Like his namesake, Scheherazade, Harry must keep telling stories or he'll get killed off. He's been going at it for more than two years now and there no end in sight. He might outlive his author, the author's author.

When he started, Harry was a suicidal suicide crisis counselor at a hospital emergency room. He tried to hang himself there. Divorced, obese, middle aged, living in a garden apartment with no garden, in a city with a rotten core, he thought his children didn’t want to have anything to do with him until he got a call from his daughter and left on a cross country road trip, abandoning his job, and ambivalently seeking restoration and redemption amid the scraps of long distance fatherhood.

After a few adventures on the road, he picked up his daughter and they made nice, but then his son got blown up in Afghanistan. He spread his boy's ashes on Pike's Peak and had a mountaintop experience on the way down.

Harry started a novel, Intersections, and, while writing at a coffee shop, he developed a crush on the Lisping Barista.

He heard that the coffee shop, the Epiphany Cafe, was about to close. The Lisping Barista would lose her job and move away. So, he cashed in his retirement money and bought the place.

That's where we are now.