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   Drifting smoky wafts of rising thought, spirits of the past meld with forms of the present, the primary colors of emotion and life congeal indistinct mass of mumbling grey.   Memories of a fearful time at nine, a stay at the hospital for pneumonia after the last game of Pop Warner Football, a playoff game played in a freezing rain to a crushing loss.   There's a statuesque red haired nurse tending to his needs, the only thing distinct in the forms that rose out of the penumbra surrounding him, leaving the unconscious to fill in the details, memories of a mother who hardly ever left, respirators, endless dripping making the silence crazy, and time, lots of time on a heavy body.

   It is awfully dark for a hospital...it must be nighttime.   And the nurse...at the hospital, she was older, and small, with a kind face, and her hair was salt and pepper....a long time ago.   Why does it smell so musty?

   Grey's fingers caressed a coarse weave of cotton, just deviating enough from the expected to add to the uncertainty.   His vision finally cleared, and his mind struggled to understand the image above him.   A rough-cut timber crossbeam held some fifteen feet above him.   Someone had bothered to paint it and the underside of the floor it supported a sky blue.   The energy it must have taken to do something so unnecessary, the pain of all the slivers contained in that aged wood...

   His awareness evolved slowly, and he accepted the surrounding images and the soundscape like a man still dreaming, as facts with no importance assigned to them.   The furnace inside still burned, but had been cooled.   The lich had retreated deep into him.   A textured cotton blanket of deep purple kept him warm, soft on his skin compared to the beach towel place underneath his back.   It seems he was on someone's sofa, but it might as well been a bed it was so large to him.   He lay flat on it, with neither shoulder touching its beige edges.   His feet fell nowhere near its end, and his head still had space above.   For an instant, he returned to his youth, and wondered about his strange dreams of adulthood, until a grave voice shook him.

   "Like I asked you before, what are you doing in my house?"

   Grey's head still lie in the smog from the furnace.   His eyes sought the source of the voice, spoken forcefully, but lacking the strength to back the implied threat.   He found his nurse, the one from his dreams, standing high over him by the opposite end of the sofa.

   'My house...'

   These words began to clear the haze.   He stared at the roof as if the answers were written in the rings and knots above.

   "Why am I in your house?"   Jumbled puzzle pieces fell from space, and arranged themselves together.   His eyes did a loop and he blinked hard, trying to squeeze out the confusion.   Tables, lamps and a rug, he was in a living room.   A Television, not the newest, but a nice, large flat screen on a simple, dark walnut stand.   Those did not even exist when he was a child.

   "Yes, that's what I said.   Why are you here, in MY home?"   Her deep voice gained in strength.   "Do you even know where you are?"

   She was no nurse, clothed in a tan leather wielder's jacket over a rotund torso and an old pair of brown Dickies overalls, which rode high and tight over thighs compressed into them, leaving much of her calves exposed between its end and the beginning of steel-toe boots.   Far from caring looks and a soft touch, every bit of her intimidating as she towered high over him.   Only her hair seemed feminine, a wild, fiery red, which spilled in large loops over her ears and forehead to her shoulders, framing her pale face along with a strong jaw, giving it a broad, oval appearance well balanced on a wiry neck.   A thin nose was compensated by rosy upturned cheekbones, bushy eyebrows and jutting chin.   Not a youthful woman, certainly she had a number of years on him, but her features were still firm, as age had won nothing over her as yet.

   "I'm sorry, thought this was a hospital."

   Her face and posture remained unmoved.   "You fell ill as you were stealing my food."

   "I put money on the table."

   "It was stealing."

   "I hadn't eaten in two days."

   "That doesn't matter."

   "I know....I'm sorry.   I don't normally do that kind of thing.   It was a lapse in my judgement."   If his confession bought him leniency, it did not show in her stone features.   Her arms crossed in unconscious satisfaction, creating a notch in the jacket between her chest and stomach.   He focused on her unwieldy, fiery hair.   It wasn't just red, it streaked in strawberry blonds, goldenrod, and straw colors in bold contrasts.   The tones of autumn, a variety of the colors you find in the leaves falling from the trees.   It was like nothing he had seen before, as if her hair could not decide what it wanted to be.   I had not been bleached this way by the sun, it came from the roots on through with no rhyme or reason as to color or size.

   "I'm in that warehouse by the bay."

   "You're in my home."

   "You hit me."   Instinctively he touched the spot of the impact on his head, to a small place of tender swelling in the hairline.

   Her arms dropped to her sides for just an instant before settling on her hips.   "I barely touched you; you practically fell down on your own."

   "You hit me several times, I remember."

   "You were trespassing on MY home."

   "I didn't know...is looked abandoned last night"

   "It's SUPPOSED to."   The features were cracking as her voice rose in tone and volume.   She leaned in slightly and gestured his way in some incomprehensible way, as if it made the slightest difference in his ability to hear her.   Fear came to him without understanding why, and he reacted to it.

   "Then I will correct my mistake.   I will be on my way."   He tried to sit up, to only find his brain put in a blender, and he slumped back down on a lean, his feet dangled, unable to even find the floor in his smallness, and he almost slid off to the floor.   With a slightness that seemed at odds with her anger and impossible with her size.   She helped center him with one hand, her long, thin and callused fingers dominating his chest.   Grey tensed at the touch, and it focused his thoughts.   Fear, he was afraid of something, of her.

   "It's been three days since you came here.   You fell ill with a strong fever and cough.   I've been feeding you broth with a recipe I got off of the internet.   I'll get you some more.   You don't seem ready to leave."

   Grey lie on the sofa as the woman left, remembering the hospital when he was young, sorting it from what had led him here.   He was a small boy, a young man, and it was the last time he was ill like today.   The day he came home from the hospital, he watched TV on a sofa that first day, feeling small and week, everything felt so far away, like today.   Small and far away...

   She is so large, so tall... why is everything so big?

   Apprehension precipitated from the smoke and ash that hid the truth.   He was a grown man, yet everything he saw was from the perspective of a child's.   The warehouse, the furniture, it all was like a Hollywood set...and he a Hobbit.   This woman, it was sized for her, or had he shrunk from his fever?   Impossible...as impossible as she.   He still wore the same clothes he came in with, except his jacket, which had disappeared, and his jeans as well. 'Did my clothes shrink to?' he thought in the voice of a nine-year old.

   "Why am I laying out in my Boxers?!?"   His voice echoed slightly in the void space without response.   He tried to sit up again, slowly, and tried to cover his insecurities by wrapping the towel around his thighs.   "Where are my clothes?"

   "Feeling Vulnerable, like your space has been violated?"   The words were forced out with a spitting edge.   She had returned with the broth in a over-sized mug, almost a stein.    Indeed she had managed to move quite close for someone so large without his notice, and appeared even larger than his sketchy memory of her.   Far past head and shoulders taller, even sitting up on this sofa, Grey's eye-line fell on the level of where he guessed her waist would be, covered still by the thick leather jacket.   How big is she? Clearly there was a good deal of something underneath, it was hard to determine the amount with its insulating thickness.   But other than this, her proportions were relatively normal he supposed, not bony or lank, or showing the traits of gigantism. Really, if you were to take a photo without a perspective to guide you, her size would not be obvious.   If anything, her ample framing would perhaps give you the impression she was somewhat squat.   But this was no photo; this was real, in all its imposing beauty.

   Not in an instant, but in moments, she became aware of this, and her indignancy retreated into its core feeling, awkwardness.   She bent for a moment, as if to sit next to him, then considered the coffee table across from him, and finally kneeling at the armrest of the sofa.

   "Here, try to hold this down."   It was hot, and only could be sipped despite his needs; a chicken broth spiked in rosemary and garlic, and the best thing he had drank in the years of his travels.   He held the mug in both hands; in case one in it weakness and shaking might lose its grip.   "If you can hold that down, you can try something more solid later."   She raised herself to go, and took several steps before halting, craning her face back towards where he sat.   "I took your clothes in case you had an accident.   You've been on that sofa for three days."   Then she resumed her step, but wasn't quite finished.   "I have work to do.   I'll check on you in a few hours.   There's a bottle of water on the table.   Get better."    The last statement sounded something like a threat.

    If only the spoken word could work as an incantation on him.   He passed in an out of sleep throughout the day, cursing his body for its weakness, cursing the day for its laziness.   Rhythmic footfalls could be heard like a drumbeat upstairs, accentuated with the occasional creek of a board giving ground to a loose nail, punctuated with the bass of greater impacts, and the clash of metal on metal.   Grey focused on this, and it gave him lucidity in the pale light.

   His hold, an island on a sea of concrete; the beige boxy sofa, the unadorned, dark stained oak coffee table with inlaid glass top, with matching end tables and their twin maroon lamps, a red oriental rug with golden highlights running underneath it all; it seemed so out of place surrounded by square yards of empty concrete, even more than a living room designed for a giant in an aging warehouse should.   The thought made him laugh out loud; there was little else he could do.   No remote had been left behind, no books or magazines on the coffee table, nothing to pass the time.   It felt like a museum piece, sterile, clean, for looks only, shoved in the back of the building forgotten. No water rings warping the wood, or any of the things of life.   The warehouse itself, the attempt had been made to maintain it, even to improve its look.   The table saw and lathe, and other carpentry stuffs stored in the south-east corner near where he had slipped in attested to that.   The boards seemed to be in a unending state of replacement, even some of the support beams, and everything painted in earth tones except for seemingly the latest batch, browns, greens and blue.   It gave a sense of the natural surroundings, but in the dim light that worked its way inside, it felt surreal, like a dream, or a faded memory.

   What had he landed in?   He had been there; he had done that, in a modern sense of the gypsy wanderlust.   The best and worse in people, the altruism and the greed had been his entertainment and his hobby.   This he had never seen before, or had he without seeing it for what it was?   Grey thought of Carlos, and preyed he was far south of here and not stuck in some cell a few miles away.   One thing was plain; he wasn't welcome here more than anywhere else, despite the act of kindness towards him.   Was he a prisoner as well?    She could easily have him arrested anytime.   Had she not because she had felt no threat from him, weak as her was?   She had that part right, he could barely stand.   Even healthy, he was no threat as he was. Hell, she probably had three times his weight, crush him just by sitting on him.   She could have done, or could do, anything she wanted to him.   What did she want with him?   A cold thought, and his apprehension returned.   Yet the tension could not buoy his conscious forever.   Grey slumbered.

   Laying in a slanted bed in a white room…Held in with shiny bars.   Can see you own face in them.    More bars surround him.   A radar keeps tabs on you.   *beep* *beep* *beep*   There's mom in her pretty blue dress…dad in his dark suit…they fight over you again.   Mom is in in between you and him.   She is wearing armor.   She is fighting a giant red dragon.   I watch in my grey suit.   The dragon devours the mother...he is next.

   Grey shot up straight on the sofa, blanket thrown in the turmoil clear to the floor.   His feet followed it before it even registered in his mind, before he even remembered where he was, until the dust, must, and chill air reminded him.   He wandered away in a daze into the nether region between the living area and the kitchen, stumbling left, lurching right, head hanging, until an unsteady knee gave out and was driven into the cold concrete.   The blessed pain cleared his mind, and he pushed himself back up to his feet, and gazed on the kitchen, where this whole thing began.   It was a thing of oak and bright steel, dominated by an island in its center, which looked to be taken from a single stump of wood and squared off, rising to his chest.   Above it hung a wide assortment of stainless steel pots and pans, to one side a stainless steel refrigerator, a stainless steel stove with matching microwave, a deep double sink, all of it pushed up against the south wall accompanied by russet stained contractor cabinets.

   Another thing caught his attention.   Bookcases tall and wide, one after another lined the south wall, and filled with books of all shapes and color starting just past the rust red tile which defined the kitchen space.   They were elaborate ones, dark stained with flourishes carved into the trim.   He couldn't resist looking...

   "I had these brought for you.   I can't take the smell of your clothes."   She had announced this somewhere from far away, a fair warning of her presence, and he abandoned his ambition.   Her voice came from a hallway to the right of him, and for the first time he realized that there was something past the west wall on the north edge.   She emerged in a large off-white bathrobe; her fiery hair still wet had lost some of its curl.   At least it would have been large on anyone without her Amazonian size.   Too little cloth strained to cover her feminine features, and threatened to burst in protest.   A pair of straining forces, her breasts, as exaggerated as the rest of her and even more so, seemed to dominate her chest as if her maker had so much extra clay and had been determined to make use of it all.   The knotted ends cloth belt of were drawn directly underneath them, and only served to define the outline their form and stress the cloth further in its attempt to contain them.   The pair of them seemed to be in a constant struggle in a battle to claim the cotton from her thighs, which rose too far above her knees, revealing the long, elegant curves of her thighs.   Healthy legs that seemed thinner than you would believe compared to her portly torso.   Unlike earlier, here stood the form of a woman, but a woman unaware of the effects of her form on a man and completely ignorant of her femininity.   Grey's awareness had steadily improved throughout the day, and yet again felt the shock and amazement at seeing her yet again, and like this.   He stumbled over his own foot at the sight, then returned his gaze upon her without recovery.   She noticed this at least, and stopped moving, showing her agitation with hands on her voluptuous hips, a plastic bag of clothes hung off of one wrist.

   "Go ahead, dammit. just get it over with, ask."

   "What is your name?"

   "...My name?"

   "Yes.   I can't thank you without a name."

   "Meghan..."   Her voice softened, and lightened, and he thought as deep as it was, it was not monstrous.   Really, he thought it should be something quite deeper, and raspier.   She approached him casually with the bag, close enough to strain his neck as he tried to maintain eye contact.

   "Thank you for the concern Meghan, but I can't accept them."

   "And why not?"

   " 'Never live for the sake of another man, nor ask another man to live for mine.' ”

   "Ayn Rand.   That's a strange thing to live by when you're a bum."

   "I prefer to call myself an adventurer or traveler, transient if you must."

   "So...a bum?" She mocked with a triumphant sneer.   Her arms slowly relaxed and slid to touch bare thigh.

   "Not at all.   A bum is a drag on society, begging and scamming his way through life.   I don't beg, I trade my skills for my living, and ask for nothing I don't earn."

   "Bull.   So you've never taken charity?   Even eaten at a shelter?"

   "I've done the shelter thing, but I work off my debt to them at the time, or later if I can."   Grey tried to straighten himself up, only to find his head level and sized with her softer curves.   He search wild for a distraction.   "Speaking of which, I owe you a debt now.   I have some money, not enough, but it's something   Take it as a deposit for now.   It's in my pants, wherever they are."   He broke himself away to look for them, to some relief.

   "I don't want your money."

   "And I won't owe you."

   "What are you going to do?   Force it on me?"   Meghan half-laughed at the thought, and stood, shifting her weight between legs.   It seemed she had finally found her strength, and maintained a distance just out of his reach, but not hers.   "You want to thank me?   Leave as soon as you can get out my door," and she pointed toward the hallway.   "You've done enough already."

   "The outside of your home could use some serious work."

   "It keeps the curious away...usually.   I'm starting dinner."

   "Can I help?"

   "Can you even stay on your feet?"   Again she abruptly walked away, this time she did not turn back as she spoke.   "Just get better so you can move on.   What were you doing over there anyways?"

   "Looking for my clothes, your home could use some insulation."   He lied, and all the same moment fished for a way to clear what he owed.

   "It doesn't much bother me, thick skin."

   Grey managed his way to a tall round table on the far side of the kitchen area, another homemade product of hers, but done well enough, almost like the type common in a sports bar, but large enough for a family, that was pushed up against the sheetrock addition, sealed and taped, but unpainted.   A larger chair, along with three smaller ones had been pushed against it.   Grey held himself up in one of the smaller, and absorbed his surroundings in a passive way, and was fascinated with this solitary woman.   The light from the southern windows ticked its lengthy shadows across the concrete floor and the sofa in turn, ticking away the moments of the end of the day.   Soon, the clatter of pots and pans gave time its perspective back, the clack of steel knives on its oak island, giving the whole thing the appearance of some giant cutting board.   Grey rested his eyes and listened as the sizzle of meat and vegetables arose from the silence, until the snapping of the oil along with the scraping pan filled the wide expanse, along with aroma both pleasing and unsettling.   She would not compromise to the stove's height, choosing to dominate it as everything else.    Grey struggled to stand, and stumbled.   His chin struck the table's edge.

   "What the hell are you doing?!?"   Stainless steel scraped on cast iron grates.

   "I need...I need to use your bathroom."

   "Hrum...that's good.   Why didn't you just say something?"

   "You were busy..."

   "You are a stubborn ass."   Meghan hooked a single arm underneath his pits, and lifted him gently, but with enough force to pull him entirely off of the ground until his feet found their strength on the floor.   She walked him slowly to a small bathroom, original to the building on the north wall.   "Hurry up, I need to finish dinner," maintaining the pace while chiding him.

   After, he held himself up to the mirror, bolstering his chest with his arms on a sink sunk into the wall.   He stared at himself, the filthy, ratted dark brown hair of his head and beard.   At least the beard hid some of his sunken features; a shame it couldn't hide his aquiline nose or simian ears, made more awkward by his illness and lifestyle.   Twice he dry heaved into the sink.   Never had he felt so small, and in front of such a woman.   Always confident in himself, until now...

The door opened, and two steps later he fell into a heap.   Memories and images that had been held apart at arm’s length for hours came crashing back together.   He saw a robe burst off her body and he became rolled up in it.   Flashes of teal, high cut bikini bottoms on high flaring hips, a halter top hiding what it could over a toned flat stomach.   Broad outer sweeps of flesh escaped its containment, the same flesh which softly pressed smooth satin over his torso.   A hand held his head, and his shoulders, and his waist, and legs.   A cool rag was placed by hand on his forehead.   A childish innocence overcame him and he accepted the experience without contention.   His head came to rest back on the pillow of the sofa as he lost all senses.