We are very good at naming people: Silver Alert. Legend. Trespasser. We are less good at saving them. The news cycle ends neatly. The police file does not.

The night he vanished, a balcony door wouldn’t stay shut, a neighbor pocketed the gun “for safekeeping,” and a ransacked safe gaped open. These are facts that read like clues but never added up to an answer.

Earlier that day Hobo Shoestring walked out of the hospital with the same hallucinations he walked in with, a script in his hand and no admission band on his wrist. Nine days later they found him in the lake behind his apartment. Months pass and they still can’t say how a body with no drugs, no alcohol, no internal or external injuries came to rest there.

“As a society, we try to reward those who had a lasting impact. I am not there yet — not sure if I ever will be. But I am proud of the social debate that has begun, and even prouder of its respectful nature. If there is one thing I hope to have a lasting impact other than the right to make end-of-life decisions, it is this: being able to discuss our common interests, however controversial they might be, while respecting those with different opinions.”

When the gavel finally falls and Hip 308 is led back out of the ring, the electronic bid tracker above reads that he had sold for $200,000. It is inaccurate. The tracker is limited to a seven-digit display. Northern Dancer’s newest debutant has sold for $10.2 million.

Bay Area quad skaters Tamara, Cammie, and Lyla aren’t just skating for the thrill of landing wild tricks–they’re in it for the community.

While skate parks have long been dominated by men, a new wave of quad skaters is changing the game, creating a more inclusive subculture in the skate world. Women like Tamara, Cammie, and Lyla are claiming space in a scene that wasn’t built for them. Through everyday skate park play and competing in fierce competitions, they’re reshaping skate culture around the world.

She parks her car, turns off the engine, and tells herself to take a deep breath, even as she prays that the van won’t come back to follow her.

Turning around in her seat, she watches as it continues unstoppingly down the road and snakes around a mountainous bend, its yellow lights disappearing into the night.

Her heart rate slows with each breath she takes. She starts her car engine, and once again begins her drive home – just another evening commute for the highest-paid prostitute in the country.

It is the middle of summer, and for Florida, that means indiscriminate light showers. I am sitting at the circulation desk of the public library where I work when my phone starts ringing in my pocket. I fumble to turn my ringer off, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I mutter an apology to my coworker and the patron she is tending to. I don’t bother checking the caller ID. Nobody but my mother ever calls me. In my head, I am planning the angry text message I plan to send her for calling me during work hours. But then, my phone vibrates again. My mother is nothing if not insistent.

“Sheila,” she says quietly, deliberately choosing to let my disrespectful tone slide this one time. “Tony’s here.”

I blink, confused. “What Tony?”

“Tony Tony,” my mom says. “Caridad’s Tony. He’s in Texas. He crossed the border.”

"There’s an intruder in the Garden of Eden. He has slithered past the trampoline bathed in moonlight and nestled inside the sturdy row of potted plants. "