The two black SUVs transporting Rolland’s group glide along the coastal highway, salt-laden air rushing through the partially opened windows. It has been many long hours of driving from Joy City to Jovial Beach

  Rolland presses his wrinkled face against the cool glass, watching palm trees and stucco buildings pass by in a blur of cream and terracotta. His arthritic fingers clutch the armrest as the vehicle takes a sharp turn, the sign for "Sunset Haven Retirement Community" appearing ahead like a pastel-colored tombstone.

  Above them, the cracks in the sky shift, spread and dissolve in a constant state of motion. The only thing that doesn’t seem to be affected by the cosmic oddity is the sun. And while Rolland stars at the hot white and yellow blob in the sky, he can’t help but think how it serves as the Eye of God, always watching him. Mocking him. All that supposed warmth, and it is only choking humidity and hot misery. Even with the vehicle AC running.

  Then there’s Jovial Beach. The tourist trap sprawls before them as a picturesque coastal town that seems to be pulled right from a vacation brochure. The distant sound of waves crashes with the gentle dinging bells and rumbles of well-regulated traffic. The streets are lined with bougainvillea and jasmine, their scents wafting through the air in a perfumed haze that makes Shae sneeze repeatedly.

  "This place smells like my grandmother's bathroom," says Rolland, pulling at his collar. The humidity clings to his fur, making his artificially aged body feel even heavier.

  Cyrus stares out his window, and Shae presses his palms and nose against his window.

  "Are there any clubs?" asks Shae. "Dance clubs? Book clubs? Crochet clubs? I've never crocheted before, but I bet I'd be good at it."

  "It's a retirement community. The only clubs here are for playing bridge and comparing coupons,” says Rolland.

  “Don’t forget bingo,” says Cyrus.

  The SUVs pull through ornate gates into a sprawling complex of single-story homes arranged in neat rows. Elderly residents mill about on golf carts or sit on porches, watching the newcomers with mild curiosity.

  "What’s your cover story?" asks Jackie, sitting in the front passenger seat.

  "Distant cousins who inherited money from the same relative," replies Rolland. "We decided to retire together to save costs."

  “Good. Remember, keep it simple and don’t go extravagant with it. If anyone asks, be as vague as possible.”

  The SUVs ease to a stop next to a modest, one-story stucco bungalow with a red-tiled roof and a small front yard dotted with colorful and thorny plants. Palm trees sway gently on either side, providing minimal shade from the relentless coastal sun.

  Rolland's knees crack as he steps from the vehicle, his balance unsteady on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. Cyrus helps him stabilize, his own movements careful and measured. Shae practically leaps out, only to wince and grab his lower back.

  "Careful," warns Arnold. "Your bodies are still adjusting to the accelerated aging. No sudden movements for the rest of your lives."

  The rapid aged rabbits grumble their complaints, but comply anyway, moving slowly to their new home. The interior of the house is bland. Beige walls, generic furniture, and laminate flooring that won't aggravate arthritic joints. A security panel blinks by the front door, and the living room has a TV, VCR, DVD, and a cable box, as well as a bookshelf filled with Steven C. Gull movie novelizations and the complete collection of the Heracules and Xenia TV shows.

  "Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, fully equipped kitchen," says Sylvester, gesturing to each space. "Emergency response buttons in every room. Panic room disguised as a linen closet in the hallway. Easy entrance with one push of a button, and once you are inside, only you can open it. Basically, it is impossible to open from the outside unless someone has some military grade gear."

  “Like that one movie,” says Shae.

  Sylvester sighs. “Yes… Like that one movie.”

  "The backyard is enclosed by a privacy fence," adds Jackie, sliding open a glass door to reveal a small patio with a view of a man-made pond. "Cameras monitor the perimeter, but they're discreet. Neighbors won't notice."

  Shae immediately rushes to examine the bathroom, his voice echoing with excitement. "There are grab bars everywhere! And a seat in the shower! Fancy!"

  Cyrus checks each window, testing locks and sightlines. “It looks like these windows are sturdy.”

  “They are. No one is breaking them,” says Sylvester confidently.

  Rolland slumps onto the couch, feeling its cushions yield beneath his weight. His reflection on the television screen shows a stranger. An old rabbit with tired eyes and sagging jowls. Not the feared enforcer who was once a trusted cog in the Mama Bear Syndicate.

  "Your new phones," says Jackie, placing three devices on the coffee table. "Restricted capabilities. No social media, no unauthorized contacts. GPS tracked at all times."

  "What about TV? Internet?" asks Shae, rejoining them with a shower cap inexplicably perched on his head.

  "Basic cable, monitored internet," replies Sylvester.

  Arnold walks through the living room, carrying and pulling all of their luggage with ease. Rolland’s group can’t help but stare at him, eyes wide with wonder.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Show off,” scoffs Jackie.

  “Your monthly stipends will be deposited directly to your accounts. More than enough for comfort, not enough for trouble,” says Sylvester, acting as though his partner didn’t easily haul in six travel cases and duffle bags.

  "And what exactly are we supposed to do all day?" says Rolland. "Play bingo until we actually die of old age?"

  “Read books. Watch TV. Walk on the beach. Make friends with other retirees. Do whatever normal people do,” says Jackie.

  “Weekly check-in is Friday at 2 PM. Don't miss it,” says Arnold.

  The handlers move toward the door, pausing only for a final warning from Sylvester.

  "Remember. No contact with anyone. No One-Oh. No crimes. No leaving town. Break these rules, and we’ll kick your ass with the law," says Sylvester.

  The three marshals leave after that, and the door closes behind them with a soft click, followed by the sound of engines starting and then fading into the distance. Then silence descends on Rolland’s group, broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning and Shae's restless tapping on the armrest.

  "Well, things could be worse," says Cyrus after a long moment.

  "Yeah," says Rolland glumly.

  “Well, you two can mope. I’m going to the kitchen,” says Shae. He uses the wall to keep himself steady as he rushes into the kitchen. Once there, he excitedly opens and closes cabinets, the fridge, and freezer. "Hey! They left us food! And dishes! And cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. Seriously, there’s like twelve kinds of cheese in here… Why is there so much cheese in here?”

  “Do they have cheddar?” asks Cyrus.

  “Eh… No.”

  “How can they have twelve kinds of cheese, but no cheddar? That’s the most basic of cheese!”

  “I don’t know! There’s just no cheddar. But there is blue cheese.”

  Rolland rubs his face to hide the angry wrinkles on his old face. Then the doorbell rings, its jingle Christmas themed. Rolland stops rubbing his face and tilts his head to the door. The doorbell rings again.

  "Who the hell is that?" says Rolland.

  Cyrus hobbles to the door and peers through the blinds cautiously. "It's... a group of people. Older folks. They're holding a basket."

  "Oh! Neighbors!" Shae claps his hands together with genuine delight. "I'll get it!"

  Rolland objects, but Shae ignores him and shuffles to the door. When he enthusiastically throws the door open, he is greeted by a small group of five brightly smiling, elderly residents wearing pastel colored clothing.

  "Hello there!" chirps the leader, a plump female rabbit with silver fur and a floral dress. "We're from the Jovial Beach First Light Church! We heard we had new neighbors and wanted to welcome you to the community."

  The woman thrusts forward a wicker basket overflowing with muffins, fruit, and small jars of homemade preserves. A banner reading "WELCOME NEIGHBORS" is taped to the handle.

  "I'm Doris," continues the group leader, "and this is Herbert, Mabel, Frank, and Gloria. We run the church's welcome committee for Sunset Haven."

  The old timers wave and greet Shae every time their names are called, and Shae returns the greeting with a polite smile and awkward wave as he takes the basket.

  "Well, isn't this just the sweetest thing,” says Shae.

  “Can we get your name, stranger?” asks Doris.

  “Sure! I'm Shhh~”

  Shae’s voice drifts off, noticing the angry and warning looks Rolland and Cyrus are giving him.

  “Samson,” says Shae.

  “Is that Samson with an ‘Sh’ or did you forget your name for a second?” says one of the elderly men, who is a badger with a cane. He is Herbert.

  The group giggles, and Shae holds his smile.

  “I actually did forget my name. I got hit on the head with a bat when I was five. Have had bad memories since,” says Shae.

  The smiles disappear, and Rolland and Cyrus look at each other, lips puckered and heads bobbing from how impressed they are.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” says Dorris. “We didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

  “Ah, it’s all good. You didn’t know,” says Shae.

  “Well, listen. We have church services on Sundays at ten am. We’d love you gentlemen to show up. Paster Benjamin is the sweetest fellow you’ve ever met.”

  Rolland abruptly walks away, wincing and cursing as his joints creak in protest.

  "I need to lie down," says Rolland, heading toward the hallway without acknowledging the church group.

  "Please excuse our cousin," Cyrus says smoothly, stepping forward to stand beside Shae. "The trip was hard on him. He's still adjusting to the move."

  "That poor dear," says Mable, a plump rabbit with spectacles perched on her nose. "Moving at our age is so difficult."

  As Rolland disappears down the hallway, he hears Shae launching an explanation about their fictional family history, something about an uncle in the cardboard box manufacturing business.

  Rolland closes his bedroom door with more strength than necessary and sinks onto the edge of the twin bed. The mattress is fresh from the factory, and a canister of air freshener sprays lavender scented mist into the air. Through the thin walls, he hears the muffled sounds of conversation and Shae's occasional burst of laughter.

  "...and that's when we decided to pool our inheritance and retire together," says Cyrus at some point.

  "How wonderful to have family in your golden years," Gloria responds. "The church has so many activities for newcomers. Herbert here runs the gardening club, and Frank organizes weekly card games."

  "Card games?" Shae's voice perks up noticeably.

  Rolland leans forward, gripping his head tightly and squeezing his eyes shut. The friendly chatter continues about cards and potlucks and church activities, and Rolland grits his teeth. The voices may be muffled through the walls, but he can hear every word spoken.

  “Have you been baptized?” asks Doris.

  “Nope!” says Shae.

  “Well, we’d love to baptize you. A lost soul is tragic, especially when they’re kind like you. With one pledge and ritual, you can be redeemed, and your life can start over!”

  “Does it reverse aging?” asks Cyrus, his tone teasing, but some desperation slips in.

  “No, but you get a nice afterlife,” says Herbert.

  “Worth a shot.”

  Rolland’s eyes snap open, bloodshot and wet. His hand trembles as he presses it against his mouth to hide his heavy breathing and bursts of whimpering.

  “A nice afterlife sounds great. When can we start?” asks Shae.

  Rolland slides off his bed and goes down the hallway, now blotting out the words and ignoring the sun shining through the windows. All he is focused on is the linen closet. He yanks open the closet door, fumbling with the hidden panel behind the stack of perfectly folded towels. His fingers trace along the seam until he finds the recessed button. The back wall slides open with a quiet hiss, revealing a small chamber of reinforced steel.

  He stumbles inside, collapsing onto one of the three cots as the door automatically seals behind him. Security monitors flicker to life, showing different angles of the house. He sees that Shae and Cyrus are still entertaining their church visitors in the living room, another monitor shows the empty kitchen, and another displays the barren backyard with its pathetic view.

  Then the tears come. Not the controlled, dignified tears of a man accepting his fate, but ugly, heaving sobs that wrack his aged body. Rolland leans forward, clawing at his hair, tearing strands out as he releases choked sob after choked sob, tears and drool dripping to the cold concrete floor.

  "I messed up," says Rolland between choking sobs. "I messed up I messed up I messed up."

  The tears continue, soaking into the fur of his cheeks and dripping down. In the cold concrete room, locked away from everyone, it is just him. Sobbing with no shoulder to lean on and no one to hold. Not even the Eye of God sees him.