Excerpts from the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, Adapted for Upper Intermediate Level

 

Excerpts from Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave

(1845)

Adapted for upper intermediate level

Frederick Douglass (c. February 1817– February 20, 1895) was an American social reformer, abolitionist, orator, writer, and statesman. He became the most important leader of the movement for African-American civil rights in the 19th century. 

After escaping from slavery in 1838 at the age of 30, Douglass participated in the Abolitionist movement in the North, appearing regularly as a lecturer. He published his first autobiography, Narrative of the Life, in 1845 (he was to publish two more), exposing himself to the risk of re-enslavement. He left in the same year for a trip to England, and with the help of supporters, he was able to collect enough money to buy his freedom and establish his own newspaper, The North Star, when he returned to the States.

In addition to his work in the Abolitionist movement and African American civil rights, he support other progressive movements for the time, such as advancing the rights of women. During the Civil War, he helped recruit African Americans for the Union army and he advised President Lincoln. After the war, he supported Reconstruction and Republican Presidents and served in several government positions including United States Marshal for the District of Columbia and ambassador to the Republic of Haiti.  

The following excerpts are from Douglass’s first autobiography, Narrative of a life of Fredrick Douglass, an American Slave. They chronicle his life from his birth as a slave on a plantation near Easton Maryland and in the household of the Auld family in Baltimore, to his escape from slavery. The book is considered to be the most famous of a number of narratives written by former slaves during the same period, and is one of the most influential pieces of literature to fuel the abolitionist movement of the early 19th century in the United States.

-Adapted from Wikipedia and other sources

I was born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, and about twelve miles from Easton, in Talbot county, Maryland. I have no accurate knowledge of my age, since I have never seen any authentic record containing it. Most slaves know as little of their ages as horses know of theirs, and to my knowledge, it is the wish of most masters to keep their slaves ignorant of this. I do not remember ever meeting a slave who knew his own birthday. They seldom come nearer to it than planting-time, harvest- time, cherry-time, spring-time, or fall-time. A lack of information concerning my own birthday was a source of unhappiness to me even during childhood. The white children could tell their ages. I could not tell why I ought not to have the same privilege. I was not allowed to ask my master any questions concerning it. He believed all such questions from a slave improper and disrespectful, and evidence of a restless spirit. The nearest estimate I can give makes me now between twenty-seven and twenty- eight years old. I come to this, from hearing my master say, sometime during 1835, I was about seventeen years old.

My mother was named Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and Betsey Bailey, both colored, and quite dark. My mother was of a darker complexion than either my grandmother or grandfather.

My father was a white man. Some people also whispered that my master was my father; but I do not know if this opinion is correct. My mother and I were separated when I was but an infant -- before I knew her as my mother. It is a common custom, in the part of Maryland from which I ran away, to separate children from their mothers at a very early age. Frequently, before the child has reached its twelfth month, its mother is taken from it, and sent to work on some farm fairly far away, and the child is placed under the care of an old woman, too old for field labor. Why this separation is done, I do not know, unless it be to stop the development of the child's affection toward its mother, and to dull and destroy the natural affection of the mother for the child. This is the inevitable result.

I never saw my mother, to know her as such, more than four or five times in my life; and each of these times was very short, and at night. She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from my home. She made her journeys to see me in the night, travelling the whole distance on foot, after the performance of her day's work. She was a field hand, and a whipping is the penalty of not being in the field at sunrise, unless a slave has special permission from his or her master -- a permission which they seldom get, and one that gives to him that gives it the proud name of being a kind master. I do not recollect of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in the night. She would lie down with me, and get me to sleep, but long before I waked she was gone. Very little communication ever took place between us. Death soon ended what little we could have while she lived, and with it her hardships and suffering. She died when I was about seven years old, on one of my master's farms, near Lee's Mill. I was not allowed to be present during her illness, at her death, or burial. She was gone long before I knew anything about it. Since I was never able to enjoy, to any considerable extent, her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the news of her death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger.

She left me without the slightest idea of who my father was. The whisper that my master was my father, may or may not be true; and, true or false, it matters little to my purpose while the fact remains, in all its clear hatefulness, that slaveholders have declared, and by law established, that the children of slave women shall in all cases become slaves like their mothers; and this is done too obviously to manage their own lusts, and make a gratification of their wicked desires profitable as well as pleasurable; for by this cunning arrangement, the slaveholder, in not just a few cases, has the double relationship to his slaves of master and father.

I know of such cases; and it is worthy of remark that such slaves always suffer greater hardships, and have more to contend with, than others. They are, in the first place, a constant offence to their mistress. She will always find fault with them; they can seldom do anything to please her; she is never better pleased than when she sees them whipped, especially when she suspects her husband of showing to his mixed race children favors which he withholds from his black slaves. The master is frequently forced to sell this class of his slaves, to make his white wife feel better; and, cruel as the deed may be, for a man to sell his own children to slave traders, it is often the rule of humanity for him to do so; for, unless he does this, he must not only whip them himself, but must stand by and see one white son tie up his brother, who has only a little darker complexion than himself, and use the bloody whip to his naked back; and if he whispers one word of disapproval, it is considered to be because of his favor as a parent, and only makes a bad matter worse, both for himself and the slave whom he would protect and defend.

I have had two masters. My first master's name was Anthony. I do not remember his first name…He was not considered a rich slaveholder. He owned two or three farms, and about thirty slaves. His farms and slaves were under the care of an overseer. The overseer's name was Plummer. Mr. Plummer was a miserable drunk and a savage monster. He always went armed with a whip and a heavy club. I have known him to cut and slash the women's heads so horribly, that even master would be greatly angered at his cruelty, and would threaten to whip him if he did not mind himself. Master, however, was not a humane slaveholder. It required extraordinary brutality on the part of an overseer to affect him. He was a cruel man, hardened by a long life of slave- holding. He would at times seem to take great pleasure in whipping a slave. I have often been awakened at the dawn of day by the most horrible screams of an aunt of mine, whom he used to tie up, and whip her naked back till she was literally covered with blood. No words, no tears, no prayers, from his bloody victim, seemed to move his iron heart from its horrible purpose. The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the blood ran fastest, there he whipped longest. He would whip her to make her scream, and whip her to make her quiet; and not until overcome by tiredness, would he stop to swing the bloody whip. I remember the first time I ever witnessed this horrible exhibition. I was quite a child, but I well remember it. I never shall forget it while I remember anything. It was the first of a long series of such outrages, of which I was doomed to be a witness and a participant. It struck me with awful force. It was the blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery, through which I was about to pass. It was a most terrible spectacle. I wish I could write down on paper the feelings I had when I saw it

This occurrence took place very soon after I went to live with my old master, and under the following circumstances. Aunt Hester went out one night, -- where or for what I do not know, -- and happened to be absent when my master desired her presence. He had ordered her not to go out evenings, and warned her that she must never let him catch her in company with a young man, who was paying attention to her. The young man's name was Ned Roberts, generally called Lloyd's Ned, since he belonged to Colonel Lloyd. Why master was so careful of her, it’s fairly easy to guess. She was a woman of noble form and beauty, having very few equals in appearance, among the colored or white women of our neighborhood.

Aunt Hester had not only disobeyed his orders in going out, but had been found with Lloyd's Ned; and this,  I found from what he said while whipping her, was the chief crime. If he had been a man of pure morals himself, he might have been interested in protecting the innocence of my aunt; but those who knew him will not suspect him of any such virtue. Before he commenced whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen, and removed her clothes from neck to waist, leaving her neck, shoulders, and back, entirely naked. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her at the same time a d -- -d b -- -h. After crossing her hands, he tied them with a strong rope, and led her to a stool under a large hook. He made her get on the stool, and tied her hands to the hook. She now stood for his hellish purpose. Her arms were stretched up at their full length, so that she stood upon the ends of her toes. He then said to her, "Now, you d -- -d b -- -h, I'll teach you how to disobey my orders!" and he began to whip her, and soon the warm, red blood (among terrible screams from her, and horrible curses from him) fell to the floor. I was so terrified and struck with horror at the sight, that I hid myself in a closet, and did not dare to come out till long after the bloody transaction was over. I expected it would be my turn next. It was all new to me. I had never seen anything like it before. I had always lived with my grandmother on the edge of the plantation, where she was put to raise the children of the younger women. I had therefore been, until now, out of the way of the bloody scenes that often occurred on the plantation. . . .

The home plantation of Colonel Lloyd looked like a country village. All the mechanical operations for all the farms were performed here. The shoemaking, the blacksmith work, processing the grain and other work, were all performed by the slaves on the home plantation. The whole place had a business-like aspect very unlike the neighboring farms. The number of houses, too, gave it advantage over the neighboring farms. It was called by the slaves the GREAT HOUSE FARM. Few privileges were considered higher, by the slaves of the other farms, than being selected to do errands at the Great House Farm. It was associated in their minds with greatness. A representative could not be prouder of his election to a seat in the American Congress, than a slave on one of the other farms would be of his election to do errands at the Great House Farm. They regarded it as evidence of great confidence given to them by their overseers; and it was for this reason, as well as a constant desire to be out of the field from under the overseer’s whip, that they thought of it as a high privilege. He was called the smartest and most trusted fellow, who had this honor given to him most frequently. The competitors for this office sought as strongly to please their overseers, as the office-seekers in the political parties seek to please and deceive the people. 

The slaves selected to go to the Great House Farm were peculiarly enthusiastic. While on their way, they would make the old woods, for miles around, shake with their wild songs, showing at the same time the highest joy and the deepest sadness. They would compose and sing as they went along. They would sometimes sing the saddest emotion in the most joyful way, and the most joyful emotion in the saddest way. Into all of their songs they would manage to combine something of the Great House Farm. Especially would they do this, when leaving home. They would then sing most energetically the following words: --

"I am going away to the Great House Farm!

O, yea! O, yea! O!"

I have sometimes thought that just hearing those songs would do more to show the horrible character of slavery, than reading whole books on this subject.

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently illogical songs. They told a tale of despair which was then totally beyond my weak understanding; they were sounds loud, long, and deep; they sung the prayer and complaint of souls boiling with the bitterest suffering. Every sound was proof against slavery, and a prayer to God for freedom. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with inexpressible sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. Hearing those songs, even now, upsets me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first small light of conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brothers in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd's plantation… 

Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly began to teach me the A, B, Cs. After I had learned this, she assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just at this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and at once forbid Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among other things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to read. To use his own words, he said, "If you give a nigger an inch, he will take a foot. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his master -- to do as he is told to do. Learning would SPOIL the best nigger in the world. Now," said he, "if you teach that nigger (speaking of myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would make him forever unfit to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy." These words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay sleeping, and brought up entirely new thoughts. It was a new and special discovery, explaining dark and mysterious things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but struggled with unsuccessfully. I now understood what had been to me a most confusing difficulty --the white man's power to enslave the black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From that moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was just what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected it. While I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the smallest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and a fixed purpose, at whatever cost, to learn how to read. The very definite manner with which he spoke, and tried to impress his wife with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince me that he was deeply sure of the truths he was saying. It gave me the best assurance that I might rely with the greatest confidence on the results which, he said, would come from teaching me to read. What he most feared, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully avoided, was to me a great good, to be persistently sought; and the argument which he so warmly advised, against my learning to read, only served to inspire me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both. . . .

I was now about twelve years old, and the thought of being A SLAVE FOR LIFE began to bear heavily upon my heart. Just about this time, I got hold of a book entitled "The Columbian Speaker." Every opportunity I got, I used to read this book. Among many interesting matters, I found in it a dialogue between a master and his slave. The slave had run away from his master three times. The dialogue represented the conversation which took place between them, when the slave was retaken the third time. In this dialogue, the whole argument for slavery was given by the master, all of which was disproven by the slave. The slave said some very smart as well as impressive things in reply to his master -- things which had the desired though unexpected effect; for the conversation resulted in the master deciding to free the slave. 

In the same book, I met with one of Sheridan's mighty speeches on freedom from slavery. These were excellent documents for me. I read them over and over again with great interest. They expressed interesting thoughts of my own soul, which had frequently run through my mind, and died quickly because I could not speak them. The conclusion which I gained from the dialogue was the power of truth over the sense of right and wrong of even a slaveholder. What I got from Sheridan was a bold criticism of slavery, and a powerful justification of human rights. The reading of these documents enabled me to express my thoughts, and to meet the arguments brought forward to support slavery; but while they helped me with one difficulty, they brought on another even more painful one. The more I read, the more I was led to hate my enslavers. I could regard them in no other light than a band of successful robbers, who had left their homes, and gone to Africa, and stolen us from our homes, and in a strange land brought us to slavery. I hated them as being the meanest as well as the wicked of men. As I read and thought deeply about the subject, that very discontentment which Master Hugh had predicted would follow my learning to read had already come, to torment and hurt my soul to unspeakable suffering. As I struggled under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my horrible condition, without the cure. It opened my eyes to the awful pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. In moments of pain, I envied my fellow-slaves for their stupidity…Anything, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that distressed me. There was no getting rid of it…The reward of freedom had woken my soul. Freedom now appeared, and would never disappear. It was heard in every sound, and seen in everything. It was always present to make me suffer with a sense of my poor condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I often found myself regretting my own existence, and wishing myself dead; and except for the hope of being free, I have no doubt that I should have killed myself, or done something for which I should have been killed. While in this state of mind, I was eager to hear any one speak of slavery. I was a ready listener. Every little while, I could hear something about the abolitionists. It was some time before I found what the word meant. It was always used in such connections to make it an interesting word to me. If a slave ran away and succeeded in escaping, or if a slave killed his master, burned a building, or did anything very wrong in the mind of a slaveholder, it was spoken of as the achievement of ABOLITION. Hearing the word in this connection very often, I set about learning what it meant... The understanding of it came slowly. I went one day down on the dock of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen unloading cargo, I went, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished, one of them came to me and asked me if I were a slave. I told him I was. He asked, "Are you a slave for life?" I told him that I was. The good Irishman seemed to be deeply affected by the statement. He said to the other that it was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for life. He said it was a shame to hold me. They both advised me to run away to the north; that I should find friends there, and that I should be free. I pretended not to be interested in what they said, and treated them as if I did not understand them; for I feared that it might be a trick. White men have been known to encourage slaves to escape, and then, to get the reward, catch them and return them to their masters. I was afraid that these seemingly good men might try to do this to me; but I nevertheless remembered their advice, and from that time I decided to run away. I looked forward to a time when it would be safe for me to escape. I was too young to think of doing so immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, as I might have the need to write my own pass. I consoled myself with the hope that I should one day find a good chance to escape. Meanwhile, I would learn to write. . . .

*****

My object in working steadily was to remove any suspicion he [Douglass’s master] might have of my desire to run away; and in this I succeeded well. I suppose he thought I was never happier with my life than at the very time during which I was planning my escape. 

The thought of leaving my friends was definitely the most painful thought I had. The love of them was my tender point, and shook my decision more than all other things. Besides the pain of separation, the fear of failure was greater than what I had experienced at my first attempt [Douglass’s first attempt to escape failed]. The awful defeat I experienced then returned to pain me. I felt certain that, if I failed in this attempt, my case would be a hopeless one—it would make it certain that I would be a slave forever. I could not hope to receive anything less than the severest punishment, and being placed beyond the possibility of escape. It required no very great imagination to show the most frightful scenes through which I should have to pass, if I failed. The wretchedness of slavery, and the blessedness of freedom, were always before me. It was life and death with me. But I remained firm, and, according to my resolution, on the third day of September, 1838, I left my chains, and succeeded in reaching New York without the slightest interruption of any kind. How I did so,—what methods I used,—what direction I travelled, and by what way,—I must leave unexplained, for the reasons mentioned before [earlier Douglass explains that he cannot give the details of how he escaped because it would endanger those who helped him and give slaveholders useful information].

*****

I have been frequently asked how I felt when I found myself in a free State. I have never been able to answer the question with any satisfaction to myself. It was a moment of the highest excitement I ever experienced. I suppose I felt like those on a ship who escaped pirates. In writing to a dear friend, immediately after my arrival in New York, I said I felt like one who had escaped hungry lions. This state of mind, however, very soon lessened; and I was again seized with a feeling of great insecurity and loneliness. I was still able to be found and taken back to all the horrors of slavery.

*****

 About four months after I went to New Bedford [New York], a young man came to me, and asked if I wished to subscribe to the "Liberator" [an abolitionist newspaper].  I told him I did; but since I had just escaped from slavery, I was unable to pay for it then. However, I finally became a subscriber to it. The paper came, and I read it from week to week with such feelings, which would be impossible to describe. The paper became my meat and my drink. My soul was set on fire. Its sympathy for my bothers still in slavery -- its harsh criticisms of slaveholders -- its faithful exposures of slavery -- and its powerful attacks upon the supporters of the institution -- sent a thrill of joy through my soul, such as I had never felt before!

*****

I had not long been a reader of the "Liberator," before I got a pretty correct idea of the principles, methods and spirit of the anti-slavery reform movement. I enthusiastically joined the cause. I could not do much; but what I could do, I did with a joyful heart, and never felt happier than when in an anti-slavery meeting. I seldom had much to say at the meetings, because what I wanted to say was said so much better by others. But, while attending an anti-slavery convention at Nantucket, on the 11th of August, 1841, I felt strongly moved to speak, and was at the same time much urged to do so by Mr. William C. Coffin, a gentleman who had heard me speak in the colored people's meeting at New Bedford. It was a difficult challenge, and I did it reluctantly. The truth was, I still felt like a slave, and the idea of speaking to white people weighed me down. I spoke but a few moments, when I felt a degree of freedom, and said what I desired with significant ease. From that time until now, I have been involved in struggling for the cause of my brothers, and with what success and with what devotion, I will let those acquainted with my efforts decide.

Great List of Flashcards for Common Gerund or Infinitive Verbs on Anki

One of my students made a list of flashcards for common verbs that are either followed by gerund or infinitive or both. These constructions are often confusing for English learners, so studying them is quite helpful. The list can be downloaded. Check it out here .

Using AI Chatbots for English Practice

 AI chatbots are a powerful tool for many things, and this is true for learning English as well. Here's a good summary of how the text version can be used for English practice.

Now, there's an audio version, which can be used for speaking practice as well. I've tried it, and would definitely recommend it. You can ask it to correct your grammar or pronunciation mistakes as well. It's a great tool when you don't have the opportunity to speak to a real person. 

If you can't use a good AI chatbot like ChatGPT, Claude or Gemini for some reason, there are other audio AI programs you can use for speaking practice, including AI assistants like Amazon's Alexa or Google's AI assistant. Right now, they can't have as complex a conversation with you like the others, but you can still use them for speaking practice. Here are some ways to practice with them. 

Here's a great prompt one of my students created (with the help of ChatGPT!). You can use this prompt to help prepare an AI like ChatGPT to help you with speaking practice:

You are an experienced English teacher helping me improve my spoken English. Engage me in a conversation by asking open-ended questions based on real-life situations. Correct my grammar, pronunciation, and word choice in a natural and encouraging way. Instead of just pointing out mistakes, rephrase my sentences correctly and explain why the changes are needed. Gradually increase the difficulty of the conversation based on my progress. Keep the conversation interactive and engaging. I have a x English level (A2, B1, B2, etc.) and my native language is x (Spanish, Chinese, Russian, etc.)

     

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BBC's What's Up America: Series About Understanding US Culture

The BBC series What's Up America has some fun and informative short videos about understanding US culture. As the description about the series says, " For almost 200 years, European authors have travelled to the United States to write memoirs and observations on the very idea of America. What makes this country unique? Why is it so different from any other... we take a virtual cross-country trip and ask our American friends fundamental questions around Americaness."

Remember you can use subtitles if you can't catch a word or phrase. 

Therapy and Mental Health Resources

When the war in Ukraine started some of my students were experiencing extreme stress, and asked for resources to help them cope. While I’m not a mental health professional, I’ve been fortunate enough to have had good therapy and to have studied the best evidence-based therapy methods and personal development techniques.

 While this list, which I’ve gathered over the years, was made for my students suffering from the war in Ukraine, I realized that it might be helpful for others as well. Stress and mental health issues can negatively influence our ability to learn. I’ve had students who weren’t able to learn optimally because they didn’t have the support or coping skills needed to deal with stress or mental health issues. Most of the resources are in English, so it's good English practice too! 

 Here is a list of the categories:

Mental health assessments and tests:

Basics of therapy, how to find a good therapist and low cost therapy

Mental health apps

Other useful links on psychology, coping, personal growth, and self-therapy

Cognitive behavior therapy

Workbooks

Resources in Russian and Ukrainian

Personality tests

Journaling and writing therapy

Bibliotherapy

Basics of healthy coping (exercise, diet,  rest)

Mental health assessments and tests

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/tests/health/mental-health-assessment

https://psychcentral.com/quizzes

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/tests

 

Basics of therapy, how to find a good therapist and low cost therapy

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/therapy

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2023/07/02/1185661348/start-therapy-find-therapist-how-to

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/therapy/cost-and-insurance-coverage#are-some-forms-of-therapy-less-costly-than-others-

https://www.goodtherapy.org/

Basic info on therapy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FiVVAOXiEQ&list=PL_loxoCVsWqzKCfa6ZOzzUEsio1MpVetn

How to find a good therapist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6WaMQ7q0EE

Signs of a good therapist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoJBAF5q5hw

What's a bad therapist: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLNWzFHIxus

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/when-your-adult-child-breaks-your-heart/201501/your-guide-psychotherapy-options

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/insight-therapy/201808/the-client-rules-how-benefit-most-therapy

Mental Health Apps

Note: While these apps can’t replace good therapy with a real therapist, they can be helpful aids especially when it’s not possible to get therapy with a real therapist because of cost or other issues: see this story for more info: https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2023/01/19/1147081115/therapy-by-chatbot-the-promise-and-challenges-in-using-ai-for-mental-health

Wysa: https://www.wysa.com/

Talkspace: https://www.talkspace.com

Woebot: https://woebothealth.com/

Headspace: https://www.headspace.com/

MoodKit: https://www.thriveport.com/products/moodkit/

Other useful links on psychology, coping, personal growth, self-therapy

Kati Morton: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCzBYOHyEEzlkRdDOSobbpvw

https://www.apa.org/topics/stress/uncertainty

https://www.apa.org/news/apa/2022/trauma-war-afar

https://www.apa.org/topics/resilience

https://www.goodtherapy.org/blog/11-ways-to-raise-your-resiliency-1201157

https://positivepsychology.com/resilience-skills/

https://positivepsychology.com/emotional-resilience/

http://www.socialwork.career/2013/08/how-to-increase-your-resiliency.html

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/get-out-your-mind/202203/what-do-when-your-world-is-falling-apart

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/basics/self-help

Man's Search for Meaning: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-srD1Deh9Xg

 https://www.psychologytoday.com/us

https://psychcentral.com/

https://positivepsychology.com/

https://www.nami.org/home

https://www.psychologytools.com/

https://www.youtube.com/c/MedCircle

https://amymorinlcsw.com/mentally-strong-people/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/insight-therapy/201701/check-yourself-common-mental-health-mistakes

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/insight-therapy/201710/avoidance-is-heroin-metaphors-in-and-out-therapy

https://psyche.co/guides/how-to-calm-your-emotions-with-dialectical-behaviour-therapy

https://www.mindfulleader.org/blog/32176-10-effective-methods-to-soothe-an

The School of Life: https://www.youtube.com/c/theschooloflifetv

The Psychology Podcast: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCAvfZQ3r24F-V1JYqn2pfXg

Think, Act, Be Podcast: https://sethgillihan.com/podcasts/

Cognitive Behavior Therapy

https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/08/can-you-just-got-therapy-once/596359/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/think-act-be/201609/therapy-without-therapist

https://positivepsychology.com/self-therapy-anxiety-depression/

 

Workbooks

Retrain Your Brain: Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in 7 Weeks: A Workbook for Managing Depression and Anxiety
by Seth J. Gillihan

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy Made Simple: 10 Strategies For Managing Anxiety, Depression, Anger, Panic, And Worry, Seth J Gillhan

Reclaim Your Life: Acceptance and Commitment Therapy in 7 Weeks, 
by Carissa Gustafson 

 

Resources in Russian and Ukrainian

https://www.who.int/publications/i/item/9789240003927

https://www.psychologies.ru/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/get-out-your-mind/202203/what-do-when-your-world-is-falling-apart

Personality tests

https://projects.fivethirtyeight.com/personality-quiz/

https://www.understandmyself.com/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/tests/personality/big-five-personality-test

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/tests/personality

https://courses.jordanbpeterson.com/personality

 

Journaling and writing therapy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mywf5mjfKLE

https://www.npr.org/sections/ed/2015/07/10/419202925/the-writing-assignment-that-changes-lives

https://www.selfauthoring.com/

 

Bibliotherapy

https://www.goodtherapy.org/learn-about-therapy/types/bibliotherapy

https://www.booktherapy.io/blogs/news/bibliotherapy-the-magical-healing-quality-of-literature

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/reading-minds/201910/bibliotherapy-using-books-help-and-heal

 

Basic habits for healthy coping: 

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2023/09/19/1200223456/depression-anxiety-prevention-mental-health-healthy-habits

Exercise

https://www.nytimes.com/2016/06/21/upshot/why-you-should-exercise-no-not-to-lose-weight.html

https://www.npr.org/2018/12/12/676129459/get-started-exercising

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2021/10/16/1034201715/home-workout-exercise-tips

https://www.npr.org/2022/09/06/1121331838/how-to-make-exercise-fun

https://www.nytimes.com/guides/well/really-really-short-workouts

Diet

https://www.health.harvard.edu/blog/diet-and-depression-2018022213309

https://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2019/10/09/768665411/changing-your-diet-can-help-tamp-down-depression-boost-mood

https://www.npr.org/2018/12/12/676170139/6-food-rules-that-could-help-you-live-longer

https://www.npr.org/sections/thesalt/2014/07/14/329529110/food-mood-connection-how-you-eat-can-amp-up-or-tamp-down-stress

Sleep and rest

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2014/07/17/332058265/skimping-on-sleep-can-stress-body-and-brain

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2021/05/06/992401123/if-your-brain-feels-foggy-and-youre-tired-all-the-time-youre-not-alone

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2020/06/02/865483669/how-to-get-sleep-in-uneasy-times

https://www.npr.org/2019/03/20/705224709/dont-count-sheep-better-bedtime-rituals

https://www.npr.org/series/1052431671/your-life-kit-for-better-sleep

https://www.npr.org/2019/03/20/705224359/do-this-today-to-sleep-well-tonight

https://www.nytimes.com/guides/well/how-to-sleep

Mindfulness, yoga and meditation

https://www.npr.org/2021/12/21/1066585316/mindfulness-meditation-with-john-kabat-zinn

https://www.npr.org/2020/02/03/802347757/a-conversation-with-tara-brach-mindfulness-tools-for-big-feelings

https://www.nytimes.com/guides/well/yoga-stress

https://www.nytimes.com/guides/well/how-to-meditate

https://www.npr.org/2020/10/23/927134772/when-the-headlines-wont-stop-here-s-how-to-cope-with-anxiety

https://www.nytimes.com/guides/well/how-to-deal-with-stress

https://www.nytimes.com/section/well

Nature

https://www.apa.org/monitor/2020/04/nurtured-nature

https://www.npr.org/sections/health-shots/2017/07/17/536676954/forest-bathing-a-retreat-to-nature-can-boost-immunity-and-mood

A guide to forest bathing: https://www.npr.org/transcripts/1195337204

Adjustment Team by Philip K Dick

 

Level: Upper Intermediate

This is the original story. Read the adapted version for intermediate level here

IT WAS BRIGHT MORNING. The sun shone down on the damp lawns and sidewalks, reflecting off the sparkling parked cars. The Clerk came walking hurriedly, leafing through his instructions, flipping pages and frowning. He stopped in front of the small green stucco house for a moment, and then turned up the walk, entering the back yard.

The dog was asleep inside his shed, his back turned to the world. Only his thick tail showed.

"For Heaven's sake," the Clerk exclaimed, hands on his hips. He tapped his mechanical pencil noisily against his clipboard. "Wake up, you in there."

The dog stirred. He came slowly out of his shed, head first, blinking and yawning in the morning sunlight. "Oh, it's you. Already?" He yawned again.

"Big doings." The Clerk ran his expert finger down the traffic-control sheet. "They're adjusting Sector T137 this morning. Starting at exactly nine o'clock." He glanced at his pocket watch. "Three hour alteration. Will finish by noon."

"T137? That's not far from here."

The Clerk's lips twisted in contempt. "Indeed. You're showing astonishing perspicacity, my black-haired friend. Maybe you can divine why I'm here."

"We overlap with T137."

"Exactly. Elements from this sector are involved. We must make sure they're properly placed when adjustment begins." The Clerk glanced toward the small green stucco house. "Your particular task concerns the man in there. He is employed by a business establishment lying within Sector T137. It's essential he be there before nine o'clock.

The dog studied the house. The shades had been let up. The kitchen light was on. Beyond the lace curtains dim shapes could be seen, stirring around the table. A man and woman. They were drinking coffee.

"There they are," the dog murmured. "The man, you say? He's not going to be harmed, is he?"

"Of course not. But he must be at his office early. Usually he doesn't leave until after nine. Today he must leave at eight-thirty. He must be within Sector T137 before the process begins, or he won't be altered to coincide with the new adjustment."

The dog sighed. "That means I have to summon."

"Correct." The Clerk checked his instruction sheet. "You're to summon at precisely eight-fifteen. You've got that? Eight-fifteen. No later."

"What will an eight-fifteen summons bring?"

The Clerk flipped open his instruction book, examining the code columns. "It will bring A Friend with a Car. To drive him to work early." He closed the book and folded his arms, preparing to wait. "That way he'll get to his office almost an hour ahead of time. Which is vital."

"Vital," the dog murmured. He lay down, half inside his shed. His eyes closed. "Vital."

"Wake up! This must be done exactly on time. If you summon too soon or too late—"

The dog nodded sleepily. "I know. I'll do it right. I always do it right."

Ed Fletcher poured more cream in his coffee. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Behind him the oven hissed softly, filling the kitchen with warm fumes. The yellow overhead light beamed down.

"Another roll?" Ruth asked.

"I'm full." Ed sipped his coffee. "You can have it."

"Have to go." Ruth got to her feet, unfastening her robe. "Time to go to work."

"Already?"

"Sure. You lucky bum! Wish I could sit around." Ruth moved toward the bathroom, running her fingers through her long black hair. "When you work for the Government you start early."

"But you get off early," Ed pointed out. He unfolded the Chronicle, examining the sporting green. "Well, have a good time today. Don't type any wrong words, any double-entendres."

The bathroom door closed, as Ruth shed her robe and began dressing.

Ed yawned and glanced up at the clock over the sink. Plenty of time. Not even eight. He sipped more coffee and then rubbed his stubbled chin. He would have to shave. He shrugged lazily. Ten minutes, maybe.

Ruth came bustling out in her nylon slip, hurrying into the bedroom. "I'm late." She rushed rapidly around, getting into her blouse and skirt, her stockings, her little white shoes. Finally she bent over and kissed him. "Goodbye, honey. I'll do the shopping tonight."

"Goodbye." Ed lowered his newspaper and put his arm around his wife's trim waist, hugging her affectionately. "You smell nice. Don't flirt with the boss."

Ruth ran out the front door, clattering down the steps. He heard the click of her heels diminish down the sidewalk.

She was gone. The house was silent. He was alone.

Ed got to his feet, pushing his chair back. He wandered lazily into the bathroom and got his razor down. Eight-ten. He washed his face, rubbing it down with shaving cream, and began to shave. He shaved leisurely. He had plenty of time.

The Clerk bent over his round pocket watch, licking his lips nervously. Sweat stood out on his forehead. The second hand ticked on. Eight-fourteen. Almost time.

"Get ready!" the Clerk snapped. He tensed, his small body rigid. "Ten seconds to go!"

 

"Time!" the Clerk cried.

Nothing happened.

The Clerk turned, eyes wide with horror. From the little shed a thick black tail showed. The dog had gone back to sleep.

"TIME!" the Clerk shrieked. He kicked wildly at the furry rump. "In the name of God—"

The dog stirred. He thumped around hastily, backing out of the shed. "My goodness." Embarrassed, he made his way quickly to the fence. Standing up on his hind paws, he opened his mouth wide. "Woof!" he summoned. He glanced apologetically at the Clerk. "I beg your pardon. I can't understand how—"

The Clerk gazed fixedly down at his watch. Cold terror knotted his stomach. The hands showed eight-sixteen. "You failed," he grated. "You failed! You miserable flea-bitten rag-bag of a wornout old mutt! You failed!"

The dog dropped and came anxiously back. "I failed, you say? You mean the summons time was—?"

"You summoned too late." The Clerk put his watch away slowly, a glazed expression on his face. "You summoned too late. We won't get A Friend with a Car. There's no telling what will come instead. I'm afraid to see what eight-sixteen brings."

"I hope he'll be in Sector T137 in time."

"He won't," the Clerk wailed. "He won't be there. We've made a mistake. We've made things go wrong!"

Ed was rinsing the shaving cream from his face when the muffled sound of the dog's bark echoed through the silent house.

"Damn," Ed muttered. "Wake up the whole block." He dried his face, listening. Was somebody coming?

A vibration. Then—

The doorbell rang.

Ed came out of the bathroom. Who could it be? Had Ruth forgotten something? He tossed on a white shirt and opened the front door.

A bright young man, face bland and eager, beamed happily at him. "Good morning, sir." He tipped his hat. "I'm sorry to bother you so early—"

"What do you want?"

"I'm from the Federal Life Insurance Company. I'm here to see you about—"

Ed pushed the door closed. "Don't want any. I'm in a rush. Have to get to work."

"Your wife said this was the only time I could catch you." The young man picked up his briefcase, easing the door open again. "She especially asked me to come this early. We don't usually begin our work at this time, but since she asked me, I made a special note about it"

"Okay." Sighing wearily, Ed admitted the young man. "You can explain your policy while I get dressed."

 

The young man opened his briefcase on the couch, laying out heaps of pamphlets and illustrated folders. "I'd like to show you some of these figures, if I may. It's of great importance to you and your family to—"

Ed found himself sitting down, going over the pamphlets. He purchased a ten-thousand-dollar policy on his own life and then eased the young man out. He looked at the clock. Practically nine-thirty!

"Damn." He'd be late to work. He finished fastening his tie, grabbed his coat, turned off the oven and the lights, dumped the dishes in the sink, and ran out on the porch.

As he hurried toward the bus stop he was cursing inwardly. Life insurance salesmen. Why did the jerk have to come just as he was getting ready to leave?

Ed groaned. No telling what the consequences would be, getting to the office late. He wouldn't get there until almost ten. He set himself in anticipation. A sixth sense told him he was in for it. Something bad. It was the wrong day to be late.

If only the salesman hadn't come.

 

Ed hopped off the bus a block from his office. He began walking rapidly. The huge clock in front of Stein's Jewelry Store told him it was almost ten.

His heart sank. Old Douglas would give him hell for sure. He could see it now. Douglas puffing and blowing, red-faced, waving his thick finger at him; Miss Evans, smiling behind her typewriter; Jackie, the office boy, grinning and snickering; Earl Hendricks; Joe and Tom; Mary, dark-eyed, full bosom and long lashes. All of them, kidding him the whole rest of the day.

He came to the corner and stopped for the light. On the other side of the street rose the big white concrete building, the towering column of steel and cement, girders and glass windows—the office building. Ed flinched. Maybe he could say the elevator got stuck. Somewhere between the second and third floor.

The street light changed. Nobody else was crossing. Ed crossed alone. He hopped up on the curb on the far side—

And stopped, rigid.

The sun had winked off. One moment it was beaming down. Then it was gone. Ed looked sharply up. Gray clouds swirled above him. Huge, formless clouds. Nothing more. An ominous, thick haze that made everything waver and dim. Uneasy chills plucked at him. What was it?

He advanced cautiously, feeling his way through the mist. Everything was silent. No sounds—not even the traffic sounds. Ed peered frantically around, trying to see through the rolling haze. No people. No cars. No sun. Nothing.

The office building loomed up ahead, ghostly. It was an indistinct gray. He put out his hand uncertainly—

A section of the building fell away. It rained down, a torrent of particles. Like sand. Ed gaped foolishly. A cascade of gray debris, spilling around his feet. And where he had touched the building, a jagged cavity yawned—an ugly pit marring the concrete.

Dazed, he made his way to the front steps. He mounted them. The steps gave way underfoot. His feet sank down. He was wading through shifting sand, weak, rotted stuff that broke under his weight.

He got into the lobby. The lobby was dim and obscure. The overhead lights flickered feebly in the gloom. An unearthly pall hung over everything.

He spied the cigar stand. The seller leaned silently, resting on the counter, toothpick between his teeth, his face vacant. And gray. He was gray all over.

"Hey," Ed croaked. "What's going on?"

The seller did not answer. Ed reached out toward him. His hand touched the seller's gray arm—and passed right through.

"Good God," Ed said.

The seller's arm came loose. It fell to the lobby floor, disintegrating into fragments. Bits of gray fiber. Like dust. Ed's senses reeled.

"Help!" he shouted, finding his voice.

No answer. He peered around. A few shapes stood here and there: a man reading a newspaper, two women waiting at the elevator.

Ed made his way over to the man. He reached out and touched him.

The man slowly collapsed. He settled into a heap, a loose pile of gray ash. Dust. Particles. The two women dissolved when he touched them. Silently. They made no sound as they broke apart.

Ed found the stairs. He grabbed hold of the bannister and climbed. The stairs collapsed under him. He hurried faster. Behind him lay a broken path—his footprints clearly visible in the concrete. Clouds of ash blew around him as he reached the second floor.

He gazed down the silent corridor. He saw more clouds of ash. He heard no sound. There was just darkness—rolling darkness.

He climbed unsteadily to the third floor. Once, his shoe broke completely through the stair. For a sickening second he hung, poised over a yawning hole that looked down into a bottomless nothing.

Then he climbed on, and emerged in front of his own office: DOUGLAS AND BLAKE, REAL ESTATE.

The hall was dim, gloomy with clouds of ash. The overhead lights flickered fitfully. He reached for the door handle. The handle came off in his hand. He dropped it and dug his fingernails into the door. The plate glass crashed past him, breaking into bits. He tore the door open and stepped over it, into the office.

Miss Evans sat at her typewriter, fingers resting quietly on the keys. She did not move. She was gray, her hair, her skin, her clothing. She was without color. Ed touched her. His fingers went through her shoulder, into dry flakiness.

He drew back, sickened. Miss Evans did not stir.

He moved on. He pushed against a desk. The desk collapsed into rotting dust. Earl Hendricks stood by the water cooler, a cup in his hand. He was a gray statue, unmoving. Nothing stirred. No sound. No life. The whole office was gray dust—without life or motion.

 

Ed found himself out in the corridor again. He shook his head, dazed. What did it mean? Was he going out of his mind? Was he—?

A sound.

Ed turned, peering into the gray mist. A creature was coming, hurrying rapidly. A man—a man in a white robe. Behind him others came. Men in white, with equipment. They were lugging complex machinery.

"Hey—" Ed gasped weakly.

The men stopped. Their mouths opened. Their eyes popped.

"Look!"

"Something's gone wrong!"

"One still charged."

"Get the de-energizer."

"We can't proceed until—"

The men came toward Ed, moving around him. One lugged a long hose with some sort of nozzle. A portable cart came wheeling up. Instructions were rapidly shouted.

Ed broke out of his paralysis. Fear swept over him. Panic. Something hideous was happening. He had to get out. Warn people. Get away.

He turned and ran, back down the stairs. The stairs collapsed under him. He fell half a flight, rolling in heaps of dry ash. He got to his feet and hurried on, down to the ground floor.

The lobby was lost in the clouds of gray ash. He pushed blindly through, toward the door. Behind him, the white-clad men were coming, dragging their equipment and shouting to each other, hurrying quickly after him.

He reached the sidewalk. Behind him the office building wavered and sagged, sinking to one side, torrents of ash raining down in heaps. He raced toward the corner, the men just behind him. Gray clouds swirled around him. He groped his way across the street, hands outstretched. He gained the opposite curb—

The sun winked on. Warm yellow sunlight streamed down on him. Cars honked. Traffic lights changed. On all sides men and women in bright spring clothes hurried and pushed: shoppers, a blue-clad cop, salesmen with briefcases. Stores, windows, signs ... noisy cars moving up and down the street ...

And overhead was the bright sun and familiar blue sky.

Ed halted, gasping for breath. He turned and looked back the way he had come. Across the street was the office building—as it had always been. Firm and distinct. Concrete and glass and steel.

He stepped back a pace and collided with a hurrying citizen. "Hey," the man grunted. "Watch it."

"Sorry." Ed shook his head, trying to clear it. From where he stood, the office building looked like always, big and solemn and substantial, rising up imposingly on the other side of the street.

 

But a minute ago—

Maybe he was out of his mind. He had seen the building crumbling into dust. Building—and people. They had fallen into gray clouds of dust. And the men in white—they had chased him. Men in white robes, shouting orders, wheeling complex equipment.

He was out of his mind. There was no other explanation. Weakly, Ed turned and stumbled along the sidewalk, his mind reeling. He moved blindly, without purpose, lost in a haze of confusion and terror.

The Clerk was brought into the top-level Administrative chambers and told to wait.

He paced back and forth nervously, clasping and wringing his hands in an agony of apprehension. He took off his glasses and wiped them shakily.

Lord. All the trouble and grief. And it wasn't his fault. But he would have to take the rap. It was his responsibility to get the Summoners routed out and their instructions followed. The miserable flea-infested Summoner had gone back to sleep—and he would have to answer for it.

The doors opened. "All right," a voice murmured, preoccupied. It was a tired, care-worn voice. The Clerk trembled and entered slowly, sweat dripping down his neck into his celluloid collar.

The Old Man glanced up, laying aside his book. He studied the Clerk calmly, his faded blue eyes mild—a deep, ancient mildness that made the Clerk tremble even more. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow.

"I understand there was a mistake," the Old Man murmured. "In connection with Sector T137. Something to do with an element from an adjoining area."

"That's right." The Clerk's voice was faint and husky. "Very unfortunate."

"What exactly occurred?"

"I started out this morning with my instruction sheets. The material relating to T137 had top priority, of course. I served notice on the Summoner in my area that an eight-fifteen summons was required."

"Did the Summoner understand the urgency?"

"Yes, sir." The Clerk hesitated. "But—"

"But what?"

The Clerk twisted miserably. "While my back was turned the Summoner crawled back in his shed and went to sleep. I was occupied, checking the exact time with my watch. I called the moment—but there was no response."

"You called at eight-fifteen exactly?"

"Yes, sir! Exactly eight-fifteen. But the Summoner was asleep. By the time I managed to arouse him it was eight-sixteen. He summoned, but instead of A Friend with a Car we got a—A Life Insurance Salesman." The Clerk's face screwed up with disgust. "The Salesman kept the element there until almost nine-thirty. Therefore he was late to work instead of early."

For a moment the Old Man was silent. "Then the element was not within T137 when the adjustment began."

 

"No. He arrived about ten o'clock."

"During the middle of the adjustment." The Old Man got to his feet and paced slowly back and forth, face grim, hands behind his back. His long robe flowed out behind him. "A serious matter. During a Sector Adjustment all related elements from other Sectors must be included. Otherwise, their orientations remain out of phase. When this element entered T137 the adjustment had been in progress fifty minutes. The element encountered the Sector at its most de-energized stage. He wandered about until one of the adjustment teams met him."

"Did they catch him?"

"Unfortunately no. He fled, out of the Sector. Into a nearby fully energized area."

"What—what then?"

The Old Man stopped pacing, his lined face grim. He ran a heavy hand through his long white hair. "We do not know. We lost contact with him. We will reestablish contact soon, of course. But for the moment he is out of control."

"What are you going to do?"

"He must be contacted and contained. He must be brought up here. There's no other solution."

"Up here!"

"It is too late to de-energize him. By the time he is regained he will have told others. To wipe his mind clean would only complicate matters. Usual methods will not suffice. I must deal with this problem myself."

"I hope he's located quickly," the Clerk said.

"He will be. Every Watcher is alerted. Every Watcher and every Summoner." The Old Man's eyes twinkled. "Even the Clerks, although we hesitate to count on them."

The Clerk flushed. "I'll be glad when this thing is over," he muttered.

 

Ruth came tripping down the stairs and out of the building, into the hot noonday sun. She lit a cigarette and hurried along the walk, her small bosom rising and falling as she breathed in the spring air.

"Ruth." Ed stepped up behind her.

"Ed!" She spun, gasping in astonishment. "What are you doing away from—?"

"Come on." Ed grabbed her arm, pulling her along. "Let's keep moving."

"But what—?"

"I'll tell you later." Ed's face was pale and grim. "Let's go where we can talk. In private."

 

"I was going down to have lunch at Louie's. We can talk there." Ruth hurried along breathlessly. "What is it? What's happened? You look so strange. And why aren't you at work? Did you—did you get fired?"

They crossed the street and entered a small restaurant. Men and women milled around, getting their lunch. Ed found a table in the back, secluded in a corner. "Here." He sat down abruptly. "This will do." She slid into the other chair.

Ed ordered a cup of coffee. Ruth had salad and creamed tuna on toast, coffee and peach pie. Silently, Ed watched her as she ate, his face dark and moody.

"Please tell me," Ruth begged.

"You really want to know?"

"Of course I want to know!" Ruth put her small hand anxiously on his. "I'm your wife."

"Something happened today. This morning. I was late to work. A damn insurance man came by and held me up. I was half an hour late."

Ruth caught her breath. "Douglas fired you."

"No." Ed ripped a paper napkin slowly into bits. He stuffed the bits in the half-empty water glass. "I was worried as hell. I got off the bus and hurried down the street. I noticed it when I stepped up on the curb in front of the office."

"Noticed what?"

Ed told her. The whole works. Everything.

When he had finished, Ruth sat back, her face white, hands trembling. "I see," she murmured. "No wonder you're upset." She drank a little cold coffee, the cup rattling against the saucer. "What a terrible thing."

Ed leaned intently toward his wife. "Ruth. Do you think I'm going crazy?"

Ruth's red lips twisted. "I don't know what to say. It's so strange..."

"Yeah. Strange is hardly the word for it. I poked my hands right through them. Like they were clay. Old dry clay. Dust. Dust figures." Ed lit a cigarette from Ruth's pack. "When I got out I looked back and there it was. The office building. Like always."

"You were afraid Mr. Douglas would bawl you out, weren't you?"

"Sure. I was afraid—and guilty." Ed's eyes flickered. "I know what you're thinking. I was late and I couldn't face him. So I had some sort of protective psychotic fit. Retreat from reality." He stubbed the cigarette out savagely. "Ruth, I've been wandering around town since. Two and a half hours. Sure, I'm afraid. I'm afraid like hell to go back."

"Of Douglas?"

"No! The men in white." Ed shuddered. "God. Chasing me. With their damn hoses and—and equipment."

Ruth was silent. Finally she looked up at her husband, her dark eyes bright. "You have to go back, Ed."

"Back? Why?"

"To prove something."

"Prove what?"

"Prove it's all right." Ruth's hand pressed against his. "You have to, Ed. You have to go back and face it. To show yourself there's nothing to be afraid of."

"The hell with it! After what I saw? Listen, Ruth. I saw the fabric of reality split open. I saw—behind. Underneath. I saw what was really there. And I don't want to go back. I don't want to see dust people again. Ever."

Ruth's eyes were fixed intently on him. "I'll go back with you," she said.

"For God's sake."

"For your sake. For your sanity. So you'll know." Ruth got abruptly to her feet, pulling her coat around her. "Come on, Ed. I'll go with you. We'll go up there together. To the office of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate. I'll even go in with you to see Mr. Douglas."

Ed got up slowly, staring hard at his wife. "You think I blacked out. Cold feet. Couldn't face the boss." His voice was low and strained. "Don't you?"

Ruth was already threading her way toward the cashier. "Come on. You'll see. It'll all be there. Just like it always was."

"Okay," Ed said. He followed her slowly. "We'll go back there—and see which of us is right."

They crossed the street together, Ruth holding on tight to Ed's arm. Ahead of them was the building, the towering structure of concrete and metal and glass.

"There it is," Ruth said. "See?"

There it was, all right. The big building rose up, firm and solid, glittering in the early afternoon sun, its windows sparkling brightly.

Ed and Ruth stepped up onto the curb. Ed tensed himself, his body rigid. He winced as his foot touched the pavement—

But nothing happened: the street noises continued; cars, people hurrying past; a kid selling papers. There were sounds, smells, the noises of the city in the middle of the day. And overhead was the sun and the bright blue sky.

"See?" Ruth said. "I was right."

They walked up the front steps, into the lobby. Behind the cigar stand the seller stood, arms folded, listening to the ball game. "Hi, Mr. Fletcher," he called to Ed. His face lit up good-naturedly. "Who's the dame? Your wife know about this?"

Ed laughed unsteadily. They passed on toward the elevator. Four or five businessmen stood waiting. They were middle-aged men, well dressed, waiting impatiently in a bunch. "Hey, Fletcher," one said. "Where you been all day? Douglas is yelling his head off."

"Hello, Earl," Ed muttered. He gripped Ruth's arm. "Been a little sick."

 

The elevator came. They got in. The elevator rose. "Hi, Ed," the elevator operator said. "Who's the good-looking gal? Why don't you introduce her around?"

Ed grinned mechanically. "My wife."

The elevator let them off at the third floor. Ed and Ruth got out, heading toward the glass door of Douglas and Blake, Real Estate.

Ed halted, breathing shallowly. "Wait." He licked his lips. "I—"

Ruth waited calmly as Ed wiped his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. "All right now?"

"Yeah." Ed moved forward. He pulled open the glass door.

Miss Evans glanced up, ceasing her typing. "Ed Fletcher! Where on earth have you been?"

"I've been sick. Hello, Tom."

Tom glanced up from his work. "Hi, Ed. Say, Douglas is yelling for your scalp. Where have you been?"

"I know." Ed turned wearily to Ruth. "I guess I better go in and face the music."

Ruth squeezed his arm. "You'll be all right. I know." She smiled, a relieved flash of white teeth and red lips. "Okay? Call me if you need me."

"Sure." Ed kissed her briefly on the mouth. "Thanks, honey. Thanks a lot. I don't know what the hell went wrong with me. I guess it's over."

"Forget it. So long." Ruth skipped back out of the office, the door closing after her. Ed listened to her race down the hall to the elevator.

"Nice little gal," Jackie said appreciatively.

"Yeah." Ed nodded, straightening his necktie. He moved unhappily toward the inner office, steeling himself. Well, he had to face it. Ruth was right. But he was going to have a hell of a time explaining it to the boss. He could see Douglas now, thick red wattles, big bull roar, face distorted with rage—

Ed stopped abruptly at the entrance to the inner office. He froze rigid. The inner office—it was changed.

The hackles of his neck rose. Cold fear gripped him, clutching at his windpipe. The inner office was different. He turned his head slowly, taking in the sight: the desks, chairs, fixtures, file cabinets, pictures.

Changes. Little changes. Subtle. Ed closed his eyes and opened them slowly. He was alert, breathing rapidly, his pulse racing. It was changed, all right. No doubt about it.

"What's the matter, Ed?" Tom asked. The staff watched him curiously, pausing in their work.

Ed said nothing. He advanced slowly into the inner office. The office had been gone over. He could tell. Things had been altered. Rearranged. Nothing obvious—nothing he could put his finger on. But he could tell.

Joe Kent greeted him uneasily. "What's the matter, Ed? You look like a wild dog. Is something—?"

Ed studied Joe. He was different. Not the same. What was it?

 

Joe's face. It was a little fuller. His shirt was blue-striped. Joe never wore blue stripes. Ed examined Joe's desk. He saw papers and accounts. The desk—it was too far to the right. And it was bigger. It wasn't the same desk.

The picture on the wall. It wasn't the same. It was a different picture entirely. And the things on top of the file cabinet—some were new, others were gone.

He looked back through the door. Now that he thought about it, Miss Evans' hair was different, done a different way. And it was lighter.

In here, Mary, filing her nails, over by the window—she was taller, fuller. Her purse, lying on the desk in front of her—a red purse, red knit.

"You always...have that purse?" Ed demanded.

Mary glanced up. "What?"

"That purse. You always have that?"

Mary laughed. She smoothed her skirt coyly around her shapely thighs, her long lashes blinking modestly. "Why, Mr. Fletcher. What do you mean?"

Ed turned away. He knew. Even if she didn't. She had been redone—changed: her purse, her clothes, her figure, everything about her. None of them knew—but him. His mind spun dizzily. They were all changed. All of them were different. They had all been remolded, recast. Subtly—but it was there.

The wastebasket. It was smaller, not the same. The window shades—white, not ivory. The wall paper was not the same pattern. The lighting fixtures...

Endless, subtle changes.

Ed made his way back to the inner office. He lifted his hand and knocked on Douglas' door.

"Come in."

Ed pushed the door open. Nathan Douglas looked up impatiently. "Mr. Douglas—" Ed began. He came into the room unsteadily—and stopped.

Douglas was not the same. Not at all. His whole office was changed: the rugs, the drapes. The desk was oak, not mahogany. And Douglas himself...

Douglas was younger, thinner. His hair, brown. His skin not so red. His face smoother. No wrinkles. Chin reshaped. Eyes green, not black. He was a different man. But still Douglas—a different Douglas. A different version!

"What is it?" Douglas demanded impatiently. "Oh, it's you, Fletcher. Where were you this morning?"

Ed backed out. Fast.

He slammed the door and hurried back through the inner office. Tom and Miss Evans glanced up, startled. Ed passed by them, grabbing the hall door open.

"Hey!" Tom called. "What—?"

Ed hurried down the hall. Terror leaped through him. He had to hurry. He had seen. There wasn't much time. He came to the elevator and stabbed the button.

No time.

He ran to the stairs and started down. He reached the second floor. His terror grew. It was a matter of seconds.

Seconds!

The public phone. Ed ran into the phone booth. He dragged the door shut after him. Wildly, he dropped a dime in the slot and dialed. He had to call the police. He held the receiver to his ear, his heart pounding.

Warn them. Changes. Somebody tampering with reality. Altering it. He had been right. The white-clad men...their equipment...going through the building.

"Hello!" Ed shouted hoarsely. There was no answer. No hum. Nothing.

Ed peered frantically out the door.

And he sagged, defeated. Slowly, he hung up the telephone receiver.

He was no longer on the second floor. The phone booth was rising, leaving the second floor behind, carrying him up, faster and faster. It rose floor by floor, moving silently, swiftly.

The phone booth passed through the ceiling of the building and out into the bright sunlight. It gained speed. The ground fell away below. Buildings and streets were getting smaller each moment. Tiny specks hurried along, far below, cars and people, dwindling rapidly.

Clouds drifted between him and the earth. Ed shut his eyes, dizzy with fright. He held on desperately to the door handles of the phone booth.

Faster and faster the phone booth climbed. The earth was rapidly being left behind, far below.

Ed peered up wildly. Where? Where was he going? Where was it taking him?

He stood gripping the door handles, waiting.

 

The Clerk nodded curtly. "That's him, all right. The element in question."

Ed Fletcher looked around him. He was in a huge chamber. The edges fell away into indistinct shadows. In front of him stood a man with notes and ledgers under his arm, peering at him through steel-rimmed glasses. He was a nervous little man, sharp-eyed, with celluloid collar, blue-serge suit, vest, watch chain. He wore black shiny shoes.

And beyond him—

An old man sat quietly, in an immense modern chair. He watched Fletcher calmly, his blue eyes mild and tired. A strange thrill shot through Fletcher. It was not fear. Rather it was a vibration, rattling his bones—a deep sense of awe, tinged with fascination.

"Where—what is this place?" he asked faintly. He was still dazed from his quick ascent.

"Don't ask questions!" the nervous little man snapped angrily, tapping his pencil against his ledgers. "You're here to answer, not ask."

The Old Man moved a little. He raised his hand. "I will speak to the element alone," he murmured. His voice was low. It vibrated and rumbled through the chamber. Again the wave of fascinated awe swept Ed.

"Alone?" The little fellow backed away, gathering his books and papers in his arms. "Of course." He glanced hostilely at Ed Fletcher. "I'm glad he's finally in custody. All the work and trouble just for—"

He disappeared through a door. The door closed softly behind him. Ed and the Old Man were alone.

"Please sit down," the Old Man said.

Ed found a seat. He sat down awkwardly, nervously. He got out his cigarettes and then put them away again.

"What's wrong?" the Old Man asked.

"I'm just beginning to understand."

"Understand what?"

"That I'm dead."

The Old Man smiled briefly. "Dead? No, you're not dead. You're...visiting. An unusual event, but necessitated by circumstances." He leaned toward Ed. "Mr. Fletcher, you have got yourself involved in something."

"Yeah," Ed agreed. "I wish I knew what it was. Or how it happened."

"It was not your fault. You're the victim of a clerical error. A mistake was made—not by you. But involving you."

"What mistake?" Ed rubbed his forehead wearily. "I—I got in on something. I saw through. I saw something I wasn't supposed to see."

The Old Man nodded. "That's right. You saw something you were not supposed to see—something few elements have been aware of, let alone witnessed."

"Elements?"

"An official term. Let it pass. A mistake was made, but we hope to rectify it. It is my hope that—"

"Those people," Ed interrupted. "Heaps of dry ash. And gray. Like they were dead. Only it was everything: the stairs and walls and floor. No color or life."

"That Sector had been temporarily de-energized. So the adjustment team could enter and effect changes."

"Changes." Ed nodded. "That's right. When I went back later, everything was alive again. But not the same. It was all different."

"The adjustment was complete by noon. The team finished its work and re-energized the Sector."

"I see," Ed muttered.

 

"You were supposed to have been in the Sector when the adjustment began. Because of an error you were not. You came into the Sector late—during the adjustment itself. You fled, and when you returned it was over. You saw, and you should not have seen. Instead of a witness you should have been part of the adjustment. Like the others, you should have undergone changes."

Sweat came out on Ed Fletcher's head. He wiped it away. His stomach turned over. Weakly, he cleared his throat. "I get the picture." His voice was almost inaudible. A chilling premonition moved through him. "I was supposed to be changed like the others. But I guess something went wrong."

"Something went wrong. An error occurred. And now a serious problem exists. You have seen these things. You know a great deal. And you are not coordinated with the new configuration."

"Gosh," Ed muttered. "Well, I won't tell anybody." Cold sweat poured off him. "You can count on that. I'm as good as changed."

"You have already told someone," the Old Man said coldly.

"Me?" Ed blinked. "Who?"

"Your wife."

Ed trembled. The color drained from his face, leaving it sickly white. "That's right. I did."

"Your wife knows." The Old Man's face twisted angrily. "A woman. Of all the things to tell—"

"I didn't know." Ed retreated, panic leaping through him. "But I know now. You can count on me. Consider me changed."

The ancient blue eyes bored keenly into him, peering far into his depths. "And you were going to call the police. You wanted to inform the authorities."

"But I didn't know who was doing the changing."

"Now you know. The natural process must be supplemented—adjusted here and there. Corrections must be made. We are fully licensed to make such corrections. Our adjustment teams perform vital work."

Ed plucked up a measure of courage. "This particular adjustment. Douglas. The office. What was it for? I'm sure it was some worthwhile purpose."

The Old Man waved his hand. Behind him in the shadows an immense map glowed into existence. Ed caught his breath. The edges of the map faded off in obscurity. He saw an infinite web of detailed sections, a network of squares and ruled lines. Each square was marked. Some glowed with a blue light. The lights altered constantly.

"The Sector Board," the Old Man said. He sighed wearily. "A staggering job. Sometimes we wonder how we can go on another period. But it must be done. For the good of all. For your good."

"The change. In our—our Sector."

"Your office deals in real estate. The old Douglas was a shrewd man, but rapidly becoming infirm. His physical health was waning. In a few days Douglas will be offered a chance to purchase a large unimproved forest area in western Canada. It will require most of his assets. The older, less virile Douglas would have hesitated. It is imperative he not hesitate. He must purchase the area and clear the land at once. Only a younger man—a younger Douglas—would undertake this.

 

"When the land is cleared, certain anthropological remains will be discovered. They have already been placed there. Douglas will lease his land to the Canadian Government for scientific study. The remains found there will cause international excitement in learned circles.

"A chain of events will be set in motion. Men from numerous countries will come to Canada to examine the remains. Soviet, Polish, and Czech scientists will make the journey.

"The chain of events will draw these scientists together for the first time in years. National research will be temporarily forgotten in the excitement of these non-national discoveries. One of the leading Soviet scientists will make friends with a Belgian scientist. Before they depart they will agree to correspond—without the knowledge of their governments, of course.

"The circle will widen. Other scientists on both sides will be drawn in. A society will be founded. More and more educated men will transfer an increasing amount of time to this international society. Purely national research will suffer a slight but extremely critical eclipse. The war tension will somewhat wane. * (see explanation note at end of story)

"This alteration is vital. And it is dependent on the purchase and clearing of the section of wilderness in Canada. The old Douglas would not have dared take the risk. But the altered Douglas, and his altered, more youthful staff, will pursue this work with wholehearted enthusiasm. And from this, the vital chain of widening events will come about. The beneficiaries will be you. Our methods may seem strange and indirect. Even incomprehensible. But I assure you we know what we're doing."

"I know that now," Ed said.

"So you do. You know a great deal. Much too much. No element should possess such knowledge. I should perhaps call an adjustment team in here..."

A picture formed in Ed's mind: swirling gray clouds, gray men and women. He shuddered. "Look," he croaked. "I'll do anything. Anything at all. Only don't de-energize me." Sweat ran down his face. "Okay?"

The Old Man pondered. "Perhaps some alternative could be found. There is another possibility..."

"What?" Ed asked eagerly. "What is it?"

The Old Man spoke slowly, thoughtfully. "If I allow you to return, you will swear never to speak of the matter? Will you swear not to reveal to anyone the things you saw? The things you know?"

"Sure!" Ed gasped eagerly, blinding relief flooding over him. "I swear!"

"Your wife. She must know nothing more. She must think it was only a passing psychological fit—retreat from reality."

"She thinks that already."

"She must continue to."

Ed set his jaw firmly. "I'll see that she continues to think it was a mental aberration. She'll never know what really happened."

"You are certain you can keep the truth from her?"

 

"Sure," Ed said confidently. "I know I can."

"All right." The Old Man nodded slowly. "I will send you back. But you must tell no one." He swelled visibly. "Remember: you will eventually come back to me—everyone does, in the end—and your fate will not be enviable."

"I won't tell her," Ed said, sweating. "I promise. You have my word on that. I can handle Ruth. Don't give it a second thought."

Ed arrived home at sunset.

He blinked, dazed from the rapid descent. For a moment he stood on the pavement, regaining his balance and catching his breath. Then he walked quickly up the path.

He pushed the door open and entered the little green stucco house.

"Ed!" Ruth came flying, face distorted with tears. She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Been?" Ed murmured. "At the office, of course."

Ruth pulled back abruptly. "No, you haven't."

Vague tendrils of alarm plucked at Ed. "Of course I have. Where else—?"

"I called Douglas about three. He said you left. You walked out, practically as soon as I turned my back. Eddie—"

Ed patted her nervously. "Take it easy, honey." He began unbuttoning his coat. "Everything's okay. Understand? Things are perfectly all right."

Ruth sat down on the arm of the couch. She blew her nose, dabbing at her eyes. "If you knew how much I've worried." She put her handkerchief away and folded her arms. "I want to know where you were."

Uneasily, Ed hung his coat in the closet. He came over and kissed her. Her lips were ice cold. "I'll tell you all about it. But what do you say we have something to eat? I'm starved."

Ruth studied him intently. She got down from the arm of the couch. "I'll change and fix dinner."

She hurried into the bedroom and slipped off her shoes and nylons. Ed followed her. "I didn't mean to worry you," he said carefully. "After you left me today I realized you were right."

"Oh?" Ruth unfastened her blouse and skirt, arranging them over a hanger. "Right about what?"

"About me." He manufactured a grin and made it glow across his face. "About...what happened."

Ruth hung her slip over the hanger. She studied her husband intently as she struggled into her tight-fitting jeans. "Go on."

The moment had come. It was now or never. Ed Fletcher braced himself and chose his words carefully. "I realized," he stated, "that the whole darn thing was in my mind. You were right, Ruth. Completely right. And I even realize what caused it."

Ruth rolled her cotton T-shirt down and tucked it in her jeans. "What was the cause?"

"Overwork."

"Overwork?"

"I need a vacation. I haven't had a vacation in years. My mind isn't on my job. I've been daydreaming." He said it firmly, but his heart was in his mouth. "I need to get away. To the mountains. Bass fishing. Or—" He searched his mind frantically. "Or—"

Ruth came toward him ominously. "Ed!" she said sharply. "Look at me!"

"What's the matter?" Panic shot through him. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Where were you this afternoon?"

Ed's grin faded. "I told you. I went for a walk. Didn't I tell you? A walk. To think things over."

"Don't lie to me, Eddie Fletcher! I can tell when you're lying!" Fresh tears welled up in Ruth's eyes. Her breasts rose and fell excitedly under her cotton shirt. "Admit it! You didn't go for a walk!"

Ed stammered weakly. Sweat poured off him. He sagged helplessly against the door. "What do you mean?"

Ruth's black eyes flashed with anger. "Come on! I want to know where you were! Tell me! I have a right to know. What really happened?"

Ed retreated in terror, his resolve melting like wax. It was going all wrong. "Honest. I went out for a—"

"Tell me!" Ruth's sharp fingernails dug into his arm. "I want to know where you were—and who you were with!"

Ed opened his mouth. He tried to grin, but his face failed to respond. "I don't know what you mean."

"You know what I mean. Who were you with? Where did you go? Tell me! I'll find out, sooner or later."

There was no way out. He was licked—and he knew it. He couldn't keep it from her. Desperately he stalled, praying for time. If he could only distract her, get her mind on something else. If she would only let up, even for a second. He could invent something—a better story. Time—he needed more time. "Ruth, you've got to—"

Suddenly there was a sound: the bark of a dog, echoing through the dark house.

Ruth let go, cocking her head alertly. "That was Dobbie. I think somebody's coming."

The doorbell rang.

"You stay here. I'll be right back." Ruth ran out of the room, to the front door. "Darn it." She pulled the front door open.

"Good evening!" The young man stepped quickly inside, loaded down with objects, grinning broadly at Ruth. "I'm from the Sweep-Rite Vacuum Cleaner Company."

Ruth scowled impatiently. "Really, we're about to sit down at the table."

"Oh, this will only take a moment." The young man set down the vacuum cleaner and its attachments with a metallic crash. Rapidly, he unrolled a long illustrated banner, showing the vacuum cleaner in action. "Now, if you'll just hold this while I plug in the cleaner—"

He bustled happily about, unplugging the TV set, plugging in the cleaner, pushing the chairs out of his way.

"I'll show you the drape scraper first." He attached a hose and nozzle to the big gleaming tank. "Now, if you'll just sit down I'll demonstrate each of these easy-to-use attachments." His happy voice rose over the roar of the cleaner. "You'll notice—"

Ed Fletcher sat down on the bed. He groped in his pocket until he found his cigarettes. Shakily he lit one and leaned back against the wall, weak with relief.

He gazed up, a look of gratitude on his face. "Thanks," he said softly. "I think we'll make it—after all. Thanks a lot."

 

*This story happens in the 1950s, during the Cold War, when the US and other democratic countries were in a conflict with the Soviet Union (Russia and other communist countries). The Old Man explains that the discovery in Canada will help to end this conflict and advance human progress.

 

Vocabulary:  To help learners fully understand the audio and transcript, most vocabulary that might be unknown for this lesson’s level is provided. Vocab in bold is more useful for learners at the lesson’s target level. Try to choose 8 to 10 new words to learn from the story 

Definitions are written with the help of various sources including Merriam-Webster’s Learner’s Dictionary

 

Adjustment: a small change that improves something or makes it work better.

Clerk: a person whose job is to keep track of records and documents for a business or office.

To leaf: To turn the pages of a book or magazine.

To flip: to move (something) with a quick light movement.

Frown: a serious facial expression that usually shows anger, displeasure, or concentration.

Shed: a small, simple building that is used especially for storing things.

To exclaim: to say something suddenly and loudly, especially because of strong emotion or pain.

Clipboard: a small board for holding papers, used by somebody who wants to write while standing or moving around.

Stir: to move, or to make something move, slightly.

To yawn: to open your mouth wide and breathe in deeply through it, usually because you are tired or bored.

To glance: to look quickly at something/somebody.

Alteration: a change to something that makes it different.

Twist: to bend or turn something into a particular shape.

Contempt: the feeling that somebody/something is without value and deserves no respect at all.

Astonishing: very surprising; difficult to believe.

Perspicacity: the ability to understand somebody/something very quickly and accurately.

Divine: coming from or connected with God or a god.

Overlap: part of one thing covers part of the other.

Establishment: an organization or business.

Shade (window shade): a piece of material fixed onto a wooden or metal roller that can be pulled down to cover a window.

Dim: not giving or having much light.

Murmur: to speak or say something very quietly.

Sigh: to breathe out slowly and noisily, expressing tiredness, sadness, pleasure, etc.

To summon: to order someone to come to or be present at a particular place, or to officially arrange a meeting of people.

Vital: necessary for the success or continued existence of something; extremely important.

Nod: to move your head down and then up, sometimes several times, especially to show agreement, approval, or greeting, or to show something by doing this.

Robe: a long, loose piece of clothing worn especially on very formal occasions.

Sink: to (cause something or someone to) go down below the surface or to the bottom of a liquid or soft substance.

Rub: to press or be pressed against something with a circular or up-and-down repeated movement.

Rigid: stiff or fixed; not able to be bent or moved.

Shriek: a short, loud, high cry, especially one produced suddenly as an expression of a powerful emotion.

Hastily: said or done in a hurry, sometimes without the necessary care or thought.

Embarrassed: feeling ashamed or shy.

To gaze: to look at something or someone for a long time, especially in surprise or admiration, or because you are thinking about something else.

Fence: a structure like a wall built outdoors usually of wood or metal that separates two areas or prevents people or animals from entering or leaving.

Woof: the sound that a dog makes.

Doorbell: Doorbell: a bell inside a house or building that is rung usually by pushing a button beside an outside door.

To ring: the sound a bell makes.

Eager: wanting to do or have something very much.

Pamphlet: a very thin book with a paper cover that gives information about something.

Porch: a covered area built onto the entrance to a house.

To hop: a short jump.

Grin: to smile; a big smile.

To kid: to say something as a joke, often to make someone believe something that is not true.

Curb: the curved, raised edge of a road; see picture .

Wink: to close one eye quickly as a way of showing that you are not serious about something you have said, or as a sign of some other meaning.

Ominous: suggesting something unpleasant will happen.

Haze: something such as heat or smoke in the air that makes it less clear, so that it is difficult to see well.

Loom: to appear as a large, often frightening or unclear shape or object.

Cascade: to fall quickly and in large amounts.

Debris: broken pieces of something.

jagged: Very rough and sharp.

Cavity: a hole or a space inside something solid or between two surfaces.

Mar: to make something bad or unsuccessful. 

Daze: the feeling of not being able to think clearly because you are shocked or have hit your head.

To mount: to go up something.

To give way: to allow something to go or move.

To wade: to walk through water.

lobby: a large open area inside and near the entrance of a public building (such as a hotel or theater).

Obscure: to prevent something from being seen or heard.

Flicker: to shine with a light that is sometimes bright and sometimes weak.

Feeble: extremely weak.

Gloom: darkness, but not complete darkness.

Unearthly: very strange; not natural and therefore frightening.

Disintegrating: to break into small parts or pieces and be destroyed.

Fragment: a small part of something that has broken off or comes from something larger.

Dust: powder that consists of very small pieces of sand, earth, etc.

To peer: to look closely or carefully at something, especially when you cannot see it clearly.

Collapse:  to fall down or fall in suddenly, often after breaking apart.

Heap: an untidy pile of something.

pile: a group of things that are put one on top of another.

To dissolve:  when something solid mixes with a liquid and become part of it.

Tremble: to shake in a way that you cannot control, especially because you are very nervous, excited, frightened, etc.

To hesitate:  to be slow to speak or act because you feel uncertain, nervous or thoughtful. 

Corridor: a long narrow passage in a building, with doors that open into rooms on either side: hallway.

Real estate: property in the form of land or buildings.

Robe: a long, loose piece of clothing that is worn on top of other clothes to show that someone has a high rank or an important job.

De-energizer: (A word created by the author of the story) A piece of equipment to remove the energy of an area, so the adjustment teams can change reality.

Out of his mind: crazy.

Urgency: the state of being very important and needing you to take action immediately.

To suffice: to be enough.

Grim: worrying and bad.

Psychotic: suffering from a mental illness that makes you believe things that are not true.

Fit: a sudden, uncontrolled period of doing something or feeling something.

Retreat: a move away, especially to a place or situation that is safer or quieter.

Sanity: the condition of having a health mind; not crazy.

Gal: a young girl or women.

Subtle: not obvious or easy to notice. 

Phone booth: a small place with walls or sides, containing a public phone, in a hotel, restaurant, in the street, etc.

Ascent: act of climbing or moving up; a journey that goes up.

Awe: feelings of respect, wonder and slight fear; feelings of being very impressed by something/somebody.

Coordinated: to organize the different parts of an activity and the people involved in it so that it works well.

Configuration: an arrangement of the parts of something or a group of things; the form or shape that this arrangement produces.

You can count on me: to trust somebody to do something or to be sure that something will happen.

Vital: necessary or essential in order for something to succeed or exist.

Worthwhile: ​important, pleasant, interesting, etc.; worth spending time, money or effort on.

Immense: extremely large or great.

To wane: to become gradually weaker or less important.

Assets: a person or thing that is valuable or useful to somebody/something.

Anthropological: connected with the study of the human race, especially its origins, development, customs and beliefs.

Remains: the parts of something that are left after the other parts have been used, dead, or removed, etc.

To correspond: to be the same as or match something.

Eclipse: a loss of importance, power, etc. especially because somebody/something else has become more important, powerful, etc.

Beneficiaries: a person who gains as a result of something.

Descent: an action of coming or going down.

Resolve: a determined desire to achieve something.

Wax: a solid substance that is made from beeswax or from various fats and oils and used for making candles. It becomes soft when it is heated.

Relief: the feeling of happiness that you have when something unpleasant stops or does not happen.

 

Discussion Questions

Why is the adjustment team changing reality?

How much control do we have over the future of our lives?

Do you ever feel that your life could have been different?

What would you do, if you were Ed?

Do you think Ed will keep his promise to the Old Man? 

 

A summary of this story: https://philipkdickreview.wordpress.com/2014/05/12/adjustment-team/

 

Watch the movie, The Adjustment Bureau, based on this story: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1385826/ 

What are the similarities and differences between the story and the movie?