#she slow panned up to my face like Jim from the office

[neverbelessthan]

wizard spell of love be upon ye 🧙‍♂️🪄🔮✨❤️🌟💖⭐💕🌠💞🌈🫶

I just astounded my cat by using my phone to turn the deck irrigation system on while she was sitting by the back door, and i was like "why yes, i am a witch". I waved my fingers at the garden pod right as the sprinklers came on and she looked at me like 'oh jfc i've clearly been underestimating you this entire time'. So this feels very apt 😂

[whirlybirbs]

ok but like big dad hop cooking miss murphy a ‘romantic’ dinner n making the most Disastrous meal ever n freaking out big time hop style is my kink

summary: our favorite chief of police burns dinner but doesn’t ruin date night. pairing: hopper x teacher!reader, from my fic moonrise radio.a/n: disaster dad is jim hopper’s middle name, u know i’m right.     

“What are you going to make?”

Hopper’s already on edge. And the date isn’t for another twelve hours. He’s still got the whole day ahead of him -- and as he sips his coffee and sets aside some bacon onto El’s plate, he shrugs. 

“I, uh, I dunno -- what should I make?”

“Eggos.”

She’s smirking into her eggs. 

Jim barks a laugh, making his daughter snort softly. “Yea, kid, why not?”

“Romantic.”

“I dunno about that,” he says, settling in and digging into his cereal, “I’ll think of somethin’ though.”

“You got this.”

Yeah, yeah, he does.

Or so he thought. 

Until the universe decided to take a fat shit on his day.

It’s not even 10am when he’s dealing with a rabid fox on library’s property that successfully chased him (him of all people, not Callahan or Powell, him the biggest out of them all) up a swing-set in front of the crowded windows of the library where parents and children alike watched the whole thing play out.

By noon he’s throwing a cuffed Frank Dawn, the town drunk, in the back of his cruiser where he unceremoniously pukes everywhere. And Hop means everywhere. He’s sure there are chunks on the dash. Guys’s got good projection.

At roughly 4pm, Jim is dragged from Flo’s recipe book by a call about a ruptured sewage line downtown. For the following hour and a half, he’s stuck directing traffic, smelling literal shit, in the heat of the September sun. 

It’s not until 6pm that he finally gets out of the office, only to be stopped by sweet, old Mrs. Samson asking him about her missing cat for thirty minutes.

Safe to say he speeds to the grocery and does double the limit on the way home.

“Shit, shit shit shit shit shit --”

He throws the Blazer in park and leaps from the driver’s seat, hopping out of his boots the second he’s threw the door. He hauls ass, throwing his hat across the room and quickly pulling the meat from the freezer bag and starting a burner -- he’s stripping his uniform as he moves through the cabin, trying his best to straighten up as the 7pm nears. 

And then he smells himself.

“Oh god --”

Shower curtain pulls. Water on. He’s in. Something’s burning. He’s out. Shower curtain pulled. 

“Oh, Christ.”

He’s got the towel around his hips, water dripping on the floor, as he pushes the hamburger around in the pan and starts browning the other side. Hopper tosses the spatula beside the oven on the counter, moving fast into his bedroom and leaping into a pair of jeans. He’s swearing as he buttons up another brightly colored shirt, pushing his hair back as he muscles on a pair of kicks and skids into the kitchen to get to work on dicing the vegetables. 

In the fray, he manages to put a record on, pour wine, and regain some semblance of composure.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

He freezes completely.

You got this. 

He pulls open the door so fast, your hair flies.

His composure is out the window the second he sees you.

You’re grinning, face bright with an amused expression as he bawks and blinks and swallows and tries to remember what words are. 

(He’s distracted by your own bright sweater / black denim mini-skirt combo -- your legs look longer than usual, black heeled boots giving you some height and stopping right below your knees. It’s not the look of a science teacher. It’s the look of a woman who could kick his ass and he’d say thank you.)

“Uh, hi.”

“Hi,” you parrot, laughing a little, “You alright?”

“Yeah -- yeah, I’m great, you... you look great --”

“I mean, I figured if it was a date...”

God, he’s dead. He’s dead and this is heaven and his bones are jello. 

“Come on in -- I, uh, I thought I’d make tacos -- it’s Flo’s recipe so it should be good.”

You grin and follow him in. Dropping your purse on the small table by the door, you take in the cozy space with a wide smile. Jim moves across the room, into the kitchen, and prods at the meat in the skillet before double taking back at you. His gaze is stuck like glue as you poke around, smiling sweetly at some of the art on the walls.

“Tacos sound really good.”

You look right at him when you say it.

He feels like he’s been punched in the gut. 

In the background, an old Derek & the Dominos record spins out the tune of the song “Layla” and Hopper realizes no song could really be more fitting.

“Does wine sound good, too?”

You laugh, arms crossed. “I think so, yeah.”

And then it happens.

He moves, a little too quick and never realizing how big he really is in a space so small, a space he’s called home for nearly two years now, and unceremoniously elbows his own glass of wine as he offers you some and over the glass goes, right onto the gas burner and FWOOSH!

“SHIT!”

“Oh my god --”

He’s swatting at the fire with a dish towel now, coughing as smoke billows from mini explosion that’s left the meat charred and the wallpaper behind the stove blackened. Hopper is quick to chuck a glass of water on the charred embers of the meal before dropping his hands to his knees and taking a long exhale.

You’ve got your hands over your mouth when the fire alarm starts.

Hopper is cursing when he moves through the cabin, storming towards the little alarm in question and decidedly yanking it out of the wall.

You bite your lip and hold back a laugh.

And then Hopper starts laughing.

But, not a good laugh -- no, this is the laugh of a man who was nearly bitten by a rabid fox, puked on by the town drunk, directing shit traffic; a man who just royally fucked up dinner and whose heart rate hasn’t dropped below 140 since he’s been home.

“Ohhhh, man.”

“Hop,” you says slowly, worry on your face, “You’ve got the crazy eyes --”

“I just fucked up our date -- okay, I... This is just the icing on the cake, y’know? I told El, I said, I’ve got this and I jinxed it. i jinxed myself.”

You chew your lip as he moves to chuck the pan in the sink.

“Rough day?”

He plants his hands on the sink.

“You have no idea.”

Taking a step forward, you move to put both your hands on his back. You give his shoulders a little rub, face soft as he sighs and hangs his head. 

“Hey,” you offer slowly, “Why don’t we order a pizza and you can tell me all about it?”

There’s a pause.

“You... -- really?”

You swat at Hop’s arm as he turns, eyeing you with a skeptical look. “Stop it.”

“I’m serious.”

“And so am I. Pizza, wine, some Chips re-runs...” you offer slowly, patting his chest and smoothing down the collar of his button down, “Sounds like a pretty good date to me. I’ll even drive us to Hawkins House of Pizza because I doubt they’ll deliver to your little cabin in the woods, Chief.”

His hands fall along your arms, sweeping in slow circles as a smile cracks and it’s like the sun parting through the clouds. He ducks his head. “Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, holding lingering on your arms as you move to grab your purse and keys, “But I’m paying.”

“Fat chance.”

His brows raise as you skirt out the door leaving him to follow -- and he does; long strides carry him into the late, fall air and into the cab of your old Camaro. You’re a real sight to see in the driver’s seat, all heeled boots and miniskirt, as you back out and peel onto the main road towards the lone pizza shop in town. 

“Sorry I burned dinner,” he says with a smile, finally starting to relax.

You laugh loudly. “Burned? Hop, you cremated it.”

He snorts, digging out a cigarette and lighting it. In the light of the dashboard, he looks handsome -- not that that’s new. He’s always handsome. But, right now, he looks like a dream. He cranks the window down and exhales, leaning to eye you.

“Guess that’s what I get for tryna impress a pretty girl like you.”

He’s got that voice he puts on -- low and slow and a rumble that you’re sure has worked on plenty of other women before you. You spare him a roll of your eyes as you pull into the parking lot of the bustling Hawkins House of Pizza and throw the car in park. 

You walk a little closer to him than usual.

You sure don’t complain when he throws an arm over your shoulder in the close quarters of the bustling pizza shop. 

(Hop is sweating as he does it -- the bold gesture of affection is received well, though, and his gut turns to butterflies when you wrap your arm around his middle and lean into him.)

You order two large pies, an order of fries and a brownie to split -- and proceed to battle out for paying at the register.

The teenager, who’s unimpressed and un-enthused as you swat at Hopper’s hand and drop your own twenty dollar bill, just rolls his eyes when you squeeze Hop’s side and urge: “You bought the fire starters -- I mean, dinner --”

Jim blinks down at you, shaking your shoulders in retaliation as he resigns and let it happen. “Fine, fine! Fine. Whatever. I get the next one though.”

You perk up at the prospect of another date. 

“The next one, huh?” you ask as you carry the pizzas out, “There’s gonna be a next one?”

“I’d like a next one -- I dunno about you,” he says as he grunts and folds his long legs up against the dashboard as he settles into the Camaro, “Where maybe we scale it up a bit? Not a couch date?”

“What, like Enzo’s?”

You grin at him, flicking his arm as he muscles the pizzas into his lap.

Hopper tilts his head and shrugs as you start back towards his cabin. “I like Enzo’s.”

“Okay,” you smile, “Enzo’s.”

“You free Saturday?”

You peel into a sort of laughter that makes Hop glow. 

“So soon?”

“For the last three and a half weeks,” he begins, “I didn’t think -- that this was... y’know, I didn’t think you were into me. So, yea, so soon, because I am makin’ up for lost time.”

He’s got you wrapped around his finger. 

Without even thinking, you ask: “So, how about 8pm?”

“You wanna come back to my place after and watch some more Chips re-runs?”

His smile is warm.

How could you say no?

[ladywinchester1967]

Faith, Trust and Pixie Dust

Summary: Dean and his female friend have a close friendship; will a night in the sheets change things?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Character

Word Count: 2342

Warnings: Language, Dean being a cutie pie (yes that’s a warning), SMUT, a smidgen of plot, feels and fluff.

Square Filled: Friends to Lovers

A/N: Written for @spngenrebingo One of my ALL TIME FAVORITE tropes honestly! I hope you guys enjoy this. If you haven’t seen the movie referenced in this one shot; HERE is the scene I’m talking about. As always; unbeta’d, all mistakes are mine but the pictures are not. I found them on Pinterest and screen shot one from YouTube.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam was gone to visit....someone. He’d mentioned the name but she’s forgotten it as soon as he’d said it. As soon as the garage door to the bunker shut, she made her way back to her room. Wherever Dean was, he wouldn’t be back any time soon, so she decided she would pamper herself. She changed into a comfortable tank top and booty shorts, threw her hair into a ponytail and slapped on a charcoal facial mask. Just because she lived with guys didn’t mean she couldn’t indulge in things she liked every once in a while. Face masks, painting her toes, watching fairy tail movies, eating popcorn and drinking wine were among the things she liked to do to feel normal. Something just for her. With the mask on, she popped some popcorn, poured herself a glass of wine and found Peter Pan on HBO and decided to watch that. Something simple, that brought back fond memories of being a tween girl and going to the movies with her friends.

Lost in the movie and relaxing, she hadn’t heard Dean calling her name. He could hear voices coming from her room and realized she was watching a movie. He quickly peaked through the crack in her door and saw her stretched out in bed, with a bowl full of popcorn next to her, shorts (they barely constituted as shorts, more like longer underwear) and some grey stuff on her face. He waited for a few seconds, observing her in her natural habitat. She looked so relaxed and chill, she was the opposite on a case.

“Hey,” he finally greeted her as he came around the corner “what’re you watching?”

“Peter Pan.” She told him, not looking up “What’s up?”

“Nothing, just seeing if you wanted to hang out.” He said with a shrug. She paused the movie and said

“Sure, go get comfy and climb on in!” She patter the bed beside her “I got plenty of room.”

“What’s the stuff on your face? Is it contagious?” He asked and she laughed

“It’s a charcoal face mask,” she told him “cleans and refined pores and it makes my face all soft.”

He shook his head and said

“I’ll be back in five, want a drink?”

“Yup,” She told him “I got the good beer.”

“Of course you did.” He said with a smirk and left the room.

She got up and washed the mask off her face, her heart pounding in her chest. This wasn’t the first time she and Dean had laid in bed and watched a movie together. They had a heavily flirtatious friendship, Sam often teased that they should hurry up and date all ready while Charlie compared them to Jim and Pam from The Office.

She shook her head, patted her face dry and applied her moisturizer. She wasn't totally sure she wanted more from him than what she was giving him. She knew him well enough to know he'd never agree to anything serious. Any seriousness meant there would be a target on her back. She sighed and climbed back into bed, getting comfortable. After a few more minutes, Dean reappeared, wearing a plain blue shirt, jeans and black socks, carrying two beers and a bag of Twizzlers pull and peel.

“Where did you find that?!” She asked as she accepted the beer and candy.

“I know where you hide the good snacks,” he told her “you can’t hide licorice from me!”

“I have to or I won’t get any!” She said as she moved over to make room for him. He settled in beside her as she opened the bag. They sat with their heads propped against the headboard, their hips and legs touching.

“You really think I’d be that mean?” He asked as she offered him a piece.

“Not intentionally,” she told him “I just know how you get.”

He took the candy and started to pull it apart.

“And how do I get?” He asked

“You start watching The Three Stooges, get distracted and next thing you know, you’ve eaten all the candy and then have to tell me about it with that sad puppy look on your face.” She grabbed a piece of the candy and went on “Then I can’t stay mad at you, so you go to the store, get more and then the cycle starts all over again.”

He laughed and she pressed play on the movie.

“That happens a little too much if you have it down pat.” He said and she shrugged.

“I don’t mind,” she told him “it’s funny.”

“What Peter Pan is this? I’ve never seen this one.” He asked

“The 2003 live action,” she told him “Jason Issacs is in this one.”

“Lucius Malfoy?” Dean asked and she nodded.

“He plays Captain Hook and Mister Darling.” She said.

He nodded and they watched in silence for a while, drinking and eating.

The part in the movie came where Peter and Wendy go off to see the fairies and she let out an audible gasp. Dean turned his head a little and watched as a look of wonder came over her face as the fairies left trails of glitter behind them as they flew, casting an ethereal glow in the forest. He was about to tell her that wasn’t what it looked like when fairies flew, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to break the spell of enchantment she was under as she watched the fairies, as well as Peter and Wendy, romantically dance. A slow smile crossed his face as he committed this moment to memory. The would be the moment he’d look back on later and know this is when he fell in love with her. He gently slipped his arm around her shoulders and she laid her head on his chest as he kissed her forehead.

“Dean?” She asked quietly

“Hm?” He answered, catching the scent of her shampoo.

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting as she bit her lip. Maybe nothing serious would ever happen between them, but that didn't stop how she felt about him.

“Could I-“ she cut herself off “No, could we-“ she cut herself off again, her cheeks turning pink “I mean, may I-“ she couldn’t get the words out and he smirked.

“Take a breath,” he told her gently “what’s on your mind?”

She took a breath she let it out shakily.

“CanIKissYou?” She said quickly, not even taking a breath between her words.

A slow smile crept across his lips and he nodded. She leaned in, her lip trembling and pressed her mouth to his.

His lips were soft and strong on hers, the heat between them blossoming into a passionate flame. He threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her in place as he opened his mouth to kiss her again. She swiped her tongue across his lips and he opened his mouth to let her in. Her tongue intertwined with his, letting out a moan. They pulled away and she took her tank top off, leaving her in her bra and shorts. She took his hand that was in her hair and guided it to her breast. His thumb ran over the swell as his chest heaved.

“Dean,” she breathed “it’s okay, you can touch me.”

He leaned his head down, kissing between her breasts and up to her neck where he gently sucked on her flesh. She whined as she gripped his hair. His mouth met hers again, wrapping her into another heated kiss, the stubble on his face deliciously scratching her upper lip.

She guided his hand down and to her the waistband of her panties.

“You’re sure?” He asked in a husky tone.

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.” She told him as she looked at him. She too her hands away from his and rid him of his shirt. He gently closed his lips over hers and he pushed his fingers down and through her soaked folds, letting out a groan.

“God sweetheart,” he moaned into her mouth “so fucking wet already?”

“I’ve wanted this for a long, long time.” She told him as she slid her fingers through his gorgeous, thick hair “I want you to touch me so badly.”

She opened her legs wider for him as his fingers glided through her wet pussy, pushing two fingers inside of her easily as she gasped.

“OH!” She cried out as his thumb flicked back and forth over her clit.

“Let me see sweetheart,” he begged in her ear “let me see what I do to you.”

She quickly discarded her shorts and panties, opening her legs wide for him to get a good look as his handiwork. She was practically dripping on to his hand as he worked her up, higher and higher.

“Dean,” she cried out, her hands clutching the sheets beside her head. “Ohhhhh god Dean!”

“Wanna taste you,” He said as he pulled his fingers out and then quickly latched around her. He rolled on to his back, bringing her on top of him as she moaned. He sucked and licked on her while she thrust her hips into his face.

“That’s it,” She heard him moan “ride my face.”

He kneaded the flesh of her ass and gave her a light smack as she cried out, gripping her headboard so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“God, Dean!” She cried out. She wanted this feeling, this fantasy, to never end. His mouth and tongue working her nearly to the brink of insanity, but she wasn’t going to make him stop. She felt like she was on fire and freezing all at the same time as a sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead. She moaned his name over and over again as his thumb rubbed her clit in slow circles. She couldn’t warn him, the words wouldn’t form in her mouth. She threw back her head and let out a scream as the dam in her belly burst open, her eyes rolling in the back of her head and she went numb from head to toe for a few seconds. He gently brought her down to the bed and laid her beside him as they both breathed hard. He stroked her face with the back of his hand as he smiled, he was pleased that he’d had that effect on her.

“Wow.” was all she could say after a few moments of mutual silence. She leaned forward and kissed him, her taste lingering in his mouth. She ran her hands all over his naked torso; his chest, his back, shoulders and stomach, relishing in the feel of his skin under her hands, while he did the same thing. He yanked her bra off then tossed it aside. He admired the girl below him, her skin seemed to carry a glow around it as he took his time memorizing every curve. She captured his mouth with hers and pulled him into an intense kiss as she unbuckled his belt. Without missing a beat, he undid the button and zipper on his jeans and pulled them down along with his underwear and got on top of her.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his eyes searching her face for any signs of wariness or discomfort.

She nodded and slid her hands up his chest and around to his back.

“I want you,” She told him as she opened her legs wider for him and slid her hands up and into his hair “god, I want you so badly.”

She gripped his locks tightly as he guided himself into her and then plunged deep into her, making her cry out and arch her back. He’d slid home almost immediately, making her shutter.

“Dean,” she breathed “please, I want more. Please.”

He began to move, his hips gently thrusting into her.

“I won’t break,” she hissed “you can fuck me harder.”

He looked at her

“I don’t want to fuck you,” he told her “I want to make love to you.”

She looked startled at this notion, but nodded and let him carry on. His hips moved while he kissed, licked, bit and sucked on every inch of bare skin he could. She moved her hips with his and held on for the rest, he drove her higher and higher as she hooked her leg around his hips and rolled him on to his back. She slide her hands up his arms and to his hands where she laced her fingers with his as she rolled her hips into him. He gasped and chased a kiss from her, which she obliged, his tongue swiping across her lips.

“Dean,” she moaned into his mouth “Dean.”

His tongue dove into her mouth as her tongue danced with his. He sat up, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.

“Sweetheart,” he moaned as he rested his forehead on her chest “oh fuck.”

They both worked each other higher and higher until they were screaming each other’s names as they both finished. Dean fell back on to the bed, holding her tightly in his arms as she started to tremble.

“Are you okay?” He asked as he looked down at her.

She nodded, her finger tracing the planes of his chest.

“I’m fine,” she told him “I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm that intense.”

He smirked and kissed her tenderly as she laid her forehead against his chest. She quietly drifted off to sleep as he stroked her hair, relishing in the feel of her hair under his palm, her skin against his and the bliss he felt in that moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

What did you think?! I hope you guys liked it! Please share, like and comment. Maybe hit that follow button?? My boxes are open and I’m always taking requests so if you want to see your idea turned into something cool, drop me a line! See ya’ll for the next one!!

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[youre-on-a-starship]

Prompt: “Imagine Kirk not realizing his feelings for you until he almost loses you during a mission” -Anon

Word Count: 2,247

Warnings: Being shot

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy! I had fun writing the dialogue in this one.

—

“We’re cutting the power now,” Scotty muttered over the comm link. “Once it’s off you’ve got twenty seconds to get through that door before the auxiliary power comes back on and the security system reboots.”

“Copy that,” you responded, exchanging a look with Ensign Torres. The security officer nodded at you and repositioned his phase rifle against his shoulder.

“Three, two…”

The ambient hum of the vessel ceased leaving a faint ringing in your ears in the silence. The lights cut out, too.

Torres hit the light on the barrel of his rifle and the pair of you broke into a run, crossing the vast compartment, aiming for a door in the far corner.

“Fifteen seconds,” Scotty hissed in your ear.

You picked up the pace. Torres was clearly holding back so you didn’t become separated.

“Ten seconds.”

The door loomed.

“Come on,” Torres wheezed, starting to outpace you.

You brought on a final burst of speed as Scotty made the five second warning.

As the security system booted back up, you and Torres collided with the wall next to the door.

“Status?” Kirk’s voice was now in your ear.

“We made it. I’m accessing the panel now,” you whispered, plugging your tricorder into the panel next to the door.

“See if you can get a handle on what you’ll find on the other side,” Kirk said.

“Aye, Sir,” you muttered as you worked to hack into the system. The panel screen lit up, displaying an opening mechanism for the door and a map of the ship.

“The faster the better,” Torres growled as he watched the empty compartment behind you, his rifle panning the room.

“I’m working on it. Lieutenant Uhura, I’m uploading the ship’s schematics directly to you,” you hissed as you accessed the blueprints. “Other side of the door is a hallway network. The brig is two levels below us.”

“Any access points?” Torres asked.

“Looking,” you breathed as you scrolled through the schematics.

“I see a ventilation system under the floor,” Uhura said.

“I don’t know if Torres’ll fit,” you mumbled.

“Shut up.”

“You wanna try, be my guest,” you quipped.

“Is there a lift?” Kirk asked.

“Not that we can immediately access with the power being off; the auxiliary power is only going to security, life support, and basic functions. Which means I can at least get this door open.”

“Are there stairs?” Scotty asked.

“I can’t find them if there are,” you kept scrolling.

“I’ll try the ventilation shaft,” Torres said, “We need to get moving.”

“If you get stuck, I can’t get you out,” you muttered, pulling the plug on the tricorder and activating the door panel, revealing an empty, ill-lit hallway beyond.

“I can dislocate my shoulders if it comes to it, let’s go,” Torres nodded down the hall and set out ahead of you.

You mimicked his footsteps, gingerly putting one foot in front of the other, listening to the ambient creaking of the ship.

“Left,” you hissed at Torres, pulling off to the edge of the hallway and accessing a small panel on the wall. A square opened up in the floor and Torres glanced down at it.

“Shit, that’s small,” he growled.

“You said you’d take care of it,” you reminded him, eyeing his broad shoulders and wondering how he was going to make it.

“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” he glanced back the way you came. “You go first.”

“Just take it easy, don’t rush,” Kirk’s voice was quiet in your ear. A lot of tension went into this rescue mission. Commander Spock was among the away team hidden in the brig on this ship.

You crouched and lowered your legs into the duct. The frigid air sliced through your uniform and clawed at your skin, eliciting a sharp gasp.

“You okay?” Torres asked.

“It’s cold. Come on,” you lowered the rest of your body into the narrow duct and used the seams between plates to lower yourself into the horizontal section.

Your feet hit the floor and Torres still wasn’t above you.

“Torres?” you hissed.

A masked face appeared at the top of the duct. Your stomach sank as they aimed a gun down at you and fired.

–

An elephant on your chest… cardiac arrest? Or does death feel like this?

“Lieutenant,” a soft, deep voice was out there somewhere in the void. “Lieutenant Y/L/N.”

You tried calling out to the voice but a sharp pain shot through you as you breathed in, making you cry out.

“Please don’t move,” the voice said. “You have been severely injured and we are attempting to stabilize the wound.”

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Am I having a heart attack?”

“No, you were shot,” the voice said.

You cracked your eyelids and a murky image formed above you. A large humanoid shape with pale skin and dark hair loomed in the poor light. That voice…

“Please remain still.”

“Commander?”

“Yes?”

“Where is Torres?”

“He was killed.”

“Am I dying?”

“Unless we are able to acquire medical assistance, yes.”

“Excellent,” you breathed. “Mr. Scott wasn’t apprehended as well, was he?”

“No.”

“Not yet,” you breathed.

“Your communications device was unfortunately confiscated,” Spock murmured.

“Why does my chest hurt?”

“You were shot.”

“I’ve been shot before, this is different. It’s heavy.”

“I am applying pressure to your wound,” Spock explained looking around the room.

“My comms are gone?”

“Yes.”

“That might be okay. If I’m not responding, they’ll know something’s happened,” you winced as a slow pulse of pain emanated from the hole in your chest. Spock bore down with measured pressure; you knew he could break your ribs if he pushed too hard. “I uploaded the schematics to Uhura’s station. They’ll know where to find us.”

Spock made a noncommittal noise.

“What are you thinking? Is something wrong?”

“My concern, Lieutenant, is the captain.”

“What about him?” you thought about Jim and about the hole in you and about whether or not you��d ever see your friend again.

“Jim has been known to act rashly in the past when the people he cares about are in precarious situations.”

“You think he’ll come after us himself.”

“Precisely.”

“He won’t come alone,” you blinked hard as the wound throbbed. “He’d bring a team.”

“My hope is that he can recognize the tactical advantage he possesses,” Spock lifted his hands to readjust and you gasped. It was like someone unstoppered a bath.

As Spock reapplied pressure on your chest there was a massive crash on the level above that sent a rattle through the floor under your shoulders. You and Spock looked at the ceiling.

“You analysed this ship’s schematics?” Spock asked.

“Yeah,” you breathed, still reeling from the blood loss.

“What is above us?”

“Engine room.”

Spock looked down at you before casting his gaze quickly around the room again.

“Do you think it’s them?” you asked as you felt a suspicious tingling in your feet.

“That is my hope,” Spock pressed harder. “Your wound is not clotting and I fear that I won’t be able to keep this pressure should an altercation ensue.”

“Oh good,” you tipped your head to the side and looked into the other cells. Lieutenants Truong and Abdallah sat against the wall of the cell across from you, each with their heads on their knees as they listened to the rumbling coming from above.

“Where’s Ensign Koch?” you asked.

“She is dead.”

You were about to respond when a door on the far end of the room burst open with a thunderous bang and several pairs of boots trekked across the floor.

“Spock!”

Relief filled you as you recognized Kirk’s voice.

“Y/N!” he called again as his boots appeared in your field of vision.

“Hey, Jim,” you mouthed as the tingling came higher up your body, pulling you through the deck plating and blotting out your vision.

“Hey, I’ve got you. Here, Spock, go see Raleigh,” Jim slipped an arm under your neck and scooped you up, cradling you into him as he replaced Spock’s hands quickly with his free one. “Hey, can you still hear me?”

“I can hear you,” you mumbled, feeling your consciousness slowly slipping. “I’ve never wished you were McCoy more than right now.”

“You and me both,” he snorted softly. “Stay with me, okay? Y/N? Y/N?”

You never realized how warm and soft his arms were.

–

In the haze of sleep you recognized Kirk’s voice encompassing you like a warm bath. In this blissful darkness, it felt like you’d been listening to the music of that voice for eternity. The words became more recognizable as you surfaced.

“… stood on the edge of the dock and the bastard pushed me in,” Kirk laughed.

“Is this the one where you put his mattress on the roof?” you murmured.

“Hey,” his voice suddenly got soft and you felt the mattress depress next to your face. “Welcome back.”

“Hey,” you breathed. “I made it, eh?”

“Yeah, you made it,” he whispered. “How do you feel?”

“Pretty numb to be honest. McCoy put me back together?”

“Yeah. You lost a lot of blood, but he got you back pretty quick,” he said as his hand found its way onto your head, his thumb stroking over your hair.

“You alright?” you murmured, enjoying the light touch.

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m just glad to see you awake.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Nine hours. You just needed to sleep it off,” he chuckled.

“Did you find Torres and Koch?”

“No, they, uh… we couldn’t bring them back,” Jim shook his head, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t think I was going to find you. When your communicator went down…”

“Are you crying?” your vision was still fuzzy, but it looked like Jim’s eyes were reddening.

Jim sniffed and rubbed at his nose.

“A little bit.”

“Is it because of them? They knew what they were getting into, same as me,” you reached out and draped your fingers next to his hip. “Are you crying because of me?”

“Yeah,” Jim sniffed again. “Thought I was losing you.”

You looked up at him and blinked a few times to focus your vision. Jim became clearer with every other press of your eyelids.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he whispered after a moment.

You raised your eyebrows and looked down your stretched-out body at the peaks of your toes under the sheet. Jim’s hand stilled on your hair.

“You just saying this ‘cause I almost died?” you asked, looking back up at him.

“No,” he shook his head. “I think I’ve sort of always known. Something just always seems to be in the way.”

“Well, death is a pretty insurmountable roadblock,” you mused.

“That’s more or less what I was thinking,” Jim pursed his lips, pulling his hand away from your head. “Anyway, I, uh…”

He placed his hand in his lap and you lifted your fingers and captured his sleeve between your knuckles, yanking his arm down so you could hold his hand. Eagerly, Jim twined his fingers in yours, holding on as if you were really on the way out.

“You what?” you asked after he trailed off. “Jim?”

“I should probably get back,” he started sliding off the bed.

“Would you stop?” you mumbled, jerking his hand to make him sit still. “Don’t leave right when you say something like that. I mean, I could still die right? Then I won’t know what you -”

“Don’t even joke about that, alright?” he said, a little louder than he meant. He readjusted his voice and started again, more quietly but still firmly. “I held you today while you bled out. I really don’t want to remember what that felt like, but I have a funny feeling that’s going to be one of those moments I’m never going to forget. Regardless of what you tell me right now, I’m never going to forget what it felt like to watch you, expecting every breath to be the last one.”

“Well,” you said, stroking your thumb over his knuckles. “I really like being your friend and, frankly, I’m alright leaving it at that. But if you want more than that, I’m right on board. In fact, I’m more than on board. Just tell me when, Jim.”

“When what? When I want more?”

You nodded.

“Right now.”

“Then you’ve got me,” you grinned lightly. “Where’s Spock, by the way?”

“On the bridge,” Jim said, letting your hand go and returning his hand to your head, gently cupping the curves of your skull as he traced his fingers around. “He made me stay down here with you.”

“Did he?”

“I think he knew before I did.”

“Ah,” you nodded. “Gotta love that Vulcan intuition.”

You wrinkled your nose as the pain started to seep through the medication.

“You alright?” Jim’s hand stilled on your head and he started to stand up.

“It’s starting to hurt again.”

Jim leaned down and kissed your forehead.

“I’ll go get Bones,” he pulled back and hovered over you for a moment before placing another soft kiss on your lips. “I’ll be right back. Try to stay awake now, okay?”

“I’ll do what I can,” you mumbled, cringing with the escalation of the pain. You watched him disappear around the corner towards McCoy’s office and you reached up and touched your lips where he kissed you and a soft wave of adrenaline shot through your veins.

[ladystylestores]

George Floyd, Europe’s Statues, Moscow Reopens: Your Wednesday Briefing

(Want to get this briefing by email? Here’s the sign-up.)

Good morning.

We’re covering the world reopening while coronavirus cases continue to skyrocket, protesters targeting statues as symbols of Europe’s racist past and a final goodbye for George Floyd.

The world reopens despite skyrocketing cases

This week, as the world surpassed seven million coronavirus cases, countries continued the order of the day: reopening to salvage their economies.

Moscow ended its strict lockdown on Tuesday ahead of a nationwide vote to extend President Vladimir Putin’s rule, while officials there continued to report more than 1,000 daily new coronavirus cases.

Barbershops, beauty parlors, veterinary clinics and photography studios were allowed to reopen, and digital permits for leaving one’s house are no longer needed.

And the outbreak is still spreading rapidly in Latin America and the Caribbean, pushing the region “to the limit,” the director of the Pan American Health Organization warned on Tuesday.

Bigger picture: While infection rates in the hardest-hit cities in the United States and Europe have slowed, the global peak of infection may still be months away. Without a vaccine or treatments, the only proven strategy has been limiting human contact.

In other news:

Here are the latest updates and maps of the outbreak’s spread.

The Times is providing free access to much of our coronavirus coverage, and our Coronavirus Briefing newsletter — like all of our newsletters — is free. Please consider supporting our journalism with a subscription.

A final goodbye to George Floyd

The funeral for George Floyd, whose killing in police custody galvanized an international movement, drew hundreds of mourners in Houston on Tuesday.

The event came after two weeks of protests demanding change in policing and systemic racism and five days of public memorials. Mr. Floyd, 46, was to be buried next to his mother.

His words — “I can’t breathe,” which he said 16 times as an officer pressed his knee onto his neck — have become a rallying cry. Mr. Floyd was remembered as a father and star student-athlete with big dreams who “wanted to touch the world.”

In a video played at the funeral, former Vice President Joe Biden offered his condolences to the family. As Mr. Floyd’s coffin exited church, onlookers chanted his name. “We will breathe!” one shouted.

Latest: Officials in Houston and Washington said they would ban their city’s police from using chokeholds. The police in Phoenix said they would end another kind of neck restraint. A New York City police officer who shoved a protester to the ground will face criminal charges.

Protesters in Europe confront statues’ racist histories

As anti-racism protests spread across the world, some places are calling on countries to confront their racist histories by removing statues that commemorate them.

On Tuesday, a 150-year-old statue of King Leopold II of Belgium, who oversaw the brutal colonization of Congo in the 19th century that led to millions of deaths, was removed in Antwerp after protesters daubed it with red paint. On Sunday, protesters in Bristol, England, toppled a bronze statue of a 17th-century slave trader and dumped it into the river.

Now, some are focusing on statues of Cecil Rhodes, an imperialist tycoon many see as the architect of apartheid.

Context: Debate around the removal of American Confederacy monuments has also continued in the U.S., with protesters in several cities targeting those monuments that remain.

Related: Top British brands of tea, a national staple, doubled down on support for the Black Lives Matter movement after threats of boycott from some right-wing customers. (They urged #solidaritea.)

If you have 6 minutes, this is worth it

Afghan radio names the dead, but few still listen

Through decades of coups, invasions and endless war, Afghans have tuned in to Radio Afghanistan twice a day to hear the names of the newly dead. The death notices were a ritual, an honor and sometimes a sign of status. For a time, the broadcast filled double its scheduled hourlong slot. Above, its senior anchor, Mohamad Agha Zaki.

Now, that all is gone. People are still dying, but many now turn to social media to disseminate the news. Mr. Zaki, however, says that people in rural areas are still listening: “This is the language of the nation.”

Here’s what else is happening

U.S. presidential campaign: New polls shows former Vice President Joe Biden with a significant lead over President Trump, positioning him as the strongest challenger to an incumbent president since Bill Clinton in the summer of 1992.

Burundi: President Pierre Nkurunziza, whose autocratic rule of the Central African nation stifled journalists and arrested opponents, died of heart failure on Monday at 55.

Germany: The far-right Alternative for Germany party won a suit against the country’s interior minister, Horst Seehofer, for posting an interview criticizing the party on a government website.

North Korea: The government cut off all communications to South Korea and called it an “enemy” in a sign of chilling relations. North Korea refused a routine daily call on the military hotline between the countries on Tuesday.

Snapshot: Above, the Compton Cowboys riding in solidarity with the black community in California. Black cowboys and cowgirls are reclaiming the traditional role of mounted riders in urban demonstrations, evoking a history of daring riding.

What we’re reading: This Money magazine article about some of the explorers who dedicated their lives to finding Forrest Fenn’s hidden treasure (which was finally discovered over the weekend). It’s riveting and will make you smile.

Now, a break from the news

Cook: This crispy sour cream and onion chicken can be showered with fresh chives and lemon juice, or, if you crave something creamy for dunking, pair it with a dip of sour cream, lemon juice and chives.

Watch: The new documentary “Born in Evin” follows the director, Maryam Zaree, as she interviews family, friends, sociologists and psychologists to try to demystify the circumstances of her birth in Iran’s notorious Evin prison for political dissidents.

Read: Joyce Carol Oates’s new novel, “Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.” takes on racism and grief, and is squarely in conversation with this moment of pandemic and protest, writes our reviewer. Also, here are five new and noteworthy poetry books.

Do: The designer Todd Snyder shows you how to add patches to your jeans, using an old bandanna or shirt you are ready to rag.

We may be venturing outside, but with the virus still spreading, we’re still safest inside. At Home can help make that tolerable, even fun, with ideas on what to read, cook, watch and do.

And now for the Back Story on …

Facial recognition technology

There has been intense debate about the use of facial recognition technology in the public and private sectors.

Law enforcement agencies and some companies use it to identify suspects and victims by matching photos or video with databases like driver’s license records. But civil liberties groups warn that facial recognition erodes privacy, reinforces bias against black people and can be misused.

Timnit Gebru, a leader of Google’s ethical artificial intelligence team, explained why she thinks the police shouldn’t use facial recognition. Below is an excerpt from her conversation with Shira Ovide for the latest On Tech newsletter.

Shira: What are your concerns about facial recognition?

Timnit: I collaborated with Joy Buolamwini at the M.I.T. Media Lab on an analysis that found very high disparities in error rates [in facial identification systems], especially between lighter-skinned men and darker-skinned women. In melanoma screenings, imagine there’s a detection technology that doesn’t work for people with darker skin.

I also realized even perfect facial recognition can be misused. I’m a black woman living in the U.S. who has dealt with serious consequences of racism. Facial recognition is being used against the black community.

But a police officer or eyewitness could also look at surveillance footage and mug shots and misidentify someone as Jim Smith. Is software more accurate or less biased than humans?

That depends. Our analysis showed that for us, facial recognition was way less accurate than humans.

Do you see a way to use facial recognition for law enforcement and security responsibly?

My gut reaction is that a lot of people in technology have the urge to jump on a tech solution without listening to people who have been working with community leaders, police and others proposing solutions to reform the police.

It should be banned at the moment. I don’t know about the future.

That’s it for this briefing. See you next time.

— Isabella

Thank you To Theodore Kim and Jahaan Singh for the rest of the break from the news. You can reach the team at briefing@nytimes.com.

P.S. • We’re listening to “The Daily.” Our latest episode is on the case for defunding U.S. police forces. • Here’s today’s Mini Crossword puzzle, and a clue: Out of dreamland (five letters). You can find all our puzzles here. • A Times investigation by Michael Keller, Gabriel Dance and Nellie Bowles into online child sexual abuse was honored with the Robert F. Kennedy Human Rights Journalism Award.

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[deniscollins]

One Ohio Town’s Immigration Clash, Down in the Actual Muck

For decades, the farmers in Willard, Ohio have relied on migrant labor from spring to fall, and give them a welcoming party every spring. Seven in 10 field workers nationwide are undocumented, according to estimates by the American Farm Bureau Federation. In Willard, it is probably no different. This year, some complained due to the immigration debate. If you were on the Willard Chamber of Commerce would you: (1) hold the welcome party again or (2) request that the migrants provided documentation that they are here legally and if not, then deport them? Why? What are the ethics underlying your decision?

Migrant workers arrive here every spring to work in the “muck,” which is what everybody calls the fertile soil that makes this part of Ohio the perfect place to grow radishes, peppers, cucumbers and leafy greens. The temporary workers can be seen planting, weeding and, later in the season, harvesting crops that will be sold at national supermarket chains.

But there’s trouble in the muck this growing season.

The first sign of discontent came earlier in the year, when the Willard Area Chamber of Commerce was planning a welcome-back party for the migrants, most of whom come from Mexico and other countries farther south. Vendors were to sell food and drink. A soccer tournament, rides and singers were to entertain the crowd. At the chamber’s February meeting, everyone seemed on board.

“Our community is very fortunate we have a group of people who come here every year to work,” Cari McLendon, the chamber president, said. “We all ramp up for the season.”

But after a local newspaper published an article about the event in March, a far less welcoming response emerged, one rooted in the vigorous national debate over illegal immigration that brought President Trump to office. Some Willard residents complained that Hispanic workers did not deserve any special treatment, and that those without papers ought to be met not with open arms, but rather with handcuffs. Daniel Young, a Vietnam War veteran, wrote a letter to the editor of The Norwalk Reflector saying that he and others “are still waiting on our welcome-home party.”

By the April chamber meeting, enthusiasm for the party had waned as the controversy grew and local business leaders feared that it might attract protesters. At May’s meeting, the festival was called off. 

“We were just trying to have a fun community event,” said Ricky Branham, the chamber’s executive director. “It took on a life of its own. It got political.”

Founded in 1874 at the junction of several rail lines, Willard blossomed into a manufacturing base and agricultural hub, even though its population never broke the 7,000 mark. Today, the blue-collar town is home to a maker of snowblowers, a large book printer and a Pepperidge Farm cookie factory. The farming operations grow, pack and deliver fresh produce for consumers across the East and the Midwest.

In the 1890s, an entrepreneur named Henry Johnson realized that Willard’s expansive marsh could produce quality celery, if only it could be drained. He enticed Dutch farmers, who had settled in Michigan, to relocate here.

The first families arrived in 1896. They drained the swamp to reach the fertile earth below, built a canal system and divided up the land. Their celery cultivation gave rise to a community named Celeryville that still exists, though growers have moved on to other crops.

Their descendants — the Wierses, Buurmas and Holthouses — now grow more than three dozen kinds of vegetables sold through Kroger, Meijer, Walmart and other retailers.

For decades, the farmers have relied on migrant labor from spring to fall. Depending on how quickly they work, field workers can earn up to $18 an hour, compared with Ohio’s $8.15 minimum hourly wage. Many return year after year to do the strenuous seasonal work, sometimes in temperatures that soar to 100 degrees. (Local residents largely steer clear.)

Seven in 10 field workers nationwide are undocumented, according to estimates by the American Farm Bureau Federation. In Willard, it is probably no different.

“Without the Hispanic labor force, we wouldn’t be able to grow crops,” said Ben Wiers, a great-grandson of the pioneer Henry Wiers, who bought five acres here in 1896, noting that he considers many workers at Wiers Farms, which cultivates more than 1,000 acres of produce under the Dutch Maid label, to be friends.

But beefed-up border enforcement has slowed the flow of workers who enter the country illegally. Last year, a shortage forced Mr. Wiers and the other growers to leave millions of dollars’ worth of produce in the fields.

This year could be worse. The Trump administration has encouraged local law enforcement across the country to help identify deportable individuals for the federal authorities, making long-distance travel risky for those already in the country without legal status.

“It’s not a hospitable climate,” lamented Mr. Wiers, who joined other farmers in discussing their concerns recently with Representative Jim Jordan, Republican of Ohio.

Down the road, another area farmer, Chadd Buurma, said, “I have nothing but positive feelings toward the migrants.”

At the monthly muck growers’ association breakfast, the farmers pray for the safe travel of their workers.

“We pray and hope the workers show up,” Ken Holthouse, a descendant of the Dutch settler Jan Holthuis, said as he looked out across his fields.

About 30 people showed up for a community meeting on May 16 at the Church of God of Prophecy here to learn about the potential impact of immigration enforcement on Willard.

They heard from a panel of clergy members, immigrant advocates, lawyers and Jesus Manuel Lara Lopez, a Mexican national who has lived in Willard since 2001 but is now facing deportation.

“I have four children; I’ve never been in trouble. I’d like to ask for your prayers,” he said in Spanish, which was translated into English. “Sadness fills my heart.”

Listening attentively at round tables were Hispanics and a handful of white residents, including Judy and Dave Smith, who stormed out of the room.

“I’m a compassionate person,” Ms. Smith declared, fuming in the hallway. “I believe people who come here have to come here the right way. It makes me angry when I hear people talking about harboring illegals.”

Growing up poor in Willard, Ms. Smith said, she sometimes faced racial slurs for being Italian. Now she lives on the right side of the tracks, she said, selling used beds, mattresses and clothing, often to “Spanish people.” That doesn’t mean they all belong here, she said.

Her husband said he didn’t like hearing that everyone in the country, legally or not, is protected by the Constitution.

Ask where to find immigrants in Willard, and residents respond “in the muck,” the charcoal-black, organic-rich farmland that abuts the town.

Over the years, many Latin Americans have settled here, working year-round on the farms as well as at nurseries and factories.

Downtown Willard’s main artery, Myrtle Avenue, has enjoyed a renaissance thanks to Taco Rico and other Hispanic-owned businesses.

“We need to make them part of the fabric of Willard,” said City Manager Jim Ludban, who grew up here. He said he had been “100 percent” in favor of throwing a welcome-back party for the seasonal migrants.

As it is, the fear that exists among Willard’s immigrants is palpable and, with apprehensions on the rise, fewer are expected to arrive.

“People used to be care-free. Now they’re afraid to leave their homes,” said Romeo Perez, who arrived here from Mexico 13 years ago to work in agriculture but now runs Romeo’s Bakery, which prepares traditional Mexican sweet bread called pan dulce. As a consequence of that fear, he has seen business drop by 20 percent since January.

Mr. Perez worries that his bakery won’t get a seasonal bump this summer from farm workers, either, because “everyone knows they aren’t coming like they used to.”

Coin-operated laundries, banks, gas stations and other businesses could also lose the typical boom in business that comes with the arrival of the seasonal workers.

“Oh, Lord, we order extra of everything; we double up on people and hours,” said a hopeful Denise Maynard, assistant manager of Save-A-Lot, one of two supermarkets in town. She described buses that disgorge migrants, who push “overheaping cartloads” through the store’s aisles.

Just two days before the first radishes were ready to be pulled up in late May, field workers had hardly started to trickle in.

On the edge of Willard’s fields, three migrants pondered the current state of affairs after a day’s work.

“Everyone’s afraid to come,” said Jorge Ramirez, the only American among the three and the one who had driven the others — from Mexico — up from Florida. “There is too big a risk of getting caught.”

The men had a close call on a road an hour south of Willard.

Asked for identification by a pair of state troopers, the two Mexicans produced their passports. Mr. Ramirez, who presented his license, said that he was accused of human smuggling.

Two hours later, the men were released to their crew supervisor, whom they had reached by phone — but only after a sheriff’s deputy intervened. According to Mr. Ramirez, he arrived and told the others: “You aren’t immigration agents. Who the hell do you think will harvest our crops?”

It has been 16 years since Mr. Lara left his village in Chiapas, Mexico, sneaked across the border and headed to Willard, where he had heard that jobs were plentiful.

He worked the land. He fell in love with Anahi Salinas, a fellow Mexican, and they eventually married and had American-citizen children. He became rooted in the community.

“I was working and raising a family,” Mr. Lara, 38, recalled on the back porch of the beige clapboard house with maroon shutters that he bought a year ago with a $60,000 mortgage.

His sons, Eric, 13; Edwin, 11; and Anuar, 10, played basketball nearby. His daughter, Elsiy, 6, entertained herself by skipping around.

In 2008, Mr. Lara was pulled over on his way to the dentist. Unable to produce a driver’s license, which is not issued to undocumented residents in Ohio, he was jailed. A sheriff’s deputy contacted Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Deportation proceedings followed, culminating in a removal order in 2011.

The government granted Mr. Lara a deportation reprieve because he was otherwise law-abiding, and he was placed under an order of supervision with a work permit, requiring that he check in with ICE annually and renew it.

In January, after the Trump administration announced that no one in the country illegally was exempt from deportation, immigrants like Mr. Lara became vulnerable.

On March 28, when he arrived for his check-in with ICE in Cleveland, officials tethered an electronic tracking monitor to his ankle over objections from his lawyer, who argued that he was no flight risk.

When Mr. Lara raised his trousers to reveal the black, clunky device — he charges it every 12 hours — Elsiy blurted out: “That’s a thing the police put. My Daddy isn’t a criminal!”

His application for a “stay of removal” included several letters of support, including one from an official at a center where he studied English, learned how to operate a forklift and enrolled in a machine workshop. Such efforts were “testimony of his great desire to better himself to be able to thrive in his community,” the letter said, aiming to prove “good moral character.”

In a denial note, an ICE assistant field director, Timothy Ward, wrote, “I have determined that pursuing removal of Mr. Lara Lopez is consistent with enforcement priorities.”

“If this guy is a priority for removal, I don’t know who isn’t,” his lawyer, David Leopold, said in an interview.

The authorities ordered Mr. Lara to report to the ICE office in Cleveland on May 19 with an airline ticket back to Mexico, which he bought at his own expense. On June 5, the agency denied a request by his lawyer that it reconsider removing him. The request included references from an employer, his neighbors and his children’s teachers.

Mr. Lara’s flight is scheduled for July 18.

For the moment, he continues to work the graveyard shift packing Milano cookies and Goldfish crackers at the Pepperidge Farm plant. He also picks up other part-time work.

“I don’t get any help from the government,” he said.

Their next-door neighbor, Jennifer Fidler, called Mr. Lara a role model. “All I ever see him do is work, take care of his children and go to church,” she said. “Why would you get rid of a good person?”