A/N: Dear readers, please bear with me. I know this is a rather long author's note. I hope you'll understand when you read it why I've gone on so long, and grant me a bit of grace this once.

One year ago, the world lost one of its sources of light when a candle flickered and, finally, reluctantly, went out. After a twenty-year battle with cancer, a dear woman, Shirley Brinkerhoff, passed into her eternal home. She was a teacher, a musician, a mom, a leader, an editor, and one of the most inspiring people I've ever known. She was also a very dear friend for the three far-too-short years my life was blessed with her presence.

I met Shirley at the Montrose Christian Writer's Conference in 2006. She was leading a group called Write Now, a week-long writing and critique group. Around a table in a basement room at the conference center, we read, we laughed, we cried. We tweaked, we advised, we argued and we shared... Friendships were formed. Bonds were forged. Books came to life. It was at Montrose that first year that I met the members of a fledgling writer's group called The Odd Ducks.

In 2007, we came together again. Shirley moved a bit more slowly that second year. She never complained, not once. She never referred to the battle with the monster that was still growing, still stalking her, but we knew, if she came to Montrose again it would be a miracle. So we laughed twice as hard that year, we hugged tighter, and we lingered longer over our table.

The summer of 2008 was a miracle, and we cherished it. Shirley taught a class on writing picture books that year, an entirely appropriate subject for a woman with such a childlike faith, and a rock-solid determination to live every single day to its absolute fullest extent, to wring every drop, every last bit of life out of each moment.

In March of 2009, four short months before the conference, Shirley left us. Conference in 2009 was a bitter sweet time. We gathered to mourn, but even in our sadness there were smiles and laughter, because that's just the kind of person Shirley was. A painting was dedicated in her memory, and a scholarship fund was started to carry on her legacy of helping aspiring writers realize their dreams.

This fic is my attempt at honoring the memory of a woman who never knew just how deeply she touched my life, and I suspect the lives of everyone she came into contact with. Doomo arigato, Shirley-sama. You are dearly and sorely missed. Until we meet again, my friend, rejoice in the day the Lord has made, and again I say, rejoice.

The e-mails recorded here are verbatim quotes of the messages I received during Shirley's final days. I've changed the names to protect privacy.

I still, of course, own no part of the TMNT, but I thank the actual owners and creators for the legacy they've created and for allowing us to play with their creations here in Fanfiction.

EDIT: I first posted this at 3AM and so was not altogether with it. For that, I apologize. My lack of attention made me overlook some amazing ladies who deserve credit for beta-reading this: Polaris'05, Melody Winters, and Diva Danielle. Thanks, gals.

This goes out to all the candle-friends in my life. Thanks for being there, and for making my days so very bright.

1000 Paper Ducks

"Donatello, you must fold the paper this way," Splinter held up a bent piece of paper, turning it so his son could see what he'd done.

"I'm just no good at folding cranes, Sensei," whined ten-year-old Don.

"Yeah yer cranes look like ducks, Genius," sneered Raphael. "Their necks are all short."

"Raphael, it is not honorable to tease your brother," scolded Splinter gently.

"I like ducks, Donny," piped up Michelangelo.

"Well we're supposed to be making cranes, Mikey," responded Leonardo, frowning as he concentrated on getting a perfect crease.

"Origami is stupid anyway," grumbled Don. "Sensei, may I be excused?"

Splinter sighed. "You may, my son."

***

Ten Years Later…

"Hey Donny, can I use the computer? I need to type something and check my e-mail."

"I don't know, Mike…"

"Aww, come on, Don. I haven't broken it in, like, months."

"Mike…" Don stood up, gesturing toward the chair. "You can use the computer, sure, but… Are you sure it's a good idea to correspond with these people? I mean, for all you know, Bishop could be using this writing group as a front…"

Michelangelo was in the chair before Donny could finish his sentence. "Don, it's fine. I told you, Shirley's a real author. Famous, even. I've got some of her books. An' you checked out the others in the Odd Ducks group, right?"

"Yeah. But does Leo know you've been talking to them?" Don leaned on the desk, watching. Mike powered up the machine with unusually patient gentleness.

"It's e-mail, Don. It's fine. I only talked to Shirley on the phone a couple times. It's not like I'm sending anyone pictures of myself or giving out our address. I just like talking to them, about writing an' stuff. Now, can't a Turtle get some privacy?"

"Geesh, you act like you're e-mailing your girlfriend or something," muttered Don.

Michelangelo rolled his eyes. "Whatever, Dude. Shirley's not my girlfriend. I mean, she's like forty. Older than April even. Her son's almost our age."

He waited until Donatello was out of the lab before pulling out the papers he had folded in his belt and carefully flattening them out.

Dear Shirley, he typed. I have the revisions on the last chapter, and wondered if you have time to take a look at it. I really appreciate your help, Dudette… Mike pondered for a moment before backspacing. I really appreciate your help. I'm still working on a surprise for you. I hope I'll have it done in time to send it to you with the last chapter. I've got to send it in the mail though because the box won't fit in e-mail. Haha

Satisfied, he began carefully typing the text from the pages he had laid out on the desk:
I throw the ball. Bam, it bounces off the backboard. I jump for it, stretching my arms 'til I think the tendons in my shoulders will tear, but it sails by and rolls down the driveway. I jog after it, cursing under my breath…

Typing the entire chapter took almost an hour, but Mike kept at it. He hit Send, a grin of satisfaction growing on his face. He glanced at the list of "online contacts", and clicked a name, smiling.

MikeHamato: Hi Shirl, what's up?

ShirleyB: Hey there, Mikey. Haven't seen you online for a while.

MikeHamato: Well, my brother kind of hogs the computer. lol

ShirleyB: Haha, my cat hogs mine. She sleeps on my keyboard. How's the next chapter coming?

MikeHamato: ha Don'd have a fit if Klunk slept on his laptop! I just sent the chapter.

ShirleyB: Great! Only a few chapters to go, huh?

MikeHamato: Yep. It's almost finished. I've got the ending all worked out. It's gonna be epic!

ShirleyB: Congratulations, Mike! That's great. Will you send it to the group soon?

MikeHamato: I wanted you to see it first. How have you been?

There was a long pause.

ShirleyB: Not so good, Mike. Btw, James says thanks for the drawing. He loves the comic you drew of the Turtle Titan!

MikeHamato: Well TT is just awesome. I'm working on a new one now.

ShirleyB: That's great. You sure do keep busy. Are you going to come to the conference next month? I'd love to see more of your artwork!

MikeHamato: I wish I could. I've got a lot of family stuff to do, you know?

ShirleyB: I know how that is. I wish you could come. You're a very talented young man. I'd love to meet you in person.

MikeHamato: Yeah, me too. You guys are the coolest buncha ducks I ever met. ;)

ShirleyB: Aww you're sweet.

MikeHamato: I know. I've got to get going. I'll talk to you later, ok? Tell James I said hi.

ShirleyB: I will. Take care of yourself, Mike.

MikeHamato: You too, ane. That means "big sister" in Japanese.

ShirleyB: Aww, hugs Mike. See you later.

* * *

Michelangelo logged out of his e-mail, shutting down the program, folding the papers, and tucking them back into his belt.

Cancer sucks, he thought as he stood up and pushed the chair in. Mikey headed out into the main part of the Lair. He hesitated for a long moment, looking longingly at his gaming system, lying untouched on the shelf. Giving in to temptation for just a moment, he ran his fingers over the box of game cartridges.

"Sorry, babies," he murmured. "Daddy's gotta do one more thing before I can play with you."

Making his way back to his room, he brought a cardboard box carefully out of the closet, then fetched the small stack of scrap paper he'd collected, and began folding.

I'm gettin' good at these things, he thought. Shirley's gonna be so surprised to get them. I just hope Sensei's story about the 1000 cranes is true. It's got to be.

***

It was almost two weeks before Michelangelo was back at the computer. He'd managed to fold another hundred cranes and write out the final two chapters of his book, but he was getting sick of the sight, smell and feel of paper. He longed for the comforting click of the keyboard, and the ding of the instant messenger popping up on the screen.

I've gotta talk to Donatello about building me a computer, he thought. If I'm gonna be a real writer, I'm gonna need one of my own. One Donny's not hogging all the time with his techno-geek stuff.

For over a week, Donatello'd been working on a program with April, and growled at anyone who came near. Mike hovered around the door of the lab until his brother finally emerged in triumph, announcing the new security program was up and running and he was going to bed.

"Awesome, Donny, great job. Can I use the computer now?" asked Michelangelo anxiously.

"Yeah, go ahead, Mikey. Just be careful," said Don, yawning and heading for the kitchen. Mike waited until his brother was out of sight before signing in.

Hey, a note from Joan. He clicked it open.

***

From: Joan Gallagher

To: Martha Wilkins ; Mary Mikell ; Michelangelo Hamato ; Kelly Kohler; Reba Koltz; Wendy Jenkins; Kathy Moore ; Janice Montgomery ; Bonnie Jackson ; Ethel Kruse

Sent: Friday, March 8, 2009 2:18 PM

Subject: Shirley

Hi - Got an e-mail from Shirley last night -- a rare moment for her to get to her desk to write; she says she hardly gets out of her chair or bed now. She's not doing very well. I'm sure that makes you sad, as it does us.

Love, Joan

***

Michelangelo frowned. Shell. She must be gettin' worse. He scrolled down to another e-mail, this one from Kelly, another writer in the Odd Ducks group. Shirley had encouraged him to join the critique group. He'd been reluctant at first, but soon became very fond of the little group of friends. They were so encouraging, so excited to read his chapters.

***

From: Kelly Kohler

To: Martha Wilkins ;Joan Gallagher ; Mary Mikell ; Michelangelo Hamato ; Reba Koltz; Wendy Jenkins; Kathy Moore ; Janice Montgomery ; Bonnie Jackson ; Ethel Kruse

Sent: Thursday, March 12, 2009 10:06 PM

Subject: Shirley

Below is the latest update on Shirley as a response to an e-mail sent to her from Martha Wilkins. I know you are all praying for her.

Kelly

...

From: Shirley B

To: Martha Wilkins

Sent: Wednesday, March 11, 2009 12:06 PM

Subject: Re; how are you?

Thanks, Martha,

Pretty sick here. They didn't start radiation Fri., and gave me no indication they would tomorrow (tho' I'm pleading w/the Lord. . .), so I'm just being in the pain, just sitting & waiting.

Hope your day went well. James left at 8:30 or so for church, then went to one friend's after another's house, so I missed seeing him today. Am going to bed now.

Love,
s

***

Michelangelo frowned. Shirley never sounded so… tired. So sad. And her notes had never been this short. A heavy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Scrolling to his more recent messages, he clicked another note.

***

From: Martha Wilkins

To: Joan Gallahger ; Mary Mikell ; Michelangelo Hamato ; Kelly Kohler; Reba Koltz; Wendy Jenkins; Kathy Moore ; Janice Montgomery ; Bonnie Jackson ; Ethel Kruse
Sent: Friday March 13, 2009 12:14 PM
Subject: Shirley

Dear Fellow Ducks:

Our dear sister, Shirley is dancing with Jesus today. I received the message below from her daughter tonight.

See you in a twinkling,
Martha Wilkins

***

Feeling numb with disbelief, Michelangelo scrolled down.

***

From: M Brinkerhoff

To: Martha Wilkins ; Joan Gallagher ; Mary Mikell ; Michelangelo Hamato ; Kelly Kohler; Reba Koltz; Wendy Jenkins; Kathy Moore ; Janice Montgomery ; Bonnie Jackson ; Ethel Kruse

Sent: Friday, March 13, 2009 10:06 PM

Subject: Shirley's homegoing

Hi, all

My sweet mom, the strongest fighter of all cancer-fighters, stopped fighting this afternoon. It was a very quiet and loving passage, I truly stand in awe of the steel she possessed inside. She didn't wake up today, but did open her eyes at the end and just kept looking at me, in a calm way, until I told her it would be okay and to go have a party in heaven - she smiled and within a minute, was gone. And since I believe the Bible to the core, I'm sure they are having a feast in honor of her homecoming and that she is having a healing, loving moment with her Lord face-to-face, which she has longed for, for so long.

The nurses had taken the time to get to know her so well, that when I said to one that I was sure she was enjoying her new pain-free body right at that moment, running and doing jumping-jacks - she added, and then she'll find a piano and she can play!!! Oh, I'm sure she's right and I wish I could see the smirk on her face as she shows cancer and arthritis who really won!

I can't tell you all what a blessing you've been to me, with the e-mails and the cards. It's always good to see a loved one being well loved on. I'll send out another e-mail tomorrow after the arrangements for the memorial service are made.
MB

***

Michelangelo swallowed. Tears stung his eyes as he sat back in the computer. Shirley… just like that, was gone.

Shell. I knew she said she wasn't doin' so good, but…

Michelangelo stood up. He didn't bother closing out the message, just got up and walked out of the room, leaving the final pages of his manuscript lying on Don's desk next to the laptop.

***

Donatello had poured his third cup of coffee when Raphael came into the kitchen. "Hey, Bro."

"Hey Raph, what's up?"

"I was about ta ask ya da same t'ing, Donny. Did ya notice Mikey actin' kinda weird lately?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, evah since ya been workin' on dat security t'ing, he's been holed up in his room. I asked 'im what he was doin', an' he said he was makin' cranes. Then this mornin', after ya went to bed, he came outta the lab lookin' kinda sick. An' he's in his room again. Hasn't come out all day. Even Fearless is startin' ta worry. Didn't even yell at 'im fer not comin' to practice. I thought you might know what's up wit' the little goof-ball."

"Raph, I've hardly even seen Mikey for the past two weeks. I've been working on this security system update. Why don't you just ask him what's wrong?"

"I tried, Donny," said Raph seriously. "He… won't talk ta me. He's jus' layin' there on his bed."

"He's probably just annoyed because I haven't let him have the computer to work on his book."

Donatello glanced at his older brother, and stared as he noticed how tightly Raphael's hands were clenched on the handles of his sai. Raph visibly forced himself to relax, meeting Donatello's gaze.

"He didn't come down for dinner last night, Don. He missed movie night, an' it was his turn to pick da flick. An' dis mornin'… Donny, he took all dem paper birds he's been makin' an' dumped 'em in da sewer."

Donatello frowned. "He's been making those cranes for months. He said they were a present for his friend."

"Well they're all floatin' out ta da Hudson now," growled Raph. "I'm tellin' ya, Donny, somethin' ain't right."

"Ok, Raph. I'll see if I can talk to him."

Raph grunted, turning away. "Whatevah."

When Donatello came back to the lab, he frowned.

Typical Mikey, leaving his papers all over and he didn't even bother to power the computer down…But… he's never left it open before. What's going on? Mikey's careless, but not with this stuff.

Donatello moved the mouse to close the e-mail window, when he saw the message still open on the screen. He hesitated for only a moment before sinking into the chair. Skimming the note, Donatello frowned. Oh, Mikey. He closed the note, noticing there was one more unread e-mail in Mike's inbox.

He swallowed hard, but seeing the name in the "from" line, he clicked it open.

I've already invaded his privacy. One more time won't do further harm, he told himself as he read, his eyes stinging with more than fatigue. Don rubbed a hand over his eyes, wiping away the moisture pooling there.

Oh, Mike. He clicked Print. As soon as the pages slid out of the printer, he picked them up carefully, stacking them together with the pages Michelangelo'd left on the desk. Clicking out of the e-mail program, Don shut down the computer and went to find his brother.

* * *

Michelangelo lay on his bed, tossing a small rubber duck up into the air and catching it again. He didn't bother to look up when Donatello tapped softly at his door, or when his brother slipped inside and sat down beside him.

"Hey, Mikey," said Don softly. "You… you um, left your e-mail open."

"Sorry." Mike's voice was quiet, dull. The duck went up and down. Don frowned.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Mary sent it to me."

"Mary?"

"Yeah. Mary Mikell, from the Odd Ducks." Mike's blue eyes met Don's for a moment. "Don't worry, Donny. I gave her April's store for an address."

"Oh."

The silence stretched on for a long moment. "Well, I… You had an e-mail left in your inbox," said Don finally. "I printed it out for you."

Mikey half-sat up, showing the first sign of animation since Don had entered the room. "You read my e-mail?"

"Well, you left it open, and… I was worried about you, Bro," said Don with a helpless gesture. "I… I'm sorry. About your friend."

"It's ok, Donny." Michelangelo nodded, sinking back. "Yeah. I'm sorry too."

"Well, I… I printed this for you," said Don. "Mike… I think you should read it."

"Ok whatever," Mikey muttered.

"Just read it, Bro," said Donny softly. He laid the letter beside his brother on the bed and stood up. "Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"Sometime… I mean, if you don't mind… I'd… like to read your book."

When Michelangelo didn't answer, Don sighed, turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

***

By the time Michelangelo emerged from his room, the Lair was quiet. Too quiet. Mikey felt as though his plastron would crack with the emotions tumbling around in his chest. Pain, anger, even fear, all clamored for his attention.

She didn't even get to read the ending. I didn't finish the cranes. It's not fair.

He headed for the Lair's entrance, grabbing his skateboard on the way by.

"Hey, Mikey, where're you going?" called Leonardo behind him.

"Out."

He was through the door and zipping away before Leo could answer or call him back. He didn't hear the footsteps coming almost silently behind him or the brush of a shell against the concrete wall of the sewer pipe. All he could hear was the pain, a black roaring in his ears.

Michelangelo pushed off harder and harder. He knew he was being reckless, even by his own standards, but in that moment, he didn't care. He needed the rush of the wind against his face, the strain of his leg muscles screaming in desperation to keep his body balanced on the board, to muffle the sound of his heart cracking into pieces. He crouched, picking up even more speed, as he approached the end of the tunnel. It was a longer jump than he'd attempted before, but he knew if he ground off the pipe, he could make the leap to the next tunnel opening. Picking up speed, he reached the end of the tunnel, and sailed out into the empty space.

***

Raphael burst into a run as he saw his little brother sail out of the end of the sewer tunnel. The drop off was a good hundred feet, with nothing but unforgiving concrete below. Raph reached the tunnel's edge with his heart hammering a staccato pattern in his chest, just in time to see Mike perform a perfect grind off a pipe and complete the leap to the open tunnel on the other side of the junction. Raph growled under his breath as he heard the blessed sound of skateboard wheels on concrete, rolling away down the next tunnel.

He made it. I can't believe da little Chucklehead didn't break his neck. Damn. Don said he was close to dis chick, but it ain't like Mike to act all crazy. Not like we ain't never had someone die on us before. I gotta catch 'im for he does somethin' dumb. Dumber than usual.

Raphael eyed the pipe Mike had used to make his leap and shook his head. No way I'm makin' dat jump. Guess I gotta do dis the hard way. Slipping a set of shuko spikes out of his belt, he fitted them to his hands and began the descent.

By the time Raphael climbed to the other side of the junction and made his way down the tunnel Michelangelo had taken, the sewers were silent once more, save for the drip of water and the occasional squeak and rustle of smaller subterranean dwellers. Michelangelo was long gone.

Raph tucked his spikes into his belt and headed down a side tunnel. He had a hunch, and having known Michelangelo for twenty-five years, his hunches concerning his little brother were usually accurate. Sure enough, a mile later, he spotted a familiar silhouette sitting with his shell against the wall, gazing out a sewer grating that provided drainage to Central Park. From the outside, the grating was obscured by moss and age. Passersby rarely gave the dark cave-like grate a second glance, which made it a perfect people-watching spot.

"Hey Mikey." Raph approached on silent feet and settled down opposite his brother, leaning his shell against the concrete tunnel wall.

"Hey."

Raph followed his brother's gaze out into the park. It was unusually quiet, shrouded in the shadows of late evening. Most respectable people would be heading home now, getting ready for an early night safely tucked into their apartments, surrounded by those they loved, or preparing for a carefree night out on the town. It was too late for the average citizens to wander the park's trails, and too early for the criminal element to climb out from under their rocks.

"You ok, Bro?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well, Donny says this girl you been e-mailin' wit'… ya know…"

"Yeah, Raph." Michelangelo's voice was flat, hard. "She had cancer. She died. It happens you know."

"Yeah but she was… like yer friend, right? Come on, Mikey. I know yer hurtin'. Talk ta me, Bro."

"What do you want me to say, Raphael?"

Raph glanced at his little brother, startled at the anger in his tone.

"Mike… All da way over here, I been t'inkin'."

"Careful you don't hurt yourself."

For once, Raphael ignored the jab. "Mikey, I been t'inkin, why are you so upset over someone you only knew online?"

Michelangelo was on his feet in an instant. "What do you know?" he shouted. "Shirley was nice to me. She read my book and she said it was good. Just because you don't read books Raph, doesn't mean I'm stupid or I can't do stuff, too! I wrote a whole book and she said it should get published and everything!"

"Whoa, whoa, Mikey. Take it easy, Bro." Raphael got to his feet and put a firm hand on his brother's shoulder. Mike was shaking, glaring at him.

"Settle down, Mike…"

"Don't tell me to settle down, Raph!"

"Mikey, listen ta me a minute, will ya? I was thinkin' about dis, an' what I was thinkin' was, yer right. I don' understand. I don't understand how my chucklehead little brother wrote a book. An' I don' understand all dis writin' stuff, but what I was thinkin' is, what if… what if somethin' was to happen to Casey? An', Bro… I guess… I'm sorry about yer friend, ok?"

Raphael was wrapped up in a hug so hard and fast it nearly knocked him backward off his feet. Michelangelo clung to his brother, his face buried in the older turtle's shoulder.

"It ain't fair, Raphy," he sobbed. "It ain't. She was only forty. She was the best friend I ever had, you know, except for you guys. She listened to me. She liked the book. And she was just… nice, you know? She was nice to everybody. And she was funny. She was always jokin' around… I never had a friend like her, Raph… and I… I didn't finish the cranes in time… What'm I gonna do?"

"Hey. Hey, Mike…" Raphael patted his little brother's shell a bit awkwardly. "I'll tell ya what yer gonna do. Yer gonna pull yerself tagether. What would she say to ya?"

Michelangelo sniffed. "She'd say not to cry for her. She believed in Heaven, Raph, like a real place, an' she said she wouldn't hurt no more. She talked to me about it. She… was happy to be going there."

Ooo-k, well dat's kinda weird, but whateveh, thought Raph.

"Well there ya go, Mike. She'd want ya ta be happy, right?"

"Yeah, but Raph…" Michelangelo straightened, staring into his brother's face. Raphael was shocked to see how soaked Mike's face was with tears, how raw his eyes looked. "I miss her."

Oh, man, Mike. "O' course you do, Mikey. But ya gotta find a way to honor her memory, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Hey Raphy?"

"Yeah?"

"I wanna go home."

"Sounds like a plan, little brother."

***

Leonardo came out of the dojo when Raphael and Michelangelo filed in.

"You found him, good. Hey, Mike." Leonardo gave him a sad half-smile. "Don told us about your friend. I'm sorry." He put his hand on Mikey's shoulder.

"I'm fine, Leo. She was sick for a long time," said Michelangelo, shaking off his brother's hand. His face had dried, but his eyes ached from crying.

"Hey, Bro," said Leo softly. "Come on into the dojo for a minute, ok?"

"What for, Leo? I just wanna go to bed," whined Mikey.

I wanna sleep an' forget this day ever happened. Maybe I'll wake up and it'll turn out to have been a really bad dream.

"Come on, Mike. Sensei wants to see you for a minute."

Great. Probably a lecture for taking off like that. "Ok, whatever."

Michelangelo followed his brother reluctantly toward the dojo.

"Sensei, I'm sorry I ran off. I just needed some time to think…" Michelangelo stopped just inside the door, staring.

Splinter and Donatello were sitting in the middle of the room, which was lit by candles… a lot of candles. There was a small table in front of them. At first Mike thought the table was covered in crumpled bits of paper, but when he took a step into the room, he could see that the wads of paper had shape. He knelt on the other side of the table, tears filling his eyes, as he reached out, fingering one of the tiny paper birds.

"Welcome home, Michelangelo," said Splinter.

"Hey, Mike," said Don softly.

"What… what're you guys doing?" asked Michelangelo.

"Making cranes," said Don with a faint smile.

Mike stared at the fragile creation in his hands for a long moment. "They look like ducks, Dude."

"I know. Leo's and Sensei's are better…" Donatello gestured toward a small mountain of elegantly perfect paper cranes.

Mikey shook his head. "It's ok, Donny. I like ducks."

Donatello managed a half-smile.

"Mike, I'm sorry," said Leonardo, kneeling and laying a hand on his little brother's shoulder. "I wish I'd had a chance to know your friend. She must've been really special to you."

"She was, Leo. She was a real special lady," said Mike, his eyes still on the paper duck in his hands.

"It was Donny's idea," said Leonardo, gesturing toward the table.

"I thought… we could finish the cranes," said Donatello. "You could send them to those other writers who knew your friend Shirley. You know, as sort of a memorial."

Michelangelo cradled the fragile paper bird in his palm. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears that streamed in little rivers down his cheeks. "Thanks, Bro."

"Michelangelo, my Son." Splinter set down the bird he was folding and picked up a fresh candle, holding it to one that was beginning to sputter. "Every life touched is like a candle. The flame never goes out… it only gets passed on to the next candle." As the spent candle's flame disappeared into a faint whiff of smoke, the fresh candle blazed, flickering but strong. Splinter gently removed the stub of the first candle, putting the new one in its place. Michelangelo just watched the flame, tears sliding down his face.

"Mike," said Leo gently. "Don… showed me some of the pages from your book."

Michelangelo stiffened. Every instinct was screaming at him to turn and run from the room, but his body ached from the wild flight of the afternoon, and the candle flame seemed to hold him in place, mesmerized by the flickering light.

"It's… really good," said Leonardo. Tears welled in Mikey's eyes, trickling down his cheeks.

Here it comes, he thought bitterly. All the reasons I can't write books, shouldn't waste my time. All the reasons a Turtle can't get published.

"I was thinking, this lady, Shirley, she knew about books, right? And she said you should try to get it published?"

Michelangelo nodded, an infinitesimal movement. The candle's flame rose, reaching for the faint wisp of smoke even as it slipped away and faded into the larger air.

"Well, maybe April could help with that. You know, help you find a publisher."

Michelangelo's concentration shattered. Slowly his eyes moved from the flame to his brother's face. Leonardo wasn't smiling. He met his gaze steadily. "You're really good, Mikey," he said seriously. "I think you should do this, Bro."

Mike didn't answer. He couldn't find the words, and if he could he wouldn't have been able to force them past the burning lump in his throat. All he could do was smile, but he knew Leo understood.

Raphael knelt next to the table, picking up a piece of paper. "How do ya do dis, Donny? It's been a long time since I played wit' paper dolls."

It took them most of the night to fold over six hundred paper cranes. Most of Donatello's still looked like ducks, with short, squat necks and too-wide beaks, but Mikey didn't mind. He asked Don to fold just one more. Don had simply nodded, and repeated the process one final time.

"We'll finish it tomorrow, ok, Mike?" said Leo, gently scooping a handful of the paper birds into a box.

"Yes. It is long past time you were all in bed," said Splinter, getting slowly to his feet. "Good night, my sons."

"We'll help you finish, I promise," said Leo. He glared sternly at Raphael as the red-banded turtle stifled a groan.

"Thanks, Bro," said Michelangelo with a tired smile.

Back in his room, Michelangelo picked up the little rubber duck that had fallen off his bed to the floor, and returned it carefully to its place of honor on his shelf, next to the Silver Sentry action figure, and a framed photograph of a smiling woman.

Don paper duck went next to it, balancing with the tip of its wing just resting against the picture frame.

"Hey, Shirley," whispered Mikey, touching the photograph lightly with his fingers. "I'm gonna miss you." He sat down, taking a deep breath before picking up the print out Don had brought him.

***

Dear Mike-

Great chapter! I love the way your characters interact. The friendships are obviously very loyal. You have a great understanding of how teenagers think and interact, a knack for writing relationships. I think this is ready to present to an agent. I wish you'd consider coming to the conference next month. There are benefits to interacting face-to-face that you don't get through a computer screen.

I would find it very hard to start in this business now. It seems to have become much more crowded and much more complex in the last decade. Such an emphasis on branding oneself, etc., etc. I actually have no interest in doing the same type of thing over and over, so obviously I'm not real excited about branding. I always remember L'Engle writing that she loved Farrar, Strauss & Giroux because they gave her room to do different things instead of saying, "There, now, you've done it pink, now do it in blue."

You can do this, Mike. The industry is tough to break into, but you've got a fresh voice and a unique way of writing that I believe will appeal to today's readers. Keep writing, my friend.

–Shirley

***

Michelangelo sat on his bed, holding the printed sheets in his hands for a long time. Finally he stood up, drawing a deep, shaky breath. He sat down at his little desk. He pulled out his scissors and carefully cut the paper into the proper size, then began folding. Slowly, one by one, Shirley's final words to him disappeared, tucked into the folds of delicate paper ducks.

I'll send these to James when we're done. I'm gonna finish this time, even though you won't be there to get them, or to read the ending to my book. I'm gonna miss you, Shirley, thought Mike. But don't worry about me. I'm gonna be ok. Turtles are like ducks; we never fly alone.

A/N: If you'd like to know more about Shirley and her legacy, her books, including the popular Nicki Sheridan series, are still in print and available wherever books are sold.

A candle's flame is never diminished by lighting another candle and a kindness is never wasted.

Rejoicing in the day the Lord has made,
and in the hope of a new day to come.
-Mary