Linda Haze

They say Linda Harbor was born prematurely a month. They say she was hooked to a tube, then a bubble, then a reworked iron lung painted pastel to be more inviting to children. They say something was off from the day they released her. They say her father checked himself into the ward shortly after her first birthday, returning sometime between her first words and steps.

This "They" was Frank Salter—"a voice of the people," he’d incessantly gloat, perpetually palming paperbacks that supported his observations. I remember how everything he did was the new greatest thing ever: fasting, cold plunges, strange breathing techniques. There was always some fad diet he preached—vegan to keto to raw milk and psilocybin—never sticking to anything long enough to compare it to all the other diets he’d also abandoned. I’d find myself tricked into preaching his methods by proxy, only realizing it long after I’d soured those around me. It was this strange, small-town strain of populism that brought me to Linda.

We first met halfway up the mountain, on the lookout, in the evening. She was another transplant artsy student with family vaguely east, unraveling the nuances of city life before the consequences of failure grew too risky. But in her very first sentence—well, her first real sentence, after the Hi, this is Linda, I’m Linda, Dustin, the name, Cool party we got here—I sensed something was off. She emphasized the people around us being "MY" friends, reeling in Frank with a possessive smirk. I laughed it off, assuming sarcasm, and cracked open a beer as she dove headfirst into her religious upbringing, cultural background, and towering list of medical diagnoses. She told me about a little game she plays, calculating how her many traits make her one of a kind. I ran a similar test on myself—green eyes, untreated compulsive behaviours—and concluded I was far less "unique" by her logic.

In retrospect, she was efficient. Damn efficient. Before the first intuitive lull in our conversation—when I pointed out a heron and cracked open my second beer—I’d already learned she’d been transferred three times in middle school, once more in senior year, and had been fired from her first and only job due to "personal differences." I remember stepping away to find a recycling bin (settling for a trash can) and thinking, Damn, she’s just had it tough. When I returned, she gave me an inspirational, teary-eyed hug before leaving early to catch her bus.

The following week, I introduced her to Keagan, my roommate at the time. I relayed a list of topics not to bring up around her. Keagan laughed and punched my shoulder, saying, This city’s made you stupid. I tried to laugh it off, then retreated to my room to call Frank, demanding an excerpt to rebut Keagan’s claim. Frank declared Keagan anti-intellectual—and fuck, that felt good to say.

Months later, word got out that Linda’s surname, "Harbor," was the Harbor—of the multinational company Harbor & Co., a family of glaziers turned stained-glass moguls shipping glassware worldwide. When the dots connected, I checked my pantry and realized I’d been drinking from her highballs all my life. When I brought it up, she deflected, oddly embarrassed by her family’s wealth. Frank theorized that wealth alienates the wealthy from others, not the other way around. I found this profound—powerful enough that I marched back to Keagan and snapped, So what if she’s rich? He laughed and said he’d never complained.

As friendships do, ours deepened. Communication went from monthly to biweekly to weekly to near-daily. I couldn’t explain why I liked her, but I felt it growing. Keagan said I was trying to fuck her. I punched his shoulder and echoed, This city’s made you stupid! We laughed, then carried on with our days.

Then, suddenly—nothing. Radio silence. A lapse that would’ve been unnoticeable earlier. When I asked Frank, he removed his glasses, rubbed his nose, and—in that pause—my brain braced for the worst. Instead, he said Linda’s "Haze" had returned and that I should give her space until she came to me. He pressed a finger to my forehead, uncharacteristically grave. So I waited. She’d get better, we’d spend time, then the Haze would return—cycles repeating, the Haze growing, our time shrinking. Some nights, I’d debate calling her, paranoid I was exhibiting some possessive behaviour Frank could dissect with endless rebuttals.

Months later, Frank left for work overseas. His remote attempts to manage her Haze failed. After a week of silence, I buzzed her apartment. No answer. A robotic voice offered a voicemail; I declined. I tailgated inside behind an indifferent older woman, took the elevator to the tenth floor, and knocked. No response. I bit the bullet and entered.

She was curled on the sofa, surrounded by wrappers, crumpled paper, and crumbs. Something "heinous" had broken out, she said. This Haze was worse than before, and she needed comfort until her "Treatment" arrived. I asked if this was normal. She agreed.

I made mediocre lasagna with her sparse ingredients (her cupboards were mostly snacks). I ate triple her portion—something Frank would’ve called a mistake. I made tea. She watched the news until I changed the channel.

The next morning, a delivery arrived: a heavy, rattling box labeled THIS SIDE UP (upside down). Inside was a teal-and-coral glass vase, shattered but intact in the packaging. Confused, I asked if it was broken. She wiped her eyes, confirmed it was, and said it was okay. Then she cradled the pieces, walked to the balcony, and tossed them one by one. Two seconds later—shatter. The noise triggered tears, then a cathartic giggle at the absurdity. She returned to the couch, ate lasagna, and I stared at the alley’s growing pile of glass below. A hundred thousand shards from Hazes past.

It was a streamlined process. Legal teams shielded her from noise complaints, property damage, even the occasional nicked artery or dented hood. With each Haze, I became more like Frank—who, according to Linda, had grown distant, eventually saying he needed "a different kind of space."

From then on, I was there when she tossed the glass. Sometimes, I’d toss it for her. Strangely, I began to look forward to it. We laughed when we dented the priciest car in the lot. Once, we watched a homeless man slip on the glass and lie there for hours.

Then, one day, I opened the door with her scheduled treatment, but it was locked. making me pull out her spare key, with FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY scribed across it. The lights were on, as was the news, the fan was spinning, she was gone. I tried calling Frank but was immediately sent to voicemail. I was planning on leaving but heard the words WHITE PHOSPHORUS on the TV, and felt a compulsion to remain indoors. I opened her fridge, grabbed some leftover Chow Mein from last treatment, and plopped my lonesome down on the couch. The news lady said it again, white phosphorus. Reports of the Israeli Defensive Force using that shit on civilians, killing thirty, injuring hundreds. Then Keagan rang me up, asking if it was true. I asked him to elaborate on the "it" which he spoke of. He said that Linda was visiting Israel while they did this shit, on a damn all inclusive. I laughed off his speculation, but didn't really, 'cause I shifted on a whim to a lecture on Linda's Haze and how This is the exact line of virtue signalling Frank would blast is he heard you. Keagan told me once more, This city's made you stupid. Neither of us laughed. I tried to lighten the mood, telling him to drop the wise-guy act, and he went silent, followed by a beep and rolling drone. Even Frank shot me a call, expressing concern about the Haze and how morally ambiguous it was all becoming. I reassured him it was necessary, and that her family knew best, and Who cares if she doesn't want agency, she's got it harder than us!

A week later, she returned with a tan, braids, and a roll of film. The news now featured a viral Florida kid making funny faces. Linda rambled about tiki bars, flaming rum, powdered sugar donuts. A car ad played—MotorTrend’s most awarded SUV ever—as she showed me a video of her brother spinning with sparklers on a beach. An omnipotent finger digging 'round my neck. I excused myself, lit a smoke on the balcony, took a drag and flicked it off, fighting the tempting urge to jump. when the cigarette hit the concrete, I heard her giggle inside.

"A desert oasis midst the turmoil," she laughed.

The Haze returned as word of her trip spread. While waiting for the glassware, I took her film to a campus darkroom. The twitchy technician, Andre, developed them. The next day, he handed me the photos with visible worry. A selfie on the beach, another in a club, one of her brother of passed out on a patio. Somewhere near the end, I was met with a note in hand writing unfamiliar. I made it out to be a poem. It went like this:

Fifty-odd blips
On a map from above
Everything is white when hot enough
The evil of man is knowing
No matter what you do
Someone will follow

That omnipotent finger returned to my neck, digging and picking. Guilt enough to leap off the nearest balcony on loop 'til they passed a law ensuring I’d shatter on impact. I lit the stack. It sparked blue. Must’ve been something in the ink.