Brian Hastings once had a face that commanded respect and a name that opened doors, at least in the precinct and among certain less reputable circles. Now, after the incident-he never called it anything else-he had a face that made people look away and a name that had disappeared into the background hum of the city.He spent most days in dive bars, drifting from one cracked vinyl booth to another, or, when the mood struck, in whatever alley offered the right combination of shadow and rain-slicked concrete. It was in one such alley, behind the Flora's Diner just off 17th, that Susan Evans stumbled upon him.Susan had a voice like warm honey and a habit of being late to everything: Classes, meetings, even her own birthday parties. She was trying to take a shortcut home from her shift at the clinic when she saw the crumpled shape at the edge of a dumpster. At first, she thought he was dead. She hesitated, then nudged his boot with the toe of her sneaker.He groaned, rolled over, and looked up at her with a glassy stare. "Don't steal my shoes," he muttered, then passed out again. I was born in England, but have lived in Southern California for many years. I m now retired and live in the Pacific NW in a little seaside city amongst the giant redwoods and wonderful harbor, almost at the Oregon border. My husband and I have one cat, called Midnight and she is featured in two of my latest Sci-Fi short stories. I love Science Fiction, animals, and trying to help others. I publish under Doreen Milstead as well as my own name. My photo was taken right before the coronation of QE II in the UK.
