Surprising Interventions

On Selected Shorts this week, interventions. What happens when outside agents step into other people's lives? We find out in stories by Stephen King and Jamel Brinkley, where a persuasive stranger and a neighborhood oddball turn out to be agents of change. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Let us intervene in your life for an hour. Intervention is a word that carries a bit of freight. There's some sense that it involves interference in a situation or a life, and that it's not always welcome. These days, one of the most common associations is with family and friends concerned with a loved one's self-destructive behavior. It's purposeful. But there's also the idea of chance or even divine intervention. In Greek mythology and classical drama, intervention usually involved the presence, seen or unseen, of the gods. The results were sometimes devastatingly violent and sometimes covertly benign or spectacularly, magically transforming. So yes, Helen, the Trojan War was a bummer, but only you got to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Our stories on this show explore different manifestations of intervention. In the first, the road to recovery takes a twist. In the second, a neighborhood oddball turns out to have hidden strengths. Our first story, The Fifth Step, is by Stephen King. King is, of course, the author of such horror classics as Carrie and The Shining. but also boasts a powerful portfolio of short fiction. The story is read by David Morse, an actor with an equally large range, from his early work on the hit television series Saint Elsewhere to his award-winning performance in the Broadway revival of Paula Vogel's How I Learned to Drive. And he has been in three King adaptations, including The Green Mile. Here he is with the author's The Fifth Step. The fifth step. Harold Jameson, once chief engineer of New York City's sanitation department, enjoyed retirement. He knew from his small circle of friends that some didn't, so he considered himself lucky. He had an acre of garden in upper Manhattan that he shared with several like-minded horticulturalists. He had discovered Netflix, and he was making inroads in the books he'd always meant to read. He still missed his wife, a victim of breast cancer five years previous. But aside from that persistent ache, his life was quite full. Before rising every morning, he reminded himself to enjoy the day. At 68, he liked to think he had a fair amount of road left, but there was no denying it had begun to narrow. The best part of those days, assuming it wasn't raining, snowing, or too cold, was the nine-block walk to Central Park after breakfast. Although he carried a cell phone and used an electronic tablet, had grown dependent on it, in fact, he still preferred the print version of the Times. In the park, he would settle on his favorite bench and spend an hour with it. Reading at the sections back to front, telling himself he was progressing from the sublime to the ridiculous. Now, one morning in May, the weather coolish but perfectly adequate for bench sitting and newspaper reading, he was annoyed to look up from his paper to see a middle-aged man sitting down at the other end of his bench, although there were plenty of empty ones in the vicinity. This invader of Jameson's morning space looked to be, oh, in his mid to late 40s, neither handsome nor ugly. In fact, perfectly nondescript. The same was true of his attire. New balance walking shoes, jeans, a Yankee cap, and a Yankee hoodie with a hood tossed back. Jameson gave him an impatient side glance, prepared to move to another bench. Don't go. The man said, please. I sat down here because I need a favor. It's not a big one, but I'll pay. He reached into the kangaroo pouch with a hoodie and held out a $20 bill. I don't do favors for strange men, Jameson said and got up. That's exactly the point. The two of us being strangers, hear me out. If you say no, that's fine, but please hear me out. you could he cleared his throat and Jameson realized the guy was nervous maybe more maybe scared you could be saving my life Jameson considered and then sat back down but as far from the other man as he could while still keeping both butt cheeks on the bench I'm going to give you a minute but if you sound crazy to me I'm leaving. And put your money away. I don't need it. I don't want it. The man looked at the bill as if surprised to find it still in his hand. And then put it back in the kangaroo pouch. He put his hands on his thighs and looked down at them instead of a Jameson. I'm an alcoholic. Four months sober. Four months and 12 days, to be exact. Congratulations, Jameson said. He guessed he meant it. but he was even more ready to get up, to leave the park, if necessary. The guy seemed sane, but Jameson was old enough to know that sometimes the woo-woo didn't come out right away. I've tried three times before, and once got almost a year. I think this might be my last chance to grab the brass ring. I'm in AA. That's... I know what it is. What's your name, Mr. Four Months Sober? Call me Jack. That's good enough. We don't use names in the program. Well, Jameson knew that, too. Lots of people on the Netflix shows had alcohol problems. So what can I do for you, Jack? Well, the first three times I tried, I didn't get a sponsor in the program. You know, somebody who listens to you, answers your questions, sometimes tells you what to do. Well, this time I did. met a guy at the Bowery Sundown meeting and I really liked the stuff he said and you know how he carried himself 12 years sober feet on the ground works in sales like me he had turned to look at Jameson but now he returned to gaze at his hands I used to be I was a hell of a salesman for five years I headed the sales department of well it doesn't matter but it was a big deal. You'd know the company. And now I'm down to peddling greeting cards and energy drinks to bodegas in the five boroughs. Last rung on the ladder, man. Get to the point, Jameson said, but not harshly. He had become a little interested in spite of himself. It was not every day that a stranger sat down on their bench and started spilling his shit, especially not in New York. I was going to check on the Mets. dropped a good start jack rubbed the palm across his mouth well i like this guy i met at the sundown so i got up my courage after meeting and asked him to be my sponsor in march this was he looked me over and he said he'd take me on but only on two conditions that i do everything he said and call him if I felt like drinking. Well, then I'll be calling you every fucking night, I said. And he said, so? Call me every fucking night. And if I don't answer, talk to the machine. And then he asked if I work the steps. Do you know what those are? Vaguely. Well, I said I hadn't gotten around to them. He said that if I wanted him to be my sponsor, I'd have to start. and he said the first three were both the hardest and the easiest they boiled down to i can't stop on my own but with god's help i can so i'm gonna let him help jameson grunted well i said i didn't believe in god and this guy randy that's his name he said he didn't give a shit you know he told me to get down on my knees every morning and ask this god I didn't believe in to help me stay sober another day. And if I didn't drink, he said for me to get down on my knees before I turn in and thank God for my sober day. Randy asked if I was willing to do that, and I said, I said it was, because I'd lose him otherwise. You see? Oh, sure. You were desperate. Yeah, exactly. The gift of desperation. That's what AAs call it. Randy said if I didn't do those prayers and said I was doing them, he'd know. Because he spent 30 years lying his ass off about everything. So you did it? Even though you didn't believe in God? No, I did. And it's been working. As for my belief that there's no God, the longer I stay sober, the more that wavers. Well, if you're going to ask me to pray with you, forget it. Jack smiled down at his hands. No, I still feel self-conscious about the on-my-knees thing, even when I'm by myself. Last month, April, Randy told me to do the fourth step, and that's when you make a moral inventory, supposedly searching and fearless of your character. Well, did you? Yeah. Yeah, Randy said I was supposed to put down the bad stuff, then turn the page and list the good stuff. took me 10 minutes for the bad stuff over an hour for the good stuff at first I couldn't think of anything good but finally I wrote, well at least I got a sense of humor which I do and once I got that I was able to think of a few other things when I told Randy I had trouble thinking of character strengths he said, well that was normal, he drank for almost 30 years he said, and that puts a puts a lot of scars and bruises on a man's self-image. But if he stays sober, the bruises will heal. And then he told me to burn the lists. He said that would make me feel better. Did it? Well, strangely enough, it did. Anyway, that brings us to this month's request from Randy. More of a demand, I'm guessing, Jameson said, smiling a little. He folded his newspaper and laid it aside. Jack also smiled. I think you're catching the sponsor or sponseed dynamic. Randy told me it was time to do my fifth step, which is admit it to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs, Jack said, making quote marks with his fingers. And I told him, okay, I make a list and read it to him. God could listen in. Two birds with one stone deal. I'm thinking he said no. He said no. He told me to approach a complete stranger. His first suggestion was a priest or a minister, but I haven't set foot in church since I was 12. And I have no urge to go back to whatever I'm coming to believe, and I don't know yet what that is. I don't need to sit in a church pew to help it along. Jameson, no churchgoer himself, nodded. Well, Randy said, just walk up to somebody in Grant Park or Washington Square Park or Central Park and ask him to hear your list of wrongs. Offer a few bucks to sweeten the deal if that's what it takes. And just keep asking until someone agrees to listen. And he said the hard part would be the asking part. And he was right. Well, my, your first victim was a phrase that came to mind, but Jameson decided that wasn't exactly fair. Am I the first person you've approached? No, the second. I tried an off-duty cab driver yesterday, and he told me to get lost. Jameson thought of an old New York joke Out of town or approaches a guy on Lexington Avenue and says Can you tell me how to get to City Hall? Or should I just go fuck myself? And he decided he wasn't going to tell the guy in the Yankee gear to go fuck himself No, he'd listen And the next time he met his friend Alex Another retiree for lunch He'd have something interesting to talk about Okay, go for it Well, Jack reached into the pouch of his hoodie, took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. When I was in fourth grade, no, this is going to be your life story, maybe you better give me that 20 after all. Jack reached into his hoodie with the hand not holding his list of wrongdoings, but Jameson waved him up, joking. You sure? Yes. Yeah. Well that not take too long I got an appointment at 8 Now this wasn true but Jamison reflected that it was good he didn have the alcohol problem because according to the TV meetings he attended honesty was a big deal if you did All right, keep it speedy. Got it. Here goes. In fourth grade, I got into a fight with another kid. I gave him a bloody lip and nose. When we got to the office, I said it was because he called my mother a dirty name, and he denied it, of course, but we both got sent home with a note for our parents, or just my mom, in my case, because my dad left us when I was two, and the dirty name thing? A lie. I was having a bad day, and I thought I'd feel better if I got into a fight with this kid I didn't like. I don't know why I didn't like them. I guess there was a reason, but I don't know. I don't remember what it was, only that it set a pattern of lying. I started drinking in junior high. My mother had a bottle of vodka that she kept in the freezer, and I'd swig from it and then add water, and she finally caught me, and the vodka disappeared from the freezer. I knew where she put it, on a high shelf over the stove. But I left it alone after that. By then it was probably mostly water anyway. So I saved my allowance and chore money and got some old wino to buy me nips. He'd buy four and keep one. I enabled his drinking. That's what my sponsor would say. Jack shook his head. I don't know what happened to that guy. Ralph, his name was. Only I thought of him as wretched, Ralph. Kids can be cruel. For all I know, he's dead, and I helped him. Don't get carried away, Jameson said. I'm sure you have stuff to feel guilty about without having to invent a bunch of might have beens. Jack looked up and grinned. And when he did, Jameson saw the man actually had tears in his eyes, not falling, but brimming. Well, now, now you sound like Randy. Is that a good thing? Well, I think so. I think I'm lucky I found you. Jameson discovered he actually felt lucky to have been found well okay what else you got on that list because time's passing well I went to Brown and graduated cum laude but mostly I lied and cheated my way through I was good at it and oh here's a big one the student advisor I had my senior year was a coke addict and I won't go into how I found that out like you said time's passing but I did and and I made a deal with him. Good recommendations in exchange for a key of Coke. Plus, of course, he'd pay for the dope. Wasn't into charity. Key? As in kilo? Jameson asked. His eyebrows went up most of the way to his hairline. Right. I brought it through the Canadian border, tucked into the spare tire of my old Ford, trying to look like any other college kid who spent his semester break having fun and getting laid in Toronto So my heart was beating like crazy, and I bet my blood pressure was redlining. Because the car in front of me at the checkpoint got tossed completely. But I got waved right through after showing my driver's license. Of course, things were much looser back then. He paused and then said, I overcharged him for the key to pocketed the difference. but you don't use any of the cocaine yourself. No, no, no, that was never my scene. No, I blew a little dope once in a while but what I really wanted, and I still want, is grain alcohol. I lied to my bosses but eventually that gave out. It wasn't like college, there was nobody mule coke for. Not that I found anyway. Well, what'd you do exactly? Massaged my cell sheets Made up appointments that didn't exist To explain days when I was too hungover to come in Jiggered expense sheets That first job, oh, it was a good one The sky was the limit And I blew it And after they let me go, I decided what I really needed Was a change of location An AA that's called a geographic cure Never works, but I didn't know that seems simple enough now. You put an asshole on a plane in Boston, an asshole gets off in L.A. Or Denver or Des Moines. And I fucked up the second job. Not as good as the first one, but good. And I was in San Diego. And what I decided then was that I needed to get married and settle down. Now that would solve the problem. So I got married. To a nice girl who deserved better than me. It lasted two years, me lying right down the line about my drinking. Inventing non-existent business appointments to explain why I was home late. Inventing non-existent flu symptoms to explain why I was going in late or not at all. I could have bought stock in one of those breath mint companies, Altoids, Breast Savers. Oh, but was she fooled? I'm guessing not Jameson said listen are we approaching the end here yeah oh look come on five more minutes promise okay well there were arguments and that just kept getting worse stuff got thrown occasionally and not just by her and there was a night when I came home around midnight stinking drunk and she started in on me you know all the usual jabber and all of it was true. I felt like she was throwing poison darts at me and never missing. Jack was looking at his hands again. His mouth was turned down in the corner so severely that for a moment he looked at Jameson like Emmett Kelly, that famous sad-faced clown. You know what came into my mind? When she was yelling at me, Glenn Ferguson, that boy I beat up in fourth grade how good it felt by squeezing the pus out of an infected boil I thought it'd be good to beat her up and for sure no one would send me home with a note from my mother because my mom died the year after I graduated from Brown. Whoa! Jameson said whoa. Feeling good about this uninvited confession took a hike. Unease replaced it. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what came next. No, I left, Jack said. But I was scared enough to know I had to do something about my drinking. And that was the first time that I tried AA out there in San Diego. I was sober when I came back to New York, but that didn't last. Tried again, and that didn't last either. and neither did the third but now I've got Randy and this time I might make it partly thanks to you and he held out his hand well, you're welcome, Jameson said and took it and there is one more thing, Jack said his grip was very strong he was looking at Jameson's eyes and smiling I did leave but I cut that bitch's throat before I did I didn't stop drinking but it made me feel better and the way beating up Glenn Ferguson made me feel better and that wino I told you about kicking him around that made me feel better too I don't know if I killed him but I sure did bust him up Jameson tried to pull back, but the grip was too strong. The other hand was once more inside the pocket of the Yankee hoodie. I really, I really want to stop drinking, but I can't do a complete fifth step without admitting I seem to really enjoy what felt like a streak of hot white light slid between Jameson's ribs when Jack pulled the dripping ice pick away, once more tucking it into the pocket of the hoodie, Jameson realized he couldn't breathe. Killing people, it's a character defect, I know, and probably the chief of my wrongs. He got to his feet. Thank you, sir. I don't know what your name is, but you helped me so much. He started away toward Central Park West and then turn back to Jameson, who was grasping blindly for his times, as if perhaps a quick scan of the arts and leisure section would put everything right. You'll be in my prayers, Jack said. David Morse performed Stephen King's The Fifth Step. We spoke to Morse backstage at Symphony Space. Well, it seems simple enough, a conversation between two men, sort of an uncomfortable one. It gets more comfortable as it goes along, fairly intimate. and, of course, it's Stephen King, so it takes a little turn. Did you feel that you were planning to set the listener up a little bit? Well, I think Stephen does that, so I'm just going to tell his story. Did this feel like something that resonated with other work you've done? I feel a little bit at home with this. That niceness sometimes has a dark side. Yeah, I get asked a lot of times to sort of bring a more human side to some things that are kind of dark. Why does he dramatize so well? Because they're riveting on the page, but how do they come off the page? Well, you start with a great story. I mean, it's always that. Then really fun characters, and every one of them is so vivid. And I think that's probably for actors getting to do those roles. It's probably what's fun. That was David Morris backstage at Symphony Space. When we return, a neighborhood reimagines itself with the help of some rabbits. You're listening to Selected Shorts, recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts, where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. On this week's program, we're considering the idea of intervention. It's sometimes associated with crisis and healing, but we like to think of good fiction as a form of intervention, arriving in your life just when you need a break or a change of perspective. And happily, our storehouse of great fiction can help in all these areas. To hear recent episodes of the podcast, keep up with our live season and our touring program, visit our website, SelectedShorts.org. You've just heard some great short fiction. Now it's your turn. It's time for the 2026 Stella Kupferberg Memorial Short Story Prize. We're very excited that this year's guest judge is one of shorts' favorite funny mainstays, Simon Rich. The winning work will be performed by an actor in spring 2026 and published on Electric Literature. The winning writer will receive $1,000 and a free 10-week course with Gotham Writers. You have until March 6th to submit your story, which you can do by going to SelectedShorts.org and scrolling to the bottom of the page. We can't wait to read your submission. Our second story, Blessed Deliverance, is by Jamel Brinkley. He is the author of two story collections, A Lucky Man and Witness, which includes today's work. Brinkley has been praised for the way his stories explore both systemic racism and human bonds. Reader Tegel F. Bouget has toured extensively with the production Debate, Baldwin vs. Buckley. He's also appeared at the Public Theater and Lincoln Center and on television, where his credits include A Beautiful Mind. Who knew that old ass head ass was capable of even greater feats of head assery? Our little crew had become accustomed to his foolishness. The imbecilic way he walked around Bed-Stuy with his lips swelled up, all the various look at me antics. We were bored with him. He might as well have been a fire hydrant. It had ceased to affect us when he interrupted our hangs in the park by barking out one of his nonsensical jokes. By the time we started high school, his pratfalls on the basketball court were no longer amusing. We just told him to go bother people his own age. And when he would dig in the trash for scraps of pizza, it wasn't worth clowning anymore. Truth be told, we didn't even know head ass was still around. Word was he'd been framed for armed robbery and was doing a bid. Others said he been tracked down by a very distant relative and was living in Louisiana What actually happened was a police raid of an abandoned building a former hotel where head ass among others had been squatting By our senior year, however, it didn't really matter. The five of us weren't thinking about head ass at all. Other things were on our minds. College, for instance, was becoming a thrilling prospect, though we were each interested in different schools, and though the guidance counselor had cast a puckered frown at our lists, striking out the Harvards and Yales and the Howards and Spellmans. Our parents all seemed to be going through it too, some losing their jobs, some suffering the very first symptoms of what would be fateful illnesses, some separating, divorcing, reuniting, testing new loves. There was an awareness among us that despite our trepidation about growing dull with age, Life apparently would never stop with the excitement, leaping from the gray shadows of alleyways to jump you, knocking you to the ground, and seriously kicking your ass. Still, we weren't old yet. Far from it. Which meant that our bodies, beleaguered and intact as far as we knew, weren't dull at all. They were fascinating. Which meant we could do whatever or whomever we wanted with them. and who and what we wanted to do could change from week to week, day to day, or moment to precious moment. Much of what we wanted to do was sex. For the most part, we hooked up or approached doing so with those outside our crew. But since the summer, we had also developed new and irresistible interest in one another. The fact that we were friends, that we had grown up together, didn't make these particular desires strange. It made them strong. One afternoon, during a balmy October weekend, the five of us assembled for the first time since school had started up and took a walk, something we used to do frequently. Call it an act of nostalgia. We stopped outside the new store just across from the street of brownstones that always placed decently in the annual contest of the greenest block in Brooklyn and stood as one, peering through the windows. A sign indicated the store was open, but it looked nowhere near ready to welcome customers yet. Inside, among towers of large, haphazardly stacked boxes, were intricate arrangements of junk. Every arrangement contained variations of the same stuff. Plastic bins, downy cushions, blankets, bowls, pellets of dirt. A trio of white people, two women and a man in tan aprons, moved slowly within the delicate maze, carrying large bags of what appeared to be desiccated grass. As they began to toss the twirling grasses here and there, everything around their feet twitched into motion. The cushions weren't cushions at all, but living things, animals, rabbits grouped inside rickety makeshift cages. We stared as we realized how many there were, about 20 cages, each housing two or three rabbits. Most were hopping around or furiously nibbling, but some settled quickly back into absolute stillness. In response to all this, we slipped easily into our trademark goofiness and banter. Riffing on our old script felt like a form of solace. When Walida, incredulous, expressed her opinion that the animals were too large to be rabbits, that the somber droop of their ears meant they were something else entirely, Ronnie told her, shut up. Well, they are indeed rabbits, a man's voice announced. But actually, there are guinea pigs and chinchillas too. The white man was peeking out the open door. Come on, kids. Let's introduce you to them. Shrugs. We followed him inside. The man explained that the place was actually a rescue and then began rattling off the names of the animals. That's Oreo, that's Marshmallow, Sasha's over there, and that's Balthazar. But he spoke too quickly for us to keep up. He had a pronounced underbite and a highly suspect chin beard that might as well have been a glued-on strap of mangled pelt. After naming all the animals for us, he mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that he was scion. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. They eat grass? But dogs shit on grass. Technically, it's hay, Sion said, but they can't subsist on hay alone. It doesn't provide all the nutrients. He offered us an opportunity to feed the animals some lettuce and called toward the back of the store for someone named Reginald. A moment later, this Reginald walked in, except Reginald wasn't Reginald. Reginald was head ass. he stood there also wearing an apron and looking even taller and lankier than usual though a bit more youthful with the semblance of a healthful glow against his chest he held a clear plastic bin filled with wet brilliantly green leaves his pants were clean well at least clean for head anyway and his matted hair was parted oddly on one side we gaped at the sight of him and he yawned at the sight of us. Then in a snap, a crooked grin stretched the left half of his face. Whoa, y'all hired head ass? Sion pursed his lips. He laughed. It was always our intention to engage people from the community. Reginald here was the perfect person to help us out. The sound of that name had the effect of a magical incantation, activating headass. He stepped forward, but instead of distributing food among the animals in any way that would have made sense, he set the bin on the floor, grabbed a handful of greens, and vaulted over the tremulous perimeter of a cage in two easy strides. Then he lowered himself until he was sitting cross-legged with three rabbits that, after a moment of wariness and agitation, reacted surprisingly well to him. Headass carefully lifted one of them and set it on his lap. With evident pleasure, he began feeding it. Well, it appears that Reginald and dear Chicory have made a love connection, one of the women said. Headass was imitating the rabbit now, with rapid pulsing movements of his nostrils and mouth as though he were eating too. His fingers slowly stroked the air just above the fur, never touching it. One of us started laughing and it became reassuringly infectious. The pellets scattered in the cage with head ass, scattered in all the cages, weren't made of dirt. He was sitting gleefully in a pile of rabbit shit. We left the rescue and walked shoulder to shoulder, incandescent with jokes and cackles, five lit bulbs on a string. It's ridiculous, but seeing Herrera's genuinely taking notice of him, really witnessing him rooted there in the playpen of dung, seemed to bind us in a way we hadn't been bound in months. We walked and without speaking agreed on which direction to turn at which corner and where to eat for lunch, and as we ate, we expressed enthusiastic opinions about the new album everyone was talking about and quickly agreed on which song was the best, which possessed the most fire. And after lunch, as we played it aloud on one of our phones, we claimed a little pocket of Marcus Garvey Boulevard, making it gorgeous as hell with our singing and our shouts and the perfectly synchronized dance steps. Even the two of us boys were completely into it for a minute, gleefully popping our butts along with the girls, until we leaned into one another and just roared in the spirit of gratified exhaustion without a trace of cynicism, irony, or embarrassment. As we resumed our walk, one word seemed to come to all our minds at the same time. Reginald. Why were those white people referring to head ass as Reginald. We screamed, which sent us into more fits of laughter. We agreed without an utterance of doubt that Reginald could not, under any circumstances, be his government name. But we did not acknowledge the fact that we too had named him, or our uncles and older cousins who'd grown up with him and had done it. So it was easy to avoid that particular complication, since he'd always, as far as we knew, answered to head ass. We avoided the complication of the idea that head ass was also, sometimes in a peculiar way, a part of us. Because in that moment, all that really mattered was the beautiful, hazy dream of we the five restored to harmony. But then, when it was suggested that we go over to Antonio's apartment, which is exactly what we would have done before, back when things had been normal, Antonio hesitated. He looked down at his hands as they gripped the side of his jeans. He said, we shouldn't. His place was messy. Things were still weird there. Lately, his mother had been feeling even worse. He started to say something more, anxious to offer additional excuses, but instead let his voice trail away. Charisse cleared her throat and said she too had to go. Then the two of them said hasty goodbyes and walked off, as if holding hands, in a direction where neither of them lived. So, Ronnie said to Alita, what was it you were going to show me? One of your cartoons? Alita nodded, yeah, yeah, that's right. Then the girls, who developed a new and hard-won intimacy, left as well. Together, but apart. and just like that, our reunion, our alliance was, however lovely the bond, broken. Two weeks later, though, our dormant group text lit up with a message from Charisse, telling us all to come by the animal rescue. She was already there. So was Antonio. Walida and Ronnie arrived last, but in time to witness some of the spectacle. Headass in a bulky costume stalking the sidewalk back and forth. The intention was probably to attract people who were or could be lovers of the Leporidae, but he was playing it all wrong. From where we stood, the fur was convincing enough. At the extremities, however, the color graded to the hideous, fleshy pink of skinned game. As Headass moved his feet and hands mechanically up and down, he seemed to carve the air with his pointed yellow nails, his fingers rigid and spread, his posture that of a demon giving chase. He was wearing a stiff plaid vest, which jumped on his body like an ill-fitting shell. But the strangest thing was the way his face peeked out of the creature's open mouth, as though he were being swallowed or bizarrely birthed through a crown of sharp buck teeth, the same awful yellow as his nails. Behind him, Sian stood at the doorway of the rescue, chewing loose fistfuls of peanuts. He must have been listening as we discussed Headass and the strange sound emanating from him. Well, little known fact, he called, but rabbits have the ability to purr, just like our feline friends. It's much cooler, though. You know why? Rabbits do it with their teeth. head ass wasn't doing anything with his teeth and the sound wasn't one bit like purring it was more a drawn out melancholic moan cyan came over to us this was reginald's idea so we let him choose whichever costume he wanted it's perhaps not what we would have gone with but there's something to it Maybe Cyan wasn't all bad for an invader. It was cool of y'all to hire a homeless dude. Cyan seemed taken aback by the comment. Well, technically speaking, he's a volunteer. Whoa, you mean you don't pay him? He listened to head-ass moan and nodded regretfully. If only we could. Well, do you feed him? He balked. Feed him? Well, actually, there's usually lots of leftover romaine. Not to mention, let's see, there's bok choy, watercress, kohlrabi. We watch Hedez stop, spin on his heels, and start in the opposite direction. There haven't been as many adoptions as we might have liked, Sion said, changing the subject. Not a single one so far, in fact. But folks seem curious, that's for sure. They slow down when they pass. Building interest is always step numero uno. You can't really expect a lot of rabbit adoptions in the hood, Ronnie said. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, why not, Sion replied. History tells us that rabbits appeal to people from all walks of life. And this isn't really the hood anymore, is it? Sion was right about that last part, though he spoke as if he had absolutely nothing to do with it. We stared first at him and then around at the drivers parading by in their eco-friendly cars, the cyclists in their biking shorts, assaulting us with their law-abiding goodness and safety. But all that was oppressively dull. What was interesting were the people and places that were gone. What exactly had been there before? The thing was to remember to recollect but despite our efforts all we could conjure was a sign in the clouded window that read Commercial Space for Rent Suddenly Headass pivoted and stomped towards us as if all his back and forth had just been a way of winding himself up. He stood directly in front of us and peered down into our faces, fully inhabiting his bestial role. Whoa, what's up, Headass? When his eyes narrowed in disapproval, we glanced at one another. What's up, Reginald? He shook his head emphatically. Then he sucked a deep breath through his mouth, pressed his lips together, and moaned. We all laughed, but it was thin laughter, tentative, nervous. We didn't hide our bewilderment. Headass could talk, but he was refusing to use his words. He did it again. Deep breath, tensed mouth, long, plangent moan. One by one, we came to understand. He moaned, we moaned. And it went on like that, antiphonal, until finally all six of our voices coalesced. In the quiet that followed, satisfied perhaps, Hedaz retreated into the rescue. He stood at the same cage he'd sat in two weeks earlier, the claws of his costume curled into the gaps between the metal, staring raptly at a fellow creature within. We left, but didn't get very far together. Just reaching the corner required a colossal effort. What we had felt coerced into doing with Jerez cast us into a net from which we were eager to escape. The excuses came quickly. Antonio's mother was still sick, Cherise had chores to do, Walida and Ronnie had to study, and the street that would one day win the honor of greenest block in Brooklyn was, at least for the immediate interval, also without question, the loneliest. We returned to the rescue a week later on a cold day that could have been special but was depressingly ordinary. After the interminable hours at school, we found ourselves going in the same direction at the same time, so we just gave in to the accident of being together. The conversation was halting and slight. Outside the rescue, Sion was sweeping leaves into a pile. He greeted us warily, without a word. His mouth dropped open, and the heft of his draw turned his expression into a shock of surrender. We watched him work, listened to the swish of the broom and the rasp of the leaves. Finally, it was asked, Where's Hedaz? Sigh and froze. Why didn't anyone tell us he was troubled? Troubled? He lowered his voice. Mentally disturbed. Wasn't it obvious? We thought he was a little eccentric, quirky maybe, but generally fine. You guys could have said something. Why would we? Is there a good reason why you wouldn't? Anyway, it doesn't matter. Please don't mention him anymore. From now on, consider Reginald persona non grata here. But what happened? Science face became strained and then relaxed into a grimace. There are things called zoning ordinances, okay? There are rules that have to be followed. And your friend, he put us in violation. If we hadn't found him by chance the other night, there could have been serious consequences. He was sleeping here, agitating the animals. He completely abused our kindness. Where is he now? Cyan looked genuinely aggrieved by the question. Who cares? As long as it's far away from us. He began to sweep again. The bristles uncomfortably close to our feet. None of us moved. We just stared holes into his head. But even this communal act of aggression couldn't hold us together for long. Man, fuck this place, Antonio said. We out. But we didn't mean all of us. We did not. Wait, wait, wait. This is stupid bullshit. Can't mess up our day. Let's get into something. Go somewhere. Don't you guys want to do anything? Antonio's eyes got dull. He exhaled loudly. The day was already messed up. It was a dumpster fire the second the fucking alarm went off. There's not a thing we can do about it, not a damn place to go, but home. Zion watched as we separated, two by two by one, and went every which way. After a minute, he yelled something that had the striking ring of optimism, but we weren't close enough to hear it. At home, Dad was waiting. Happy birthday! He held a brown paper bag, crisply folded and sealed with a square of tape. It was obvious that a book was inside. Thanks, Dad. I appreciate you, son. Lord knows what things would be like without you, without the rock, sturdy and steady, no matter what. Dad, you know that place that opened up a little while ago, the animal rescue with all the rabbits and stuff? What of it? Do you remember what it used to be? Dad made himself look thoughtful. Anyone who really knew him knew that his chief affliction was an inability to ever forget. After hamming it up like this for a while, he snapped his fingers. It used to be a church, one of those storefronts, you know. That's right, the Cathedral of Blessed Deliverance. That's what it was called. For real? Lying is dying. You walk by on service days and the singing that came out of there would bring you to your knees. That one's gone, but there's still plenty of others around. Now come on, open your present, and guess what your dad's whipping up for dinner tonight? Your favorite. Not long after we ate, dad started crying in his room again. His weeping had always been legible and easily classified. Angry heaving meant his attempts to get a second job had resulted in some new humiliation. Pathetic quavering meant he wished mom would change her mind and come back to us, and so on. But the sound he was making that night was some kind of hybrid. Better to let people be when they get that way. Earlier that summer, Antonio had made a similarly horrible sound when he'd learned exactly how ill his mother was. Who knows what else he was figuring out, what else was baffling him. When you hear someone you love make a sound like that, the problem isn't that you don't know how to respond. It's that you lose all the discipline and self-restraint that were actually keeping everything intact. So you close the door to your friend's room and begin gathering the dented soda cans and empty water bottles, arranging them in rows on his desk. You pick up every loose bit of soiled, funky clothing from the floor and drop them into the hamper. You stack the crusted cereal bowls on top of the smeared plates and neatly arrange all the used spoons and forks. When he makes the sound again, you sit on the bed where he's crumpled into a heap. You lay your body down beside his. You put your arm around him and pull him close and hold fast, your chest knocking against his back. When he turns toward your body and its offering, you kiss along a meridian of his face. First on his eye, then down beneath his cheekbone, then lightly on the leftmost edge of his mouth. You say you're sorry, but he doesn't understand what you mean. Or maybe he doesn't want to. So no matter how wretched the sound, it's best to stay very quiet and avoid calling any attention to yourself. It's best to do absolutely nothing. But if you must do something, try as a means of control to obliterate yourself without violence. Try to endure the long waking hours and then slip unnoticed into sleep. Nearly three more weeks passed. We did see one another at school or on the street, two or three of us at a time in passing, but never all five. And the way we interacted during those random encounters with shrugging superficiality seemed to acknowledge that this was it. This was what life did, plain and simple. So maybe don't worry too much. It pulled bodies apart. But then one morning brought us back together. It was the Friday before Thanksgiving. The sun hadn't yet risen very far in the sky, and Bed-Stuy was still waking up. Near Halsey Street, a chubby stray cat leaped from behind a tree and made an odd purring sound. At second glance, however, it wasn't a cat, but a rabbit, of course, the one they called Balthazar. It jumped again, moving in reaction to a different sound that came with an earshot, a distant clanging. Along the next couple of blocks, more than a dozen of them became visible, as if our little slice of bed-sty were like some town in the Midwest teeming with wildlife. It didn't take long to find the source. Out on McDonough, besides the open door to the unlit rescue, Headass stood with a large metal spoon in one hand and an empty pot in the other. Among the people gathered there, Antonio and Charisse, Ronnie and Walida, standing together, apart in their pairs. As Headass continued to bang the spoon against the pot, some began to warn him, others to cheer him on. More rabbits came into view as though summoned. The crowd grew and cheers intensified, punctuated with random shouts of yes, yes, that's all right, but also be careful, be careful, don't get got, don't get got. It wasn't clear what the crowd as a collective was hoping to articulate. Everyone seemed to be smoldering in their own private fire. It made sense that it didn't make sense, and it felt good. We the five weren't a thing anymore, and we wouldn't ever be again, but for a little while, as long as head has kept up this racket, we could be a part of another thing, a large and incoherent body that had plenty to say and no need to justify itself. Still, such things tend not to last, and sooner than we might have expected, it was done. Without warning, Hedas stopped the banging. He looked at the pot and spoon in his hands as if they no longer held any interest. He dropped them to the ground, and the crowd started to disperse. Ronnie and Melita, Charisse, and Antonio. They walked until they were gone. Headass, you should go too. It's not safe for you to be here. But he paid the concern no mind. Instead, he crept over to a car, parked directly in front of the rescue, and ducked behind it, disappearing completely for a moment before rising with a rabbit nestled in his arms. Grinning, he approached. The rabbit struggled a bit, flailing its little limbs, then relaxed as he got close. With great care, he extended his arms, offering the animal for affection. He seemed so proud as he held it out. Its nose fluttered. Its fur was stunningly soft, its warmth and astonishment. It was the same rabbit from that first day, the one he'd held and obsessed over. This is chicory, right? He shook his head and responded, no, no, his voice richer and more sonorous than before. He smiled broadly and said a word, pronouncing it slowly, savoring each of the syllables, sharing the true name he'd given the rabbit out of love. Then he told me his name. Then I told him mine. And because of it, we the readers and listeners get to directly experience the narrative and the transformation of both the characters and their sense of their neighborhood. There's a side of Reginald that is like Lenny in John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, and the inclusion of Rabbit seems like a nod. But here, his ungainly impulses lead not to tragedy, but in a roundabout way, and perhaps for the first time in his life, to being known. Intervention is an inviting concept in fiction, because there is a built-in sense of encounter, challenge, and moral ambiguity. Both Stephen King and Jamel Brinkley leave us with questions about right and wrong, and we might wonder whether the intervention they depict was the best way out of things. In the best sort of intervention, something changes for the better, and we hope that's been the case for you this hour. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts. Thank you. performed by the Deardorff-Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space. Thank you.