Clay Davis
Once Boris began canceling plans, he received more invitations. When those were declined, people began showing up at his personal outings, seeking him out, appearing just as he would sit and settle. Locked in his home, he would hear scraping, scuffling, clinking, and discover acquaintances tunneling into his basement, his great aunt shifting and swatting at moths behind the curtains, his old boss removing a window screen. Boris packed dry goods and gear, fled to the country, but old friends he failed to keep in contact with tracked him like bounty hunters, emerged from darkness into the flickering light of his campfire, squatted on their haunches at the edge of the fluttering heat. Boris dove into the shadows, fled to the unmarked parts of the world, erased himself to the best of his ability. He dyed his hair, wore makeup and a prosthetic nose, spoke only in accents, but family, friends, and loved ones sniffed him out, caught him just as he relaxed and found a reprieve, ripping him from his solitude, tearing him from the seclusion of nooks between tree roots, alcoves in sewers, air pockets in sea caves. All Boris wanted was to live outside of official and tacit dictates, alone with his choices, but he could never escape the loving talons of the people in his life. Weary of running, he decided to sleep for the remainder of his days and nights, to flee within and be at peace in the privacy of his dreams and nightmares. He donated his assets, entered a cryogenic chamber, closed his eyes, and drifted away. His family, friends, and loved ones visit him daily, poking at the glass guarding his slack face.