The Eight Novels & Stories

“You can say we used to be part of the Freemasons. Some of us still are, in other lodges. But the Club of Eight is different. There are only eight of us, as the name suggests. No more, no less.” “My father is number eight?” “Was. He resigned his seat when he fell ill. And no, we assign no numbers. Everyone is equal. No one is first or last. We are simply eight people furthering each other’s interests in the world.” “What kind of interests?” He uncrosses his legs, clasps his hands together and sets his small eyes on my face. “You’ve always asked brilliant questions, Dana. I see why your father wanted you to take over instead of one of the boys. The interests are anything a member wants us to

Dad watched in silence, then lifted his glass and whispered to the empty place, "Danny, happy new year." Joe and Lyra followed in unison, "Danny, happy new year." Outside, the fireworks bloomed again, lighting the sky with the same brilliance and joy as last year. Only I was gone forever. That snow at the rest stop had frozen an eight-year-old me to death—and with me, it had frozen a family's heart. Some mistakes could be mended, some wounds forgiven, but some losses remained forever. Melted snow never returned to its first shape, and a vanished life never returned to those who had loved it.

I interrupt, eyes wide, looking at Sam, who stays silent. “What’s the problem, Estela?” Sam asks calmly. “Repeat what you said, Mark,” I demand, surprised. “I said… how about we do this now?” he repeats, pointing to a card in the game with a sliced ham image. “I’m hungry, sorry,” Mark adds, shrugging. This time I swallow hard—the imminent full moon is affecting me more than ever.

That day was the eighth. The two things had happened back-to-back.