S22 Ep22: NoSleep Podcast S22E22

Suffs, the new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We the man to be honest.

Winner, best score.

We the man to be seen.

Winner, best book.

We the man to be quality.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs, playing the Orpheum Theater, October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

They're calling.

The phone is ringing.

A message from an unknown caller.

A voice unrecognizable.

Audio messages from the shadows.

But one message is clear.

And it says:

brace yourself for the No Sleep podcast.

But then as time went on, you saw a different type of mental disorder.

And that was after the turn of the century.

People began to hear sounds from electrical wires in their homes.

Light bulbs were talking to them.

The radio was sending them coded messages.

Thanks for joining us here at the No Sleep Podcast.

I'm your host, David Cummings.

If you were to actually join us here in the No Sleep Dungeon, being here body and soul, you would run the risk of physical discomfort.

We are a horror podcast, after all, and horror is steeped in the tradition of the body being subjected to many traumas.

Whether it's red-hot pokers, knives, or chainsaws, we know the terror of body horror in all its gory glory.

But on this episode, we're not here to mess with your bodies.

We're going to look at what happens when a person's mind is being subjected to nightmarish things.

After all, isn't that where horror really exists?

In our minds, our psyches?

I'm gonna guess that very few of us have had to deal with a chainsaw-wielding maniac lopping off our limbs.

But what about a person who messes with your head?

Haven't we all experienced the disturbing nature of people and circumstances that cause our our minds to be so disturbed and unsettled that we start to wonder if we're even thinking straight.

It's a feeling that can last long after any physical abuse has healed.

But let's face it, aren't you listening to this show in some small way to be disturbed, frightened, and have your head messed with?

That's why we appreciate you horror lovers so much.

Now, I want to take a second to address something that some of our listeners have brought to my attention.

It has to do with ads that they're hearing while listening to the No Sleep podcast.

To explain how ads work on this show, there are three different types of ads.

The main ads you hear feature me or our voice actors talking about products or services.

You'll see those ads in the show notes for their particular episodes.

They're the official ads.

The next type of ads are called dynamic ads, which are inserted into our back catalog episodes.

So, if you download an episode from, let's say, season 13, you'll probably hear ads inserted into the episode.

Those ads are vetted by us and Audioboom, so they're all good.

However, if you listen to our show on certain platforms, there's a chance that those platforms will insert their own ads into our show.

And these ads are not vetted by or approved by us, nor do we make any revenue from them.

That's just the way the podcast industry works these days.

And since we have no say about these types of ads, they can promote things which we here at the No Sleep Podcast do not approve of.

In particular, apparently there have been political ads espousing far-right-wing ideology.

I can assure you that the No Sleep Podcast does not condone this ideology, nor do we ever seek to make political statements or positions on this show.

We have addressed some social issues in the past, ones that I believe transcend politics, but as I'm sure we all know, almost any topic or issue these days can be forced into some sort of polemical political slant.

So suffice it to say, if you ever hear an ad while listening to the No Sleep podcast that promotes any kind of political viewpoint, it does not have our support or approval.

Unfortunately, this is just the price we pay for having our show available, as we all like to say these days, wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for understanding, and thanks to those who let me know what's been going on with these ads.

And speaking of content that you can find wherever you get your podcasts, I hope all of you are fans of the great YouTube channel and podcast called the Let's Read Podcast.

Host and voice actor Joel has curated a huge library of amazing horror stories that he reads for us.

Well worth checking out.

And we're thrilled that Joel is joining us for this episode and hopefully many more in the future.

It's always great to collaborate with such seasoned veterans of the horror storytelling world.

Be sure to check the show notes to learn more about the Let's Read podcast.

And so, you need to mind your business.

That is, you gotta mind your mind, protect it, and look after your mental well-being.

Because a lot of things can mess with your head, especially phone calls from those unknown numbers.

So, what do you say?

Do you dare pick up your phone and listen to the voices calling to you?

In our first tale, we meet a physical therapist.

Now, you're thinking, wait, you said this episode is about the mind, not the body.

Well, don't get bent out of shape.

Because as we'll learn in this tale, shared with us by author Ben Matthews, the PT is explaining a new game he's playing, and it's all because of something that happened with a client.

Performing this tale are Graham Rowett and Peter Lewis.

So don't play when the odds aren't in your favor, especially when they're one in six.

I'm still alive.

Even when you know the odds are in your favor, that the probability of blowing your brains out with the revolver is only one in six.

It's exciting.

Machine oil stings my tongue.

It tastes like when you lick a 9-volt battery.

I slide the gun out of my mouth and swallow the toxic solvents and metal oils.

When you play Russian roulette, when the probability that you'll kill yourself is one in six, swallowing toxic oils is nothing.

You don't worry about ingesting poison when you're only 84% confident you'll still be alive tomorrow.

You don't worry about poison, your health, or global warming.

You don't worry about anything because today, this, here,

right now may be your very last day alive.

You don't want to waste it.

It's a blessing and a curse.

A blessing, for Russian roulette, brings inner peace.

A curse, because you may very well blow your brains out.

Russian roulette is to near-death experience what a shot of espresso is to a coffee.

A stiff, concentrated dose of the good stuff.

Near-death experiences make you thankful for your life.

The problem is that feeling is only temporary.

Say you survive an almost fatal plane crash.

No matter how profound the experience, it's only once off.

When you return to your normal life, it doesn't take long to settle back into your old way of living and your old problems.

You forget about what really matters.

Gratitude drowns in the noise of everyday life.

If you want to be grateful, if you want to be truly thankful for the ground beneath your feet and the air in your lungs, here's what you need to do: play Russian roulette

every

single

day.

It's a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because every time you hear the trigger click, you appreciate your life and everything you have.

A curse because you might blow your brains out.

Do you want to be more appreciative of your life?

Do you want to learn how to de-stress, unwind?

Do you want to stop worrying about the regrets that pile up year after year?

Here's what you need.

A single bullet.

A six-shooter revolver with a well-oiled chamber that spins freely.

That's all.

Once you have those, follow these steps once daily.

Use as prescribed.

Pop the chamber.

Slide the bullet in.

Close the chamber.

Spin it.

Close your eyes.

Put the muzzle in your mouth.

Pull the trigger.

Your life will never be better.

Or there is a one-sixth probability you'll be dead, the back of your head blown apart like a piñata after a child's birthday party.

It's a win-win.

For a one-sixth probability of dying, you have a six-sixth probability of making your life better.

I spin the chamber and start again, looking out the window.

It's going to be a beautiful day.

Before my trial, I didn't even know what Russian roulette was.

Before my trial, I had never even held a gun.

It was the prosecution that gave me the idea their accusation was what did it we are here to prove to the court that mr duncan green played russian roulette with the life of his patient meredith charles who was 19 years old when she died following manual therapy provided by mr green we're here to prove he is guilty of murder it was bullshit You can't play Russian roulette without a gun.

And I didn't shoot my patient.

All I did was crack her neck.

I was a private physical therapist, and she was just another patient with a sore neck.

The quickest and easiest way to treat a stiff, sore neck is to crack it.

The technical term is manipulate.

Manipulation involves a high-velocity thrusting motion to rapidly separate two joint surfaces, causing cavitation of gas in the fluid in the joint.

This creates a cracking sound and provides pain relief, though there is little evidence it improves the mobility of of the joint.

There's also a very, very small probability it could kill you.

But it's very, very small.

A minor detail at best.

The probability of dying from vertebral manipulation is about one in five million.

It's almost nothing.

Almost.

I asked Meredith to lie down on the bed in my treatment room.

Asked her to relax as I bent her neck to the right as far as it would go.

Wrapped my hands around the point where the upper vertebrae, C2 and C3, overlap.

Keeping her neck bent to the right, I wound her head up, rotating it upwards to the left.

When it wouldn't move any further, I pulled with my right hand and pushed with my left.

I jerked her head upwards.

The probability you kill yourself playing Russian roulette is one in six.

The probability I would kill her was one in five million.

It's not the same.

One in five million.

Write it down as a decimal.

0.000002.

1 in 6.

Write it down as a decimal.

0.1666666.

It's way bigger.

But based on those fractions, those decimals, you are 833,333 times more likely to die playing Russian roulette than having your neck cracked by a physical therapist.

So yeah, the prosecution was full of shit.

But it doesn't matter how low the probability.

When you die, you die.

That's that.

I didn't play Russian roulette with her life.

I gambled on her life.

I took a chance, and

she lost.

As a private physical therapist treating back and neck and joint pains, you learn very quickly that time is money.

You want to make a decent living.

You need to work fast.

Short appointments mean you can see more patients.

More patients mean you make more money.

But

something's got to give.

So you treat more and test less.

Take shortcuts and stop asking key questions about the patient's health.

It doesn't really matter.

Most of the time, they'll be fine.

Most of the time, they won't have a life-threatening illness that you failed to diagnose.

Most of the time, time is money.

It's both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because you can make more money by seeing more patients.

A curse because if you want to do a good job, spend more time with them, you start losing money.

You learn very quickly how to do a good enough job for a good enough amount of money.

To make an okay wage, you need to see no less than 28 patients a day.

That's 28 15-minute appointments.

No lunch breaks.

If you're lucky, the receptionist will make you an instant coffee halfway through the day.

If you need to piss, forget about ever taking a dump at work, you learn to be professionally constipated.

You finish with one patient a minute early and start with another a minute later.

Those 15-minute appointments, they blur together.

And every day of every week, you never stop working.

You can't.

Time is money.

You think less and do more.

Most of the time, you'll be fine.

Most of the time,

a patient won't die.

The vertebral arteries run up both sides of the neck bones, the seven vertebrae in your neck.

At the second vertebra, or C2, it looks back on itself like a fish hook and ascends into the base of the skull through the foramen magnum to provide blood to the brain.

Because of the sharp turn it makes at C2, twisting the head and neck to crack the joints puts extra strain on the artery.

Like when you try to pull a taut power cord around a corner only to have it snag on a wall.

Most of the time, though, the power cord is fine, right?

To crack the neck effectively, you need to tighten the joints by twisting them to end of range, effectively stretching the vertebral artery over the corner of the cervical vertebrae.

Then, you jerk the joints to crack the neck.

A sudden twist of the vertebral artery can tear it.

But the probability of that happening is only one in five million.

It was almost nothing.

What went through your mind on the day you met Meredith Charles?

In court, on the stand, being examined by the prosecutor, you're supposed to tell the truth.

The whole truth, nothing but the truth.

But what about when the truth is worse than a lie?

What are you going to do?

Stand in front of a jury and say, to be honest, I was so tired and working so fast I don't even remember her?

Shrug and say, I don't know, I just cracked her neck.

Do that, and the probability you will be acquitted by the 12-person jury will drop to 0%.

When the prosecution asked me what went through my mind on the day I met Meredith Charles, I told them the truth I bought from my lawyer.

I evaluated her risk of stroke following vertebral manipulation after I determined her pain was coming from the facet joint on the right between her C2 and C3 vertebrae.

What did the evaluation involve?

She was a young woman, likely taking the contraceptive pill, so I asked about that.

Why did you ask that?

Because being on the contraceptive pill increases your risk of stroke.

What did she say?

She said no, she wasn't on the pill.

I remember my notes.

I wrote in my notes, no pill.

What did you do then?

I asked her if she would be happy if I cracked her neck.

I told her I wanted to do this because it felt stiff.

I explained to her that the risk of stroke following the procedure was one in five million.

She said it was fine, and thus I gained consent.

I wrote in my notes, WGU, which is my acronym for warnings given, understood.

Sounds good, right?

The appropriate, the suitable, the safe, lawyer-approved version of the truth.

Not only did I not remember who Meredith Charles was until the prosecutor displayed the portrait that had sat on her coffin for the jury to see,

I didn't assess her.

I didn't tell her the risks of dying from vertebral manipulations, because the risk was almost nothing.

I still recorded in my notes that I had told her, though, because that is important.

If you don't cover your ass with assessments, you at least cover yourself with your notes.

It was that philosophy that saved me in the end.

My note-writing diligence proved that I was at least acting within the scope of my profession.

But it wasn't the truth.

And you cracked her neck?

Yes.

Did it help?

Yes, she said her neck felt a lot looser.

I made that bit up, too.

To be fair, she probably said that.

Most people do.

That's the blessing and the curse of vertebral manipulation.

The blessing is a joint manipulation can make you feel fantastic.

The curse is there is a one in five million chance you will die.

That almost never

happens.

Her neck felt looser.

Looser because you'd torn her vertebral artery.

No, looser because of the increased range of motion in the joint.

Were there any signs at the time that you had torn her vertebral artery?

Any signs that less than six hours later, she would suffer a stroke and die?

No, otherwise I would have called an ambulance.

It sounded good.

Much better than admitting I can't even remember her or the treatment session.

But I did, thanks to my past self, remember to write my notes stating what had occurred.

Time is money.

Better to write notes that prove you're safe and responsible than being safe and taking too long to do your job.

That's what I used to think.

What was the verdict?

I'll give you a hint.

I'm sitting here, my revolver in my hand, the muzzle wet with saliva.

The 9-volt battery taste tingles on my tongue.

You don't get given guns in jail.

I was found not guilty,

but I am.

I killed her.

It wasn't intentional, but she's still dead.

Whether my actions were intentional or not.

I lied about gaining consent, and I lied about educating Meredith Charles about the risks of cervical manipulation.

If I'd at least told her of those, she might have recognized them.

She might have lived.

I was complacent.

With the probability of dying being one in five million, I thought nothing bad could happen.

Nothing could go wrong until it did.

When you spin the revolver's chamber, Place the barrel in your mouth and pull the trigger, the probability you will die is one in six.

If you pull the trigger again, the probability you'll kill yourself is now two in six.

If you keep firing, the numerator, the number above the line in the fraction, gets bigger and bigger, closer and closer to six.

Until it is six.

If you haven't killed yourself yet, when the probability of killing yourself is 100%.

Blam.

However, if you don't keep firing the trigger, if you instead remove the muzzle from your mouth and spin the chamber again, then the one-sixth probability that you'll blow your brains out resets back to one-sixth.

Not only that, but the probability of killing yourself now because you reset the chamber is now one-sixth multiplied by one-sixth.

One-sixth times one-sixth equals one-thirty-sixth.

Pull the trigger, spin the chamber, and now the probability of killing yourself is one two hundred sixteenths.

You keep going, and the probability probability you'll blow your brains out will get closer and closer to zero.

The longer you play, the less likely you are to die.

On the way, the probability will eventually reach one in five million.

If I play Russian roulette every day, multiple times a day, I'll eventually give myself the same chance I gave Meredith Charles.

If I kill myself on the way.

So be it.

I deserve it.

All I need to do now is spin the chamber, place the revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger another 833,333 times, and the probability I will kill myself will be one in five million.

Then, at last,

it will be fair.

Sort of.

It's a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because the longer you play, the less likely you are to die.

A curse because every time you pull that trigger, in that instance, the probability you will kill yourself is one

in six.

Ah, greetings for my bath, festive friends.

The holidays are overwhelming, but I'm tackling this season with PayPal and making the most of my money.

Getting 5% cash back when I pay in four.

No fees, no interest.

I used it to get this portable spa with jets.

Now the bubbles can cling to my sculpted but pruny body.

Make the most of your money this holiday with PayPal.

Save the offer in the app.

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Points can be renewed for cash and more paying for subject to terms and approval.

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at MLS 910-457.

Sucks.

The new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home.

Winner, best score.

We the man to be seen.

Winner, best book.

We the man to be quality.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs, playing the Orpheum Theater October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com.

People with a good heart who want to help animals bring positivity to our world, just like Magdalene, who loves helping stray cats.

But in this tale, shared with us by author Callo R.

F.

Smith, helping cats is one thing, but wanting to help another person can be challenging.

Performing this tale are Danielle McRae, Erica Sanderson, Kyle Akers, and Dan Zapula.

So help yourself if you can.

Then you can be like autotrophs and others.

I stood at the edge of the alley and scanned for stray cats.

I like to pick up strays.

Their flea-matted fur slicked back with trash juice, patches of bare skin stinking of rotten fruit.

My purse always held bait.

A tin of salmon and a water bottle.

When I heard crunching in the darkness, I hoped it was Peaches.

I found Peaches in that alley a few days ago.

Limping around the dumpster that housed a family of strays.

I took her home and tended to her paws.

Her fleas, her leaking eyes.

Then, I made the mistake of leaving Isaac alone in my apartment with Peaches.

When we first started dating, Isaac would have helped scoop litter or hold Peaches down when I put in her eye drops.

By then, he couldn't even be bothered to shut the windows.

And Peaches was back out on the street.

I knelt down and reached out to the dark.

The air was thick with a cloying scent of garbage.

My heartbeat picked up at the thrill of a ragged thing to rescue.

I heard a clatter.

Maybe Peaches leaping from the dumpster?

Paws tapping metal as she rushed to meet her savior.

I pulled the tin of fish out of my purse and lined my fingertips with salmon shreds.

Oh, it's okay.

Come Come here.

Silence.

I used my free hand to pull out my phone.

Its weak flashlight beamed down the alley, and I squeaked in surprise.

A woman in a tailored pantsuit stood a few feet in front of me.

I froze.

My cheeks burning as I realized how ridiculous I must look on my knees offering fish.

I also noticed, in the distant way I often do,

that the woman was beautiful.

Her long hair flamed red.

She was a bit too thin.

Her cheekbones jutted like dog ribs, and her face was dirty.

She'd been eating.

She stepped in close to me and looked down with appraising eyes.

I imagined myself from that perspective.

Broad cheeks, black hair curled in a trendy wave, eyes half-lidded behind my glasses.

The street lights washed out my brown skin, bringing out the yellow tones and imperfections.

Hello.

Her voice was smooth like poured wine, lightly accented.

Hello,

I'm so sorry to disturb you.

I pushed myself off the ground, wondering if I should just drop the chunk of salmon.

I'm Magdalene.

Magdalene.

Call me Devana.

Movement slow, but very certain, Devana grabbed my hand.

She pulled it towards her.

I stumbled into her space.

For someone so thin, Devana's grip was strong.

She raised my fingers to her mouth and took the bite of salmon.

Pink lips hovered near my fingertips.

Davannah's teeth scraped the pads of my fingers and shone in the lamplight.

Rows of glossy opal points.

I swallowed.

My dry throat constricted.

Again,

I'm sorry.

I was looking for stray cats.

I didn't expect to run into anyone.

Davanna let go of my wrist.

My hotel.

She gestured over her shoulder to the looming silhouette of downtown.

Misplaced my reservation.

Oh.

Again, my heart beats faster.

Do you have anywhere to stay?

Any local friends?

She shook her head.

Peaches, I decided, would probably be happier back in the dumpster with her family.

My worry shifted to Devana, who seemed so young and beautiful to be traveling on her own.

Well,

I'd hate to leave you out here alone.

Would you like to come home with me for dinner?

When Devana smiled, her teeth sparkled again.

They were so perfectly spaced.

It was easier than I expected to bring a woman home.

Devana didn't scratch or hiss like a feral cat.

She just patted after me.

High heels silent on the concrete.

That river of auburn hair swished as she walked.

The lights were on in my apartment.

Isaac had swiped the spare key under the porch again and let himself in without asking.

Bracing myself, I opened the door.

He leaned against my kitchen counter.

He was swigging from a can of beer and scrolling through his phone.

And when I stepped inside, he looked up with an easy smile.

Hey, Maggie, how's work?

Good.

Thank you.

We have a guest for dinner.

He gave a good-natured sigh.

What is it this time?

You find some fawn on the side of the road and carry it home?

I shook my head.

Devana?

Please come in.

This is Isaac.

Devana stepped inside and Isaac choked on a sip of beer.

He coughed into the sink, scrubbing his beard with the back of one hand.

Jesus.

Hi.

Hi.

Is she

a friend of yours?

Before I could respond, Devana nodded.

Hello, Isaac.

I'm Devana.

Isaac raked his eyes from her heels up to her face and froze there.

The more, the merrier, I guess.

You want to wash up before we eat?

He gestured to the bathroom door.

Devona turned to me and I noticed how brilliantly green her eyes were.

I nodded and she went.

The second the bathroom door swung shut, Isaac chugged his beer and trashed the can.

With a hand on my shoulder, he steered me into the opposite corner of the living room.

Maggie, who is this?

You never meet new people.

Tell me you didn't just bring her off the street.

She smells weird.

I fixed my eyes on the floor.

She can't find a hotel, so I brought her home for dinner.

She's visiting from out of town.

I'm sorry.

I didn't know you were coming over.

Isaac moaned and raked his fingers through his hair.

Look, I put up with the strays.

It's kind of cute, right, when it's a cat, but she's not a fucking bird with a broken wing.

I mean, that's a human woman you just brought home.

What if she's crazy?

I wrap the bridge of my nose to hide a frown.

It's late, Isaac.

I invited her.

Mags.

I get that you're into charity cases, but this is a whole woman.

He scrabbed his face with both hands, letting out a guttural groan into his palms.

Oh, whatever.

Your house, your guests, I guess, just don't expect me to make small talk.

I relaxed.

Isaac sometimes fussed about my hobbies, but he always caved.

It was one of the few things about him that I still appreciated.

I know.

I'll just heat something up for the three of us, okay?

While Isaac rifled through my fridge for another beer, Devana left the bathroom.

She'd rinsed off her face, prying the scraps from between her teeth.

She did give an odd smell.

A combination of my foaming cinnamon apple hand soap and something metallic.

I made a mental note to launder the bathroom towels.

Isaac exaggerated, averting his eyes from Devana's low-cut blouse.

So, what's for dinner?

I picked up some of that frozen ravioli we like from the co-op.

I glanced at Devana, who returned my stare with level indifference.

There's some leftover steak in the fridge, Devana.

If you'd like something more filling, I'll heat up that ravioli.

Isaac looked incredulous at the sacrifice of our grilled ribbe,

and I gave him an apologetic shrug.

Dinner was quiet.

Isaac speared his ravioli, worked tines clinking against porcelain with every bite.

His eyes flickered between Devana and the wooden table.

So,

what do you do?

I write for a food magazine.

I'm on assignment.

Devana ate with her hands.

She pinched each cube of steak between her fingertips.

and ripped into it.

The muscles in her jaw and throat worked away away just under the skin.

Juice dripped down the sides of her fingers, slicking along her palm to the wrist, where she lapped it up with her tongue.

I wondered if that was a foodie trait, experiencing the meal more intensely somehow.

I picked up my own pasta, wishing I could offer Dirvana something more.

Satisfying.

Dirvana balled up her napkin and dabbed her dirty fingers.

Oh,

done already?

Isaac clapped his hands together.

Well, it was great to meet you.

So glad you decided to stop by.

I was embarrassed by Isaac's behavior.

Inviting someone in for a bite of steak and then ushering them back out into the cold streets was hardly hospitality.

Devana's eyes didn't leave mine.

I'm sure you can find a last-minute reservation somewhere else, But you know, I'd be happy to make up a bed for you on the couch.

We have plenty of spare blankets.

Isaac made a face like I'd need him under the table.

That's very kind, Magdalene.

I would love to stay.

Her voice washed over me like a warm breeze.

I got up from the table, buoyed by that soft air.

and carried Isaac's dishes to the sink.

Wearing a dreamy smile, I dug up an extra sheet and pillowcases.

Isaac stared clear of his usual after-dinner slump cushion and slunk off to the bedroom.

That was fine, I thought.

I'd take care of him later, like I usually did.

My hands trembled as I smoothed down the comforter.

My apartment was small enough that, except for Isaac, I almost never had guests.

Not since the last time my sister flew in from Panama.

How many years had it been since then?

Floating back to reality with the bedmaid, I noticed Devana in front of the sink.

She was doing the dishes, totally focused,

grasping each plate two-handed to tilt it under the faucet.

Her blazer sleeves were rolled up to her elbows.

Warmth built in my chest.

I filled the space at Devana's side with a dry dish rag in hand.

I hummed as we work, improvising something tuneful and slow.

I always kept plants on the windowsill above the sink.

Some succulents, a sundew, and a Venus flytrap.

I tipped some tap water into a succulence pot.

When the dishes were done, I hovered nearby, searching for something to keep me from the bedroom.

Can I get you anything else?

We might have sleepy time tea in the pantry or another blanket if you're cold.

I'm used to the cold.

Thank you.

Oh,

it's really a pleasure to have company.

Thank you for helping with the dishes.

Feel free to use our shower or grab anything from the fridge.

I allowed myself a final indulgent fluff of the pillows before retreating to the bedroom.

Isaac glared at me from behind his phone.

Come on, Isaac.

It's just for a night.

Yeah, right.

I'm sure you're already starting the adoption paperwork.

You could have just driven her to a hotel.

I shook my head, stripping and cocooning myself in a pajama set.

They fill up so fast this time of year.

Besides, we never have guests.

She needed some hospitality.

Isaac rolled his eyes.

Yeah, I get it.

So Mother Mary needs to step in to save her.

I slid into bed and rolled over to face the wall.

Isaac's thumbs clattered across his screen.

Sweltering under the comforter, I shifted, feeling every crease of fabric against my skin.

The images that scrolled through my drifting mind were green and auburn.

Behind them rang a refrain of my name in Devana's slow, swooping voice.

I woke up with Isaac's foot jammed into my knee.

He sprawled across the bed, snoring, and I had to glue myself to the wall to clamber out.

Between the curtains peeked a not-quite-like sky.

The kind of milky dawn that sends stray cats mewling down side-streets.

I slipped into the living room.

Devana stood in the kitchen.

She'd taken off her jacket and her blouse was unbuttoned.

She leaned over the kitchen sink, dawn light filtering through her hair, body obscured by a red gold curtain.

Excuse me?

I raised a hand to cover my eyes.

My cheeks burned with the mishappened thrill of walking in on a private moment.

I didn't know you were up.

I saw Devana smile through the cracks in my fingers, the tips of her teeth showing like pockets of fat and marbled flesh.

It's your home, Magdalene.

Well, yes, but still,

your guest.

Devana gestured to the plants crowding the cell.

The mouths of the fenous fly traps hung open,

showing scarlet thumbs and releasing sugary musk to tempt prey.

Beautiful.

The back of my neck was hot.

I was so proud of the care I put into my plants.

For the carnivorous species, I'd labored over the stove distilling tap water.

It was a sweltering process, and Isaac hardly ever noticed except to gag at ants trapped between their spines.

I love carnivorous plants.

Flytraps are native to the Carolinas, you know.

They grow in bogs where the soil is leached of nutrients.

They evolve to absorb nitrogen from captured insects.

They digest them with these enzymes.

I cut myself off and reached up to caress a stem.

Sorry to ramble.

I just think they're stunning.

I mean, for a plant to fight for survival like that?

Learning to be just to keep itself alive?

Thriving when the world starves it.

Devana's eyes hadn't left my face.

She listened with rapt attention, nodding after each new thought, as if turning it over in her mind and finding it satisfactory.

I noticed that her pupils were dilated.

There was a tension in the way Devona stood that made her look constantly hungry.

Leaning slightly forward, the edges of her mouth wet with expectant saliva.

The bedroom door banged open.

Midway through Isaac's cry of shock, I remembered that Devona was beautiful and nearly topless.

Jesus Christ.

Just me.

Devana's lips peeled back in a grin.

Put a shirt on.

Devana just stood, watching Isaac with distant amusement as he drank her in.

I tiptoed across the room to the couch.

I grabbed Devana's rumpled blazer.

and offered it to her.

She slid it on and slowly buttoned up her shirt.

Isaac spent the morning edging around Devana, no matter where she was in the room.

He kept shooting kicked puppy glances at me.

Between those looks, his eyes settled on Devana's collarbone, which showed over the scooped neck of the clean blouse I lent her.

Sometimes, They drifted to Devana's ass and a pair of my sister's old jeans, long forgotten since that last visit.

I wished he wouldn't make his interest in Devana's body so obvious.

It might make her uncomfortable.

When I got dressed for work, he finally left.

On my way out, I told Devana to make herself at home.

It was such a delight to have a guest.

When I got back, The house was cleaner than I left it.

The floor clear of dust and the dishes put away.

Isaac's junk pile on the living room table was gone.

At the center of my newly ordered home stood Devana, eating in front of the fridge.

Hearing the creak of the front door, she whipped around.

A smile creased her lips.

Welcome home, Magdalene.

I recognized her dinner as the ground chicken I'd forgotten in the back of the fridge.

Devana was eating it plain.

And though she might have preferred it that way, I made a mental note to pick up groceries.

Thank you for tidying up.

Isaac might come by later.

He likes to eat here if the boys don't go out.

Will that be all right?

Of course.

It's your home.

Unlike Isaac's passive-aggressive comments about my apartment, There was no dismissive edge.

When Devona said it, it was just true.

On cue, my phone chimed with a text from him.

Not coming by if the weird girl's still over.

It read, Did you find a hotel?

I put my phone face down on the counter.

Never mind.

I think I'll do the laundry.

Would you like me to wash anything for you?

While the machine ran, I turned on the radio.

It was refreshing to work with a background of music instead of shouting from the television.

I ate leftover pasta salad from the container, and Devana wordlessly took it to wash.

Later, she helped me fold laundry.

We made up the couch with fresh sheets.

Wearing a pair of my pajamas, she took a book from the shelf under the television, and I pulled out my knitting basket.

I was working on a basket for new rescues.

The evening faded to night with comfortable ease.

The two of us curled up on opposite corners of the couch.

At some point, I knew Devana would have to leave.

Do something for work or at least move on to the next leg of her trip.

I couldn't believe how lucky I was to be sharing that time with her.

That night, I left my bedroom door open a crack.

From the living room, I caught the low, even whistle of her breathing.

Wretched squawking woke me up.

I I crashed out of the bed and into the living room.

Devana stood by the front door, blood streaking her face and the sleeves of my oversized pajamas.

For a blinding second, I thought she'd cracked her skull open.

The squawk came again, and I looked down.

Devana cupped a bird in her palms.

One of its wings was twisted at a nasty angle, seeping blood between the cracks in her fingers.

Isaac said you liked to bring home injured things.

I scrubbed my eyes with my fist.

Oh,

did he bring this by?

She shook her head.

I found it making noise outside.

Would you like to fix it?

I grabbed my unfinished blanket.

Gently, I wrapped the bird.

It made pitiful chirping noises.

We don't have space for a bird in this apartment.

I'll take it to Native Animal Rescue.

It's just a few blocks over.

I'll be back soon if you'd like to wash up.

Devana nodded, looking pleased with herself.

I returned to find the bathroom door open.

Steam curled through the crack, fogging up the windows and my glasses.

Do you have everything you need?

I called through the gap.

Can I get you a towel?

Yes, please.

I picked a fresh towel from the linen cabinet.

The newest one.

Light blue and very soft.

With it clutched under one arm like a life preserver, I waded into the fog.

Devana reclined in the bath.

Her wet hair was deep red and floated across the water like rippling pond weeds.

Her arms were clean of blood.

She smiled lazily up at me.

It was familiar.

Cleaning a stray kitten off in the tub.

I knelt on the floor, set at the folded towel on the toilet lid, and moved the mat to catch any splashes.

Would you like me to wash your hair?

Devana sat up in the tub.

Water running down her waist in sheets.

She tilted her head.

My throat went dry.

My eyes skated over Devana's stark collarbone.

The gentle curves of her chest and sides.

I pumped floral shampoo into my palm.

I wove it through strands of Devana's hair, lathering the roots and trailing my nails against her scalp.

Devana's breathing softened, and she let the weight of her head rest in my hands.

Dreaming again,

I inhaled steam and the scent of roses.

Once Devana's scalp was an expanse of foam, I eased her down into the warm water, carting fingers through her soapy hair.

The front door slammed shut.

Isaac stood by the entrance, staring through the open bathroom door.

A half-empty six-pack of Pap's blue ribbon dangled from his hand.

What the fuck?

I jumped up and moved into the living room, putting myself between Isaac and the bathtub.

Devana found an injured bird.

I'm helping her clean up.

Behind me, water sloshed as Devana rose from the bath.

Isaac shot forward and grabbed me by the arm.

His grip was tight, and it hurt in a distant way that made me grimace.

His skin was very hot.

His breath smelled stale.

Forget it.

I know what the fuck is going on here.

What the hell is wrong with you, Maggie?

Three years together and you throw it away for some foody chick with nice tits?

You're sick.

Let go of her.

Her voice was louder, tighter.

And I frowned.

I wanted to tell Isaac off for being so rude in front of our guest.

Isaac did as he was told.

Letting me go, he pushed past me to face Devana.

He heaved in ragged breaths, eyes shining with frustrated tears.

And you!

People let you into their house and feed you, and what?

You just wander around shirtless and steal their girlfriends?

I haven't stolen anything.

Caught between the two of us, Isaac swiveled back and forth like a dog in an alley.

Shut up.

I know what's going on here.

Shut up.

He raised his hand.

It wavered in the air, positioned just above Devana's shining wet face.

She watched it, expressionless.

My veins lit on fire.

Isaac had grumbled about stray kittens, nudged lost dogs off the couch, and prodded at injured birds.

But he'd never heard anything I brought home.

My own hand flew up, ready to catch his.

He was already turning away.

I'm too fucking tired for this.

My head hurts.

I want her gone by dinner.

Before either of us could respond, he disappeared into my bedroom and locked the door.

My eyes were drawn magnetically back to Devana.

She was watching the door too.

Her mouth was turned up at the corners.

Amused, she tilted her head.

It's almost mealtime, Magdalene.

Would you like me to help you?

Yes.

I'll have to go shopping.

I put the bedroom behind me and headed for the door.

I could go with you.

She had already found my favorite canvas grocery bag beneath the sink.

Or staying clean up.

I was floating.

My hands tingled, and everything in the room was far away.

Everything,

but Devana.

She stood by the door, half-smiling, canvas bag hanging from her outstretched hand.

Thank you, Devana.

If you wouldn't mind, I...

I think I'll go alone.

There must have been a nod or a widening of that smile.

All I knew was that my sensible shoes carried me outside.

I couldn't touch anything.

Even the cement treadmill speeding under my feet.

I stopped at the familiar alley.

There was the dumpster.

Lid bolted shut.

Still dazed, I looked around, as if I'd find another stray waiting for me in the shadows.

The canvas bag brushed my side.

That was right.

I had a reason to be outside.

I was shopping for dinner.

I angled myself to the right and stepped into the shop.

The butcher stood behind the counter in a hair nut, a beard nut, and a thick white apron.

Hmm.

Hey there.

Let me know what I can get you.

Thank you.

How's your day been?

Not so bad.

Just put a lock on the dumpster out back.

It seems to be keeping the dogs out.

Dogs?

I usually see cats getting into dumpsters.

His face wrinkled.

Definitely dogs.

Messy eaters getting blood and bits all over that back alleyway.

It's bad for business and it draws pests.

I pack everything up tight, but they claw through the bags.

I kept opening up in the morning to a pile of crushed bones.

But it was all quiet last night.

I don't know why I didn't lock it earlier.

I nodded.

My arm seemed to rise on its own, buoyed by another warm draft of wind.

I pointed to the neat stack of marrow bones.

$12

a pound.

One pound of those.

He grinned.

Not a big market for marrow.

No one appreciates bones like the dogs do.

Again, I nodded.

Maybe we'll have them for dinner.

That seems to please the butcher.

With every step back towards my apartment, the canvas bag bumped my side.

It was cold.

And the weight of my paper-wrapped packages was reassuring.

When I opened the door, I held my breath.

The kitchen was empty.

So was the living room, though Devana's clean jacket lay across the arm of the couch.

I made my way to the bedroom and pushed the door ajar.

The bedroom was dark.

On the nightstand, the screen of Isaac's phone still glowed.

My tangled sheets hung off the bed.

The floorboards underneath them shone with a slick of something dark.

Part of me ached to turn the light on, to look under the bed.

Instead, I closed the door.

The bathroom door already hung open.

Devana leaned out.

Her face was dirty again.

And so was her hair.

Dried strands sticking to her cheeks.

She smiled at me.

Sorry, I've made a mess.

Would you help me clean up?

I nodded, reassured reassured by Devana's clear green eyes.

As soon as I put the groceries away, let me help.

While I unpacked my bag, Devana switched the tap on and ran her hands beneath it.

Red water swirled in the drain.

Silently, I passed her the soap.

A squeezed bottle of distilled water sat on the windowsill,

light refracting through it at an angle.

I spread some of the Venus flytrap's glass bowl.

All of its trap mouths were shut.

I ran a fingernail across one, feeling the lump of a fly or a spider clenched between its jaws.

Devana dried her hands on a dish rack.

I smiled.

It was so nice to care for things that fed themselves.

Ah,

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If anything can stress the mind, it's a tight deadline.

Knowing something has to be done by a set date can cause lots of stress and anxiety.

And in this tale, shared with us by author Alex Nicole Taylor, we'll meet a writer facing a deadline.

He's up against a lot of things, not the least of which are those nagging, intrusive thoughts.

I joined Joel from the Let's Read podcast, along with Jeff Clement and Mike Delgadio, in performing this tale.

So try to stay focused, believe in yourself, and most of all, think clearly.

A sharp pain in my right side awakens me.

I feel my rib cage for signs of injury.

Nothing is jutting out.

There's no dampness on my fingers to suggest the presence of blood, just a throbbing sensation.

I can't be sure in the darkness of any apparent damage, perhaps a bruise from the hard surface on which I find myself upon waking.

The floorboards let out a whine as I push myself to my knees.

This isn't the first time I've woken before dawn, fully dressed and sore from either falling out of bed or not making it there in the first place.

As I straighten myself to my feet, my head begins to pound.

Though I recall a half bottle of whiskey making its way into my glass last night, it's not more than usual.

I shouldn't be feeling this bad for what I consider a rather tame evening.

Still, these gray mornings were becoming more frequent as of late.

Blurred images flash behind my eyes alluding to the previous night's happenings.

I admit that drowning myself in whiskey is not perhaps the best way to deal with life.

But if anyone had to spend one day in my head, I think they'd do worse than drink until they couldn't think anymore.

I make my way to the kitchen and flick on the light.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light glint off the last ounce of whiskey silently waiting there in the bottom of the bottle.

I consider taking that lonely ounce out of its misery straight away, but decide to wait and add it to my coffee instead.

Coffee gives you anxiety.

It's just one cup.

The whiskey probably doesn't help either.

Not today.

Just stop.

I'm barely awake.

I reach for the pot of freshly brewed coffee.

Dump it.

Dump it on your hand.

No.

You deserve it.

My hand is shaking as I pour the hot, dark liquid into my mug, already primed with the last shot of whiskey.

I take a long, deep breath and try to clear my mind.

My side aches.

As I sit at my desk staring at the mostly blank document on my computer, I try to recall the night.

I was here alone.

I had written two paragraphs and found myself stifled.

Nothing was coming to me.

My book deadline is approaching, and I barely had a clue as to what I would write.

I had given up at a quarter past six and rewarded myself with a swig of whiskey.

It's all blank after that.

Just like your page.

Blank.

You'll never finish this book.

You're an idiot.

Stop.

I can't think clearly.

I should get out of the house for a bit, clear my mind, find some inspiration.

I dump my coffee and whiskey in a thermos and seal the lid.

That's going to leak.

No, it isn't.

I head for the door.

Where are my boots?

I search for them in every room.

At last, I open the front door and see them on the front porch.

They're muddy.

I look out past the porch to see that it must have rained last night.

Funny, I don't remember hearing the rain.

I shake my head and don my boots, scraping the mud off on the top step.

It was dry yesterday.

It has been for weeks.

I don't remember going out yesterday.

I must have.

I probably got something out of the truck last night.

Yeah, that's probably it.

I live about a mile from my neighbors in both directions.

The homes out here are mostly occupied by city folk who vacation here a few weeks out of the summer.

My cottage has been in my family for years.

I recently took over the property when my mother passed away of cancer last year.

My father had passed the year before that, and my sister lives overseas.

I was the reasonable choice for the beneficiary.

The property is perfect for an author who needs to be left alone for months at a time.

Writing in silence.

The noise in the city becomes too much when I'm trying to get an idea out, too many distractions.

But I'll never leave you alone.

I'm always here with you.

You can't get rid of me that easy.

Stop.

There's a trail that goes from the cottage down to the lake.

Silver Lake it's called.

I'll take that down to the water and around to the other side where there's a dock.

The trail is a bit precarious this time of year.

Most people don't arrive until the start of summer at the earliest.

It's mid-spring now and there hasn't been anyone out here over the winter.

The trails are muddy and slippery from last night's rain.

There are tree roots and rocks that frequent the path.

If your lace comes undone, you might trip and fall on your face.

You'll knock your teeth out, and no one will care.

In fact, that's what they want.

Stop.

The dock is old but sturdy.

I set my coffee down beside me and take in the morning air.

There's a bit of a chill, but it's warming as the sun rises.

The water is so placid.

Jump in the water with your boots on.

See if you can swim or if you drown.

Stop.

I look out to see the bulrushes rising from every edge of the lake.

Across from me, near the trail, the weeds and grass are trampled down.

Must have been an animal making its way to some water.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a voice calling from behind me.

I turn to see an unfamiliar face coming towards me.

I get to my feet before they are too close.

They're going to push you in.

They know who you are.

They've come here for you.

Stop.

Hello.

Hello.

As the man gets closer, I see that his face is contorted.

His eyes are red and glossy.

He's looking around as he comes towards me.

His hands are visibly shaking, his pants wet from the knee down.

Excuse me, sir.

Have you seen anyone out here today?

Have you seen a a little girl?

Don't answer him.

Kill him.

Push him in the lake and hold his head under.

Stop.

I'm sorry I haven't.

I've only been out here for a few minutes.

I'm just on the other side of the lake there.

I point in the direction of my cottage.

Who are you looking for?

My...

my uh daughter.

We were renting one of the cottages here, the one with the uh uh water wheel, you know.

He pauses briefly for a nod of confirmation from me.

We arrived last week.

Have you been here long?

You must have seen us.

She's out here somewhere.

He looks at me as though his longing eyes will bring about some memory of a girl that doesn't exist to me.

He must be talking about the Miller's place.

It's the first house off the main road.

It's a decent walk to get all the way to the lake from there.

I'm sorry I haven't.

I didn't know anyone else was out here this early in the season.

Your daughter?

How old did you say she was?

Five?

The man stares at me for a long moment before answering.

She's six.

And I didn't say.

Oh,

there must be some kind of subconscious thing happening.

Maybe I saw you when I went by the Miller's on my way to town on Tuesday.

Anyhow, how long you been looking for her?

You know, kids, they find themselves lost out here if they go too far without paying attention.

The man looks at me with suspicion, but then visibly shakes it off.

No, this isn't that.

She just ran off here about a half hour ago.

She's nowhere to be found.

I've been out here looking for her.

My wife.

My wife, she's sick with worry.

She's gone to town to find help.

If you see her, well, I'll be around looking for her.

He turns his back and heads off the dock to shore.

He thinks you did something to his little girl.

He knows.

Kill him.

Stop.

I return to the edge of the dock to grab my coffee.

I should head back to the house now and get to work.

I feel bad for that man.

It must be a horrible feeling to have lost a child.

I'm sure she'll turn up.

It's a beautiful place, but it can be dangerous if you're not adept at being outdoors.

There's a small town about 20 miles east, but nothing but dense forest in every other direction for hundreds of miles.

I didn't know anyone else was out here.

Certainly not this early in the season.

I also didn't know the millers ever rented their place out.

Hmm.

I'm so caught up with my deadline and book, or lack thereof, I'm not surprised I didn't notice.

As I round the lake onto the trail back to the cottage, I peer down to where the grass was trampled down.

There are prints in the mud.

Looks like something might have gotten caught up in all that muck there and had a struggle getting out.

Something?

Or someone?

Your boots were muddy this morning.

Stop.

I've been sitting at my computer for three hours now.

I managed to write a few pages, but it's not coming together like I'd hoped.

I can't focus.

My mind is going in circles.

Who is this missing girl?

Shouldn't someone be coming around to look for her?

Did he find her?

She's dead.

You know she is.

Stop.

I can't focus.

I remind myself that I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes.

I should shower and change.

I turn the shower on and let it warm up while I get undressed.

I look at my rib cage to see if there's any evidence of the pain.

A slight bruise, and as my eyes wander over the rest of my body, I see a long pink scratch on my arm.

Where did that come from?

I have a sick feeling about this missing girl.

I can't shake it.

The look in her father's eyes.

Her father.

He must be beside himself.

The dock is far from the Miller's place.

How did he get all the way from there to the dock that early?

Do they normally wake up before sunrise?

The shower's hot now, so I try to refocus on the day and the work I need to do.

How did your boots get muddy?

How come you don't remember last night?

Turn the temperature up in the shower.

Burn yourself.

Stop.

I don't have it in me to write anymore today.

Dusk is setting in.

Did they find that girl?

I should drive out to the Miller's and check in on the situation.

I should have heard something by now.

There should be a search party or something.

The only sign of civilization on my drive is a dark green rusted-out Chevy that passes by me just minutes before I get to my destination.

I haven't seen that truck out here before.

I've rolled into the driveway to find the house dark.

There are no vehicles here.

It doesn't look like anyone is home.

He did say the Miller's, didn't he?

He didn't say.

He just described the first house off the road.

I get out of my truck and start to the door.

Something feels familiar about this.

You've been here before.

You don't remember.

How did your boots get muddy?

Stop.

I can't see anything through the windows.

I knock and ring the bell, but there's no answer.

It doesn't look like anyone has been here since last season.

There's debris piled up against the door, a thick layer of dirt on everything that's been left on the porch.

Something doesn't feel right.

It's getting dark now.

I'll check on this in the morning again if I haven't heard anything.

I can see I left nearly all the lights on at my place as I pull up.

I don't remember doing that.

You don't remember a lot of things.

What did you do last night?

Why were your boots muddy?

Stop.

I didn't do anything.

I had a few too many drinks.

I passed out.

That's it.

As I enter my house, I feel something behind me.

I whip around to find.

nothing.

There's no one there.

I give my head a shake.

I need a drink.

I reach for the last bottle of whiskey out of the pantry.

It feels hot as it makes its way down my throat.

I take a deep breath.

I turn the radio on for some background noise.

Why were your boots muddy?

Stop.

Shut up.

I down a few shots back to back

I can't take it anymore.

I told you to stop.

I told you to leave me alone

You deserve to be alone.

Look what you've done.

You can't shut me up with whiskey.

I'll always be here

unless

unless you finally want to do it.

Get the gun.

Do it.

Nobody cares.

Just do it.

Stop.

Please.

I can't take this anymore.

I needed to have a clear mind to write, but I can't take it anymore.

I push aside all the bottles in the medicine cabinet and grasp the full one.

Thorazine.

I thought it would be safe out here with no one around.

I thought I could stop taking it just for a little while.

What have I done?

The bottle slips from my hand and crashes into the sink, pills flying everywhere.

I can't do this anymore.

I feel the tears start to stream down my face.

It's over.

Just

do it.

I go back to the kitchen and grab the bottle of whiskey.

I'm slinging back mouthfuls as I make my way to the living room.

I open the safe and remove my shotgun.

I sit in my armchair facing the fireplace.

Gun loaded, whiskey sufficiently emptied.

The radio broadcasting the news.

Do it.

You have nothing.

You are nothing.

You did a bad thing.

Why were your boots muddy?

I grip the trigger.

We have some breaking news.

As you know, News 11 reported that six-year-old Stephanie Walters was abducted earlier today by a man in a dark green Chevy.

We can now report that Stephanie escaped the man around 6 a.m.

near Silver Lake.

We are happy to report that Stephanie has been found by authorities alive and mostly unharmed.

The dark green Chevy is said to belong to one Wayne Clancy, a known offender.

Police urge everyone to call the hotline if you have any information on this person.

Our phone lines have been cut.

The cell signals are lost.

But we will return to delve into your darkest hang-ups when the calls will be coming from inside your house.

The No Sleep Podcast is presented by Creative Reason Media.

The musical score was composed by Brandon Boone.

Our production team is Phil Migolsky, Jeff Clement, Jesse Cornette, and Claudius Moore.

Our editorial team is Jessica McAvoy, Ashley McInally, Ollie A.

White, and Kristen Semito.

To discover how you can get even more sleepless horror stories from us, just visit sleepless.thenosleeppodcast.com to learn about the Sleepless Sanctuary.

Add-free extended episodes each week, and lots of bonus content for the dark hours, all for one low monthly price.

On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for taking our nightmarish calls.

This audio program is copyright 2024 and 2025 by Creative Reason Media Inc.

All rights reserved.

The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

No duplication or reproduction of this audio program is permitted without the written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc.

Top reasons your career wants you to move to Ohio.

So many amazing growth opportunities, high-paying jobs in technology, advanced manufacturing, engineering, life sciences, and more.

You'll soar to new heights, just like the Wright brothers, John Glenn, even Neil Armstrong.

Their careers all took off in Ohio, and yours can too.

A job that can take you further and a place you can't wait to come home to.

Have it all in the heart of it all.

Launch your search at callohiohome.com.

Suffs, the new musical has made Tony award-winning history on Broadway.

We demand to be home.

Winner, best score.

We demand to be seen.

Winner, best book.

We demand to be quality.

It's a theatrical masterpiece that's thrilling, inspiring, dazzlingly entertaining, and unquestionably the most emotionally stirring musical this season.

Suffs.

Playing the Orpheum Theater October 22nd through November 9th.

Tickets at BroadwaySF.com

Fossil fuels, pollution, exploration, pipelines.

Without even realizing it, your money might already be funding this.

Does that align with your values?

At Clean Energy Credit Union, your money works for you and the planet.

We use your dollars to fund renewable energy, sustainable communities, and a brighter future.

By pooling deposits with a community of people who care about the planet, we're able to provide loans that help more people afford clean energy.

The future is built by the choices we make today.

Make yours count.

Choose Clean Energy Credit Union.

California, make your home more efficient and eco-friendly.

Upgrade with a variety of home enhancements such as solar water heaters, heat pumps, high-efficiency windows.

With rates as low as 5.24% APR in California's generous state rebates, you'll save and boost your home's value.

Clean Energy Credit Union, Financing the Clean energy movement.