “I’m here to make sure your show stays…authentic.”

Trace swallowed hard.

That afternoon, the new script arrived, one where Sam Brown outsmarted Marshal Rawlins and tossed him through a saloon window. No stunt double needed, apparently.

Trace flew through that window like a man who’d found religion midair.

And as he landed in the dust, wincing, he heard Sam Brown’s voice, calm, amused, and echoing faintly, “More changes to come, Marshal. Don’t go gettin’ comfortable.”

From that day forward, Trace Rawlins was never late again. Not once.

Now, I didn’t go looking for the Strauss–Howe generational theory. It found me.

I stumbled on the idea of “Turnings,” these repeating cycles that supposedly shape the rise and fall of institutions, the mood of generations, even the character of national life. At first, it sounded a little too tidy for the messy world I wake up in every day, but the more I read, the more I recognized pieces of our lives scattered across those descriptions.

It was the Fourth Turning, the Crisis, that got me. According to the theory, we’ve been in it since 2008.

I remember that year vividly: the panic, the layoffs, the sense that something had cracked. But looking back, it feels like it opened a door into a whole new era, where nothing—government, technology, the economy, even our sense of community—felt stable anymore.

As I dug into the earlier phases, I started connecting them to stories I’d grown up hearing. My grandparents talked about the post–World War II years like they were the golden age of certainty, when people believed things were getting better, inch by inch.

That was the High.

My parents lived through the Awakening—with its protests, its music, its searching for identity. They used to talk about the 70s as if it were a fever dream of questioning everything.

And then there was my own coming of age in what Strauss and Howe call the Unraveling. You didn’t need a historian to tell you that trust in institutions was dropping; you could feel it in every dinner table debate and every news cycle.

But it’s the Fourth Turning that I keep circling back to, probably because we’re living inside it. The theory suggests this phase is when institutions weaken, conflicts are sharp, and society needs reconstruction.

Now, I don’t know if that’s prophecy or just good pattern recognition, but it certainly matches the feeling of the last decade and a half. Rising tensions, growing inequality, technologies leaping ahead faster than we can make rules for them, with some days feeling like we’re all walking across a burning bridge.

And yet, oddly enough, the idea hasn’t left me discouraged. If anything, it gave me a strange sense of orientation, like finding out the storm we’re stuck in is actually part of a larger weather system.

The theory doesn’t promise an easy ending. It doesn’t predict outcomes at all.

But it does suggest that crises aren’t permanent. They give way, eventually, to renewal, to a new version of the High where society pulls itself back together and redraws its social contract.

Maybe that’s why the idea stays with me. Not because I think history moves on an exact schedule, or because I believe everything is predetermined, but because it reminds me that upheaval isn’t the end of the story. Periods like this have come before, and each time, people find ways to build something better on the other side.

When I step back and look at the chaos of the 2020s, it still feels overwhelming. But through the lens of this theory, it also feels like a chapter rather than a collapse, intense, turbulent, and transformative, yes, but also filled with possibility.

And somehow, knowing that gives me just enough hope to keep moving through it.

If you ever meet Martin Cavanaugh, don’t let that mild-mannered smile fool you. Beneath it lies a man who can slice a person to ribbons with words that sound like compliments embroidered on a pillow. Diplomacy, as Martin practices it, is saying the nastiest things in the nicest way, and he’s a grandmaster of the sport.

Take last Tuesday, for instance. The city council was debating whether to repaint the town’s water tower.

One group wanted to freshen it up; the other wanted to save money and pretend it looked “vintage.” Martin, who’d been dragged there by his wife, took the floor after twenty minutes of bickering and said, “Well, I think it’s wonderful that we have so many opinions from people who clearly care about the community, especially those who didn’t care enough to attend the last three maintenance meetings.”

He said it with such warmth, you’d think he was offering to bake everyone cookies. The room even applauded, half because they agreed, and half because they weren’t entirely sure he’d just insulted them. That’s Martin for you: charming as a sunset, sharp as the mosquito that bites you while you’re admiring it.

Now, Martin wasn’t born diplomatic. Oh no, he earned his polish the hard way.

As a teenager, he had what his mother called “a mouth that worked faster than his brain.” Once, he told the high school principal that his new toupee looked like “a squirrel in mourning.”

The following week, Martin found himself cleaning cafeteria trays for what the school termed “community reflection.” He came home that night to find his father reading the paper.

Without lowering it, his dad said, “Son, truth is a fine thing, but it travels better with a little padding.”

That line stuck with him longer than most of his report cards. Years later, when Martin worked in real estate, that lesson paid off handsomely.

You can’t tell a homeowner their place smells like wet socks and bad decisions. No, you say, “It has a very lived-in charm.”

If the kitchen ceiling is sagging, it’s “full of character.” If the backyard’s all weeds, it’s “low-maintenance landscaping.”

Martin didn’t lie. He just found creative ways to rearrange the unpleasant parts of reality into something everyone could live with.

One time, when a difficult client insisted her house was worth twice the going rate, Martin smiled and said, “Well, Mrs. Harkness, your confidence in this property is truly inspiring. I only hope the market learns to see it through your eyes.”

She left the meeting convinced she’d won the argument. Martin, meanwhile, listed it at a sensible price and sold it in a week.

Even at home, his tongue stayed velvet-covered. When his wife, Linda, tried a new recipe that could’ve doubled as insulation foam, he told her, “It’s so filling, I might not need breakfast tomorrow.”

When his brother-in-law started a pyramid scheme, Martin said, “You’ve always had such a creative way of interpreting capitalism.”

See, Martin figured that diplomacy wasn’t about deception. It was about delivery.

Truth, when served cold, tends to bruise egos. But wrap it in a ribbon of kindness and hand it over with a smile, and people thank you for the bruise.

He once told me, “Tom, if you can keep people laughing while they realize you’re right, you’ve already won.”

And I reckon he’s right about that. The world could use more Martins, folks who know that honesty doesn’t have to roar; sometimes, it just needs good manners and a steady grin.

After all, as Martin likes to say, “A sharp tongue can cut, but a polite one can slice clean.”