Mac remembered that day as if it was yesterday. He held it in his mind and heart for so long. He kept his secret intact with the help of rot-gut liquor such as, Irish Diamonds, Canadian Mist and Clan MacGregor. He befriended a young bartender by the name of Emily Welch. She had the same ginger color hair his used to be before it turned a light reddish gray-white tone. A good portion of his hair had thinned out considerably where the crown was a bald pate. His clean-shaven face now sported a heavy white beard. 

His Christened name given to him by his mother was John MacDougal, but his friends, the ones in this very bar, called him Mac. It was twenty years now but he still remembered that day. He looked at her pouring drinks and handing out bottles of beer to the regulars after getting off work. Twenty years to the day since it happened, Mac reminded himself. 

Emily was the antitheses of Mac. Her shoulder length red hair curled naturally framing her white face with slight blushing of her cheeks. Her infectious smile showed pearly white teeth, nearly perfect. She had an upturned nose and emerald eyes that seemed almost bewitching. Mac had the same-colored eyes. She was tall and slender and conveyed confidence every time she walked about the bar. 

Mac watched her with blurry, blood-shot eyes, in a father-like manner. He smiled after her as she opened a beer bottle for a new regular named Fred. She laughed at Fred’s attempt at a joke, maybe a compliment? Mac wasn’t listening to the conversation, so he couldn’t hazard why she laughed. Mac turned his head to the character, a fat man with heavy jowls and dark beady eyes. 

“Mac? You want one more?” Emily asked. 

Mac’s thoughts revolved around his past and he didn’t hear her. So much like Sally-Ann. But she did address him, didn’t she? “What?” 

“Oh Mac, you are incorrigible! I asked if you would like one more?” 

“Oh sure, sorry. How was your day at school?” 

Her back was to him as she replied, “It’s good, hon.” She was a pre-legal major at Gonzaga, a small college in Spokane, Washington. “I got finals next week to study for. So, you boys will have to suffer with Ray next week. I won’t have time to babysit you guys.” 

A roar of disapproval and laughter filled the bar as she turned around and placed the shot glass in front of Mac. She smiled at the group of mostly blue-collar construction workers and laborers. “Five dollars honey.” 

Mac pulled out his change and counted out the money. 

“Mac, never mind. I got you this time, okay?” Emily told him as she pulled a five-dollar bill from the tip jar and set it inside the till. 

“Thanks, Emily. I promise I’ll pay you back on payday.” 

“Of course you will honey,” she told him in a sing-song voice that amused him. 

Mac admired her figure. She reminded him so much of her mother. How long, he wondered, twenty years ago? He remembered that night when he heard what happened. That event so infuriated him, he couldn’t think. He nursed this one. It was going to be his last one. He needed to get this off his chest and he needed to be at least sober enough to tell her the truth.  

He had wanted to many times before, but his courage left him and be became angry and drunker and ended up going home instead. Not tonight, he promised himself as he moved the glass of amber potent potable. It now rested just outside his peripheral vision. This way, he reasoned, I can make it last until she calls closing time. 

He focused on the inane shows on TV, mostly reality fare that insulted his intelligence. The audio was muted and that suited him fine. It showed scantily clad men and women performing stunts for their team. He looked about the other men in the tavern becoming louder and drunker. Slowly each man called it a day.  

By eleven it was just them, Mac and Emily. She busied herself cleaning the place, wiping tables and the bar, pulling out a wide blue padded mop and slowly pushing the dust to the storage room behind the bar. Mac watched her. He downed the last of his whisky and pushed the empty glass toward her. 

Emily came back out and placed the shot glass in a glass washing machine. She turned it on, and a humming sound came out from the bar. “Are you about ready to call it a night, Mac?” 

“Yeah…no I got something I need to get off my chest.” 

“Really? What’s that?” 

The door swung open and a group of five men came in. The hairs on the back of Mac’s neck stood on end. None belonged here. They appeared like strangers from another town. “Hey there sweety! How about getting us a pitcher of beer? We’re darn thirsty!” 

Emily smiled but Mac could plainly see she wasn’t pleased. “I’m sorry, last call was an hour ago. You might wanna try Swinging Doors. They’re opened late.” Mac saw the disappointment from the other four, but the boisterous and largest man in the group, the one who ordered the pitcher apparently considered her reply as a challenge. 

“Yeah, right. Come on, get us a pitcher. I’ll make it worth your trouble, later,” he laughed. His companions laughed too but not with the energy of their friend. 

Mac arose from his stool and said in a low growl, “The lady told you that we’re closed. Just go back out of here and find yourself another bar to make a fool of yourselves.” 

“Lady? Yeah, right,” the loudmouth stated with glint in his brown eyes. “She’s just another slut, like all the other sluts who work here.” He went toward Mac, then turned to Emily. “Now, are you gonna get me and my friends here a beer, or am I going to get nasty and make you?” 

“I don’t believed I stuttered the last time I informed you that we are closed,” Mac moved into the bigger man’s face. Mac saw the belligerence, smelled the alcohol, noted he had twenty years his junior and most likely had every possible advantage at his disposal. 

“I heard you old man. And you know what? I don’t much care. This bitch is gonna serve me and my friends or I’ll hurt you and her really bad. Then I’ll still get my beer and watch this place burn to the ground with you two inside.” Mac saw his black hair, a thin jagged scar that ran along his cheek, the too small t-shirt that enhanced his muscular upper torso. Mac never took his eyes off this person. 

“Come on Pete, this ain’t funny no more,” one of his friends called out.  

“Yeah Pete, let’s go to that Swinging Doors like she suggested,” another suggested to Pete. 

Mac smiled at him. “Yeah Pete, apparently your friends are smarter than you,” Mac told him as he flexed and unflexed his hands into balled up fists. 

“Mac don’t,” he heard Emily plead. “Please don’t.” 

“What is this old drunk gonna do?” Pete sneered. “He can’t beat himself out of a paper sack. I’ll chew him up and spit him out. Then I’m gonna fuck your brains out bitch! You’ll like that won’t you?” 

Mac’s breathing moved in and out deeply. His eyes became pinpointed. His nostrils flared. He waited for him to make his move. “Do what you want then. I’m ready, Pete.” 

A thunderous percussion cut the still air. A surprised exclamation came from Pete’s lips. He briefly turned and stared at Emily. Mac also turned in her direction. Pete seemingly wilted to the floor. Mac saw her expression. It reminded him of her mother’s expression the next morning that he remembered so well. He then saw the Glock in her tiny hands. He heard the other four men make their exits, cursing and crying as they left. 

“God dammit, Emily! What did you do?” Mac shouted at her. He saw her hands trembling. He briefly looked down at the still body then rushed around the bar and took the semi-automatic pistol from her and placed it on the bar. 

“I thought he was going to kill you! He threatened me. You heard him! He wanted to kill you and rape me! YOU HEARD HIM!” Her screams became hysterical. Her eyes wild and unfocused, her cheeks flushed, tears streamed down her face.  

Mac grabbed her and held her. She fell onto his thick and massive frame and held him to her. “I’ll take the blame,” he told her. “When they discover the truth, it will make sense.” 

“What truth?” She asked, bewildered. The sobs subsided. “Mac, you were going to tell me something earlier that you wanted off your chest. Please tell me what it is before the cops show up. You know one of those guys probably called 9-1-1. Please tell me.” 

Mac sighed and then released himself from her. He sat back on his stool. He hunched over and took a deep breath. “Dear Jesus, forgive me for what I’m about to confess,” he prayed looking up at the ceiling. 

“You’re really freaking me out here Mac!” 

“I know, I’m sorry. Did your mom ever show you pictures of your father?” 

The look of dismay spoke volumes to Mac. “ There was one of a young boy posing with her in front of an old car. No, I was told he died in an accident.” 

“No, that was a lie. I’m your father, Emily. But that’s only part of it.” 

“You? Is that why you come here to this place, drink yourself stupid and go home only after I’ve closed? You are something else! I don’t believe you!” 

“Emily, please, let me tell you everything. I do remember everything.” His eyes pleaded with her. Initially she blanched and turned away from him. Then she turned around and nodded. She walked slowly to a table and sat down. 

“Come here and tell me,” she told him in a whisper. 

Mac moved from his familiar perch and sat at the table in a chair across from her. “Twenty years ago, your mother and I were very much in love. She was just out of high school, and I was a philosophy major at Gonzaga. I was preparing to enter the seminary upon graduation. 

“One day, we went to a movie together and I’m not certain what followed but either she or I had to leave in the middle of the movie. But, we weren’t alone, my best friend, Chuck was there too. I’m not sure she more than likely said I left first. I don’t know at this point who; doesn’t much matter anymore anyway. I was there alone in the theater when I realized Chuck wasn’t here either. My best friend.” 

“What happened?” 

“I never saw her again that night and went home to my dorm. I called her the next morning, and she was crying hysterically as you just done after shooting that man over there.” His head swung in the direction of Pete’s dead body. 

“I went to her apartment. Her parents, upon finding out we were having a relationship, kicked her out. The diocese saw fit to find her a place. It was then she told me that she was going to have you. She then told me a man assaulted her. She was raped. She feared losing you and never went to the police to report this. 

“I was beyond angry. ‘Who did this?’ I demanded. She swore she never seen him before, but his breath smelled of white wine, a sweet, nauseating smell, she admitted. Then she handed me a rosery. She said the rapist left it behind, either as a calling card or by some accident I was never certain. But I immediately recognize it. But I was confused and not certain why that rosery was left there. Was it his?” 

“What did you do?” 

“I first went to confession. I wanted to seek counseling to do the right thing. Though she didn’t admit who it was, I suspected it was Chuck, my best friend. It’s funny how one’s paths cross at a time like this. After I sought out the priest and asked him what I could or should do. Afterward Chuck came into the chapel to unburden himself. When our eyes met, it was as if he confessed everything to me. ‘You did it, didn’t you?’ I asked him.” 

“What did he say?” 

Mac seemed not to hear her and replied, “He didn’t have time and this time of year—it was fall going into winter—sunsets were hard to come by. I invited him to go and see a sunset with me. He was reluctant at first but acquiesced and I drove him up to the top of Mount Spokane. 

“I remembered the day was sunny, but cold and as promised he got to see his last sunset. He admitted to raping your mother, my Sally Ann. I then killed him, using that damn rosery as a garotte. 

“I then disposed of his body along a closed road there at the state park. His remains were discovered that next summer, though no one knew how he got there or why he disappeared.” Mac buried his face in his hands. “Please, Lord forgive me for what I’ve done.” 

Sirens were overheard steadily nearing the bar. 

“Dad don’t worry. It was meant to be,” Emily told him as the sirens’ wails stopped and police officers burst through the door. “It was self-defense. I feared for my life and yours.” Both slowly arose from their chairs and raised their hands. 

Mac felt cleansed for the first time in twenty years.  

September 2 I just turned another year older. I’m not depressed or upset, just the opposite actually. You see my loyal readers; I look forward to my annual day of living. Maybe it is because of my near-death experience from the stroke I had back in 2002. 

I enjoy living my second life to the fullest because, God doesn’t always gives us second chances. This time, for whatever reason, He gave me this opportunity to be what I couldn’t be for the first forty-four years of my life. 

It hasn’t been easy, and unlikely to be any easier as the years continue along a winding path that will lead me to whatever awaits me. No journey ever undertaken is supposed to be easy. Ulysses’ Odessey is what we all strive toward; a successful conclusion in the arms of your one true love. Unfortunately, that is never always the case. 

No, instead many who journey never make it to that elusive goal, utopia or what have you. It ends way too soon and tragically for many of us. One too many drinks, a wrong turn, a misunderstanding, an abusive partner who goes too far, a cancer that can’t be cured, a crisis that can’t correct itself, leads to a finality that somehow makes no sense to the surviving family members.  

One of my favorite Bible verses comes from Psalm 90:15. We’ve been overwhelmed with grief; come now and overwhelm us with gladness. Replace our years of trouble with decades of delight. 

My first forty-four years were my years of trouble. I’m now proud to say, because of how I have changed, I’m in my decades of delight. I hope you all a very wonderful year ahead as well my loyal readers. 

On Tuesday, I ran my normal errands around Spokane and on a whim decided to indulge myself in a little road trip. Spokane in and of itself is a maze of north and south streets that intersect with east to west boulevards. But the further north you travel the more unique these roads become in their directions and destinations. 

My destination eventually was the Wal Mart in Airway Heights. I was at the Best Buy store in North Spokane off the Newport highway, US 2. I took Hawthorn to Waikiki, through the campus of Whitworth University, a Christian college. For an August summer day, it felt more autumn-like with light rain falling, breezy and overcast. 

Waikiki is a four-lane street that meandered northerly, then I saw the road I needed to take that was converted into a round-about. Fortunately, though it has been several years, I distinctly remembered how that street was, and I continued in a westwardly path. This street for reasons I’m sure the present homeowners never predicted that their homes would be assessed at over a million dollars, though they may have mortgages of perhaps over a hundred thousand dollars when those households were built. 

There’s also a golf course along the way that the tribe that I work for bought a few years ago when Spokane Country Club sold it. Lush green fairways bordered by evergreens standing majestically about the course as I drove by admiring those hackers brave enough to endure the forces that nature wrought. 

I then saw St. Georges School, a private academy situated just south of the Little Spokane River. I continued northward to Rutter Parkway. Here is where this road is ideal for someone riding a Ninja motorcycle. It is a twisting and perilous adventure that isn’t for the untalented or the faint of heart. I kept my Charger going at a safe and sane 35 miles per hour, though I do recall times in my past when I pushed the envelope and drove up to fifteen miles faster. Now was not the time. 

Rutter Parkway eventually straightened itself out after climbing up a small drawl and coming on top of a plateau where Indian Trail Road intersect with Rutter Parkway. I stayed on Rutter, and it took me to Nine Mile Falls where Nine Mile Road—aka SR 291 meet. I took a left and to my utter surprise realized that Rutter was redone some time ago and it now had emptied south of the actual town of Nine Mile Falls. 

I headed south, passed the now closed and vacant Sundance golf course that I used to play over twenty years ago before my stroke. Houses were built in its place except where the ninth and tenth fairways used to be, now just dried up grass, like a burn scar. 

A few miles south of that was where I needed to make a right turn on Seven Mile Road. It hadn’t changed at all. I took it to the Old Trails Road which went through Riverside State Park ORV site, and I continued going south to Trails Road that I turned right on which then intersected with Hayford Road. I drove passed my casino I worked at and eventually found myself turning left into the Wal Mart parking lot. 

Sheriff Nate Turner was killed from an unknown assailant. 

And he begs St. Peter to send him back to find his killer. 

In this saga of a Black run-away slave, soldier, cowboy, and lawman in the old west. 

That’s my fifteen second pitch, or what commonly called in the writing/publishing business the elevator pitch. 

In our monthly writers guild meeting last night we had as our guest a publicist who determines the worthiness of the book and strategies for launching a publicity campaign to garner those sales that every writer hopes to garner. 

As with any writing endeavor, and this is if you are in the “business” of writing and publishing your works, costs money. It’s something I have struggled with since getting my first book published through a vanity press, self-published through Amazon and lately published through a hybrid publishing format.  

Just in marketing my books alone, has cost me over $10,000. That’s money that I have yet to recover. Publicist is a whole different animal from marketing. The publicist if he is honest and legitimate will tell you point blank if the book you’ve written is even worth the effort. Then, he’ll read the manuscript and give you an honest assessment on what strategies he will throw out there to do a proper book launch campaign. On average, from $2,500 to $7,500 depending on the publicist. 

This person, whose name is Joe Marich told us if we are serious about the business of writing, because there are three different types and if you are in that third category then there are ten questions you need to ask yourself: 

• Is the story you want to write really and truly a story worth telling? Can you explain why you think so? 

• Or, for a nonfiction: Is this book offering new and pertinent information or presented in a new way that we honestly and truly need? 

• Why should anyone care about this specific book? What Makes it different? 

• Will this book be of interest to a large group of people? 

• Which very specific group will be most interested in this book? [Hint: It is absolutely, positively not “everyone.”] 

• If you were given a five-minute interview on let’s, say Today, what exactly and specifically would you talk about that’s connected to the book? 

• Is there an over-arching theme to the story? 

• How many books do you expect to sell? 

• Do you have a budget to hire PR/Marketing pro, or purchase advertising? 

• Do you have social media presence or a website? 

According to this publicist, you need to have an outline because they can tell within the first 30 pages if your book was outlined. If not, then the book reviewers and media professionals won’t give it media coverage. 

The answers to my books have been, yes, maybe, yes, maybe, not sure, yes, at least a hundred copies, not really, yes. 

I don’t outline. I’m a pantser and unlikely to change my approach because I don’t like wasting my time and effort outlining plot and character development. I write as I go because then I can stop and read and think about how this character will react to a given situation. 

So, here is the nut and bolts of trying to get your book out to the masses. It’s not for the amateur writer who just likes to put ink on paper. It’s for those people serious about what they do and expect a decent return on their investment. 

If you are like me then you have your work cut out for you. If you are just starting out or just like writing for the thrill and fun of the adventure, then you have something to look forward to in your endeavor. 

As an adjective special means something better, greater, or otherwise different from the usual. 

Or exceptionally good or precious. Then there are meanings that make the word special seem condescending and that is my beef. 

Last week, I had just finished working my shift and was preparing to head over to my supervisor’s office and turn in my radio when I saw two women coming toward me as I got on the elevator. I recognized the one as a fellow team member who works in the HR department and the other apparently was a new hire that was being given a tour of our campus. 

“Hello, Jerry,” the human resources person gushed with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “This is Sue [not her real name] I’m giving her a tour of our wonderful resort. This is Jerry. He’s really SPECIAL.” 

“Hi, it’s nice meeting you,” I told the young woman with a pleasant smile. I ignored the HR representative, but stated, “I’m not that special.” I glanced at her to gauge her response, but she just beamed at me as if I didn’t know what I was talking about. The elevator door opened. 

“Oh, but Jerry, you are such a special person,” she called out to me as I left the back hotel entrance and headed to the casino. 

What I wanted to say, but undoubtedly may have cost me my job was define special for me because I’m not special needs, which apparently was how I interpreted her attitude toward me. That I was a few fries short of a happy meal. I wanted to tell her I’m not a moron. But like I said she might have become offended and had me written up for some nonsense and gotten me terminated. 

People generally treat me with respect and like me the way I am, how I come across, my sense of humor, sense of what is right and how I treat other people. That doesn’t make me special, but human.  

Then there are those individuals out there who don’t see me as a person with a functioning, intelligent brain who wrote numerous books and had five published so far. No what they see is a disabled man, who most likely shouldn’t be working here or anywhere. I should be put away out of their sight, then these people would be happy.  

They greet me the same way that lady the other day greeted me. They then go out of their way to diminish my capabilities, or if I happen to apply for another job, find excuses for not promoting me. You can imagine how that makes me feel. I stopped trying and now am biding my time to finish working here and retiring. 

What makes me special is my keen sense of who I am and my ability to persevere in spite of those other people out there who for reasons I will never understand call me special yet don’t know that really means. 

My loyal readers, I hope my last four blogs I sent had you entertained. 

I discovered through my lifetime friend that using my blogs to express my political beliefs tended to turn him off. I would assume many of you are in the same position. And heaven forbid, I might offend my loyal readers because their views doesn’t mesh with mine. 

Anyway, my writing progress is going steadily forward and I actually went back and did a major rewrite of another short story anthology that is part of the Four Seasons Series. The anthology I even renamed because one of the stories I wrote had the same title and it was confusing for the Microsoft cloud. I rename the book Road to Nowhere. Like I said the stories still revolve around the main character, Mark Marteau and the minor characters that give depth and enhances the readers’ experience and enjoyment. I found the book missing a key element and decided to add a story that I hope when this is published will be the diamond of the book. 

Now, time for good news bad news. Austin Macauley sent me a letter about a month ago informing me that because A Man’s Passion was less than stellar in sales, they released their rights to the book, and I was in a quandary as to how to proceed with this project. Good news is that another company has informed me of their interest in pursuing this book and rebooting it. I’m still uncertain how they want to do this, and they informed me today they want over $3000 for their efforts. Money I just don’t have at this point. 

The Nate Turner project is going as expected. It’s a lot more research intensive because I want the experience to be as authentic as possible. I want my loyal readers and any new readers, who may be into Western books, to feel like this is authentic. Where I’m presently at now is still before the telephone and electric light. It’s still a primitive existence for Nate Turner and his family. 

That’s all she wrote, excuse the cliché. Maybe later this month I might get on my soapbox and do something political. Enjoy your summer. 

Nathen arrived home and his five-year-old daughter came up to him with a book of fairy tales that she pushed toward him to read to her. “This one, please, Daddy.” She pointed at the Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.  

He pushed back his brown hair and pulled down his glasses before replying in his usual devious tone, “Honey, you don’t want me to read this again, do you? Why don’t we read something else that’s more realistic and poignant than that. Look here’s the local newspaper. I’m sure there are more interesting stories than a princess who is being stalked by an evil witch, looking for her Prince Charming and boarding with seven little men.” 

“Daddy, please, the teacher wanted me to learn how to read this.” 

“Oh, you want me to read so you can learn how to read? Well, honey, that’s not how it works.” He saw her doe eyed look beseeching him. “Oh alright, but then I will make you read it to me after I read it to you; deal?” 

“But Daddy I don’t know how to read!” 

“Once upon a time there was this evil witch who had this mirror that she would ask “Who is the fairest of them all?” 

“Daddy that’s not how it goes.” 

“Are you certain?” 

“Read it to me Daddy, please!” 

“I don’t have to read it to you, I know it by heart. Do you want to know what happened to Snow White after the happily ever after?” 

“Okay?” She gave her father a questioning, inquisitive stare. 

“Okay, come over here and sit on my lap and I’ll tell you what happened to her.” She took Nathen’s hand, and they went to his recliner and sat down. She climbed upon his lap. “Are we comfy?” 

“Yes, Daddy we are.”  

“Okay now after the prince married Sleeping Beauty, he found the wicked witch in her castle. It turns out she hadn’t died after all. You see the dwarfs made a pack with her that they would allow her to live if they could get some of her magic to use against Sleeping Beauty.” 

“No, Daddy Snow White, not Sleeping Beauty!” 

“Oh, sorry about that. You know they pretty much are the same.” She pouted at him. “Okay, Snow White gets married to the handsome prince. Now where was I? Oh yes, he goes to her and tells her, “I found out about your scheme with the dwarfs, you bad old witch. I want some of that magic too, or I’ll kill you where you stand.” 

“Okay, okay,” the witch says. “On one condition that you name Sleeping Beauty after me so that child will bear my name and be the fairest of them all.” 

“Daddy! Not her, Snow White!” 

“Oh, my bad, okay, Snow white’s husband has threatened the witch with death. Now may I continue? 

“Yes, Daddy, you may continue.” 

“Fair enough,” the prince says. He secretly crossed his fingers behind his back. “I will do that, name my daughter Hazel after you.” 

“So, the witch granted the prince the magic he desired so that too could control Sleeping Beauty, making her his and his alone. 

“DADDY!!!” 

“Sorry, I keep getting those two mixed up for some reason. It must be my old age.” 

“Oh, by the way,” the witch stated, “I understand you have a passion for oranges from the New World. I just happen to have one.” 

“The prince had forgotten about the poisoned apple she gave to Beauty, I mean Snow White, and took the offered fruit without hesitation. “Why thank you, witch. I take back all those nasty things I thought about you.” 

He left her peeling back the rind and plopping each slice into his mouth. It was a bit on the salty side for his taste buds, but he didn’t care as he got on his horse and felt an uneasiness settle upon him and finally the world turned dark, and his form fell off the horse and he became a toad. 

In the meantime, the dwarfs all went to the castle. Each one went into her chamber and had their way with her. She was impregnated and gave birth to seven little girls. Their names were all Hazel Witch. 

“Daddy, what does that word mean?” 

“What in the world are you telling our daughter, Nathen!” The angry shrill came from the kitchen where his wife stood, a crossed expression painted on her face. 

“It’s nothing I can assure you,” Nathen replied calmly to his wife of seven years. “I just told her a version of Snow White and the seven dwarfs after Prince Charming awakens her.” 

“Come on honey, let’s get dinner served. I’ll talk to you later, mister!” 

Nathen overheard her telling their daughter, “Don’t you listen to that nonsense. They lived happily ever after and that’s all you need to know about that story. I’ll read you a story tonight that is much better than that.” 

“Which story is that Mommy?” 

“Little Red Riding Hood,” she replied. “But it will be told a little differently this time.” 

“How will that be?” 

“It’s a secret, but I think you’ll like it even better than what’s in the book.”  

“What does impregnate mean, Mommy?” 

“Don’t you worry about that. You are too young to know those kinds of words.” 

“Did those dwarfs make her sick?” 

“In a manner of speaking, yes she got sick every morning until the fifth or sixth month.” 

“But the Prince was he still a toad?” 

Nathen heard a pause before his wife replied, “That’s another story that I will tell you later, my princess.”