Carmella’s skin shone with vitality as she neatly applied the finishing touches to her make-up. Her cellphone pinged. The messenger was unknown, but his signature familiar and trustworthy. Juarez will be at Barrhead Bar and Grill at 7 pm. She examined her freshly painted nails then stared at her reflection in the mirror and remembered a time when she was sixteen. How foolish I was to drop out of school. I was so very angry then. Alone, I had no sense of belonging. I didn’t know who I was. She held up her hair and let it drop back into place, strands remained stuck to her hand. She sighed. My alopecia is back. Like a clarion call, the excess hair on her comb and brush bore witness to the same conclusion. Damn! She stood and with broad sweeps of her clothes brush removed straggling bits and pieces from her navy and white dress and coordinating white cardigan. Tonight’s meeting has to be perfect. Yet, she harbored a sadness that would not go away. How easily I was groomed and taught to recruit others. Nights spent with white supremacists talking about how to gather arms and how to prepare for combat to take Canada back again, I now spit bitterly on my time lost. I was not born into their movement, I was tricked in. The trick used on me, I learned too. Find a person’s worst fear and let it fester. Whether it was a student losing a scholarship to an Asian or a girlfriend leaving for a black guy, I figured it out and went in for the kill. I have become very good at that sort of thing. But, now, I wish I could leave it all behind. But I can’t. Unfortunately, I’m a diabetic, who depends on their largesse. They must never know I’m gay. The bedroom door swung open. She glanced at the mirror. “You could’ve at least knoc...