Starting over in your thirties was hard, he thought, drumming his hands on the wheel of his parked car, neatly tucked away on the side of the road under a bridge. Keats had once read that for the first thirty years of your life you make your habits and for the next thirty years your habits make you. He thought it was true, in some respects, but the concept was little comfort to a man starting over as he approached  40. He'd spent some time getting to know Chicago, and he liked what he'd seen. It was a city with life... with vitality. Carl Sandburg had called it "stormy, husky, brawling, city of big shoulders" and the description fit the windy city like a glove. 

It had been chaos, coming here to Chicago. He'd killed the woman he loved and fled to the beaches of California, and as he stared into the waves most of his friends- his Family- in Detroit had been killed. It seemed like another lifetime when Maria had approached him on Venice Beach. He still thought about dying, occasionally. It was a tempting thought to join Will, Via, Hiems, Henri, Brigid- Luciana most of all. He still saw her sometimes when he closed his eyes. But time had a way of dulling the past, blunting the blades of painful memories so they could no longer cut quite as deep- even if some wounds never did heal. He endured, trying to build a life and a reputation because... what else was there to do? He thought only of this world, having lost all hope in the next. And so he grew comfortable in Chicago, making new connections. His fiery youth was tempered by decades of horrors and griefs that never truly left him, but he was still nearly always ready with a smirk, a drink, a laugh. Unchanged on the surface, save for a few rebellious grey hairs near his temples. A new city. A new family. A new love- or at least lust: images of blonde hair illuminated by the moonlight rejuvenated him when he felt the oceans of his depression rising. A new life, regardless of anything else.

Same work, though. Keats glanced up at the early morning sky and tried to figure out what time it was from the brightening night sky and stars, barely visible, overhead. The delivery truck would be passing by around 4:30. He'd hit two of these trucks in the last couple weeks and he believed at least one more should be possible. He'd heard chatter about new armed guards on the way in from New York, more random routes, the whole nine yards. But at least for a little while the cat was still away, so the mice were going to steal some goddamn whiskey. 

Or something. He was tired. Keats stretched behind the wheel of the parked car, checking the mirror again. One didn't impress a Don like Maria with small tributes dribbling in; he'd made a couple big scores. A bakery in town was secretly serving as a distillery, and Keats had managed to pick off a couple trucks and deliver them to the boss, who'd kept several crates and sold the rest. One more windfall should hopefully be enough to solidify Keats in the good graces of the family. Most people, even powerful people, still appreciated free drinks... and the money he brought in didn't hurt, either.

The headlights and the rumbling engine of an approaching truck got his attention as Keats started up the car and drove it into the middle of the road. Turning it off and leaving it blocking the street under the bridge, he swiftly retreated to a close vantage point and slipped a mask on his face. As the truck turned the corner and slammed its brakes to avoid hitting the car, Keats was already sprinting with his gun in his hand toward to the door. Before the truck could back up and maneuver around the obstacle he wrenched the door open, sticking his pistol in the man's face.

"Nice and easy. Hands up. Slowly... there we go. Now I want you to turn the truck off, take out the keys... slowly... and hand them to me. Now get out. Head over there."

Keats took the driver over to the guardrail and handcuffed him to it. No need to kill him; the mask had prevented any danger of being recognized. Keats had become accustomed to killing, but preferred to avoid it whenever he could. There was still that small, still voice inside of him that cried out every time he pulled the trigger- even if it had been getting fainter. Worryingly fainter.

"You stay there, quiet. Don't make any trouble, and I'll make sure the cops find you before the morning commute is over. You make trouble, no one ever finds you. Got it?"

The driver nodded, and shifted himself to be as comfortable as possible against the guardrail. Keats returned his gun to the holster under his left shoulder and walked back to the truck. The Lord's Table. Strange name for a bakery. Although the Lord did also turn water into wine, so perhaps it did make sense. A quick check of exactly how much liquor there was, and what type, would let Keats know where on the North Side to unload the truck before dumping it somewhere. 

Keats allowed himself a small smile as he opened the sliding door to the back of the truck. Another success- perfectly according to plan. Until he saw a pair of green eyes looking at him through the darkness, and he quickly went for his gun.

Katherine, who had recently taken to being being called Katie, was crouched low in the back of one of the last trucks to leave the loading bay at The Lord's Supper Bakery.  The truck was warm and suffocating, the smell of freshly baked bread enveloping her.  Normally she loved the yeasty aroma, but it was warm in the truck, and the air was moist.  She tried not to move, fearing she'd be discovered.

For the last several weeks she'd been investigating discrepancies she had witnessed during her long shifts working as a counter girl.  Why was the warehouse off limits?  Why were there always too many cars pulling around to the side of the building?  Why was the bakery so large when they did comparatively little business?  She knew they baked bread for several restaurants and delivered fresh bread to local grocers, but at the end of the week she couldn't rectify the discrepancies of what was being delivered and where.   

Eventually she flirted enough with one of the pickup boys and he led her to the back to be naughty.  She hadn't really thought her plan through very thoroughly however and was at a loss as how to proceed when the young man suddenly slipped in a puddle and cracked his head.  Providence or luck, it allowed Kathering to sneak around the bakery and discover that it doubled as a brewery.  And that most of the loaves they did bake were hollow, which allowed enough space to hide a bottle of booze.  in this case, whisky. 

Now, hidden behind a rack of rolls that were actually going to be delivered, she wondered what exactly she had been thinking.  

"I wanted to impress my boss, that's what!"  She caught herself before her voice raised more than a whisper and bit her tongue.  It was true though, she had wanted to catch the people behind a string of heists that left drivers stranded on rural routes. Now that she knew the lucrative smuggling business the bakery was involved in, she supposed it meant the robberies were mostly about the liquor. 

So now she was sweaty and clammy, stuck between a truck and a roll rack, desperately wanting to know who was stealing the deliveries, and afraid she was actually going to find out.   Suddenly the struck screeched to a halt, propelling her into the rolls, her face smashing against the wooden rack.  If she had known any curse words she might have said one.  Instead she tried to extricate herself from the rack and sink back into the dark of the truck.  Several heavy loaves of bread had hit the floor, one of them slowly leaking whisky.  It must have broken.  She could hear the door being wrenched open and a muffled voice shouting at the driver.  She began to tremble and reached for the bread knife she had swiped from the front kitchen.  

She scooted around, facing the back door, afraid at any moment-

BAM! The door flew open and she saw a man in a suit stepping forward to look into the darkness.  She tried to scramble backwards but was stopped by a rolling shelf.  He must have seen her because he reached for his gun.  

"STOP!" She shouted.  "I'm armed!"  Her voice shook, as did her hands.  She could barely hold on to the long knife, the moisture and heat making her hands slick with sweat.  As adrenaline coursed through her body and mind she focused on the man's face, on the shape of his nose, the intense look in his eyes.  His green eyes.  Green.  Like hers.  She blinked. 

"Father?" 

Keats lowered his gun, but only slightly. He glared into the back of the truck. "Father" was no doubt some trick to distract him- throw him off balance.

"Come out here. Slowly. And if you're armed, drop it before you take a step closer."

Waiting, his eyes narrowed, Keats waited to see who would emerge from the darkness.

Katherine stepped forward and dropped the bread knife on her shoe, the serrated blade nicking the leather.  Her whole body was trembling now, her head beginning to ache from the heat, each beat of her heart coursing through her temples and causing the pain to thrum in time.  She held her hands out into the light first, trying to show she was now unarmed.  Then, as carefully as she could, she stepped over several heavy loaves of bread and out onto the ramp.  

"Please don't shoot." 

Keats lowered the gun so it was pointing at the ground, but he didn't put it away. A young woman, obviously scared. She dropped some sort of knife. Didn't seem like it was a trap, and if it was- it was a pretty bad one. Still, the whole thing was confusing. He tried to get a better look at her as she emerged from the truck. He softened his voice a little, but only a little. 

"I won't shoot unless you give me a reason to. Who are you and why are you in here?"

Katherine's hands trembled only a bit less than her voice.  

"My name is Kath- Katie and I uh.  I work at the bakery and I- I wanted to-"  Her faltering speech was intermingled with deep pauses as if she was reminding herself to breathe.  She stood there awkwardly, squinting into the sun, trying to say something intelligent.  As much as she wanted to cry, she reminded herself that she'd never impress anyone by being weak.  And in the off chance that she was mistaken about the man in front of her, she still needed to earn her keep and find a way to travel to wherever her father was hiding.  

"My name is Katie and I was on this truck as a bodyguard."  She set her jaw firmly and stood a little straighter.  "Maybe I should be asking you what YOUR name is and what you're doing?" 

Keats started to relax, almost sighing as the girl seemed to grow more upset.

"How old are you, kid? 17? 18? Can't be over 20. Can't be a bodyguard, because there's no body to guard, unless you're hiding someone else in there. So maybe you meant to say you're security. But you honestly expect me to believe that whoever's running this Lord's Table bakery front is stationing little girls with bread knives in their trucks for security?"

Keats let the silence hang in the air for a moment before continuing.

"Now here are you options. Option 1: You get in the truck and while I drive you give me the real, God's honest truth who you are and why you're here. Option 2 is I leave you chained up to the guardrail with the driver."

Keats paused to let her think until, in the silence, he remembered that the girl had stated her name. And the driver was within earshot.

"God DAMN it!"

His calm, cool demeanor cracked as his shouts reverberated through the inside of the truck. He had started putting his gun away before, but now he removed it again. He walked closer to Katie and spoke quietly, so the driver couldn't hear. 

"Tell me the truth, girl. I suspect that you're not supposed to be in this truck right now. I then strongly suspect that, whether the driver heard your name just now or not, that he heard you yelling before. So he knows  there's a girl in here. I'm guessing that could cause you a slight problem? Would they be able to trace "a girl in the back of this truck" back to you?"

Keats looked at her seriously.

"Either way, I can't leave you here with him. So answer my questions and get into the passenger seat. It's unlocked. "

Keats patted the keys in his pocket.

"I'll answer your questions when I'm driving."

Katherine had just opened her mouth to tell the man in front of her that she'd go with him when he bellowed an imprecation.  She flinched.  She tried to hold her ground as he got closer and began to speak in hushed  tones.  She nodded as he spoke, because yes, she assumed that her boss wouldn't be pleased at all to find that not only had she discovered the true nature of the bakery, but that she had snuck on to one of the delivery trucks.  Not to mention the whole getting hijacked along the way.  She was confused about how he wanted her to answer his questions before she got in the truck so she just blurted. 

"Yes." 

And then ran for the passenger side of the delivery truck.  She hopped in and looked the other way, hoping that if the man decided to do anything to the driver that she wouldn't be able to see or hear it.  She finally turned her head when she heard the truck start. 

Keats waited until the girl was in the passenger seat before slamming the rear loading door closed. Calmly walking over to the driver, Keats removed his gun and fired four shots. One in the head, two in the heart, one more in the head. No need for the driver to suffer. Keats suffered, though. He forced himself to watch the blood seep into the dry sand that had blown onto the concrete. He forced himself to watch the blood spattered onto the guardrail, and the way the man's hand dropped limply when Keats retrieved the handcuffs he'd used to secure him. Damn it. This idiot should be alive right now, sitting here on the side of the road waiting for the morning commute to rescue him. Realizing once again the passage of time, Keats quickly dragged the man back to the stolen car he'd used to halt the truck. It was the work of two or three minutes to move the stolen car to the side of the road, place the body of the driver inside it, and use a couple matches to start a fire in the car. No evidence.

Keats quickly moved toward the truck in the direction of the now rising sun. He'd picked a spot with a small amount of traffic, but this luck couldn't hold for long. He quickly jumped behind the wheel and started the truck, noticing the girl cowering in the passenger seat. It was only when they had driven for a couple minutes without incident that Keats allowed himself to exhale.

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I'll answer your questions. Then I want your story. The whole story."

Keats shot her a glance as he was driving. He drove with his left hand, keeping the right on his lap or rubbing his face- close the gun under his left shoulder. He didn't get a bad vibe from the kid, but it wouldn't be the first time he was fooled by a pretty face. He scrutinized her again. She was either one of the most deceptive liars he'd ever seen, or she was an innocent, stupid kid caught up in something she didn't understand. Seemed more like the latter.

"My name is John. If I told you my last name it'd actually put you in more danger, so I'd prefer to keep that to myself for now. But there are quite a few Johns in the city, so I think that's safe enough."

Keats thought for a moment about lying to her and telling her he was a cop. Or something. But she didn't seem that stupid.

"And it should be pretty obvious what I'm doing. What I can't understand is what the hell you're doing, and how you're involved in all this. So, please, start talking."

Katherine twisted her ring, a gift from her mother, and tried to focus her mind.  She'd heard the gunshots, a sound she had only heard one other time, but she wasn't going to acknowledge them.  After the man gave her his name she perked up, feeling like she was that much closer to a real answer to her life.  She decided she was going to tell him everything, or as much as she could.  If things turned out badly for her it would just be what she already had coming. 

"I already said this, but my name is Katie.  I work, well, worked at The Lord's Table bakery for about a year now.  You see, I've been trying to find someone very dear to me and I needed money.  My mother died when I was young."  She paused for a moment, remembering exactly how her mother had died, then expelled a held breath through her nose and continued.  "And after that my grandmother took care of me until she got sick.  Right before she died she gave me a small box with several letters inside and my mother's favorite ring.  The letters were love letters, all signed by the same person.  I was still quite young but I began sending my own letters to the return address in the hopes of finding my-"  She stopped abruptly and let several moments pass.  "I wanted to find my father.  I've been alone for so long.  My mother was so brilliant and happy all of the time, she called me her little princess.  But I guess she hid a lot of things from me, and herself. She didn't just die, she came home from a party one night, kissed me on the forehead, went into the bathroom and shot herself.  

My grandmother said it was my fault.  That I had ruined my mother's life.  The time I spent living with that old lady was so awful I often thought about running away, but I chose not to, knowing she still had my mother's belongings hidden away from me.  It was just days before my grandmother died that she said she forgave me, and gave me my mother's things.  Unfortunately, she had used almost all of her savings on seances and other things of that sort and I was sent to live in an orphanage for the next few years.  It wasn't as unpleasant as it could have been, but I was too old to be adopted and so I ran away.  I have been taking odd jobs, trying to save money and travel.  I haven't been very brave to be honest, so I work to earn money and only take buses or trains.  And those are still quite expensive for a girl with little income or practical skills. The bakery was one of the first jobs where I was finally able to start really saving up.  I stopped traveling last year some time because most of my letters came back to me, however, I could tell they had been opened.  I got a clue from the postman and decided if I could earn enough in a year I would finally go to see my father.  

When the truck heists began my boss was furious.  I guess he kept the schedule a secret and couldn't figure out how people kept finding out where the trucks would be.  He never yelled at me, but I heard him say he was going to gut whoever was doing it.  He also mentioned giving anyone who had information that could stop the heists a gallon of whiskey and a hundred dollar bonus.  I might be a bit naive, but a hundred dollars is a lot of money.  So I decided if I could sneak onto one of the trucks early in the morning and maybe catch who was doing this that I could get the money and be on my way."  She sighed.  "And that's about it for me." 

Keats drove, not making eye contact as he listened first with relief from escaping the scene of the crime, then boredom, curiosity, and horror. He continued to listen thoughtfully, quietly. He was glad he was driving. It gave him something to do. It was easier to think and talk, sometimes, behind the wheel. He saw the pieces coming together, so he let his emotions drift away and focused on the puzzle.

"Who was your mother? What was her name- where was she? Tell me all about her. And I assume the letters were signed by...?"

He let the question hang in the air.

"They were signed by someone named J Keats.  They were always so lovely and had bits of poems in them.  He called her Ellie.  Mum's name was Eloise and I never heard anyone call her Ellie.  One of the letters had a photograph in it.  It was hand colored and it must have been very precious to her because she kept it in her purse." She paused, realizing how much she'd said and how little he'd offered.  "Why do you want to know anyhow?" 

Keats drove for half a mile as he gathered his thoughts, letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

"My name is John Keats. I thought you were just trying to throw me off in the truck. And the letters I received before- those must have been you. I assumed... well, it doesn't matter."

Keats focused his eyes on the road as memories, long buried, arose in his mind. A woman with shining hair illuminated by the light of a pub. Her eyes, her smile- these were the things that stuck with him. The way she'd laugh and fall asleep as he read poetry to her. Ellie- damn it. He hadn't thought of Ellie in years. They had spent a summer together, stupidly infatuated and drenched in beer and lust. He'd been... 20? 39 now, so Katherine would be 18 or 19. Keats had been an earner, someone who was familiar with the life- but with no real power or experience. Still, he'd made enough to impress Ellie. And she'd had a baby. Why didn't she ever tell him? Was it because she knew what line of work he was in? Why the hell did she shoot herself?

For perhaps the second or third time in his life, John Keats was speechless. Several miles of highway passed before them and the city emerged from the morning fog before he could string words together.

"So I'm a... I'm your father. And you-"

Keats looked at the girl with new eyes. What kind of person did you become with a mother who shot herself after kissing you goodnight? With a grandmother who blamed you? And a father who you never met? The orphanage, he knew well- knew the daily affronts to humanity that those institutions could become. But she'd run away, like he had. Made it on her own. At least this far.

How do you even begin a conversation that should have started twenty years earlier?

Keats cleared his throat and trusted his tongue.

"My name is John Keats. If you take nothing else from this conversation I want you to remember the following two things. First, what happened back there...

Keats tilted his head to the road behind them momentarily.

... that was to protected you. Even before I knew who you were. If those Lord's Table guys figured out there was a girl connected to this truck heist, then you could have been in danger. And I'd rather some driver go down than risk some stupid kid. No offense."

"The second thing is that I- I did not have any idea that you existed. I don't know if your mother tried to write me and the letters just never came; I know I moved around a lot back then. I don't know if she maybe didn't want you to know about me, because of what I do. Maybe she thought you'd get that box of mementos right after she died and found me then, or that your grandmother would have... I don't know."

Keats paused.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm almost 40 years old. I've never had a kid and I planned on dying without one. So this is... unexpected. But if I'd known about you before... I would have done something. Or at least I like to think I would have. I wouldn't have just left you with nothing, is what I'm saying."

Keats rubbed his eyes with his right hand before focusing on the road again. Keats had only a few streaks of grey hair near his temples; his hair was still nearly all brown. His face, though it had certainly developed a few lines near the eyes, was still tight and youthful. His eyes still shone, his body was in better shape than many men half his age, thanks to a dedicated training regimen. But he'd never felt older. 

"So."  She gathered her thoughts like loose threads on a sweater.  "So you are my father.  The picture.  I have studied it so much, and your eyes, they are the same."  Katherine paused again and felt like she needed to say something meaningful.  Instead she babbled, or at least it felt like she was babbling.  

"I never could have dreamed, in a thousand years that I would meet you like this.  Or at all to be honest.  Even though I've worked so hard to find out more about you, I was so close to giving up.  I don't even know what I was going to do if I never found you."  

Keats slowly steered the truck off the highway, making several turns before eventually pulling over to the side of the road. 

"Listen... I need to get rid of this truck. I also have a lot of processing to do; I'm sure you do as well."

Keats reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, emptying it of bills and pressing the money into Katherine's hand.

"There's a couple thousand here; it should be enough to get you a cab back to wherever you're staying, as well as any other immediate expenses. I want you to go into work like normal for a few days- just do your job and clock out. No more bodyguarding on trucks. Nothing to arouse any questions about you. In a few days, I want you to put in your notice and quit your job like anyone normally would. Nice and smooth, we'll just get you out of there with no suspicion. Then we'll go out out to lunch... dinner.... whatever. And we'll talk more. Just think about what you want."

Keats paused for a moment, studying her face. 

"Think about what you want from me, and what you want from yourself. I'll do the same. You can reach me at this number, or at this address."

Scribbling some information down on a scrap of paper in the truck, Keats hands it to Katherine. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more- but it caught in his throat and he could only offer her a subdued smile, full of a multitude of conflicting emotions.

Katherine nodded and took the money.  Normally she would have protested but she was a ways from home, and the fact she knew so much more than she did that morning meant she also had that much more to protect.  She grabbed the worn grey hat that the driver had been wearing and put it on, pulling the brim down past her eyes.  She wanted to cry, from relief or shock she wasn't sure, but she held in the tears, along with a dozen other things she wanted to say to the man in front of her.  Instead of speaking she merely took the scrap of paper from him, nodded and hopped out of the truck. 

It took her most of the day to get back to her apartment, and along the way she made several stops, leisurely browsing through shops, picking up a few small items like a more girlish head covering, a pack of white taper candles and a small box of baked treats, all things a young woman might pick up on her day off.  She made sure her neighbors saw her walk up the steps to her building, waving casually, as though she'd merely enjoyed a day out.  That night she lit several of the candles and ate several macarons, savoring their intense sweetness, a welcome contrast to the bitter black coffee she had brewed and was now slowly sipping.  

The next day she came to work and greeted her co-workers and boss like it was any other day.  The coffee helped her stay alert, though she hardly needed to.  She heard whispers that the boss was sure he had caught the person responsible for the heists and that the man was now lying in a shallow grave.  For a brief moment she felt a cold trickle of fear move down her forehead but before she could fully panic she put several facts together and came to the realization that her boss was the man who had been giving Keats the locations of each delivery truck, and that this last driver was a convenient fall guy.  Or at least that certainly seemed to be the case. 

She worked several more days as normally as possible, then went to her boss. 

"Mr. Cialotti, I have enjoyed working here so very much, but I will be needing to quit very soon."  She saw a look of surprise, and perhaps something more cross his face but she held up her hand and continued.  "I'm sure you know that I am very religious, well recently I have been thinking about my life and have chosen to become a nun.  There aren't very many young women choosing to live a life of chastity you see, and I feel called."  She smiled, a genuine warm smile and slid a small piece of paper across the desk.  I"ve already talked to several other young ladies where I live and I think you'll find this girl, Deirdre, is looking for a job.  She's very dependable and hard working.  I know it's a burden to find new help, but she's a fast learner and I think she'll be a delightful addition to the bakery."   Her boss hardly had time to reply before she got up and extended her hand.  "I won't be needed my last paycheck, please donate it if you wish, all of my money belongs to the Lord now."  

Over the next several days she told as many people as possible of her plans, and gave her belongings away to other women in the building.  The only things she kept was the small wooden box full of letters, and the locket her mother had worn when she passed away, neatly tucked underneath an impossibly plain blouse.  She wondered how lying was so easy, and why not a single person seemed to disbelieve the idea that the quiet and somewhat ethereal young woman would be devoting her life to God. In the end her doubts hardly mattered, what was important was the fact she was on her way to starting a life she felt had been put on hold the day her mother killed herself.  On her last day in town she had a friend take her to the train station and waved her goodbye, a small carpet bag holding the last of her earthly belongings as her only travelling companion.  

As Keats pulled away in the truck his mind was racing, but he quieted his thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Eventually, he'd managed to stash the truck somewhere safe, where others could prepare to process the merchandise. As soon as the job was confirmed completed, Keats began to get roaring drunk. He started with one of the bottles of whiskey from the truck. He didn't think Maria would mind. He eventually wound up in a casino, where he lost way, way too much of his personal finances on blackjack. Blinking, new resolved to quit gambling forever, Keats stumbled into a bar around dinnertime. 

Several hours later, he walked out with his arm around an attractive woman. His walk was graceful, impeccable- until the curvature of his leaning strides took him into the path of a street sign. The woman started yelling, and Keats listened for a while until he strolled down the sidewalk in the middle of one of her sentences. He could probably calm her down, smooth things over... but whatever.

The enormity of fatherhood pushed him to the inside edge of the sidewalk, where he leaned against a building, peering into an alley.

"I'm a father."

The stray cat looking back at him from the alley did not seem impressed.

"To a Girl."

The cat sniffed the air.

"God damn it..."

He'd deal with this soon. For now, another beer. He turned back toward the bar.