The room was festooned with garlands and tinsel. Pinecones and sprigs of holly were taped to the walls, and a foamy blanket of fake snow covered the teacher’s desk. On the chalkboard was a crude drawing of a late-model SUV, along with some dollar signs and percentages.

On the dating app called Gotcha, the tag line reads connecting the unusual, but the mechanics are the same as Tinder or Raya or Grindr. You swipe right for yes, left for no, send winks and pokes and pics. The app has a map thingy that helps you echolocate your date like a bat when you’re matched. This is what Nate did the night he met Peta, following a green line along Des Moines Avenue, all the way to Charlie’s Kitchen, where his destiny awaited.

“Dude, dysentery is a bitch!” Matt Cooper squinted at the rudimentary picture of an ox and wagon, and then shifted his hazy gaze to his friend Snake, laying on the floor.

“What’s that?” Snake asked, pointing up with one hand while reaching blindly for the paper plate of gooey brownies behind his head with the other.

“It means I shit myself to death.” Matt replied before dissolving into laughter.

I’d been feeling lonely ever since my long-term boyfriend passed away in our local Vietnam War re-enactment. It was something we did for fun in my hometown of Mendota Heights, Minnesota. He died a heroic death: he got his leg blasted off by a grenade that everyone thought had been a costume prop, but they really do sell functional hand grenades on functionalhandgrenades.com.

Mark’s entrails screamed. He hobbled into the doctor’s office, took the clipboard and gingerly sat. Nerves mixed with pain as he determined what to write. Mark rehearsed (in his mind, of course) his word choice and hand motions. He hoped his concerns were unwarranted. He’d likely be assigned to a room that hadn’t been retrofitted yet. He drove past three other hospitals to get to County General, one of the last still under renovation.