David Zayle, as he is known, sat in his living room folding his few items of clothing in front of the television. On the screen: footage of war in Ukraine—advancing troops, bodies strewn in the streets, and newscasters nearly shouting with urgency.

  It wasn’t like him to watch the news.

  He spent most of his days in parks, though never the same one twice. With his size, it was difficult to go unnoticed, which made it all the more important to keep his head down.

  His phone buzzed on the table. It was Thad.

  “You’re not still watching the news, are you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just checking. You haven’t shown interest in anything for a while. People are talking.”

  On the screen, a panicked young reporter gestured frantically to something overhead, neck drawn in like a turtle. Zayle frowned. The man looked far too clean, too eager, too ill-suited to a war zone.

  “This is irritating me is all,” Zayle muttered. “It’s gotten under my skin. Worry not.”

  “She asked about you.”

  “She did?”

  He sat down on the couch.

  “What did she say?”

  “Not much. Just asked if you were all right. It’s been a long time.”

  It has been a very long time, he thought.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That you’re alive, if not living. She knows where you are. She also knows you haven’t moved. She had a question for you.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Ask it.”

  “She said: ‘Ask him to pick a flower for me and place it somewhere in his view.’”

  He paused. He could see the flower now—soft white petals glistening in the morning light, always placed in a window or somewhere sun could catch it. They had appeared every morning when she lived with him, though he had never asked where she found them. He had never seen them grow, not once.

  “I won’t be doing that,” he said.

  The memory both tormented and warmed him. That she would ask him this... it was so precise, so cruel, so kind. He would think about that request for a long time.

  “Want company on your walk today?”

  “No.”

  Thad had long ago appointed himself Zayle’s unofficial monitor. The others had too much fear or too little interest to check in. Only Thad had stayed.

  “The weather, David. It’s changing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the Ukraine thing? Putin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why this war?”

  Zayle didn’t know. Others had done worse. Over centuries, he had seen far more egregious acts. But something about this moment—this tiny tyrant invading sovereign soil, in an age when the world should have known better—infuriated him.

  Daily it soured his mood. Something long dormant inside him stirred.

  “Ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Saw him once. Didn’t seem important.”

  “He’s still not.”

  “Someone has to do something. Otherwise he’ll keep pushing. And with nukes... well, who wants to take that chance? Odds are, the world will just wait him out.”

  “Wait him out...”

  “You don’t think he’ll pay?”

  “No. And the price shouldn’t be negotiable.”

  There was silence.

  “Zayle, are you all right?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Last question.”

  “No. I haven’t eaten today.”

  “All right,” Thad said. “Let me know if you need anything. You’re not getting any younger.”

  Zayle hung up. The phone looked absurd in his massive hand—so small, so powerful, changing the world in ways he still didn’t quite trust. He tossed it to the couch and finished folding.

  Outside, the sun vanished behind a cloud. A sudden darkness fell, puzzling meteorologists who had forecast clear skies.

  Inside, the man who called himself David Zayle furrowed his brow. He watched the screen, but Thad’s words looped in his mind.

  Someone has to do something.

  Someone has to do something.