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was the only explanation given to Ronan for the beatings. Devin longed for what he referred to as “the comforts of progress and culture” and swore an oath that he would never come back to the Highlands once he’d made his way and even if he were on his deathbed would not cry out for home or family. And he never did. Such is the power of a vow uttered in passion. Ronan and his kin heard little from Devin after he left. A short, curt letter stating matter-of-factly that he was heading to America to pursue his dream of a better life, believing, he said,that Scotland was no place for a man of ambition and vision like himself. Ronan’s not-overly-maudlin mind still hovers on the outskirts of a memory of his older sibling. At this late stage in his life he wonders about a life missed with a brother he should have known and loved but really barely knew. Visions of the two of them as small children playing at the lakeside a half-century ago that are now reduced to nothing more than a scratchy black-and-white movie stored in his memory. Age-old visions of life as it was meant to be before his brother’s ego, desires, and lunatic imaginings took hold of his soul and drove him away. So much gone so fast. All of it in an eyeblink. Ronan listens to the gentle thrum of the engine and the restful lapping of the waves against Bonnie ’s hull. Light is leaving the slate sky. The birds disappear from the air. There is a presence on this great inland sea.
    Soon the motor’s repetitious thrumming and the rhythmic splashing of the swell are joined by a third sound. In the dark distance a giant breaks the surface of the Loch and a rush of warm, moist air is expelled from massive, primordial lungs. Ronan hears the wash of a wake as a large body begins to move through the ancient expanse of water.
    Unsure exactly why he is doing this, he turns the small craft in the direction of this new sound. And it turns to him.

Horatio
    W e are in the empty hospital waiting room. My mother is perched long-sufferingly upon one of the chairs, my father is slumped into another on the opposite side. I understand there’s been an argument, but I think to myself, “This is about Josie now, isn’t it?” And I’mwondering why we aren’t all in a tight, affirming circle in the center of the room, offering spiritual and emotional support to my sister. Despite all our feckless crap, we are family first and foremost, are we not? My mother dabs softly at her eyes with a white handkerchief that has colorful flowers embroidered at the corners. It was a gift from her mother, the embroiderer, and to me it has always linked her to something earnest. Something deeply and simply human, despite what we have all morphed into as a fairly flawed family of late. I know that at some point in her young life she was an innocent, open girl who only wanted the best for herself and the ones she loved. When does the ruin set in?
    She smelled of alcohol on the ride over. My father is staring at a wall. He is hard-eyed and stone-faced. I fear him too much to even try to get close. I’m leaning against the vending machine, struggling to distract my racing thoughts of blame and “if only” with a plot to free a bag of peanut M&M’s. I think I can stick my skinny arm up through the dispenser window high enough to knock the candy off its rack with a ruler or something equally viable. I’m also trying to use Jedi mind-power to will the yellow package free of its little metal corkscrew holder. But dark images of my sister keep pushing through my meager defenses.
    Josie was deathly pale, damp-skinned and barely breathing by the time the paramedics got to her. I told them my mother didn’t know how to drive and asked if we could ride with them in the ambulance, so they let us. I didn’t want to say I thought she’d been drinking. My father met us at the emergency waiting room, in stony silence like my mother, both with their own thoughts to which I was not privy. We’d seen my