September 2021 | Getaway

“Be there in five.”

It was twenty minutes to ten and finally full dark out. 

When his parents named him ‘Ace’ they saw a life for him. One of crushing. A life where he could achieve anything he put his mind to. They knew that whatever sportsball he chose, he’d be a winner. 

Anyway, he tore his ACL back in ’98 and playing high-school baseball was over for him. Ace isn’t one of those guys who put his money where his mouth is and went to physical therapy. He didn’t “never say die” and come back stronger the next year. He watched Rudy sometimes though, so…

Ace got a job instead of playing baseball and bought a ford taurus. He also figured smoking black and milds would be cool so he started that up too. 

So here we find him at twenty minutes to ten (well, now it’s more like quarter ‘til since that whole origin story moment) sitting in his taurus with the motor running. He checked the seat buckle, adjusted the mirror, and lit another black and mild. 

He didn’t choose this life. It chose him. He hadn’t been caught yet and their town was pretty small so the stakes didn’t seem that high. Plus he never felt like his clients’ actions really offended his sensibilities. Also, having “clients” sounded badass. 

The getaway driver is an important role and Ace is your guy. Quick on the gas, but otherwise an inconspicuous driver, always came sober, and made sure to print out multiple MapQuest routes to your point B of choice just in case. He did, of course, smoke in the car but there was always a little green tree hanging from the rearview mirror to freshen the place up and plenty of peppermint gum. And he shared if anyone ever had that yucky ‘I forgot to brush before this’ feeling.

Tonight he felt the gratitude of this life wash over him as he saw himself in the mirror. Being the getaway driver of Madison Park felt pretty rad to him. 

Imagine it. You wake up, and the first thing you see wh—close your eyes, and imagine this with me. I forgot to say “close your eyes.” It's the first step. Can you close your eyes? I’ll close mine too. Okay: imagine this. You wake up, and the first thing you see when you open your eyes is—no, don’t open your eyes. Sorry, keep your eyes closed, but just imagine: you're sleeping in a bed. A nice—the comfiest bed you ever slept in. I swear, these things are like clouds. The white puffy ones, not the storm ones. I'm not shitting you: they let me lie in one when I took a tour on my first day. Best bed I ever lied in. So, you're sleeping on a cloud, and then you wake up, and out the window... the Atlantic Ocean. Remember the picture I showed you? No, don’t look at it, keep your eyes closed. But just imagine that view: miles and miles of shiny blue, as far as the eye can see. When the sun rises, it glistens on the water, like it’s infested with diamonds. It’s gorgeous. Have you ever seen the sun rise on the ocean? Wait no, let me guess, you're more of a night owl aren't you? Forget the sunrise. I'm a night owl too. With these places, you can sleep in as late as you want. One, two o'clock even. That's what I do on my day off. I'm usually up late playing Bludgeon II with my friend Lyle. We're stuck on the ninth level, it's so insane how hard it is. Last week, we were like fifty feet from the end, but at the last second this blood-sucking toad hopped on Lyle and ripped his face off. I played it cool and tried to cheer him up, but honestly I was pissed. He just ran for it like a dumbass. You have to be aware of your surroundings, you know?

Anyway, this view. It's gorgeous 24/7, doesn't matter when you wake up. And if you choose a unit on the ground floor, you'll have a door wall that opens right out to the beach. Well, it's like five minutes. Obviously you have to get off the property and cross the street, but then you're there. And let me tell you, babes galore. It's like you're on Baywatch. But more modern, like the Rock version. I was skeptical when he left WWE, but he won me over in G.I. Joe. I'm a sucker for a good plot. Lyle calls me a film snob, but I think he's just jealous that I went to Hollywood when I was a kid. We visited my aunt and got to walk around on the stars, and I'm pretty sure I saw Steve Gutenberg.

So yeah, babes galore. You pick one up and let her know you own an apartment in the Atlantic FantaSea Palace. And if I were you, I'd take her back to the cafe in the lobby. All our co-owners get discounts there. It's practically the employee discount. Pretty sweet. And they don't skimp on the brands too. It's Maxwell House, Lender's. Real Pop Tarts, not the store brand. Load up on that stuff and you're ready to soak up the sun all day. Look how tan I am. That's Atlantic su—you can open your eyes now. We're done with the imagine part. Look at this tan; you can't get a tan like this anywhere else. You know what I'd do if I was you? I'd buy one of our March weeks. Then every year, you come down here and tan up, and then you go back home to Cleveland or whatever you said, and you're a tan goddess—or, the man version. A bronze man-goddess surrounded by a bunch of pale suckers who spent winter break at a science museum or something dumb like that.

Sorry, I went off script a little. I'm still getting used to the script… Here we go: "Now, open your eyes and see that our gorgeous, state-of-the-art palace with spectacular ocean views is really a dream come true. Wouldn't you love to turn your Atlantic FantaSea into a reality?"

The cat’s stomach convulsed, heaved, and it vomited. 

Dad grabbed by the scruff, opened the door, convulsed, heaved, and vomited the cat out into the darkness.

There weren’t any perforated phone numbers torn from the sheet that was stapled to the post, so the boy snatched one. The whole flyer came down from the old telephone pole, but he let it lie on the ground. No time for that. Sprinting and clutching the tiny paper, he jettisoned home.

getaway cat needed

call 01474 960 194 ASAP

As the boy burst through the door of the flat, Dad jumped and shouted, “Give over, mate – Slow down there!”

“Sorry Dad – can’t hang about! Most important thing I ever found and no time to lose!”

Within five minutes, Kenley was back in front of Dad. He had no sense of reasonable volume, which Dad knew, but had never yet prepared him for the constant, urgent yelling that was Kenley’s status quo.

“I CAN’T FIND BOOTS ANYWHERE, WHERE IS HE?”

“Kenley, mate – could you not shout in my blinking face, for f-- erm, just … (!)”. Dad sharply inhaled and quickly reflected. “Last I saw that furball, I was chucking it out for puking on the floor.”

“Dad, you don’t understand, I NEED Boots! Someone needs a Getaway Cat immediately and he’s savvy enough to pull it off!”

Dad merely blinked at the boy.

“What’s a getaway cat supposed to be for, then?”

“Dunno, but I do know that Boots’ll be the best of ‘em they ever saw.”

“Go calling ‘round the block, I’m sure he’ll turn up at some point. Always comes back to shove his kibble then vomit on the floor anyway.”

Kenley thought, at least it’s a lead on finding his now-MIA Getaway Cat, even if Dad was being his normal, sour self. He never did take to Boots, did he?

Round the corner a half-dozen times, and finally he saw him. He was sniffing an unidentifiable load in a patch of weeds. Kenley tore toward Boots – who sharply looked over, but knew Kenley of course, therefore didn’t budge – and the boy manhandled the cat into a cradle-carry.

Dad had gone back to his home office, so it was now or never. Dad wouldn’t allow him to use the phone save special occasions or Nanna calling on the weekends, so he had to make a quick job of it. He uncrumpled the strip from the phone pole, and concentrated as hard as he could on the numbers he saw. 

After more rings than Kenley could count, finally, an answer. 

“KFC Gravesend.”

“Yeah, hi – it’s me. Name’s Kenley, got your message, and I’ve got the getaway cat.”

After a few attempts at this contact, Kenley was a little perplexed that he wasn’t being fully understood. The note was pretty clear, and he was using his words very well. Someone else came on the phone, a Nice Lady voice.

“Hi, who is this?”

“Kenley.”

“Hi Kenley – are you ringing to talk to your mum? You’re not Tabitha’s kid, are you?”

“No. I’m ringing because I got the note, and Boots – my cat, you see – is the one for the job. I just know it. Can I bring him over?” 

“Erm, sure, Kenley! We’ll be glad to… meet Boots, I’m sure.”

“Okay, brilliant. Where can I find you?”

The Nice Lady explained that, at next meal time, he could have his grown up lift him (and Boots, he clarified) to the KFC Gravesend, off of Valley Drive.

Dad admitted to himself he didn’t have any better plans for dinner, though he wasn’t really feeling fried chicken. Why the hell was this boy so bent on lugging this cat in the car? He had already fussed at Kenley enough, and he regretted it. It was ridiculous… but it felt like the least he could do. He just prayed the cat wouldn’t vomit in the car.

Left on Valley Drive. KFC, or as Dad had overheard a neighbor joke (badly), Kent Fried Chicken.

Kenley didn’t even wait for Dad to queue before bolting out of his seat with Boots in tow. He ran to the counter inside, and asked for the Nice Lady. After some very blank looks and confusion, it dawned on all working the KFC Gravesend that this was Kenley and Boots. Of course it was! They were already legends. Now they were living, mythological creatures for those slogging employees. They, who had spent many moments bedraggled and always left work smelling a little bit worse than the day before, didn’t have much to grin at. But today, and forevermore, they had Kenley and Boots. Nice Lady came out, and somewhere deep in her unconscious was a drifting realization that she had only smiled like this one other time at work.

To Kenley, the news that the strip from the phone pole had a typo on it took a good deal of explaining. The concept of a Getaway Car made no more sense to him than did a Getaway Cat to anyone else. It was probably just some cheeky prank that some low-life loiterer listed just for no reason at all, according to Nice Lady. 

The way their picture got framed in the KFC Gravesend is that Kenley just knew that, someday, they would need a Getaway Cat, and Boots was their man. He did his best to tell them in plain terms. His audience was enraptured. Nice Lady told Sid to use her phone for the picture. She had it blown up and actually framed, wood and all, and hung right on the wall next to the door, by the fountain drinks.

Dad couldn’t really wrap his head around the whole thing, but Kenley was happy. Kenley was, actually, ecstatic. And dinner was quick, cheap, and not all that bad, even for Kent Fried Chicken. 

To top it all off, thought Dad, Boots the Getaway Cat didn’t even vomit in the car.

Did I ever used to panic? 

I find myself questioning this on the days my heart races more than it stays steady and the nights my mind races more than it dreams.

Before what I consider my adulthood, I can remember only a few incidences of such total upheaval of rest: My dad sitting me down and asking me how much my final biology grade really mattered in the scheme of things; a friend bouncing back some lyrics, “Don’t let the panic bring you down,” after the scales fell from my eyes and the financial reality of student loans socked me real good; a different friend walking me through taking deep breaths in the rainy streets of Boston while I tried to calm my wrecked nerves about a boy I liked giving me a call. Gosh, and that last one was sort of fun to be in a panic about.

I can’t be sure (because of how retrospect skews reality,) but it certainly feels like my experience of panic has been increasing in both intensity and frequency. 

Is it because there is simply more to panic about? For a time my mental preoccupations consisted chiefly of throwing about enthralling visions of things I could gain. What new relationships, jobs, places to live, skills to develop lay ahead? My health and that of my family was taken for granted.

A slow transfer took place, however, and I now spend my mental energy worrying about how all these things may be lost or robbed from me. Now, (as opposed to “back when,”) I have seen worst-case scenarios come true, and the panic justifies itself with these cases as proof it is warranted. In addition to this, I’ve developed responses that feel more like bad habits than true coping mechanisms.

Some potential bad news arises and I try manically thinking in circles to solve the problem or make it go away. Most of the time it is totally out of my control. I feel the panic inserting itself somewhere inside my jaw, neck and shoulders. I can feel myself sinking, and if I don’t do something, the panic will make its way to the rest of my body to paralyze me. I have to keep functioning—I HAVE to. So how to get away?

Everyone has their own agent of escape. I have a few favorite vehicles I can scroll, binge-watch, and drink my way to elsewhere by. It works well-enough to keep the panic stuck in just my jaw-shoulder region. But there is a cascade that these getaways don’t keep me from tumbling down—as if I’m made to feel a little safer in a boat, but still headed toward a waterfall. 

Will the perspective of a family member, timely lyrics, or the presence of a friend ever be enough to fight the deeper, darker panics?

Will the prayers ever feel like hope and trust instead of just wild desperate pleas?

Which way to the escape that leads to peace?

The boiling, rancid heat has finally lifted after weeks of stagnant humidity. A year and a half of failed vacation attempts finally leads to success in a trip close to home, but still a different scene. I sit leaned against an old red oak, “in memory of Jack Arnold Jones,” listening to the chirps of crickets, the light breeze rustling through a variety of foliage, and the joyful ruckus of a gang of brothers clamoring about in the branches of a neighboring tree.

I’ve undergone a shift in my soul akin to the one in the weather while walking through these botanical gardens with their freshness of color and fragrance bombasting my senses. I see with clearer eyes and am nothing but privileged to be with the endlessly creative and insightful human who promised to keep me—even as he snoozes in the warm sun beside me now, I am privileged by his presence.

A humble peace visits me as I remember our walk moments ago—marveling at little rivers, bridges, and stone walls being visited by butterflies, birds, and bees. I choose not to push the gratefulness out, and what I call worship blossoms in my heart like the roses and the dahlias. The remembrance that there is any goodness at all leads my heart to contemplate Ultimate goodness, and the panic is not bigger than this. Oh soul! Hold on to hope; there are wholly other ways to get away. 

Take me away, away, wherever winds may carry,

With a sighing soul for the whispering of the soughing mountain firs,

Now I languish in the silence of lowland village lanes,

Deafening, the stillness creeps in, carrying the dread,

Sacrificed for comfort, the risks that rent my heart with sunlight,

Once upon a time, Dragons wandered in the world,

Bereft of foresight, valiant fools sought to slay the beasts they feared,

Pride-blind men scorched the forests, and set the fells aflame,

We acquired our quest's reward, only cold and quiet ash,

The Dragon's thunder silenced, the wilds reduced to ruin,

No roars remained to stir anew, the soaring heart of youth,

Bent and broken, all about us, the trails no longer beckon,

In vanquishing our fears, our farest Joys with Dragons perished.

“Get away from me.”

“ No, come on, let’s just talk for a minute…”

“ I don’t know you Michael.”

“ Listen, you know me. You know me better than anyone! Please, don’t do this. Just give me a second to think…” Frantic now. 

The weight on her chest was beginning to numb. ‘Give me a second.’

It was a reasonable request to give a second in most cases. 

The number of seconds that Anne had already given could not be quickly counted. Number of seconds in the plain sense could probably be forgiven with reasonable reflection. The number (if it can be measured that way) of the pieces of herself she had given seemed like the real loss. 

“ I really just want you to get away from me…”

Michael grasped for something to say. 

Anne internally rebuked herself. This, maybe, would be less painful if she had engaged with Michael more coolly all this time. Maybe if she had measured herself more…or been less quick to accommodate. Maybe if she had been less in love with him for God’s sake. 

She hated herself for his indiscretion. 

In the end, she did give him that second.

“And the movie of the day is...” The clerk on duty reached into a bin on his desk and pulled out a DVD. “Maid in Manhattan.” Leah stared blankly at the wall, because the third district court had taken her phone at the door, and she sure as hell didn’t want to watch Maid in Manhattan. 

Leah was here to exercise her civic duty, or else. She racked her brain for any possible grounds for excusal, but couldn’t conceive of a single relevant prejudice to hide behind. She felt a phantom vibration in her pocket and imagined a thousand work emails stacking up in her absence. Or maybe another voicemail from her sister. She really needed to call her back.

A dozen people sat in the waiting room; twelve angry men gathered for movie night in the third district court. Maid in Manhattan was fifteen minutes deep and not a single citizen had been called back to meet with the judge yet. Leah decided to find a bathroom. Under the circumstances, anything was a vacation.

It took a couple of twists and turns down the fluorescent hallways of law and order, but she found one. She tried to move quickly, worried they might call her name while she was away, but a photo in the bathroom caught her attention. She saw it first in the mirror: a sunset over a dark horizon of water, with a palm tree leaning in from the left side. She turned to dry her hands.

“Distance,” the poster read, and then a smaller script beneath: “A small price for paradise.” And she was startled by the truth of these words, even if the motivation was misplaced. Some office printer had butchered the fidelity, and scotch tape held it to the wall. But when she closed her eyes she could smell the salty breeze. She imagined returning to the suffocating waiting room. A powerful lust for breathing room flooded all five of her senses. Civic duty could take five. She reached out and was transported.

The transportation was instantaneous, requiring only a touch of the photo and a small act of will, no different from lifting a finger. She heard the roar of the ocean swell surrounding her, and was delighted to taste salt. A warm wind swept the air conditioning from her skin. To anyone else, it would have been surreal.

Leah kept a similar photo in her office for lunch breaks. She even brought a small hand vacuum to work to keep sand from piling up under her desk, and had lost a few coffee mugs to the ocean. This island was much smaller. She could see the other side through a small grove of trees behind her, teasing a three sixty view of uninterrupted horizon. Her shoes sank deep into what she assumed to be the South Pacific, and she stared into the ludicrous blend of azure and fire. She took off her sweater and tied it around her waist. Was there time to swim? The judge could be calling her name any minute. But she could dry her hair in the bathroom.

At the thought of the bathroom, her blood went cold. She clutched at her side, but knew the truth. Her purse was hanging on the back of a unisex bathroom door in the third district court, five thousand miles away.

Leah sprang to her feet and pulled at her hair, stomping up the beach in an insane panic. Her purse contained a rolodex of polaroids, prints, and magazine clippings; every place she had ever been, or at least wanted to return.

She nearly vomited. A torrent of horrific survival scenarios surged through her brain, with one stray thought of the mystery of her purse being discovered behind a locked bathroom door. She laughed amidst her animal groans as the sun sank lower. No one would know a thing. But then she clasped the locket around her neck. 

There was a photo inside. She had never considered it a destination. It was a childhood photo she had kept close for years, of her and her sister. They were sitting on a plaid couch in the living room of their grandparents’ former home.

Leah opened the locket and stared at the photo. She hunched forward and looked over her shoulder as if someone might snatch it out of her hand. And then she touched the photo.

It was still a living room. She stood blankly for a moment as the weight of the dreaded potential passed. Years of convenience had made her careless. But she barely had time to consider this as her childhood haunt came into focus. The walls were grey. The shape was right but the furniture was not. A pillow on the couch read “Gather.” And the smell was wholly unfamiliar.

A small dog stood at her feet, craning its neck to watch her from beady black eyes. Leah stood still, her own eyes darting all over the room. A photo of the Eiffel Tower hung above the couch. She stepped onto the couch, and lifted the picture off the wall. The dog began to bark.

The photo was framed behind glass. Leah retreated into a corner as the barking grew louder and the dog anxiously shifted from paw to paw. She half-heartedly waved her foot at it while clawing at the metal tabs on the back of the frame. Finally, she touched the glossy paper inside.

The barking gave way to a chorus of crickets. She stumbled to a bench. It was night, and the tower was sparkling far across the green, where tourists wandered around the base. She still clutched the picture frame and photo. A street vendor immediately tried to sell her roses. 

Leah waved him away with a “non, merci” and a deep sigh. She dumped the picture and frame into a trash can beside the bench. She took off a shoe to shake some sand out, and weighed her options.

A thousand emails and angry clients, certainly. But if she didn’t show up for jury duty, would they really put out a warrant for her arrest? She rubbed her temples and tried to think. What did that even mean?

She ran through the usual contingencies. A library printer? She had no money, even if one was open. She could search for a lucky advertisement or billboard as a stepping stone. 

As a teenager, she had spent a lot of time in Paris, regularly skipping gym in a failed quest to become a cafe regular. But high school was also her geocaching phase. She used to leave photos of her house in boxes around the globe. Home is everywhere, was her private adage.

She searched her memory and recalled a geocache site on a rooftop near Le Mur des Je t’aime, but it would take an hour on foot. And by that time, Maid in Manhattan would just be getting good.

Another street vendor held out some postcards to her. She sat up and inspected them closely. It was mostly other landmarks in France. “Sacre-Coeur?” she asked. He held it out. “One euro,” he said, but she was gone.

The steps to Sacre-Coeur were buzzing with tourists, silhouettes against the illuminated stone. No one noticed her sudden arrival. It had always been this way; she could startle people but nothing more.

Leah traversed a steep cobblestone street. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in France. She had spent a lot of weekends in Nuuk lately, which she discovered on her “visit every country in 24 hours challenge” a couple years back, an exploit she vowed never to repeat. But Nuuk had staying power as an escape to the edge of the earth. She would like to be there now.

A light rain started and she shivered. Church bells marked ten o’clock, which meant four back at the court. She’d probably only been gone ten minutes—no way they had called up all the other candidates yet. Le Mur loomed brightly in the darkness, and she could see the fire escape another block over. The sight of flaking red paint on the metal was a visceral reminder of how long it had been, and she doubted whether her photo remained.

Under the fire escape, she realized she would have to jump to reach it. She looked left and right. People and umbrellas roamed the streets, but after her near marooning, she felt a strange surge of confidence.

It was only four stories to the roof, but she was surprised how dark it was on top. Air conditioners buzzed and blended with the hum of the city streets below. She followed her way along a half wall to a brick chimney, and felt the chimney for the loose brick. She pulled it out of place and reached in to feel a small plastic box. Her heart beat faster. There was a photo inside, along with a few plastic trinkets. Leah could barely see, so she walked closer to the edge of the roof to catch light from the street.

It wasn’t a photo of her house. It was a photo of a man and woman holding hands and raising cocktails toward the camera. She squinted for clues, but the background was merely a white wall of tile. The subjects wore sunglasses and shorts.

A metal thud rang out from the fire escape. It made the same sound when she had jumped to reach it. She heard voices in a language she didn’t recognize. Someone laughed loudly, and then two faces poked over the edge. “Bonjour,” Leah said. They snickered and repeated a chorus of bonjours, mocking her accent. While they hoisted themselves onto the roof, Leah considered which photo to use: the locket or the white wall. 

Two young men wandered around the roof. Leah watched as they slurred through drunken sentences. One of them paused and stared at her for an uncomfortable moment, and then unexpectedly took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it at her. She ducked left and it passed over the roof.

Any fear she felt gave way to annoyance. You don’t know anything, was her thought. She crumpled the white wall photo tightly in her first, and climbed onto the edge with another surge of confidence. The two of them looked at her. Here’s a ghost story, she thought, and stepped off the roof.

After a brief rush of cold air and a yell cut short, Leah faced the white wall. She winced at the blast of music that greeted her, a painful volume. A wild crowd was jumping to the beat and she got shoved deeper into the apparent dance floor. More pushing, jostling, and shoving, and suddenly she was falling again. She hit water with a splash and the music faded for a moment while she fought her way upright.

Leah shook the water from her face, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the midday sun. She was treading water in a pool, at a party, on a cruise ship. A DJ held one hand to the record and one hand to his headphones.

She swam to the edge of the pool and a sandy blonde reached his hand down to help her out. “That was epic!” he shouted over the noise. She started laughing.

Leah thanked him for helping her out of the pool, and fought her way out of the crowd. Her clothes were dripping. She walked until she found a railing, and followed it to a quieter deck away from the bow. The sun slowly began to dry her clothes, and a distant shoreline crawled past at a snail’s pace. She sat down on the nearest deck chair. Probably less than thirty minutes had passed since she’d left the waiting room in the third district court, but now she could barely remember what she was so worried about. Work? A warrant? A voicemail?

Her sister. Leah couldn’t believe it at first. She initially recoiled, but then cautiously leaned forward for a closer look.

It was her. She was reclined and asleep on the chair next to Leah. One arm was strewn lazily over her forehead and the other tucked along her side. A few stray brown curls blew back and forth across her shoulders, not unlike Leah’s own. It was impossible. She found herself overcome with emotion at the sight of her.

Leah remembered being seven and picking up her sleeping baby sister to see if she could carry her with her through a photo. But she found she couldn’t carry people. She never considered her ability supernatural, it had always been so second-nature. But whenever she brushed up against a law or boundary, she got a spooky feeling for weeks on end. Like God was watching all her comings and goings.

Leah knew she occupied a unique world. She knew it was easier to have a job than to pretend to. She knew stealing was unbearable when there was no chance of confession. She knew infinite novelty was dull. She knew way too much about the international space station. She hated road trips.

Even though she sometimes felt suspicious, on her own account, that others were leading double lives, she somehow knew her sister wasn’t disappearing to far off lands. She loved her for it, and spited her for it. But really she wanted to wake her and be seen. 

Today could be the day she spoiled the whole secret. But she thought of that secret getting loose in the world, and couldn’t bear it. She would call her sister back tonight.

Leah quietly got up and found the concierge. The concierge showed her to the computer lab, which had complimentary printing. She waited until her clothes were merely damp. Then she was back in the third district court, where her purse was still locked in a bathroom, and Maid in Manhattan was just getting good.

Where will we wander?

Away Away

Awash weary willows

Betwixt awry awnings

Away Away

With wild awareness

Welcoming wry wizardry

Away Away

Whimsical-worthy-warm-sweet-rainbow weather

While wind whistles hollow cobweb-ish whispers

Away Away

Won't cower when we awaken

Why walk when we wear wings?

Away Away

We two whippersnappers

We wonder

We sway

We want

We swivel

We withdraw

Away