Excerpt from “The Line I Walk,” by M.J. Murphy
* winner of the first annual Loise Laffin Competition!

But Mexican buildings aren’t difficult to get into. Half the windows in Los Mochis are broken, and I find my sanctuary in the basement of a large clothing store that has shut down for the evening. I can hear noises upstairs: a janitor working methodically. Nevertheless, I am at ease, surrounded by shelves of neatly folded dresses and shirts. And the street is quiet. Five blocks from the downtown clubs the only traffic is an occasional couple making their way home, or some lonely singleton rushing furtively past.
The janitor is an old man, and as he slowly descends the stairs his weakness feeds a mutinous spark in me. I’m tired of keeping my distance, of being discreet; I don’t feel like moving at this particular moment.
And the janitor shuffles towards me, pushing his mop before him, through room after room.
“Hello, my friend. I once lost a friend who was very dear to me, and I’ve been trying to find her again for many years. Can you help?” And I show the old man Carolyn’s image; this time she has fully emerged from the shower, and covers her chest with her hands. “Do you know this woman?”
The old man’s eyes go big and his jaw drops. He clutches his chest and flops onto his stomach unceremoniously, smashing teeth, and then lies there twitching. After a few minutes, I see a tiny glowing cloud, like diamond dust, spurt from his open mouth and float single-mindedly towards and then right through the ceiling.
And I am still stuck here. I wonder which is the better deal.