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CRUISE - BY @bill dippolito WARD Michael didn’t intend on staying long. His mother had said ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and he believed her. Hospitals weren’t places you stayed in. They were places you passed through, whether you wanted to or not. He’d been dropped off with a paperback he wasn’t reading and instructions to sit still and be polite. He did both. The hallway lights were still on even though it was late. They hummed softly, the way lights only do when there’s nothing else making noise. The floor shined like it had been recently waxed, and Michael made a mental note to walk slower so his sneakers wouldn’t squeak. He hated the sound. It felt like announcing himself when he didn’t want to be noticed. He knew the room number already. He’d memorized it after hearing it once. He didn’t know why that felt important, but it did. He stood outside the door longer than necessary, staring at the name on the plastic placard like it might tell him something useful. It didn’t. When he finally went in, the first thing he noticed was the sound. Not talking. Not crying. Just machines. Steady. Confident. Doing something they’d done a thousand times before. His father was already awake. Or at least his eyes were open. Michael couldn’t tell the difference yet. His dad looked smaller than usual. Not weak. Just… condensed. Like someone had taken the version of him Michael knew and folded it in on itself. The blanket covered most of him, and the bed rails felt unnecessary, like they were there out of habit more than need. Michael stayed by the door at first. He wasn’t sure if he was allowed to sit. Nobody had told him what the rules were. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked slightly on his heels, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. He pulled the chair over anyway. It made a soft scraping sound that felt too loud in the room. He sat down and kept his back straight, the way his father always told him to. He didn’t look directly at his face right away. That felt rude, somehow. “Hey, Dad,” Michael said. His father didn’t answer. The machine answered instead, beeping steadily, like it was marking time for him. Michael nodded to himself. That was fine. His dad wasn’t much of a talker anyway. He looked around the room. The TV was off. The window showed nothing but darkness and a few reflected lights from inside. Someone had put a cup of water on the tray table, but it hadn’t been touched. “They let me stay up late tonight,” Michael said after a while. “Because of this.” He waited. Nothing. “I got picked for shortstop,” he added. “Coach said I got good hands.” The machine kept doing its job. Michael shifted in his seat. His feet didn’t touch the floor, so he crossed his ankles and tried to sit still. He noticed his father’s hands resting on the blanket. They looked the same as always. Big. Familiar. That helped. He reached out and touched one, just briefly. It was warm. That surprised him more than it should have. “They said you gotta rest,” Michael said. “So I won’t stay long.” That part felt important. Like a promise. A nurse passed by the doorway and glanced in, then kept walking. Michael watched the shadow move across the floor and disappear. “I don’t like this place,” he said quietly. “It’s too clean.” He didn’t know why he said that. It just came out. He leaned back in the chair and stared at the ceiling, the same way his father was. The tiles were arranged in neat squares. Michael counted them until he lost track. After a while, he stood up. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, but it felt like enough. He straightened his shirt and rubbed his hands together, then leaned in closer. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “So you gotta wake up.” He waited a second longer than necessary, just in case. Nothing happened. Michael nodded once, like the conversation had ended properly, and turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back one last time. His father hadn’t moved. The machine hadn’t changed. That was okay. Things didn’t always change right away. Michael stepped back into the hallway and let the door close behind him. The lights kept humming. The floor still shined. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed softly. He walked toward the exit with his book tucked under his arm, already thinking about how he’d tell his dad everything again tomorrow, the same way, in case this time it worked. WARD (P2) The next day didn’t feel like a next day. It felt like the same one, stretched thin and laid back over itself. The sky outside the hospital was brighter, but the light didn’t seem to reach inside. The hallway lights were still on. They always were. Michael came back with his mother this time. She held his hand tighter than usual, like she was afraid he might wander off even though he never did. She smelled like perfume she only wore for important things. Funerals. Weddings. Hospital visits that weren’t supposed to turn into something else. William was already there. He stood when they arrived, straight-backed, jacket still on even though the room was warm. He nodded once at Michael, then leaned in to kiss their mother on the cheek. Nobody said much. Words felt unnecessary now. Everything that needed saying had already been said the day before, even if nobody realized it yet. Richard looked the same. That was the strange part. Michael expected something to be different. Worse, maybe. Or better. But his father was still there in the same way. Eyes half-open. Chest rising shallowly. The machine still doing the talking for him. Michael took the same chair as before. He noticed it immediately. Same scrape against the floor. Same spot beside the bed. It felt important to sit where he’d sat last time, like moving would change something. His mother sat on the other side and took Richard’s hand with both of hers. She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just watched his face, studying it like she was trying to memorize it without knowing why. William stood at the foot of the bed for a while, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on the monitor. He looked calm. Michael knew better. William always looked calm when things were already decided. A nurse came in and checked a few things. Adjusted a dial. Smiled softly at Michael and his mother. The smile didn’t stick around long. It never did. When the nurse left, the room settled again. Michael swung his legs slightly, then stopped. He folded his hands in his lap and waited. That seemed to be the theme of the place. Waiting for machines. Waiting for signs. Waiting for someone else to tell you what was happening even when you already knew. His mother leaned closer to Richard. “I’m here,” she said quietly. “We’re all here.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t let it break. Michael leaned forward too. He didn’t know why. It just felt like something you did. “Hey, Dad,” he said again. This time felt different. Not heavier. Just final in a way he didn’t have a word for yet. The machine kept beeping. Slower now. Michael noticed it without understanding what it meant. William stepped closer. He rested a hand lightly on the bed rail. He didn’t look at Michael or their mother. He watched Richard instead, like he was waiting for instructions that weren’t coming. The beeping slowed again. Michael felt it before he saw it. The room tightening. The air changing. His mother squeezed Richard’s hand harder, her thumb moving gently over his knuckles. Richard’s chest rose once more. Then again. The second time took longer. Michael held his breath without realizing it. The machine hesitated. Just for a second. Then it made a different sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just wrong. A nurse came in quickly this time. Then another. They spoke in low voices. Calm voices. Professional voices. Hands moved. Dials turned. Someone said his father’s name like it might still matter. Michael watched Richard’s face the whole time. It didn’t change. At some point, the nurse stopped moving. She looked at the clock on the wall and said a time. Michael didn’t remember it later. Numbers didn’t stick when they didn’t mean anything yet. The machine was quiet now. His mother leaned down and pressed her forehead gently against Richard’s hand. That was when she cried. Not loudly. Just enough to make it real. William closed his eyes once. Just once. Then he opened them again. Michael stayed seated. He waited for something to happen. For his father to move. To cough. To open his eyes wider and look at them like this was all a mistake. Nothing did. Eventually, a nurse put a hand on Michael’s shoulder and told him they were sorry. He nodded, because nodding seemed like the right thing to do. He stood when his mother stood. He followed when William turned toward the door. Before they left, Michael looked back one last time. Richard looked peaceful now. Smaller still. Like he’d finally stopped holding himself together. Michael didn’t cry in the hallway. He didn’t cry in the elevator. He didn’t cry in the car. He held his book tight against his chest and stared out the window as the hospital got smaller behind them. Somewhere deep down, in a place he wouldn’t understand for years, something settled into him quietly. Things didn’t always change right away. Sometimes they just stopped. WARD (P3) Two years later, Michael learned how to walk without making noise. It wasn’t something anyone taught him. It just happened. His footsteps softened on their own. He learned where floors creaked and where they didn’t. He learned how to stand still long enough that people forgot he was there. Grief did that. It made you smaller. Quieter. Easier to miss. The house felt different now. Not emptier. Just unfinished. Like a room where someone stopped painting halfway through and never came back. His mother kept things clean. Too clean. She filled the silence with routine. Dishes. Laundry. Television left on for company. William came by when he could, but William was always somewhere else even when he was there. Michael spent a lot of time outside. He walked. A lot. Not aimlessly. Just… forward. He liked the feeling of motion without destination. It made the days easier to stack together. He knew the name by heart. Alan Camuso. It lived in his head the same way his father’s voice used to. Not loud. Not constant. Just present. A shape you didn’t see until you turned the light off. Michael didn’t know why he started looking. Only that one day he did. Addresses weren’t hard if you listened. Adults talked more than they thought. Names floated through rooms. Numbers got written down and forgotten. Michael paid attention. He always had. The house was nicer than he expected. Not big. Just confident. Tucked into a quiet neighborhood where nothing ever seemed to happen. The kind of place where people left porch lights on and trusted they’d still be there in the morning. Michael stayed across the street. There was a low wall he could sit on without being seen. He rested his elbows on his knees and waited. Waiting was something he understood now. Hospitals taught you that. So did funerals. So did growing up around adults who never told you the whole truth. The sun was already low. The sky was doing that thing where it pretended everything was fine right before it went dark. The sliding door opened. Alan Camuso stepped out onto the patio like he owned the air around him. Older than Michael remembered, or maybe just more real now that Michael knew what he was looking at. He wore a collared shirt, sleeves rolled up. Comfortable. At home. Michael didn’t move. For a second, nothing happened. Alan looked out into his yard, one hand on the doorframe. He inhaled, slow, like someone who thought they were alone. Then the shadow behind him shifted. It was subtle. Just a shape where there hadn’t been one before. A person stepping forward without sound. Close enough that it felt impossible Michael hadn’t noticed them sooner. The wire came up quick. There was no speech. No warning. Just the sudden change in the air when something irreversible begins. Alan’s hands went to his throat immediately. Instinct. His feet scraped against the concrete as he tried to turn, tried to see who was there. The wire tightened. Clean. Efficient. Personal without being emotional. Michael watched. He didn’t cover his eyes. He didn’t look away. He noticed small things instead. The way Alan’s heels dragged. The way the patio chair tipped over and didn’t make as much noise as it should have. The sliding door rattling softly in its frame. The figure stayed close. Calm. Patient. Like this was something they’d done before. Like this was something that needed doing. Alan’s movements slowed. His hands fumbled, then dropped. His body sagged forward, held up only by the person behind him until it wasn’t anymore. When it was over, the figure lowered him to the ground instead of letting him fall. That part stuck with Michael. The care of it. The decision. The shadow retreated the same way it came. Quiet. Unremarkable. The sliding door stayed open, letting warm light spill out onto the patio like nothing had happened. Michael stayed where he was. His heart didn’t race. That surprised him. He thought it might. Instead, it felt steady. Heavy, but steady. Like it had finally found a rhythm it recognized. After a while, he stood. He didn’t cross the street. He didn’t go closer. He didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. He turned and walked the way he’d come, hands in his pockets, steps soft against the pavement. The neighborhood stayed quiet. Somewhere behind him, a porch light flicked on automatically as the sky finished going dark. Michael kept walking. That night, when he got home, the house was still clean. Still unfinished. His mother asked him how his day was. He said “fine” and meant something close to it. In his room, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Things didn’t always change right away. Sometimes they caught up to you years later, stepped out of the dark, and wrapped themselves tight around what you’d been carrying all along. Michael closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, the quiet didn’t feel empty. WARD (P4) A month passed before anyone said Michael’s name out loud. By then, the neighborhood had learned how to talk about Alan Camuso without really talking about him. People lowered their voices. They said things like such a shame and you never know these days. Police cars came and went. Tape went up, came down. Life practiced moving on. Michael noticed who stopped making eye contact. He noticed who watched him walk past a little too closely. He noticed the woman two houses down who had curtains that twitched when he passed, even though she pretended to be folding laundry every time. That was how it started. They came for him on a Wednesday. Late afternoon. The sun still out, but tired. Two men in plain clothes this time. Polite. Careful. They spoke to his mother in soft voices, like volume alone could soften what they were about to do. “Just a few questions.” Michael put on his jacket without being told. The station smelled like old coffee and disinfectant. It wasn’t dramatic. No bright lights. No slammed doors. Just a small room with a table that had been wiped too many times and chairs that didn’t quite match. They didn’t handcuff him. That was intentional. One of the detectives sat across from him. Mid-forties. Tired eyes. The kind of face that had learned how to look sympathetic without feeling it. The other leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch. They started easy. Name. Age. Where he lived. School. Michael answered without hesitation. He’d learned that pauses invited interest. “You like to walk,” the detective said eventually. Not a question. Michael nodded. “Sometimes.” “Neighbors say they’ve seen you around. That night. Near Mr. Camuso’s house.” Michael shrugged. Small. Controlled. “I walk a lot.” The detective slid a photo across the table. Grainy. A still from a security camera down the block. A figure in a jacket. Head down. Passing through the frame. “That you?” Michael looked at it. Really looked. Then nodded. “Probably.” “Where were you going?” “Nowhere.” The second detective shifted his weight. The room creaked slightly. Michael clocked it. File cabinets settled like old bones. “You see anything strange that night?” the first detective asked. His voice stayed gentle, like the answer didn’t matter. Like this was just routine. Michael shook his head. “No voices? No arguments? No one coming or going?” “No.” They waited. Silence was a tool. Michael understood that now. He’d lived in it long enough to know when to let it sit. “You didn’t hear anything from the patio?” the detective pressed. “Didn’t see anyone else around?” Michael met his eyes. “No.” The detective studied him for a moment. Not suspicious. Curious. Like Michael was a puzzle piece that didn’t quite belong to this box. “You’re sure?” Michael nodded again. Same motion. Same size. He kept his hands folded in his lap. Still. “I didn’t see anything about how Alan Camuso died,” he said. The words were careful. Accurate. They let him go not long after that. No threats. No warnings. Just a reminder to come back if he remembered anything. Michael walked home alone. The sky was the same color it had been that night. That false calm blue. He paid attention to his steps. Made sure they didn’t echo. Made sure they didn’t matter. He didn’t tell William about the station. Not right away. WARD (P5) The woods were different. They always were. The trees didn’t ask questions. They didn’t lean in when you spoke. They stood where they stood and expected you to do the same. Michael liked that. Hunting had been their thing since before everything else broke. Before hospitals. Before funerals. Before names like Camuso meant anything at all. It was routine, but not empty. Something inherited. Something earned. William walked ahead of him, rifle slung easy over his shoulder. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his feet were going to land before they did. Michael followed, quieter now than he’d ever been before. They didn’t talk at first. They never did. The woods filled the space for them. Leaves under boots. Wind through branches. Somewhere far off, a bird startled and corrected itself. They stopped near a clearing. William crouched, checking the ground. Tracks. Signs. Things Michael was still learning to see without being shown. After a while, William spoke. “You been walking more,” he said. Not looking back. Michael nodded. “Yeah.” William straightened slowly. Took his time. “Cops come by?” Michael hesitated. Just a second. “Yes.” William didn’t react right away. He just adjusted the strap on his rifle, eyes scanning the tree line like the answer had changed the shape of the woods. “What’d you say?” William asked. Michael watched a leaf spiral down from above, catching the light before it hit the ground. “Nothing.” William finally turned to look at him. Not angry. Not relieved. Just steady. “Good,” he said. They walked again. Deeper this time. Far enough that the road noise disappeared completely. Far enough that the world felt old again. They stopped near a fallen log. Sat. Ate in silence. Michael chewed slowly, listening to the way sound died out here. William broke the quiet again. “People think talking makes things lighter,” he said. “Like if you give something away, it weighs less.” Michael didn’t look at him. “But that ain’t how it works,” William continued. “You talk, it don’t disappear. It just moves. Lands somewhere else. On someone who didn’t ask for it.” Michael nodded once. William picked up a stick, snapped it clean in half. The sound was sharp. Final. “There’s a difference between surviving and living,” William said. “And rats don’t do either. They just last. And not long.” Michael swallowed. “You see something you weren’t supposed to,” William went on. “You carry it. Quiet. That’s the price. You don’t put it on the table for people who don’t care what it costs you.” Michael finally looked at him. William met his eyes. The bond between them didn’t need words, but William used them anyway. Carefully. Like placing rounds in a magazine. “Family first,” William said. “Always. Even when nobody tells you that’s what you’re choosing.” The woods pressed in around them. Protective. Patient. Michael exhaled slowly. “I didn’t say anything,” he said. William nodded. Once. Satisfied. “Good,” he repeated. They sat there a while longer. No rush. No need to fill the space. When they stood to leave, Michael noticed something else. His footsteps didn’t make a sound at all now. And for the first time, he understood that silence wasn’t just something you endured. It was something you learned to carry.

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Abraham "Zachariah" Zhang was born to David “Ezekiel” Zhang and Mariam “Devorah” Gao (a Jewish minority from Kaifeng whose family left China in the 19th century and became American citizens) on July 4th, 1952, at Harborview Medical Center, Seattle Hospital, Seattle, in Washington State. His father is a physician and philosopher. His mother was a poet and teacher. His father's family settled in the U.S. after the Chinese Civil War, and his great-grandfather was a war veteran of the Nationalist Army. His mother's side of the family left China in 1870, and from an early age, his grandfather took him out into nature, taught him philosophy, and shared with him his Jewish heritage, the Jewish community in Kaifeng, Zionism, and the Three Principles of the People. He also taught him about the origins of their family. And so they’d meet other Chinese and Taiwanese people in Washington's capital, Olympia. He'd learn Chinese Mandarin, Taiwanese Mandarin, Japanese, and some Hebrew, but never to a high level. On his 7th birthday, his parents would greet him with the news that he would have a younger brother, Avishai, who would be born nine months later. Personality-wise, he’d usually be quiet and keep to himself but would talk to people, socialize occasionally, and always be respectful, as he learned to be. Also during this time, he discovered fencing, acrobatics, parkour, Taekwondo, Judo, and Muay Thai. During his teen years, he would learn photography and the proper way of drawing, which made it better for when he went to university. During this time, he would read the Babylonian Talmud- a religious book of Judaism. On his 13th birthday, he’d have a bar mitzvah. And so, in his teen years, although he is Jewish and isn't ashamed, he is only spiritual, does his best in his studies, and gets good grades. And so, once he turned 16, he and his family would visit Israel for religious reasons, and while there, they learned Hebrew but never applied for citizenship. After they returned, Abraham would meet Zipporah, now his wife, and start dating. And so, at age 17, he chose to return to Israel once he finished high school at the top of his class to become a soldier in the IDF in 1970. And so, after finishing high school, he moved to Israel, with the Rabbi confirming he was Jewish. He’d start his service in the ground forces, joining the 16th Jerusalem Brigade, joining the 7007th Infantry Battalion, given the FN FAL. During the training, he would learn Krav Maga as part of his training. During that time, he would travel to Jerusalem with one of his friends to visit various holy Jewish sites. At other times, he’d join his other friend who lived in the Kibbutz Tzuba, where Abraham joined in the activities of the Kibbutz, such as agricultural work, maintenance, communal chores, and any other responsibilities that support the functioning of the kibbutz community. During his service, he served in the times of the War of Attrition through limited action and in the Yom Kippur War, fighting in the Sinai Front. Once he ended his service, he was given an honorable promotion to Rav Samal, the equivalent of Sergeant First Class at his discharge. He began his new life by moving back to Seattle After serving in the military, he began applying to Washington University School of Medicine, where he pursued his studies for a doctorate in medicine, with a focus on psychiatry. During that time, he’d also met a few people who became good friends during his second year and married soon after. Once they married, they bought a house, started their careers, and had their firstborn son, Solomon, at the age of 22. And so, at age 24, he had his second son, Joshua. And at 26, their daughter, Ruth, was born. During that time, he would carry on doing his job from 1974 to 1978, doing his med studies at Washington University, then from 1978 to 1983, a 4-year residency and a year for specialty trauma patients at Virginia Mason Hospital. After a long life as a psychiatrist, in 2019, Abraham formally resigned at the age of 67 to live the rest of his life in peace in retirement, visiting his grandkids. Then, in 2025, Abraham moved to Los Santos to live there peacefully and quietly. to be continued

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With RAGE around the corner, I’m looking to build a new PC that can handle RAGE really well, with a stable performance. Open for suggestions.

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Our lawyer will be providing the community with an official statement in the near future. We ask that people avoid speculation and respect Voronov's privacy during this difficult time.

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What happen?