Ian M. Anderson

Mason Bloom shook off all his doubts about leaving -- about seeking a way to leave -- and decided to purchase a new home in the Singing Creek housing community. The realtor had a long list of prospective places for him, but the idea of a creek running nearby had been enough for Mason. Of course, it was only an idea -- the small creek had been mostly diverted long ago as more houses were built. Mike, his aspiring realtor, said, "You know there's no actual creek." But Mason stepped into the back yard without answering. He knew. The yard he walked through that day consisted of a patch of dry lawn and weeds poking from mounds of topsoil. He grew a new garden in his mind -- "Don't you want to see the bedrooms?" Mike had asked from the deck. Mason hadn't answered that question either -- he let the dirt crunch under his rubber soled shoes, and at one point closed his eyes to better feel the sun on his neck. Later, standing next to Mike, Mason said, &quo

On the northernmost edge of the south side stood a Pelican Burger -- "Proudly serving the city's biggest burger since 1978" -- and its sign loomed over 56th street so that the head of a massive pelican cast a deep shadow, westward during early morning hours, then to the east as the day waned. The bird's plastic head could be seen as far away as 52nd, and the running joke of those who lived nearby was if you saw the feathered head even that far off, you were caught -- or just as well you were -- by the large beak of the pelican: your next meal awaited you, no matter the hour. Dr. Mary Glen-Shaw's mind clenched like a fist as she stood under the creaking Pelican Burger sign. From where she stood she could hear the commotion of customers inside, and she saw her son, Matthew, standing along the wall. The muscles in her neck tightened; she gritted her teeth. Deep in the recesses of her thoughts she remembered telling him he could be anything he wanted to be. This co