Resurrexit
by Jessica Hatch
“Have you ever put on a YouTube video for your cat?”
We were driving around I-4 when you asked me that. There was a shipment coming in later that day, to the basement of an unfinished house in Sanford.
I thought you were a crazy motherfucker.
“I'm serious. Google ‘cat TV.’ It’ll be birds eating seeds or some shit. Your cat will go nuts.”
See, I don’t got a cat, but I needed something to clear my mind on Thursday, the night you betrayed us, or my hand was going through drywall.
So I googled “cat TV.” Sure enough, there were about a million cat movies out there. I put one on and watched robin redbreasts till I fell asleep. Then I got up, packed a bag, and headed to my mother’s house, where your body isn’t. That’s right, Tito. We’re having a fake wake for your nonexistent corpse. It took a bunch of guys to pull this off, but at least the Martinezes will think you’re dead, not the G-man narc you turned out to be.
You screwed us, Tito. I came around the corner that day, and what did I see? Two cops, and you with a shiny organized crime badge in your hand.
Suddenly, the way you’d come into our lives five years ago, like you were from the head of some god, made sense. We didn’t need the half-assed explanation you sent on your unsigned postcard. Wish you were here, a photo of the National Mall with the Washington Monument rising up in the air like an excited dick. Wish I was there? Well, maybe I will be, once they lock me up for my young-man rap sheet.
The family’s assets are being frozen, and most of us are being carted off to jail, but it’s crucial we save face a little longer. That’s why Pop wanted this fake funeral. Maybe confusing the other Florida families is good enough for him, but ours has grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle that, unless we win the Power Ball or everyone including my idiot cousin Gina becomes a heart surgeon, we can’t replicate. What about my nonna? She needs her meds and her oxygen tank and her afternoons watching Wheel of Fortune. How will she get all that when I go to jail?
There are little letters and numbers in the corner of your postcard, like a cypher on a kids’ show, but I do my best to ignore them. They can’t mean what I think they mean.
You’re lucky the feds flew you somewhere exotic like Missouri or Belize because I’ve been killing you in my sleep. In one dream, I cut out your eyeballs and make you eat them. In another, you’re in a hole. I pour dirt around you, over you, on top of you, till you suffocate. The whole time I’m saying things like, “I love you. How could you? I love you. I’m sorry.”
A stiletto between the ribs at a crowded farmers market. A hand creeping farther up your leg. A door with seventeen locks and a live CCTV monitor where, like those cats watching those damn birds, you can watch your family suffer.
As much as I can do in these dreams, I am impotent when I wake up. I cannot run after you. I cannot catch you.
The letters and numbers. The lockbox you buried. Are they coordinates? A clue?
I don’t know, Tito. You were like no one I’d ever known. I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll know anyone like you again. You let me peer into rooms I didn’t know existed. You defined possibility for me, and then you took it away. Why couldn’t you leave me unenlightened?
If your postcard is for real, if you really did bury a lockbox full of money, then I could save all our asses. A hundred thou is no joke, especially to a family that suddenly has nothing. It could give Nonna a handful of months in a nice nursing home before she has to rely on whatever shithole Medicare can provide.
But then I have to think: What have they done to deserve that? I know what I’ve done, both to deserve it and not. Shouldn’t it be mine by right?
So many people will come out of the woodwork once I’m toppled, folks who’d love to talk about all the drug trafficking, money laundering, and homicide the toothless cat did before it got declawed. I’m the one facing the most heat. Shouldn’t I get the cash?
I’ll get a fake passport. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll fly somewhere no one will look for me. On Friday, I rooted through Ma and Pop’s closet for disguise options, but my pickings were slim: a big, ugly scarf and the sunglasses Ma wears whenever she gets work done. There was a cap and coveralls, too, and I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
I stuffed the coveralls and sunglasses into a bag and waited for today, the day of your fake funeral. After dinner, I’ll slip out the side door. I’ll change in the car on my way to wherever those coordinates take me.
Yes, Tito, I know that if I leave the house, I’m going to get myself arrested. But if I can get the money first and get out of town, I can save myself. It’s like this guy I saw on YouTube, Schroeder or something. He has this cat in a box, and you don’t know if it’s alive or dead until he checks. He could kill it by checking. He could save it by checking. Until he does, it’s both things at once.
I’m both things at once.
I have to check.
My uncle built my parents’ house a few years back, and yes, we already checked the walls for cash. There was some, but now it’s gone. We spent it on our lawyer and your fake grave, which pisses me off more than anything.
If, hypothetically, I went to the construction site, the lawyer told me yesterday, looking around the living room at things we can liquidate to finance his next yacht, then I could give the feds probable cause that we know about the stash and therefore the illicit deeds that earned it. In other words, if I go there, I’d be playing into your hands, helping you expedite your arrest warrant against me.
I can’t believe you’d do that to me.
Sure, I might doom my family by going, but the way I see it, we’re doomed already. The lawyer said we’ve got forty-eight hours before the warrants go through. If I go to the site, if I see if you left me anything, I’ll at least have done something.
The day you picked out where X marks the spot, we drove to Uncle Freddy’s jobsite, two hundred fifty gated homes all built around a water feature. On that day, though, the model community was just orange mud and the skeletons of A-frames. We met up with Freddy’s son to get some cash. Pop needed to siphon it through the restaurant, then on to where it would best serve us. I had no trouble explaining this stuff to you.
When we met up with Freddy’s kid, he was standing next to the frame of a door and a couple concrete slabs I guessed would become stairs.
“Look,” you said. “A stoop to nowhere.” You stomped your dress shoe in the soft, orange earth, then gave me a killer grin.
Freddy’s kid liked that. “A stoop to nowhere,” he kept saying. He gave us the cash in a big cardboard box, and we headed for the strip.
Before dinner last night, I gave in and punched a wall. It hurt like hell. Plaster crumbled out of the hole my fist had made.
I’m the one who showed you the stash. Our lawyer says if you didn’t know about it, the evidence could’ve stayed circumstantial.
I loved my life, but not telling you about it was a lot to bear. A lot to keep from someone I cared about. I’d never had to hide who I was from family. They were all in on it. Besides, if you were going to rise through the ranks, you’d have to know sooner or later. So I led you to the coin-op laundry, the hollowed-out storefront we bought years ago, and the fluorescent lights sang as they came on. Beneath them, the stash—drugs, weapons—in orderly rows.
We took selfies with it like gangsters. Not the kind I actually am, but more like Biggie than Bugsy. You grabbed a handful of stacked bills and dared me not to let you put them in your waistband. Exhibit A: Idiot in love with his best friend makes huge mistake. I’m the one responsible for all this, and in exchange for what? Moonlight. That’s all. You said you loved me, but it was all transactional.
A few weeks ago, my uncle’s development started showing buyers, legitimate and laundering, around the model home. You started making more phone calls than I thought were necessary, but I didn’t question it at the time. Now I wonder about it, and I wonder who you were five years ago, before I met the ballsy jerk who shook my hand with scary amounts of eye contact and said he wanted to be a made man.
A few weeks ago, though, I was distracted. The azaleas were blooming, the scrub lizards were fucking, and the Blue Angels and a million slow-moving tourists had come to town. This made traffic on 95 and A1A more atrocious than usual. We’d been stuck in gridlock for hours.
“Fuck,” you said from the driver’s seat. “This asshole is gonna eat into my gas money.” You looked in the rearview mirror at Martinez Junior, bound and gagged. “Hear that, asshole? You can take that message back to your family too. I’ll need to be reimbursed.”
I wanted to point out that we hadn’t needed to take him to the beach to kick his ass, we had a particularly good safe room for that, but you’d already yelled at me once that beating this kid up in the fresh air would be a nice change of pace.
We’d barely cleared the parking lot when you started whaling on him. Bones crunched. A sandpiper went running. Under the roar of navy jets, the kid’s pleas for help became blubbering, animal howls.
I turned from keeping lookout to see a bunch of wet, black sand and that the kid didn’t have a face anymore so much as a giant bruise.
“You’re going to kill him,” I said, though I made no move to touch you. “We need him alive for the message, remember?”
You gestured at his body. “Sometimes the medium’s the message.”
You’d explained this to me before, so I told you not to quote Marshall McLuhan at me, goddammit.
You went off and kicked a sand dune. The sand lifted into the wind, and you kicked it again. It took a long time for you to regain your composure, but when you did, you were shaking. You told the Martinez kid to be sure to take the message back to his family, and we left him there.
In the blue moonlight, your eyes had a new look to them. In the glare of headlights, they looked haunted, and in the shadow of an overpass, they looked like they were already dead.
We were parked against my uncle’s water feature a week after the Martinez kid, a few days before the stash. We were done for the day, shooting the shit, not ready to go home. You cut the headlights.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked.
“Why?” you repeated my question, a good-looking smirk on your face. “I wanna show you something.”
You came around the car and opened my door. I pointed out that there might be alligators in the pond, ready to creep up and lunge at you.
You knelt on the ground and looked up at me. “Johnno”—fingers dancing at my waistband—“I don’t care.”
I had threatened guys since I was nine to suck my dick, and I’d done Hail Marys to ask forgiveness for it. I didn’t mean it then, so in the car, I was shocked to find that it felt so good.
I looked out at the moon on the retention pond and my eyes unfocused and the light grew hazy. The moon swelled and spilled over. We were in the car that took us all over Central Florida and smelled like old McDonald’s wrappers and our sweat, and you loved me.
After, we cleaned ourselves with fast food napkins and never spoke of it again, but even so, everything had changed.
I could get a cat if I wanted to. I’m just not sure I want to.
Grappa and limoncello flow at the dinner my nonna cooked in your memory. We are enjoying our revenge meal, not for you, hovering somewhere over Quantico. We are all rage-eating Nonna’s famous cavatelli for our own enjoyment.
If you stowed the cash on that jobsite, I think, it would save my family. You did, I want to think. Which is why, after I’ve stood watch and prayed, I’ll go see what I can dig up. I’ll use the cash to get Ma and Nonna settled, back with my zio in Napoli. I’ll flee the country. Everything will be fine.
You were cruel but kind, like that dumb song. That’s how I know the money will be there. At least, I know well enough to make the effort.
But, of course, my car is blocked in.
When Pop and Uncle Freddy built this place, they gave it a circular driveway, and with all the guests, my car is wedged between a useless hedge, the mailbox, and the road.
On foot, I squeeze past Caddies and Ferraris—you were very popular, Tito—till I reach my stupid cousin Gina’s Tesla and find the door unlocked. I slip inside and take the panel off the starting column only to learn that Teslas are godawful alien machines that won’t respond to hot wiring. I slam the door a little harder than necessary and go back to my trapped car.
I throw my disguise and my overnight bag on the passenger seat, and start her up. This draws my family to the front porch.
“Son, where are you going?” Ma yells.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, inching forward and backward to edge out of the space. Twigs clip the inside of my open window.
“Where? I said where are you going?” she yells again.
“I said don’t worry about it!”
I take out Ma’s rose bushes and the mailbox. They’re yelling at me to come back, it isn’t safe, there’s a warrant, blah blah blah. I realize that in my hurry I don’t even have a shovel. I don’t care. It’s too late for me.
I look at the lettering in the corner of your postcard, check it against the latitude and longitude I’ve plugged into Google Maps and see that I was right. I take the boulevard out to the breakers, to my uncle’s development. You’ve ruined our friendship, but you aren’t going to take this last little bit of it away from me.
There’s a version of our story where we go live on a beach. White sands and a sprawling bank account. Eating pomegranate seeds from each other’s fingers. We have a cat. We’re happy.
There’s another version where I realize I have nothing to be afraid of, that you’re not the only man who can make me happy. I find him and, in my newfound gayness, I go straight.
In this version of the story, though, I’ll learn that the money wasn’t there. It once was, you had put it there like a piece of bait, but by the time I park my car and walk up the stoop to nowhere, that hundred thou will have been bagged and stored as evidence.
In a few weeks, I’ll learn that your real name is Morton, and I’ll laugh at how that name doesn’t fit you, or at least the version of you I knew. In a few minutes, I’ll learn that what’s waiting for me in this cul-de-sac instead of the money are two unmarked cars and a pair of silver bracelets.
But I don’t know any of that yet. I hope against hope because it’s all you’ve left me. I drop the knees of my coveralls into the flower bed that was once orange mud. Surrounded by azaleas and scrub lizards, I start digging.
We were driving around I-4 when you asked me that. There was a shipment coming in later that day, to the basement of an unfinished house in Sanford.
I thought you were a crazy motherfucker.
“I'm serious. Google ‘cat TV.’ It’ll be birds eating seeds or some shit. Your cat will go nuts.”
See, I don’t got a cat, but I needed something to clear my mind on Thursday, the night you betrayed us, or my hand was going through drywall.
So I googled “cat TV.” Sure enough, there were about a million cat movies out there. I put one on and watched robin redbreasts till I fell asleep. Then I got up, packed a bag, and headed to my mother’s house, where your body isn’t. That’s right, Tito. We’re having a fake wake for your nonexistent corpse. It took a bunch of guys to pull this off, but at least the Martinezes will think you’re dead, not the G-man narc you turned out to be.
You screwed us, Tito. I came around the corner that day, and what did I see? Two cops, and you with a shiny organized crime badge in your hand.
Suddenly, the way you’d come into our lives five years ago, like you were from the head of some god, made sense. We didn’t need the half-assed explanation you sent on your unsigned postcard. Wish you were here, a photo of the National Mall with the Washington Monument rising up in the air like an excited dick. Wish I was there? Well, maybe I will be, once they lock me up for my young-man rap sheet.
The family’s assets are being frozen, and most of us are being carted off to jail, but it’s crucial we save face a little longer. That’s why Pop wanted this fake funeral. Maybe confusing the other Florida families is good enough for him, but ours has grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle that, unless we win the Power Ball or everyone including my idiot cousin Gina becomes a heart surgeon, we can’t replicate. What about my nonna? She needs her meds and her oxygen tank and her afternoons watching Wheel of Fortune. How will she get all that when I go to jail?
There are little letters and numbers in the corner of your postcard, like a cypher on a kids’ show, but I do my best to ignore them. They can’t mean what I think they mean.
You’re lucky the feds flew you somewhere exotic like Missouri or Belize because I’ve been killing you in my sleep. In one dream, I cut out your eyeballs and make you eat them. In another, you’re in a hole. I pour dirt around you, over you, on top of you, till you suffocate. The whole time I’m saying things like, “I love you. How could you? I love you. I’m sorry.”
A stiletto between the ribs at a crowded farmers market. A hand creeping farther up your leg. A door with seventeen locks and a live CCTV monitor where, like those cats watching those damn birds, you can watch your family suffer.
As much as I can do in these dreams, I am impotent when I wake up. I cannot run after you. I cannot catch you.
The letters and numbers. The lockbox you buried. Are they coordinates? A clue?
I don’t know, Tito. You were like no one I’d ever known. I don’t think in my lifetime I’ll know anyone like you again. You let me peer into rooms I didn’t know existed. You defined possibility for me, and then you took it away. Why couldn’t you leave me unenlightened?
If your postcard is for real, if you really did bury a lockbox full of money, then I could save all our asses. A hundred thou is no joke, especially to a family that suddenly has nothing. It could give Nonna a handful of months in a nice nursing home before she has to rely on whatever shithole Medicare can provide.
But then I have to think: What have they done to deserve that? I know what I’ve done, both to deserve it and not. Shouldn’t it be mine by right?
So many people will come out of the woodwork once I’m toppled, folks who’d love to talk about all the drug trafficking, money laundering, and homicide the toothless cat did before it got declawed. I’m the one facing the most heat. Shouldn’t I get the cash?
I’ll get a fake passport. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll fly somewhere no one will look for me. On Friday, I rooted through Ma and Pop’s closet for disguise options, but my pickings were slim: a big, ugly scarf and the sunglasses Ma wears whenever she gets work done. There was a cap and coveralls, too, and I guess beggars can’t be choosers.
I stuffed the coveralls and sunglasses into a bag and waited for today, the day of your fake funeral. After dinner, I’ll slip out the side door. I’ll change in the car on my way to wherever those coordinates take me.
Yes, Tito, I know that if I leave the house, I’m going to get myself arrested. But if I can get the money first and get out of town, I can save myself. It’s like this guy I saw on YouTube, Schroeder or something. He has this cat in a box, and you don’t know if it’s alive or dead until he checks. He could kill it by checking. He could save it by checking. Until he does, it’s both things at once.
I’m both things at once.
I have to check.
My uncle built my parents’ house a few years back, and yes, we already checked the walls for cash. There was some, but now it’s gone. We spent it on our lawyer and your fake grave, which pisses me off more than anything.
If, hypothetically, I went to the construction site, the lawyer told me yesterday, looking around the living room at things we can liquidate to finance his next yacht, then I could give the feds probable cause that we know about the stash and therefore the illicit deeds that earned it. In other words, if I go there, I’d be playing into your hands, helping you expedite your arrest warrant against me.
I can’t believe you’d do that to me.
Sure, I might doom my family by going, but the way I see it, we’re doomed already. The lawyer said we’ve got forty-eight hours before the warrants go through. If I go to the site, if I see if you left me anything, I’ll at least have done something.
The day you picked out where X marks the spot, we drove to Uncle Freddy’s jobsite, two hundred fifty gated homes all built around a water feature. On that day, though, the model community was just orange mud and the skeletons of A-frames. We met up with Freddy’s son to get some cash. Pop needed to siphon it through the restaurant, then on to where it would best serve us. I had no trouble explaining this stuff to you.
When we met up with Freddy’s kid, he was standing next to the frame of a door and a couple concrete slabs I guessed would become stairs.
“Look,” you said. “A stoop to nowhere.” You stomped your dress shoe in the soft, orange earth, then gave me a killer grin.
Freddy’s kid liked that. “A stoop to nowhere,” he kept saying. He gave us the cash in a big cardboard box, and we headed for the strip.
Before dinner last night, I gave in and punched a wall. It hurt like hell. Plaster crumbled out of the hole my fist had made.
I’m the one who showed you the stash. Our lawyer says if you didn’t know about it, the evidence could’ve stayed circumstantial.
I loved my life, but not telling you about it was a lot to bear. A lot to keep from someone I cared about. I’d never had to hide who I was from family. They were all in on it. Besides, if you were going to rise through the ranks, you’d have to know sooner or later. So I led you to the coin-op laundry, the hollowed-out storefront we bought years ago, and the fluorescent lights sang as they came on. Beneath them, the stash—drugs, weapons—in orderly rows.
We took selfies with it like gangsters. Not the kind I actually am, but more like Biggie than Bugsy. You grabbed a handful of stacked bills and dared me not to let you put them in your waistband. Exhibit A: Idiot in love with his best friend makes huge mistake. I’m the one responsible for all this, and in exchange for what? Moonlight. That’s all. You said you loved me, but it was all transactional.
A few weeks ago, my uncle’s development started showing buyers, legitimate and laundering, around the model home. You started making more phone calls than I thought were necessary, but I didn’t question it at the time. Now I wonder about it, and I wonder who you were five years ago, before I met the ballsy jerk who shook my hand with scary amounts of eye contact and said he wanted to be a made man.
A few weeks ago, though, I was distracted. The azaleas were blooming, the scrub lizards were fucking, and the Blue Angels and a million slow-moving tourists had come to town. This made traffic on 95 and A1A more atrocious than usual. We’d been stuck in gridlock for hours.
“Fuck,” you said from the driver’s seat. “This asshole is gonna eat into my gas money.” You looked in the rearview mirror at Martinez Junior, bound and gagged. “Hear that, asshole? You can take that message back to your family too. I’ll need to be reimbursed.”
I wanted to point out that we hadn’t needed to take him to the beach to kick his ass, we had a particularly good safe room for that, but you’d already yelled at me once that beating this kid up in the fresh air would be a nice change of pace.
We’d barely cleared the parking lot when you started whaling on him. Bones crunched. A sandpiper went running. Under the roar of navy jets, the kid’s pleas for help became blubbering, animal howls.
I turned from keeping lookout to see a bunch of wet, black sand and that the kid didn’t have a face anymore so much as a giant bruise.
“You’re going to kill him,” I said, though I made no move to touch you. “We need him alive for the message, remember?”
You gestured at his body. “Sometimes the medium’s the message.”
You’d explained this to me before, so I told you not to quote Marshall McLuhan at me, goddammit.
You went off and kicked a sand dune. The sand lifted into the wind, and you kicked it again. It took a long time for you to regain your composure, but when you did, you were shaking. You told the Martinez kid to be sure to take the message back to his family, and we left him there.
In the blue moonlight, your eyes had a new look to them. In the glare of headlights, they looked haunted, and in the shadow of an overpass, they looked like they were already dead.
We were parked against my uncle’s water feature a week after the Martinez kid, a few days before the stash. We were done for the day, shooting the shit, not ready to go home. You cut the headlights.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked.
“Why?” you repeated my question, a good-looking smirk on your face. “I wanna show you something.”
You came around the car and opened my door. I pointed out that there might be alligators in the pond, ready to creep up and lunge at you.
You knelt on the ground and looked up at me. “Johnno”—fingers dancing at my waistband—“I don’t care.”
I had threatened guys since I was nine to suck my dick, and I’d done Hail Marys to ask forgiveness for it. I didn’t mean it then, so in the car, I was shocked to find that it felt so good.
I looked out at the moon on the retention pond and my eyes unfocused and the light grew hazy. The moon swelled and spilled over. We were in the car that took us all over Central Florida and smelled like old McDonald’s wrappers and our sweat, and you loved me.
After, we cleaned ourselves with fast food napkins and never spoke of it again, but even so, everything had changed.
I could get a cat if I wanted to. I’m just not sure I want to.
Grappa and limoncello flow at the dinner my nonna cooked in your memory. We are enjoying our revenge meal, not for you, hovering somewhere over Quantico. We are all rage-eating Nonna’s famous cavatelli for our own enjoyment.
If you stowed the cash on that jobsite, I think, it would save my family. You did, I want to think. Which is why, after I’ve stood watch and prayed, I’ll go see what I can dig up. I’ll use the cash to get Ma and Nonna settled, back with my zio in Napoli. I’ll flee the country. Everything will be fine.
You were cruel but kind, like that dumb song. That’s how I know the money will be there. At least, I know well enough to make the effort.
But, of course, my car is blocked in.
When Pop and Uncle Freddy built this place, they gave it a circular driveway, and with all the guests, my car is wedged between a useless hedge, the mailbox, and the road.
On foot, I squeeze past Caddies and Ferraris—you were very popular, Tito—till I reach my stupid cousin Gina’s Tesla and find the door unlocked. I slip inside and take the panel off the starting column only to learn that Teslas are godawful alien machines that won’t respond to hot wiring. I slam the door a little harder than necessary and go back to my trapped car.
I throw my disguise and my overnight bag on the passenger seat, and start her up. This draws my family to the front porch.
“Son, where are you going?” Ma yells.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, inching forward and backward to edge out of the space. Twigs clip the inside of my open window.
“Where? I said where are you going?” she yells again.
“I said don’t worry about it!”
I take out Ma’s rose bushes and the mailbox. They’re yelling at me to come back, it isn’t safe, there’s a warrant, blah blah blah. I realize that in my hurry I don’t even have a shovel. I don’t care. It’s too late for me.
I look at the lettering in the corner of your postcard, check it against the latitude and longitude I’ve plugged into Google Maps and see that I was right. I take the boulevard out to the breakers, to my uncle’s development. You’ve ruined our friendship, but you aren’t going to take this last little bit of it away from me.
There’s a version of our story where we go live on a beach. White sands and a sprawling bank account. Eating pomegranate seeds from each other’s fingers. We have a cat. We’re happy.
There’s another version where I realize I have nothing to be afraid of, that you’re not the only man who can make me happy. I find him and, in my newfound gayness, I go straight.
In this version of the story, though, I’ll learn that the money wasn’t there. It once was, you had put it there like a piece of bait, but by the time I park my car and walk up the stoop to nowhere, that hundred thou will have been bagged and stored as evidence.
In a few weeks, I’ll learn that your real name is Morton, and I’ll laugh at how that name doesn’t fit you, or at least the version of you I knew. In a few minutes, I’ll learn that what’s waiting for me in this cul-de-sac instead of the money are two unmarked cars and a pair of silver bracelets.
But I don’t know any of that yet. I hope against hope because it’s all you’ve left me. I drop the knees of my coveralls into the flower bed that was once orange mud. Surrounded by azaleas and scrub lizards, I start digging.
Jessica Hatch is an alumna of the Mors Tua Vita Mea workshop. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in The Millions, Writer's Digest, Neutral Spaces, and Grimoire Magazine, among others. Say hello on Twitter or Instagram at @JessicaNHatch.
