Edilberto Santos takes three plastic bottle caps from the teepee fire in front of him. He crumples their burnt remains together with a spatula, kneading them until they form a semi-solid, charred paste, their blue, red, and green mixing in an uninvited, incomplete rainbow. He whistles a joyful song while waiting for it to cool. I have things to say but I don’t interrupt him. After three minutes, he grabs a cheese grater and starts scraping the paste in it, sprinkling the flecks into a bowl. Finally, he scoops the floury mix with a rusty spoon and eats it. His eyes focus on the camera as he chews it. Some of the flecks catch in between his teeth. It doesn’t bother him. He’s used to it.

I glance down at my pad to escape Edilberto’s gaze. The next question is highlighted on the screen. How does it taste? Did I write those words? What was I thinking? São João da Campânula is not a damn reality show. It’s a landfill and it’s home for about forty families. A knot throbs in my chest as I cross through the question to erase it.

“Are you all right, Dona Elisa?” Edilberto asks. He’s missing a few teeth. His eyes droop over his sallow cheeks. I shrug and force a nod. What does it mean to be all right after seeing a man eating plastic?

I slide a finger over my pad so my cam-drone buzzes away from Edilberto, focusing instead on the trash behind him. A few people trudge through the paths that open like clogged veins amidst the heaps. A kid fetches something from the ground, giggling with a man beside him. A woman enveloped in a broad shawl carries a fat mesh bag. She selects an object in one of the heaps, yanks it out, and peeks at it. It’s a plastic bottle, cracky and sullied with the tan of corrosion. She throws it in her bag.

I open my backpack, pick a sandwich, and hand it to Edilberto. A sandwich. Of all the food I could’ve brought to São João da Campânula, I brought only a few sandwiches. Ham, cheese, butter.

Edilberto eyes the marmita with mild curiosity—a Tupperware box with a dog sticker on its side. He runs a finger over it. It’s the only one I brought from Mamãe’s home when I moved to Goiânia after our silent war started. She had that one since she was a child. She was five when she pasted that poodle there. Over the years, the box had stored a whole assortment of her most delicious food—Bolognese spaghetti, fried cod balls, chocolate pudding with strawberries, and scrambled eggs when she was in a hurry. The last time I tried to visit her, I brought pão de queijo in it. She didn’t touch them. Mamãe loved me for thirty-two years. However, over the past nine years she’s hated me. And she has a good reason for it.

“I’m not hungry right now, but thanks,” Edilberto says. “I can keep it for the others, though. Can I keep the box? It’s cute.”

“Yes, of course.” No hesitation. I don’t understand why. For Mamãe—and for me—it should be an heirloom. Perhaps by getting rid of her marmita, I’d be officially detaching myself from the woman I loved the most in my life. I peer one last time at the barking poodle sticker, its edges frayed and threatening to unstick. “Keep it, yeah…” Those last words falter, but they come out anyway.

Edilberto smiles at me. There’s sweetness in there. Despite the missing teeth, Edilberto doesn’t look like a broken man. Not like I pictured all those people—the plastikeaters, as some having been derogatorily calling them since they were “discovered” by the media. I’d thought of them as sad, gaunt wanderers, aimlessly looking for solace in the landfills near Mairipotaba. In my nightmares, before I fully compromised in writing a story about their lives, they came to me as dolls made of plastic, revenge cooking in their eyes but their hands wilted together in begging.

The aggression of burnt plastic slicks the air. Not only due to the bottle caps that Edilberto burned. It comes from all over the landfill. Here and there, smoky snakes writhe toward the sundown. I skim through the list of questions I didn’t ask Edilberto. How does it taste? Does it hurt to eat plastic? How is your diet? Which types of items do you prefer?

Instead, I look straight into his eyes. There’s a deepness in there, brewed in the sweetness, that I doubt my own eyes possess.

“This smell…” I hesitate, swirling a finger in the air. “It’s—What does it convey to you?” I think of fires, faulty electronics, problems. Of things going wrong.

“Which smell?—Oh! I barely notice it anymore. But it smells like dinner.”

The story of São João da Campânula started with the company called Verdidea.

Once upon a time, Verdidea was the future: the bastion of sustainability and green technology allied with social and environmental responsibility, a powerful Brazilian—then global—force to correct everything that was wrong with the world. And, indeed, they showed what they were all about. In a decade, their projects of reforestation employed millions of micro-drones in the Amazon rainforest, with tech that healed the damaged soil, planted new trees, and rescued animals during fires—all the time learning the patterns of what they were doing, so they could improve themselves over time and avoid catastrophes. In five years, they managed to recover 85 percent of the previously unrecoverable deforested area. Verdidea freed more than eight hundred rivers from industrial waste all around South America; they brought water to the driest parts of the sertão.

Once upon a time, working for Verdidea was the dream job from engineers to lawyers, from botanists to PR specialists like myself.

Verdidea truly wanted the world to become a better place. As long as the world was theirs.

The story of São João da Campânula also started with me. Once, ten years ago, I came as a PR specialist to write part of it. Now, two years after the company’s breakdown, I come as a freelancer journalist to rewrite it the best way I can.

“You can look to the camera,” I say to the woman, pointing to the cam-drone whirring in front of her. Behind her, a dog lolls on a chair underneath her wooden shack’s only window.

“I prefer not to.”

“That’s okay.” I slide a finger on my pad so the drone swivels to the side and avoids focusing on her face. “What’s your name?”

“Ângela.”

She’s a woman in her mid-fifties, brown skin, curly hair falling over her shoulders like waterfalls. She exhales a sweet scent of unnamed flowers, generic enough to fit anywhere, anytime. Next to her shack’s door there’s a cauldron filled with plastic bottles. On it, scrawled in big red letters: Pick yours, leave for others. A repurposed dresser lies next to it with five cheese graters, all shiny and clean, delicately covered with a transparent raincoat.

“Hi, Ângela. My name is Elisa Assunção. I’m a journalist and I’m working on a story about your lives. It aims to bring attention to the authorities and—”

“I know who you are.” I freeze. For a moment I think Ângela knows exactly the role Elisa Assunção played in her very existence. She waves her hand. “Your type always comes here, asking questions, giving us crumbs to nibble. Then you go away. You’re predators, that’s what I say.”

I agree. Brazil was shocked when the news about São João da Campânula broke in the headlines. Plastic-eating people living in landfill. A new kind of poverty sprouts in Goiás. In their prowl for answers—How can they survive? Is it a hoax? Where do they come from?—journalists and authorities came and went to the landfill as explorers, merely digging for stories and opportunities, never fully finding the answers, never providing ways out.

I, on the other hand, have the answers already. I’m part of them, so I come with all of them, not for them. Instead, I come for any shreds of redemption I can find in that place. Like Mamãe used to say, Don’t try to repair your mistakes all at once. Some of them you’ll just have to swallow.

“Ângela, do you have kids?”

“Um-hum.” She glares suspiciously at the cam-drone. I tap the OFF button on my pad and the drone slowly descends to the ground, its propellers shutting off and its LEDs powering down.

“Tell me about them.”

“That’s what you wanna hear? Won’t you talk about plastic? Your type loves to babble about plastic.”

“I just want to hear about your kids.”

First, she gives me what I deserve: silence. Then, she gives me the stories of Mariana, Rogério, Adenilson, and Cleiton, of how they walk fifty minutes to school every day. She tells me how they find toys in the landfill and how she has to carefully select what isn’t dangerous for them. She tells me how she loves a man called Jango, who lives in a shack in the eastern border of the landfill, of how she found brand-new canvas sneakers just lying around, green and yellow with black stripes, perfectly fitting on her feet. The only thing I type on my pad is the cornmeal cake recipe she dictates to me, which she only prepared twice in her life because she never has the ingredients.

In the end, she tells me she’s grateful for that “Verde-something company” because her kids never learned what it meant to starve.

The enzyme was a breakthrough. It took only one year to go from plastic-gobbling bacteria to plastic-digesting isopods. Verdidea’s name stamped every front page around the world. The Great Pacific garbage patch was being exorcised from its plastic by isopods at a rate never before imagined. Microbes carrying the enzyme were spread throughout landfills in Brazil, Argentina, and Colombia. It brought awareness and funding for bioplastics research, decreasing its costs of production. The video of a girl snickering and lowering a plastic soda bottle into a pool of isopods went viral for months.

When Mamãe saw the news, she was washing a plastic bowl. She guffawed, then widened her eyes.

“Perhaps I should replace it for something else.” She raised the bowl. “Lisa, do you have something to do with that, with all those great things your employer is doing?”

I laughed at her curiosity. But yes, I had something to do with Verdidea’s rise to fame. As their main PR specialist, I knew exactly what to sweep beneath the carpet: embezzlement schemes, tax evasion, greenwashing, and all scandals that involved Jandir and Vando Batista, brothers and CEOs of Verdidea. It was all justified, given the nature of Verdidea’s noble undertaking. At that moment, laughing with Mamãe in the kitchen, feeling cozy and accomplished, I had yet to fuck a lot of lives.

On the fifth day of my trip to São João da Campânula, I have only a recipe written down and less than twenty minutes of video footage. At night, I choose to walk around the landfill’s paths—its veins—with my pad and my cam-drone turned off in my backpack. This time, I don’t bring sandwiches.

I trudge, observing the flocks of people coming and going from the shacks that surround the landfill. A trio of men jab small items from the ground with hook sticks. A few steps behind them, two kids argue about the true color of the moon. One of them believes it’s as strikingly white as unspoiled milk. The other one says it’s tawny like the pages of the books in his mother’s chest. In the sky, silky clouds strive to hide the secrets of the moon.

On a heap of trash, an old woman with a hunched back fidgets with litter, a statue against the nightly hues. She wears fruit baskets as shoes and gloves to pick up what she deems useful. I wave at her, experimenting with a smile even knowing it hardly fits. She frowns at me but doesn’t wave back. A few meters ahead, six people gather around a grill, two of them sambaing to the erratic sounds of a broken pandeiro. The others laugh and talk loudly about a soccer game, pointing at each other, gesticulating. The stench that glues to the air, sweating from the grill, is the one I’m growing used to. Perhaps it means home to them. It smells like dinner. When I arrived home late from college, the aroma of Mamãe’s beans cooked with garlic and paprika pervaded the apartment. That scent was like a tight, warm embrace, even though I eventually chose to abandon it to chase illusions.

“Moça!” I pivot to face a boy sticking his foot into a pile of trash. He gives out a muffled cry but doesn’t really care about it. He stretches his arm to reach something. “You’re tall. Can you pick that lunchbox for me?” His voice is jumbled. He’s chewing bubble gum.

“Of course.” I walk to the pile of trash and fetch the lunchbox for him. It’s stylized with the drawing of a fading funny robot. One of its edges is dented. A bug skitters out of a tiny hole on its side. I shoo it away. “Is it for school?”

The boy shakes his head. He’s about eight years old, shirtless, soot daubing his cheeks like tribal marks. Dollops of dried blood swell from his lips. Not bubble gum. He’s chewing a piece of plastic casing for wires. I hand the lunchbox to him, mouth agape. They rarely eat raw plastic. It hurts the mouth, pharynx, and esophagus. That’s why they partially melt it, work it into a paste, then grate it. Verdidea’s directors spoke of plans for easing the process of eating plastic, mainly in the upper digestive system, from the mouth to the stomach. They went bankrupt without ever outlining those plans.

The boy opens the lunchbox and shakes it to clean it from dirt.

“Are you the journalist?” he asks, wiping the funny robot that grins at us with its coiling arms wide open as if looking for a hug.

“Yes. My name is Elisa.”

The boy spits half the casing from his mouth and swallows the rest. I gulp at it, wanting to look away. If it were weeks ago, I’d probably retch at the sight. But now I know it’s part of my story. I don’t want to avoid it.

“My maninha says she likes you. She met you ten years ago.”

My heart misses a beat. I gape at the boy. I don’t need to ask who his sister is. Francisca da Conceição, the person I gave to Verdidea as a corporate offering.

When would Verdidea put a base on the moon like the other billionaires were doing at a rapid pace? Questions like that whirled on the news all the time, but it never made Jandir and Vando Batista’s eyes shine. Their next big project was thankfully rooted on Earth: ending world hunger. For that, they had to choose between two paths: solving what prevented food from arriving at everyone’s tables or devising new feeding solutions. The former involved politics and tackling the core of the economic system itself, from which they greatly benefited, so they left it aside. The latter was what motivated them.

The plastic-breaking enzyme working in mammals was Verdidea’s secret—forbidden—breakthrough. After the plastic was digested into monomers, very specific bacteria carried its constituent parts through the digestive system. Grouped with other microbes artificially inserted into someone’s microbiota, those monomers could be converted into carbohydrates, proteins, vitamins, and other nutrients. It was a giant leap from what Verdidea had been using in isopods for three years. (And by the way, the Great Pacific garbage patch had shrunken 25 percent since the crustaceans were employed there. Headlines flashed that Verdidea was the company that should run the world.)

With the enzyme-bacteria system working in humans, no one would need to starve anymore. Virtually anything around people could be easily turned into food. Plastic was ubiquitous in cities. The food supply chain would be disrupted. Transport, distribution, aggregation, and processing might all be rendered secondary and, with a whole assortment of new processes, different textures and tastes could be acquired. Feeding people would be a decentralized process without lots of points of failure. Costs would plummet. It would all become excruciatingly cheaper than producing any kind of food, and with the way Verdidea planned to employ its enzyme-bacteria system, eating plastic could also prove to be healthier than eating ultra-processed food. Not only would famine end, but people would have quality nutrition all around the world. The abrasive and obnoxious stench of burnt plastic that would pester the cities could be solved soon after. Verdidea was certain they could do anything. I was certain I could make the world believe in that.

Mamãe and I had gone through rough patches when I was a kid. Mamãe had to work overnight as a prostitute to take care of me during the day, and on weekends she got temporary gigs as a window cleaner so we had food on our table. So more than a meaningful job, Verdidea’s project became personal to me.

The next step came when the process worked successfully on mice, then monkeys. So they needed volunteers. I never fooled myself about what that word meant for them.

There were poor communities near Mairipotaba comprising displaced people from Goiânia’s massive gentrification. They were jobless, many of them starving, not a few resorting to landfills to find food and junk to sell at paltry values. It was near those communities that Verdidea decided to build a new headquarters. It was me who wrote articles and called press conferences to convince Verdidea’s shareholders that it was a good idea. I worked day and night to fabricate the vision of Verdidea sinking its roots in the middle of Brazil and making them sprout deep and wide, bringing progress everywhere they touched, so when it came to the public it would all be beautifully justified. All in the name of ending world hunger. Meanwhile, Verdidea’s lawyers scoured the law for loopholes that would allow them to start experimenting on humans—and, as I later found out, Verdidea deceived the ethics committee responsible for the project, presenting to them an entirely different set of parameters.

In a one-hour speech, I convinced Verdidea’s shareholders that it was a good idea to make São João’s citizens eat trash. Three months later, they applauded me and green-lighted the project.

The story of Francisca da Conceição started when I found her lone shack, half a kilometer from São João da Campânula, the widest of the landfills. Her hut was surrounded by shrubs and flanked by a muddied-water stream. When I arrived, the wind plucked fiercely at pants, shirts, and sneakers hanging from a clothesline. Somewhere inside, sertanejo wheezed from shabby speakers. It was the furthest I had the guts to go into the Mairipotaba’s communities, not so far from Verdidea’s new headquarters—next to where I went to live after I left Mamãe and the cozy aromas of her beans with garlic. But most important, it wasn’t within the humiliating heart of São João.

I’d learned through Verdidea’s reports that an eighteen-year-old girl lived in that shack with her mothers and that she stayed alone during most of the day, when her mothers left to scavenge the landfills and hawk in the streets of Goiânia.

Francisca was a thin girl with a protruding belly. When I first saw her, she wore a crop top and jeans so spent they almost surrendered to white. Her shack only had two mattresses, a TV set, and a crooked, doorless wardrobe.

She invited me to sit on two plastic chairs outside and offered me a warm cup of coffee. I accepted.

“Do you eat?” I asked after I explained who I was and where I came from. At that point, I hadn’t been fully clear about my intentions of asking her to be a volunteer. But she certainly knew people like me only went there when they had something to gain.

“I do.” Francisca sipped at her coffee. She was a very shy girl, clearly not used to visits, much less by overdressed women.

“How is it so?” I looked around, indicating that there wasn’t much beyond a makeshift oven and a few supermarket bags lying next to the shack. “Do you make your own food?”

“Sometimes.” She shrugged. “But mostly my moms scavenge things from the landfills then sell them in the city. Then, they come back with some quentinhas. Sometimes it’s rice and chicken, other times just a lettuce salad.”

“Is it always enough for your family?”

The question caught her by surprise. Her gaze lost focus, the cup tight between her fingers, midway to her mouth. After a while, she shook her head. I was pulling the conversation to the point where I wanted, but not without pain. Speaking of hunger when you were not feeling it wasn’t always easy. It seemed unfair because you were sated; but it also filled you with a senseless kind of hope, as if that bellyful moment could linger and maybe, just maybe, you’d never have to be hungry again.

“Sorry about the…sensitive and weird question…” I said. “But if you were hungry right now, would you eat those bags if you were sure they would sate your hunger?”

“Do you mean…” Francisca blushed. “Eating what’s inside them?”

“No. I mean the bags themselves.”

“I would.” No hesitation.

I only remembered two moments of my childhood when I felt really hungry. I never forgot them. Sometimes Mamãe’s work wasn’t enough to feed us—the excruciating drama of many Brazilian families. Inflation corroded her meager wages and there was one occasion when we spent an entire day without having anything to eat. But they were enough for me to remember my own yells echoing throughout the apartment, unaware of the fact that food didn’t magically sprout whenever I wanted. Mamãe silently sobbed in a corner, knowing that even if she worked harder the next day there was no guarantee that there would be food on our table.

“I would too,” I whispered to myself.

It was later that day I offered a magical solution to Francisca. For now, she only had to come with me to Verdidea’s labs and sign some papers. For someone with a hole to fill, she couldn’t say no.

Today, Francisca doesn’t live in a shack anymore. She lives in the middle of São João da Campânula, in a house with its bricks exposed and a corrugated iron roof. Clothes hang from the clothesline tied to two poles outside her house. The wind that buffets at them now carries the landfill’s polymeric stench. From somewhere nearby, samba shackles the evening, scratching the air with streaks of happiness, threatening to extinguish the smell by the sheer pressure of joy.

I wait for Francisca, staring at her closed door, snapping my fingers and trying to control my breathing. A man walks by carrying a bag of plastic bottles on his shoulder. He nods at me. Behind the set of houses that clutter that part of the landfill, the old woman with a hunched back kneels on a mound of trash. Or perhaps it’s another woman wearing fruit baskets as shoes, another shadow against the moon-paling backwash of the night. Behind her, beyond the warts of junk that pockmark São João, I see the imposing and abandoned headquarters of Verdidea—all that remains of the company that vowed to heal the world. A chill runs along my back when I remember all the nights I spent in that place, a haunted palace built on unstable stocks and the lives of the destitute.

“Are you okay, Elisa?” The voice startles me. It’s still the same but with a quality of roughness to it.

Francisca isn’t as slim as ten years ago, but the same curious half-smile shapes her lips, except her shyness seems to have melted away in the same humble kind of sweetness I saw in Edilberto’s eyes. I shiver from head to toe when I shake her hand. I expect a slap, a reprimand; any sort of revenge for having transformed her and those around her into garbage eaters. None of that happens. After all this time, I have only one question for Francisca, and not one of those noted in my pad—How does it taste? Does it hurt to eat plastic? How is your diet? The one I have for her is different, and one that applies to her and to myself: Was it worth it?

Like the coward I am, I don’t ask it.

“We’ll have dinner tomorrow for my brother’s birthday,” she says. “Do you want to come?”

“I do,” I say as fast as I gave away Mamãe’s Tupperware.

I’m sorry for what I did to you, the words quiver on my lips. I don’t say them.

Don’t try to repair your mistakes all at once. Some of them you’ll just have to swallow.

 “Thank you for the invitation,” I say instead, gulping.

“I made dinner for you.” Mamãe was dry and brief when she called me one week after I told her about Verdidea’s plans with the enzyme. It happened a month after meeting Francisca for the first time and having her enlisted as a volunteer. “Can you come home earlier today?”

“Yes, Mamãe,” I said to my pad on the table while I slid my fingers through the volunteers’ profiles on the big screen at my office. Francisca was a go. There were five others, including one of her mothers, that were inclined to accept Verdidea’s offer as well. Volunteers would be provided with temporary housing and five months’ worth of the current minimum wages. But the big prize lay at the end of the road: they’d never have the risk of starving.

“Are you listening?” Mamãe’s grave voice shook me up. I rubbed my forehead.

“What?”

She sighed very slowly, which came out as an uncomfortable hiss through the pad’s speakers. “I asked you not to eat anything. I prepared something special.”

And when I went home, I found out what it meant.

On our dinner table, there was only one Pyrex dish at the center with an oozing black pudding that looked like charred cloth and smelled like burnt popcorn.

“Overcooked?” I said, kissing Mamãe’s forehead as I laid my backpack on the floor. She didn’t kiss mine back as usual.

“No,” she said. “Have your seat and let’s have dinner.”

I frowned at her. “But what’s that?”

“Our dinner.”

“Is it…overcooked mashed potatoes? Seriously—”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her eyes didn’t lock onto mine. “It won’t leave you hungry.”

I saw where she was heading and closed my eyes. When I told her about the new project in Mairipotaba, I said I’d probably have to spend some time in Goiânia. She didn’t take it lightly. She closed herself and spoke curtly with me in the following days. Up to that point, I’d thought it was because I was going to spend time away from her. I understood. I was all she had, so it was natural that she’d miss me. But there was something else.

“Mamãe…”

She pulled the chair. It scratched on the floorboard. I flinched while she sat.

“Mamãe, stop. You don’t need to eat that.”

She shrugged, scooping the black pudding and putting it on her plate.

“That’s what we have, isn’t it?” she said.

I pulled the other chair and sat beside her, seeking her eyes with mine, finding nothing but pain and evasion.

“The project with the enzyme is an option so no one will need to starve ever again.”

“The kid that I raised, the one that praised my soft pão de queijo”—her voice came out grated, her teeth chattering—“the one who was all yummy-yummy at my feijoada, would never want to see people eating garbage.”

“It’s not garbage, Mamãe! Don’t you understand? It’s the solution for a problem that has existed for thousands of years.” But those words tasted sour on my mouth. Those were the words of Elisa Assunção, PR Manager at Verdidea, disinterred out of a presentation to shareholders, not those of Elisa Assunção, daughter of Maíra Assunção, raised amongst the whiffs of motherly feijoada.

“It’s no solution, girl. It’s just the same problem with a different painting. They won’t give people options with dignity. They’re giving them what they always did: the leftovers. Eating is not only satiating your hunger. It’s a process that carries dignity. If you think it just serves to satiate your hunger, then eat the fucking dinner I prepared.”

“Mamãe, I can show you the documents.” I reached for her hand, but she recoiled, her mouth a thin waning moon. I wanted to talk about the documents because I didn’t want to find the truth in her words. “They’re classified, but I have access to them and I trust you. You’ll learn what this is really about. There’s a report that—”

“If you keep insisting that a poor boy should eat that fucking bottle…” She pointed to a soda bottle lying next to the bin in the kitchen. “Then don’t come back here.”

Mamãe took a mouthful of the black pudding.

In the humiliating heart of São João da Campânula, we dine.

There are about twenty people scattered on seven plastic tables around Francisca’s house, all partaking of the beer and food I brought—feijoada, pequi rice, galinhada, and green corn mush. I wish Mamãe were there too, joyfully saying how she’d change each of those recipes, how she’d sprinkle coriander in this one and nutmeg in that one.

I sit at a table with three other people, but I remain silent, just smiling at everyone who dares to look at me.

The song “O Show Tem Que Continuar” blasts from two big speakers strategically positioned on each side of the field. We’ll find the tone, a chord with a beautiful sound, and make our voices good; then we’ll be happy. Children play with a hose, frightening the heat away. Night has fallen but the sky is still daubed in the summer’s blue dyes.

Ângela is there with Mariana, Rogério, Adenilson, and Cleiton. She wears her cool sneakers and kisses her man Jango’s cheek. The hunched-back woman is there. She sings loudly. Then we’ll be happy; look, we’re on air again; the show must go on. Edilberto is there too, picking at something he brought in Mamãe’s Tupperware. He smiles as he stares at his friends—his family—chatting and singing and drinking and eating. When our gazes meet, he winks at me. He’s eating melted plastic bottle caps. It’s home to him.

“So, you came to write a story about us?” Francisca puts a hand on my shoulder. She has her other arm wrapped around her brother.

“I—Yes, I did.”

“And how is it?” Francisca picks a chair beside me and sits. I nod at a glass of beer, but she shakes her head.

I grin at her. “I’ll start over.”

“Why?”

“It’s just—My mind was elsewhere. I think it needs a complete overhaul.”

I don’t want them to become aberrations and exotic curiosities in the eyes of the public. I want them to be who they are: people. I want to write about the families living in São João da Campânula—about Mariana, Rogério, Adenilson, and Cleiton’s daily journey to school; about the samba of their evenings.

I have other questions to ask them. How was your day? What’s something you created recently? What makes you laugh? Who makes you laugh? Others will come to write about plastic. I’ll leave that to them.

“Francisca, let me ask you something.” I dare to put a hand over hers.

“Of course.”

“Was it worth it?”

She stares at me for a while like she did when I first asked her if her food was enough. “Was it worth it digging trash after food and things to sell? Was it worth it to beg in the streets? When something isn’t an option we don’t ask if it’s worth it.”

The “famine issue,” as the Batista brothers called it—as if it was just a minor inconvenience like forgetting a sandwich on a grill—was never only a question of actually eradicating famine. Since they never addressed poverty or housing, eating plastic became a symbol of desperation and lack of options, not of hope and progress. People in the landfills already picked their food from the trash. That wouldn’t change.

I wish I could say I was the one responsible for fracturing Verdidea’s business. I wasn’t. Their stocks plummeted when they abandoned the Amazon rainforest project, then again when I couldn’t shield them from the scandals—unknown up to then—involving several of the Batistas’ other companies that employed forced labor. I was horrified, but I chose to believe they didn’t know and that they could correct their mistakes. I still had my hopes high that they could address many of the world issues, including famine, food quality and distribution, housing, and poverty. It was only a setback. They were the solution. It was a selfish, self-destructive behavior. How could I have dedicated fifteen years of my life to them if they couldn’t achieve those goals? Was I merely industrial waste along with all the other workers being steadily laid off? In my desperation, I even tried to push an article defending Verdidea’s views. But not even the Batistas believed in the company anymore.

The final strike came when the people living in the Mairipotaba’s landfills were exposed as the plastikeaters. It was when I learned Verdidea was already genetically altering São João da Campânula’s dwellers to make their bodies produce the enzyme-bacteria system in their digestive tract. I thought I’d be informed when it happened. I’d thought I’d see the results, the smiles of people with enough sustenance to survive. Verdidea’s directors didn’t show me anything, perhaps because they knew I was only sustained by an illusion.

In the end, what toppled me was the front page of O Globo showing a blind old man with plastic cotton swabs on his tongue. It was then that I couldn’t take it anymore.

Mamãe used to say we shouldn’t blindly pursue our dreams. Sometimes it was okay to put them aside for a while or to abandon them altogether. Our dreams are the fabric of who we are, Lisa, but we’re changing all the time, re-sewing ourselves.

Nine years after leaving home, I knock on the door of the only woman capable of helping me sweep my dusty dreams from beneath my feet.

“Mamãe?” I stammer as an old woman opens the door. There’s deepness in her eyes, a mix of sadness and longing that brews into a bittersweet gaze when she sees me crying. “I brought cornmeal cake for us.”

“The Plasticity of Being” copyright © 2024 by Renan Bernardo
Art copyright © 2024 by Scott Bakal

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The Plasticity of Being

Renan Bernardo

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The Plasticity of Being

Renan Bernardo

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The post The Plasticity of Being appeared first on Reactor.

Original Fiction Horror

Median

A professional caregiver’s commute takes an unsettling detour when car trouble forces her to pull over on the highway, where she begins receiving distressing phone calls from strangers…

Illustrated by Elijah Boor

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Edited by Ellen Datlow

By Kelly Robson

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Published on March 13, 2024

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A professional caregiver’s commute takes an unsettling detour when car trouble forces her to pull over on the highway, where she begins receiving distressing phone calls from strangers…

When Carla’s little car broke down on the highway, she was in the fast lane, and instead of pulling over to the far side of the road, she had to stop on the median.

She sat there, jiggling the wheel with one hand and fiddling the ignition with the other, a hot, low sun glaring through the hatchback’s rear glass. Only a few years back, a turn of a key would make an engine cough, and if it didn’t, it meant the battery was dead. Or the alternator—something electrical. Now, cars were all electric, even more of a mystery than ever, and she had zero chance of figuring out the problem.

But it didn’t matter, really. Dead was dead. She could press the start button all she liked. Nothing happened.

“Now what?” she asked. “Who do I call?”

Carla typed “roadside assistance” into her phone and hit enter. Trucks blasted past, so close the car shook as if grabbed by a fist. She stared at the Google logo until it disappeared, leaving a blank screen, white on white.

It had happened before. Her discount mobile provider was prone to denial of service attacks. But she still had phone service. She texted her sister Francisca in Montreal: Can you send me the roadside assistance number for the 401? When no reply came, she tried phoning both her sisters, then her supervisor. All three calls rang straight through to voicemail. 

She would have sat there forever, alternating between pressing the button and working through her contact list, but a semi skinned by and clipped off her side mirror. A popping sound. The car pitched back and forth, bouncing on its wheels like a carnival ride. Then another truck took off her door handle.

The rear wheels of her car parted from the asphalt. It bucked once, canting into the oncoming lane. A cement truck hit the edge of the bumper. The whole rear end crunched. The car spun onto the median and slammed into the low concrete barrier.

Carla pulled herself out of the car and fell onto the gravel. She sat there, brushing dirt from her scrubs. It was her Easter pair, festooned with daffodils and tulips.

Someone will stop, she thought. Someone will come. Someone has already dialed 911. But nobody stopped. Certainly not the cement truck, which had long since disappeared beyond the highway’s distant curve.

She climbed to her feet and waved at an oncoming car. One of its headlights glinted in the sun. The driver turned his head as he passed, mirrored sunglasses square on her, but he didn’t slow. The other drivers didn’t even look at her. The truck drivers stared straight over her head.

“I’m right here,” Carla said, waving her arms.

Gravel and grime studded the skin of her palms and forearms, blood seeping from the abraded skin. She picked a piece of gravel out of her flesh and chucked it at her car. Such a little thing, there on the median; the rear end looked like something had taken a bite out of it. A rear wheel dangled like a broken tooth.

Hands shaking, she dialed 911. Three tries to hit the green button. She turned up the volume and listened to the ringtone, holding the phone to her head with both hands, as if praying.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Car accident. I had a car accident. On the 401. West of Milton.”

“Please stay on the line.”

They put her on hold. Carla leaned her whole weight on her car, digging her elbows into the rusty roof panel. Not a good car, but the best she could afford. A 1995 hatchback with a pair of retrofitted drive trains installed by a guy in Oshawa who Frankensteined cheap cars in his backyard. She’d drained her savings account to buy it, and in two years, its charge range had gone down by half. To get enough juice to do her evening appointments, she had to stop and charge it halfway through her shift, and then charge it again to get home.

“You’re a write-off, aren’t you?” she asked the car.

When she laid her forehead on her arms, the phone went dead. Maybe she canceled the call by accident, or maybe they hung up on her. In any case, she dialed 911 again and waited.

“911. What is the nature of”

Dead again. The screen protector was cracked, so maybe it was shorting out the screen? She peeled off the pieces and dropped them to the median. Dialed again.

“911. What”

“Hello?” she yelled. “Hello?”

No answer, though service was fine, three of the four bars glowing white. She dialed work.

“This is the office of Care Point Care Services. Our office hours are eight am to four pm, Monday to Friday. Please leave a detailed message including patient name, address, and phone number, and your call will be returned within one business day.”

“This is Carla. I’ve had a car accident. I’m not going to make the rest of my appointments. That’s, uh . . . hang on.” Carla fished the printout from her pocket of her scrubs. “Deborah Anders, Karen Gagnon, and David Chan. Can you let them know I won’t be there? And I won’t be able to do my appointments tomorrow, either. My car is dead. Okay. Thanks.”

Because of the staffing shortage, the office was barely covered on weekends. Probably nobody would pick up Carla’s message until tomorrow morning, and in the meantime her clients would wait. Deb needed her dinnertime feeding. Her G-tube site was getting painful, the skin around the external bumper pink and swelling. Carla had been treating it for a week with anti-inflammatories and ice. Karen had a colostomy bag that needed emptying before her bath, and Dave was waiting for meds and a toilet transfer. All three needed to be moved from chair to bed. If Carla didn’t show up, nobody would get washed, medicated, fed, or toileted. They’d wait, abandoned, wondering if anyone was ever going to come.

Carla tried again to wave down a car, flinging her arms around semaphore-wild. Nobody stopped. Nobody even slowed.

She crawled into the back seat of the hatchback and rooted around. Her coffee was splashed across the dashboard, the red Tim Hortons cup rolling on the gritty floor mat. She carried a big bottle of distilled water in case her patients ran out, but now it was smashed.

Her black Care Point backpack was fine, though. Bandages, scissors, and sterile swabs. The pair of tweezers she used to pick lint out of Deb’s G-tube site. A box of latex gloves and a pack of N95 masks, size small. A blood pressure cuff, finger oximeter, and stethoscope. Plastic bottles of acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and aspirin. Anti-inflammatory gel, antiseptic cream, hand sanitizer. In the outer pocket were her wallet, keys, charge cords, and the bag of cappuccino candies she’d bought on a whim, hoping the caffeine would perk her up between visits.

Carla popped a candy into her mouth and crunched down hard. It splintered and melted into a hunk between her molars. She worried at the candy with her tongue as she pulled up the map on her phone and zoomed in on her location.

Not much detail available, not with the connection problems, but some of the map was preloaded. The highway a double yellow line on a gray background, with a sliver of blue zigzagging across it—a creek or something. Satellite view showed trees and fields. Cars and trucks frozen into specks on the dark gray highway, caught in time by the overhead camera. The median a light gray strip between the eastbound and westbound lanes, like meat in an old sandwich.

If she could cross the highway, she could walk . . . walk where? To the east was Campbellville, which looked like nothing more than warehouses and parking lots. They’d be empty on a Sunday. Probably wouldn’t even have security guards, just rotating cameras behind which might or might not be a pair of human eyes. To the west were residential acreages, but they looked like the kind of places where nobody actually lived—second or third homes for rich people, their empty blue pools pocking the green satellite expanse. But to the northeast was a casino. People would be there, and help.

Her phone rang. Carla nearly dropped it in her eagerness to answer.

“Hello?” she yelled.

“It’s my mother.” A woman’s voice, faint against the roar of traffic. “She’s by herself and she’s on the floor. She can’t get herself up.”

Carla wasn’t allowed to exchange phone numbers with clients. Care Point claimed it protected carers’ privacy, but really, it kept clients from trying to arrange discount services under the table. A firing offense, so Carla had never broken the rule. How had this one gotten her number?

“Is it Deb Anders?” she asked. “Or Karen Gagnon?”

“Nina Sandhu. She lives at 454 Frobisher Boulevard in Milton.”

“I’m sorry but she’s not my client. Even if she was, I can’t go anywhere right now.”

“You’re supposed to—” The woman gasped. A horn sounded.

“Are you driving?” Carla asked.

“Yes, I’m trying to get to my mom. But I’m caught in traffic. It’ll be an hour and a half, at least. That’s why I need you to go there, right now.”

“Me? I can’t help anyone,” said Carla. “I can’t even help myself.”

“But who else can I ask?”

“Call 911,” Carla said. “Tell them she needs a lift assist.” She hung up.

North. The casino was on the north side of the highway. She’d have to cross the westbound lanes. Carla swung her legs over the concrete barrier and stood at the edge of the fast lane, trying to judge the speed and distance of the oncoming cars. At this angle, it all looked impossible, the traffic not slowing one bit. Which was strange. Anything a little odd on the highway caused a slowdown—everyone lifting their foot from the accelerator and gawking. She was right there. The hatchback was right there. Why wasn’t anyone slowing?

Maybe because their feet weren’t on the accelerator. Maybe everyone was using smart cruise control, the cars continually adjusting for optimal speed and distance to keep the traffic flowing.

But if one of the cars pasted her as she tried to run across the highway, then they’d stop. They’d have to.

Problem was, Carla wasn’t built for speed, never had been. She could deadlift clients out of bed six times a day, but running? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tried. She didn’t have to get across all three lanes at once, though. She could cross the first lane, and stand on the divider line waiting for a gap so she could run across the next. The cars wouldn’t hit her if she stood still. Not unless one of them was changing lanes.

She tightened the straps on her backpack and hooked her thumbs in tight, making herself into the smallest possible human bundle. She dug her toes into the gravel, and leaned in, and watched for a gap. There. And there. And there. If she picked the right moment, she’d get across fine. Or maybe the car that hit her would be small, and she would survive.

Her phone rang.

“Hello,” she yelled.

A kid’s voice: “They’re fighting. He’s hurting my mom. Again.”

“Diego?” she asked. It had to be her nephew—no other kid would call her. But it didn’t make sense. Her older sister’s family was on vacation in Tulum. Carla was supposed to water their plants tomorrow. “Diego, is that you? This is Tía Carla.”

“Can you come?”

It wasn’t Diego. “Who is this?” she asked.

“Liam. He’s hitting her head.”

“Liam,” she said. “Get as far away as you can and hide.” No idea who this kid was or why he was calling her, but it didn’t matter because there was only one answer. “There’s nothing you can do. Hide. And call 911.” She hung up.

Trying to run across the highway was just stupid. She’d be roadkill a hundred times over. A smear on the asphalt. A human stain.

Maybe she could walk along the median. When the highway curved, the traffic would have to slow down, wouldn’t it? Even just a bit, enough to make a difference.

Gravel crunched under her sneakers as she trudged east. Dust and dirt flew in her face, microscopic bits of oil and tar and rubber, aerosolized by the wheels. She reached into her backpack and retrieved an N95 mask.

Mask in place, she protected her eyes with her hand, keeping her gaze low to avoid the worst of the dust. One of her sneakers had blood on the toe—where had that come from? Her arms, she guessed, the road rash. She picked another bit of gravel out of her forearm. Blood fell on her foot, her knee, her thigh. Three drops, then stopped.

She wasn’t shocky anymore, at least. Her hands weren’t shaking, but she was exhausted. Every step felt like she was going uphill, and the sun on her back was fierce. A long evening shadow stretched in front of her, cool blue against the orange-tinted gravel. Magic hour, that’s what photographers called it. When the sun went down, it’d get cold.

Her phone rang.

“Hello?”

A wheezing voice made itself heard over the roar of traffic.

“It feels like I’ve broken my arm, but I didn’t.”

“Dave, is that you? David Chan?”

“No. I’m sweating like crazy just sitting here. And my back hurts.”

“That sounds like you’re having a heart attack,” she said.

“Okay, what do I do?”

“You need to go to the hospital. Don’t try to drive, it’s too dangerous.”

“I can call an Uber.”

“Good. While you’re waiting, get an aspirin. Chew it up and swallow it.” She hung up.

As the highway slid into the curve, the median widened into a grassy strip of wasteland. Fresh green sprouted under the mat of last year’s growth, coated with salty grime from a season of snowplows.

The curve. She’d thought the traffic might slow around it, but no. If anything, the stream was faster, the cars packed tighter as the evening commute thickened. None of the drivers turned to look at her as they passed. Many were glued to their phones, just passengers in self-driving cars. Which gave her an idea. If a self-driving car registered her as an obstacle, it would have to stop. And then everyone would have to slow down. It only took one car to make a traffic jam.

She stepped onto the white lane divider, as if on a tightrope. Widened her stance and held her arms out from her sides to make her silhouette more recognizable. Here is a human person. See?

The cars aimed themselves in her direction. Side mirrors blitzed past her hip, her shoulder, her head. A truck flashed its lights. It skimmed past, and the suction from eighteen whirling wheels yanked at her flowered scrubs.

She gave it a good long try, standing square to the oncoming sensors, squinting to protect her eyes from the flying grime, but it was no good. She stepped back onto the median.

As Carla trudged east through the curve, a structure appeared in the distance, stained red by the last dregs of sunset. A bridge for an overpass, flanked by the arms of a cloverleaf. This was the intersection on the map, with the Campbellville warehouses to the south and the casino to the north. Good. She couldn’t get across the highway, but maybe she could climb off it.

One central bridge column parted the median, weeds growing thick at its base. She ran her hands up and down the concrete. It was smooth. No handholds. And even if she could shinny up—which she couldn’t—she’d never be able to haul her ass over the concrete overhang of the bridge deck. An extreme athlete could do it, maybe, but not her.

She called 911 again. This time it didn’t even ring. Dead air.

The sun set fast. Headlights turned the world into flashing intersections of night and bright, like the nightclubs she’d gone to with her sisters, back when they were all so young. On the dance floor, she’d lose herself in sensory overload, throwing herself into a bounded world of risk. A curated encounter with the unknown, where she could decide for herself from moment to moment how much danger she wanted to find.

Beyond the overpass, the median widened and dipped. Scrubby bushes grew in the ditch, and a stand of trees forced the two arms of the highway apart.

Her phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Someone just smashed the window of a bank. Queen and Spadina.”

“I don’t care,” said Carla. She hung up.

Far ahead, a long, lithe shadow darted into the glare of headlights. It slid across all three lanes and turned to look at her, pointy ears sticking up from its head like horns. Then it vanished into the trees of the median.

A dog wouldn’t attack her, not unless it was rabid. A coyote wouldn’t either. All the same, a chill coursed through her, starting at her toes and shivering up her torso to her throat.

Carla hugged herself, and when her phone rang, she dropped it, cracking the screen.

“Hello,” she said.

“Is that all you have to say?” An elderly voice. Genderless. Crotchety.

“Hello,” she repeated. “What?”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask me what the problem is?”

“Okay. What’s your problem?” she asked. “Tell me everything.”

“When there’s a fire alarm I’m supposed to wheel myself into the stairwell and wait on the landing. It’s the refuge area, they said. So that’s what I did. I’ve been sitting here for hours now, waiting for someone to come. I can’t go up or down, and I can’t get back into the hallway. The door’s too heavy.”

“Did you try calling someone?”

“Why? Are you telling me to call someone who cares?”

“I mean, is there someone in your building who can help?”

“No. You’re not supposed to use the elevators during a fire alarm, but next time, you bet that’s what I’m going to do. Either that or just sit in my apartment. It’s not like there’s actually a fire.”

“What about your neighbors? Do you have the number of anyone in your building?”

“Aren’t you supposed to ask for my address?”

“Why? I can’t help you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Did you try banging on the door? Use something hard.”

“So you’re not sending someone?”

Carla shifted the phone to her other ear and leaned in as if it would help her understand.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” she asked.

“911. Aren’t you 911?”

“No. I’m not.”

“I guess I got the wrong number. Fine.”

“Wait,” Carla yelled. “When you get through to 911, can you tell them I’m stranded on the median of the 401 by the Campbellville overpass?”

“Tell them yourself,” they said, and hung up.

Ahead, near the trees, headlights caught on something shiny. It flashed in the beams, and the longer Carla watched it, the more it seemed like the flashes were coming in a pattern. Short-short-short. Long-long-long.

She walked toward it, why not? She had to keep moving anyway. It was getting cold, and the last thing she needed was to flirt with hypothermia.

Walking in the bottom of the ditch, the low beams of the headlights pointed straight at her, painful in their brilliance. She had to keep her eyes on her toes to keep from being dazzled. So she didn’t notice the wreck until she saw blood pooling on the median.

A four-door sedan, upside down, wheels spinning. A man in the driver’s seat, his body pillowed by the airbag. A woman in the other seat, her face plunged through the windshield. Carla got on her knees and shrugged off her backpack. She pulled out the stethoscope and fitted the earpieces tight in her ears. Easy to reach the driver’s back, with him collapsed forward. No breath, no heartbeat. She didn’t need to check the passenger to know she was gone, too, with her neck twisted, jaw pointing at the sky.

Still on her knees, she dialed 911, hugging herself, chin tucked in tight. The call connected, rang once, and went dead. Carla swiped the phone on the thigh of her scrubs and tried again. When the call didn’t connect, she crawled over to look in the back of the car.

Two empty baby seats hung from the back seat. No children anywhere, not lying on the ceiling of the car, not in the dirt and weeds and gravel of the median. Obviously, that meant no kids had been in the car when it crashed. But not far away, under a bush, was a plastic sippy cup. The milk inside smelled cool and fresh, and it wouldn’t have if it’d been sitting in the car even for a little while, not when the day had been so hot. Carla stood and looked around, shading her eyes against the glare.

There, at the edge of the median, were two small forms, raccoon-sized and crawling on all fours toward the fast lane. Carla dropped the sippy cup and ran across the ditch, up the slope, and into the dazzle of headlights.

No doubt now, those crawling bundles were children, their cushy diapered bottoms in terry-cloth onesies lit by the flashing lights. Their tiny hands slapped the asphalt, cloth-bootied feet propelling them in a four-point monkey-walk, knees not even hitting the ground.

A truck blasted its horn. Carla screamed and plunged into traffic, reaching for the children with both arms, as if she could envelop the whole highway and scoop them to safety. Cars buffeted her as she dodged across the lanes, grazing her hip, her elbow. Horns bellowed. She stopped on a dashed lane divider, breath rasping, hands clawing at her jaw as the traffic swirled past. Ahead, in the brief spaces between cars, the children humped over the slow lane and onto the shoulder. Their bald heads gleamed in the headlights.

One child turned and smiled at Carla before it disappeared off the far side of the road. A truck bore down on her. Its side-view mirror struck her head, and she fell backward into traffic.

When Carla clawed herself awake, she was at the bottom of the ditch with a new crack in the glass of her phone, three missed calls from unknown numbers, and a text from Francisca in Montreal.

I just got off a double. Gotta get some sleep. Call me tomorrow, ok?

The time stamp showed the text was only ten minutes old. Maybe her sister was still awake.

I’m in trouble, Carla typed. Been stuck in the middle of the 401 for hours now. No way to get off it. Can’t get through to 911.

She waited. No response.

When you get this, call 911. Tell them there’s a fatal car accident on the median of the 401, near the Campbellville overpass.

Then she tried 911 again, just in case. The call didn’t connect. But there would be at least one phone in the wreck, likely two, and one of them would work.

She walked back to the sedan and got on her knees. Reaching around the driver, she shone her phone light into the depths of the interior, but couldn’t see much, not with the airbag in the way. No way to reach around the driver, either—her arms weren’t long enough. But she could try to wrench the door open, pull the driver out.

It wasn’t the first time she’d touched a dead person, not even the first time that week. One of her clients was a late-stage cancer patient with no mobility. He should have been in the hospital but was refusing to go. She’d arrived for his evening appointment to find him mouth open like a baby bird, staring at the ceiling and gasping his final breaths.

No matter how hard Carla pulled, she couldn’t get the dead man out of the driver’s seat—the airbag was trapping his thighs. Carla got the scissors from her backpack, tried to cut through the tough reinforced plastic, but they wouldn’t bite. So she got in close, leaning over the dead man, pressing the bloody bag tight. With the scissors in her fist like a dagger, she slammed the point down on the plastic over and over until it deflated with a hiss. Then she dragged the man out of his seat and lay him on the median with his hands crossed over his chest.

On the underside of the dashboard lay an iPhone, a photo of two bald, grinning toddlers on the lock screen. She swiped at it until the emergency call screen surfaced.

“911?” said a woman. Carla was too relieved to notice the interrogative tone.

“I’m on the median of the 401 by the Campbellville overpass. Two people are dead. And there were two children. I can’t find the children.”

“No,” said the woman. “That’s not it. There’s been an accident at the Bombay Grill. 370 Pearson Street. In Mississauga. One of the cars came through my window.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Carla asked.

“The driver is bleeding from her head. She’s walking around, though. Yelling at the guy who wrecked her car.”

“Tell her to sit before she falls down.”

“Okay.” Voices in the background. Come in and sit down, said the woman. 911 says you have to sit down. No, you have to sit. Sit. Radha, get her a towel and a cup of chai. “Yes, she’s sitting now.”

“Are you calling from the restaurant?”

“Yes, the Bombay Grill is my business.”

“Do you have a pen?”

“I do.”

“I need you to call 911 and report a car accident on the 401, on the median by the Campbellville overpass. Two fatalities and two missing children. Would you do that for me?”

“But aren’t you 911?”

“No, I’m really not. I need your help.”

“Of course. I’ll call right away.”

“Thanks.” Carla clung to the dead man’s phone with both hands, reluctant to hang up. Sirens sounded in the background.

“There’s the fire truck,” said the woman. “Will you be okay?”

“I’m not sure,” said Carla. “I really don’t know.”

When she hung up, the night seemed darker than before, the headlights dimmer. The wheels of the upended car were still spinning, slowly.

If she could find the dead woman’s phone, she could use it to try 911 again, but it wouldn’t work. Nobody would come. Nobody would help. She was alone. One faint point on the map of chaos.

Carla sat beside the dead man and brushed the hair off his forehead with gentle fingers. His eyes stared. She could close his eyes, but without something to weigh down the eyelids, they’d keep sliding open. When people placed coins over the eyes of the dead, it wasn’t to pay the ferryman, they did it to keep their illusions. A dead person with closed eyes seemed to be sleeping peacefully, even if their jaw was gaping. A dead person with open eyes wasn’t a person. It was a thing.

She found two pebbles, cold and smooth. She closed the man’s eyes and gently placed them on his eyelids.

A shadow moved through the trees. The dog was back, likely attracted by the scent of blood. Carla climbed to her feet, stiff and awkward, and put her body between the dog and the car. She clapped her hands.

“Go away,” she yelled. “Get out of here.”

She threw a rock at the dog. Bad aim. Its head swiveled on a long neck, then another head, and another. Not one dog, but three, though only one body was visible. And not like any kind of animal she’d ever seen. Flat heads, eyes nearly level with their noses. Wide grinning mouths and impossibly sharp ears.

Carla put the dead man’s phone in her pocket. She raked both hands though the gravel. Then her phone rang. She flung the gravel at the dogs and snatched at the phone.

“Hello,” she yelled.

“Is this 911?” An elderly man.

“No.” All these people thought she could help them; she could almost laugh. “What’s your problem?”

“I seem to be trapped. In my apartment. It’s been days and days and nobody’s come. I’ve been waiting.”

His voice had the light, childish cadence of dementia. Carla had heard it many times. It could be frustrating to deal with, but Carla always made an effort to be patient. And right now, it felt good to talk to someone.

“That sounds really awful,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

“To go. I’m waiting to go.”

“Go where?”

“The place you’re supposed to go, when you’re dead.”

“Oh,” she said. She expected him to say he was waiting for his mother to pick him up from school, or for some long-dead spouse to take him home. Dementia patients were usually anxious to go somewhere, desperate for someone to deliver them from disorder. But he didn’t sound disordered. He sounded nice.

“I was hoping you’d tell me what I’m supposed to do,” he said.

The dog walked toward her, heads low, crouching as if stalking her. It still looked like one dog with three heads. But that couldn’t be, could it?

“I’m sorry,” Carla said. “I’m not sure how I can help.”

“If you can’t, who will?”

Family, usually. It almost always fell to family members. Even if a client got three home care visits per day, it was never enough. Family had to pick up the slack. Who else?

“You haven’t been living alone, have you?” she asked. “Do you have someone caring for you?”

“Oh, yes, I did, until I died. And now there’s nobody. What do you think I should do?”

Call 911, Carla thought. The ultimate answer, the last-ditch option—call 911 and beg for help. Wasn’t that what she’d been trying to do for hours, find someone, anyone to help her? Someone who couldn’t deny her, put her off. And everyone she’d talked to, they wanted the same.

“If you’re dead,” Carla said slowly, “I think you should get into bed, cover yourself up warm and cozy, and remember all the good things in your life. Try to go to sleep.”

The dog was belly-crawling toward her now. Snaky necks extending from one thick-muscled torso, tongues lolling.

“I can do that,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Carla slid the phone into her pocket and reached out to pet the dog. Those protrusions on either side of the heads weren’t ears after all, but horns, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Good boy,” she said. “Good dog.”

She sat in the dirt and weeds of the median with the dog’s heads in her lap. Its ears were wizened carbuncles, tortured masses of scar tissue. Carla caressed them gently with both hands and the dog’s eyes narrowed. It kicked up one hind foot to show her its belly.

Her phone rang. She kept one hand on the dog as she answered it.

“911,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“Median” copyright © 2024 by Kelly Robson
Art copyright © 2024 by Elijah Boor

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Median

Kelly Robson

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Median

Kelly Robson

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Original Fiction Cyberpunk

A Well-Fed Companion

In a future where human souls take the form of animal companions, Hairuo struggles to keep her cat fed on the tedium of her day-to-day, until she meets an enigmatic…

Illustrated by Park Inju

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Edited by Ruoxi Chen, Lindsey Hall

By Congyun “Mu Ming” Gu, Kiera Johnson, translator

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Published on March 20, 2024

1

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In a future where human souls take the form of animal companions, Hairuo struggles to keep her cat fed on the tedium of her day-to-day, until she meets an enigmatic stranger who has a well-fed cat…and an appetite of his own.

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;

and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,

inside the golden amber of her eyeballs

suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

—Rilke, “Black Cat”^[1]

Hairuo was the only person in the neighbourhood who had a cat.

Every morning, she woke to the roar of the hair dryer. Hairuo’s roommate liked her hair fluffy to match her toy poodle, so she had to wash and style it every day. Hairuo preferred to spend an extra thirty minutes in bed, doing nothing but staring up at the ceiling, imagining its rough, uneven lines as mountain ranges. The hair dryer droned on—she pictured herself on the wings of an airplane about to take off, overlooking the world turned upside down. Shadows of trees outside the window moved across the ceiling like giant birds soaring over the landscape. Could someone’s soul fly like that?

She let her hand hang off the side of the bed to stroke her cat. Her companion, her little soul.

The cat lay underneath the bed, only the white tip of his tail peeking out as it swept impatiently from side to side. She knew he didn’t like the noise. They were always at their most distant from each other in the mornings, kept apart by the incessant drone of the hair dryer, the increasingly dazzling sunlight, and irrepressible feelings of hunger and anxiety. He hid in the dark and folded up his slender mouse-like tail.

Hairuo got up, dressed slowly, and plucked a strand of black cat hair from her white sleeve. It felt thick and stiff, and she hesitated for a moment before throwing it away. The cat had a small frame, but he had been losing a lot of fur recently and appeared all the more fragile for it. He wasn’t eating well. Cats were picky eaters, she knew that, but that didn’t mean she could just let him starve. Nor could she rightly feed him nothing but bland, tasteless food, even though she herself only ate the bento box lunches from the convenience store downstairs: neat, uniform meatballs rolled on an assembly line and small cubes of diced carrot, day after day.

Hairuo’s roommate stuck her head out from the bathroom, her hair bound up in rollers. Her poodle lay on his back, his tongue lolling happily from his mouth, his tiny eyes concealed by curly fur. As Hairuo’s roommate began to loosen the rollers, she eyed Hairuo’s dishevelled hair and pallid face through the mirror with an impatient expression.

“You know, having a cat isn’t an excuse not to make an effort—”

“Goodbye,” said Hairuo. She thought she heard the cat snarl quietly from the darkness below her bed.

Few people were still on the street by the time Hairuo headed out the door. A man with a bulging backpack, towing a short-legged, long-bodied sausage dog, passed her as he staggered towards the bus stop. She recognised him as another resident of their building. He’d once pressed a sweat-soaked sports game ticket into her hand, making her palm grow so sticky that she’d hardly been able to disguise her laugh. Afterwards, she’d seen him talking with her roommate by the neighbourhood’s raised flowerbeds, sausage dog and poodle sniffing one another from head to tail; their cautious politeness had seemed on the verge of blossoming into warmth at any moment. Hairuo had left in a hurry.

Her cat didn’t go to work with her like other people’s dogs did; he stayed home alone instead. Even though “home” was a crowded shared apartment, it was the only place that was dark, quiet, free enough to suit him. He needed plenty of rest, far more than Hairuo herself. While he napped in his cat bed at home, she stared at the files and drafts on her computer screen and felt her mind drifting far away. Only the sound of her manager’s footsteps walking back and forth could jolt her awake again. The manager’s boxer dog always followed behind him, her thick shoulder blades rolling beneath her sleek fur as she went. Every time the two of them went past, Hairuo felt glad that her cat didn’t have to come face-to-face with a dog like that.

She forced her attention back to her work, putting the cat out of mind for the time being, and resumed tapping away at her virtual keyboard. Dogs lay peacefully beneath desks around the office; there was complete silence apart from the quiet rustle of their fur being stroked. Hairuo’s seat was the only one with nothing beneath it.

In the winter of the year 1900, eighteen-year-old Emmy Noether and her rare snow leopard were admitted into the University of Erlangen—

In the winter of the year 1900, eighteen-year-old Emmy Noether and her rare snow leopard didn’t sit in the front row in class. She was never sure whether she or her snow leopard were the greater curiosity for her male classmates. But she was already no stranger to standing out from the crowd—

In the winter of the year 1900, eighteen-year-old Emmy Noether listened to lectures by Hilbert, Klein, Minkowski, and other master mathematicians in Göttingen, but she was at her freest when she let her rare snow leopard roam through Bavaria’s Black Forest. Ravens and albatrosses circled high up in the sky above, and Emmy watched as they became black spots in the distance. From their perspective, the rivers, fields, and villages were as minute and abstract as a chessboard. As day after day passed in careful study for Emmy, her snow leopard gradually shed his spots to become a dazzling white. The purest alpine snowfield on Earth—the snow leopard’s native state.

Hairuo paused the tapping of her fingertips on the screen and gazed out of the bus window, picturing the snow leopard in her mind’s eye. It was a rainy evening, and the drizzle painted rivulets of indigo and pitch black down the window like a hasty watercolour. She saw her own face half-illuminated in the wash, her lips dark and eyeliner smudged as if by the rain. She reached out a hand to draw a pattern in the condensation on the window, then turned her head, gently pressed the Enter key, and ended the paragraph. The story had begun as a nerve impulse in her brain, but typed out it transformed into pulsing computer bytes that flowed into the external hard drive installed behind her ear. The hard drive was designed to look like a delicate hair clip, the tip of which was implanted deep into her skull, leaving only the old-fashioned amber outer shell exposed beneath her hair.

In her imagination, the snow leopard was Emmy Noether’s soul, its agility and beauty visible for everyone to see. But exceptional beauty was often more frightening, more abhorrent, than ordinary ugliness; only a bird flying high enough would pay it no mind. Companions could grow, the colour of their fur could change, Hairuo thought, but a snow leopard was a snow leopard, and a cat could not become a dog.

Emmy Noether fed her snow leopard the purest of thoughts, and so his black spots disappeared completely. Hairuo kept trying to come up with a good ending for her story. She thought of her little cat—what was there for him to eat from her ordinary life? What could he grow to become?

Hairuo’s gaze drifted, then focused once again. The inside of the bus was dimly lit; the man and dog sitting beside her both looked drowsy, and the man almost bumped into Hairuo’s shoulder as the bus rocked and swayed, while his husky companion rested her head on her owner’s polished leather shoes. The dog was beautiful, just like her owner, but Hairuo would never be a dog person.

She jumped off the bus, opened her umbrella, and splashed her way through a vast puddle. The cat that often roamed around the street corners was nowhere to be seen today. Her heart stuttered for a moment, echoing the rain falling to the ground, and she hoped that it was just hiding from the weather somewhere.

Hairuo had once tried to imagine what that cat’s owner might look like. The cat was white with a circle of black fur on the top of its head like a woollen hat—it should’ve looked amusing, but Hairuo had never managed more than a half smile at the sight of it. The cat was thin enough for its ribs to show. She had no way to feed it, so she’d taken photos and put them online, hoping its owner would see them and show up, but nothing had come of it. Not many people had cats.

Hairuo was well aware that people who had lost their companions might already be long gone. Dogs could barely survive on their own for any length of time. Cats were used to spending time alone, wandering around, hiding, almost completely independent from anyone or any community, but they were still companions in the end.

Hairuo waited in the pitter-patter of the rain until twilight gradually thickened into night and the splashing puddles grew still. She returned home beneath flickering streetlights. Vague sounds of laughter could be heard from her roommate’s bedroom, but Hairuo couldn’t tell whether the laughter was real or canned, coming from her roommate’s favourite show. Hairuo had watched it before too: the host had a Saint Bernard companion that weighed a hundred kilogrammes. Every sentence the host said produced massive reactions from the audience, and everyone repeated his jokes endlessly the following day. When the show first started airing, his Saint Bernard had been a tiny puppy, but over time she transformed into that honey-and-milk-coloured mountain of a dog in the broadcasting studio today.

Dogs got their energy from joining packs, chasing and sharing the spoils of their catch. But cats were not the same.

Hairuo walked into her room and kept the lights off as she felt about in the dark. Her fingertips hit the touch point on the hard drive. Faint light glowed beneath her hair, then followed the lines of her cheeks to shine on her arms as it flowed down and away. Fifteen hours of visual data, sixteen hours of auditory data, twenty-four hours of consciousness and subconsciousness—the amount of information flowing out seemed immense, but there was little real nourishment to be found beneath the redundant noise of clichés and empty phrases.

The cat squeezed silently into his half-moon bed. In the flickering rays of light, Hairuo couldn’t see how well he was eating; she just hoped that he might grow a little bigger. He should enjoy the story about Emmy Noether, but she wasn’t sure how he would take the disappearance of the stray cat from the street corner.

Cats’ stomachs were far more sensitive than dogs’.

The fluorescent light faded. The cat slipped soundlessly out of his bed and gazed back at her; in the darkness, his eyes shone like stars. She reached out a hand and he began to lick her palm, his tiny tongue rough, damp, warm. This didn’t happen often. With a jolt, she realised she had been longing for it.

Hairuo would always remember the day the cat came. Her whole class lined up in the corridor, waiting their turn for their companions to take shape. Hairuo was the last person in line. The sky was a strange, reddish-orange colour, like the surface of Mars, and she watched the white poplar trees on the sports field shiver in the dusty air. It was April. She didn’t join in with her classmates’ enthusiastic whispered discussions. Lots of them wanted Great Danes or English mastiffs—they grew quickly so long as they had enough to eat—while others wanted poodles or Chihuahuas, which were energetic despite their small size, and not picky eaters to boot.

The first mental imaging scan took twenty-one minutes. Memory networks formed flesh and blood, modes of perception synthesised into skin and fur, thought patterns built the crisp white skeleton, while the fire of life—the beating heart—came from your most deeply held desires, hidden on the lowest level of the neural network. These tiny animals were a part of people, but they were lifelong companions too; they swallowed everything you saw, heard, and thought, and grew into forms that flesh-and-blood human bodies had no way to contain.

Why couldn’t companions be trees? That way she wouldn’t have to feed it. But when Hairuo saw that ingenious skeleton gradually take shape, sharp nails retreating into paws and a tiny tortoiseshell kitten appearing before her eyes, she never wished for a tree again.

Hi, little monster. She reached out to stroke his mottled yellow-black tail.

The cat retreated and swiped; his thin claws left three shallow lines down her arm. It took three weeks for this welcome gift to fade away.

Cats can be easy to look after, but they come with their challenges too, Hairuo’s class teacher told her, begrudging the effort; he’d never liked her much. There were always a few students in each year group who had cats, but hers was just so small . . .

She couldn’t remember what else the teacher had said to her, but she’d skipped class the next day and stayed in her dormitory instead, lost in thought. The cat lay on his stomach on the windowsill and watched the packs of dogs out on the sports field. They were playing Frisbee. Occasionally she raised her head and the cat’s ears would twitch slightly, but he never turned to look back at her.

All of a sudden, he hiccoughed repeatedly, one after another, then spat out a ball of sticky yellow bile. Hairuo was terrified at first; she didn’t learn until later that it wasn’t unusual for a cat to throw up like this sometimes. She went straight out the following day to have that amber-coloured hard drive embedded in her skull, where it recorded electrical signals directly at the neuronic level. This type of implanted processor could store massive amounts of information with high spatiotemporal resolution. Hairuo was determined to experience more of the world, put herself out there too, so that she could feed the cat well.

Ten years passed by. She never cut her hair short again; she didn’t want anyone to see the hard drive’s outer shell. But the cat still grew slowly, and her little soul became even more estranged and indifferent than she had believed possible. She’d always thought that he had no hopes of his own and so no disappointments either, that he just wandered like a shadow through his own world—up until that day when she felt the rough warmth of his tongue on her hand.

Companions hadn’t always been animals.

When Hairuo’s parents’ generation had been children, people’s souls appeared as strikingly realistic digital portraits, projected onto screens. The portraits had high resolution surveillance cameras for eyes, circular microphone arrays for ears, and pseudo-stereo speakers for mouths. The most important thing was the heart—the kernel in which deep learning frameworks were processed. It gathered together every carefully composed or hastily scrawled line of writing from its owner, every sentence of speech, and combined these with the ocean of information that could be found online to undergo an individualised modelling process. When soul portraits left the factory, they were little more than blank slates; it was only after interacting with their owners that they began to learn and grow, gradually revealing their innate form.

And so for the first time, a person’s soul—that ancient secret which had long been sealed up in people’s skulls or chests—found a new place to live. By the time Hairuo’s parents’ generation grew up and entered adulthood, more often than not they had to submit their soul portraits’ web address along with their resumes.

But problems followed. The careful deductions of the algorithm often produced portraits that defied expectations. An arrogant person might manifest a timid, self-doubting soul, while a despondent soul might belong to a seemingly optimistic person. A person’s hidden depths, which they themselves had had no way of seeing clearly before, were gradually brought to light with every word they spoke. There was nowhere to hide from the omniscient, grasping hand of the algorithm.

Lots of people demanded this nakedness be covered up again. They said that just as our ancient ancestors used furs to protect their bodies, so too should soul portraits be protected, hidden. But there were even more people who disagreed, saying that in its explorations of the outside world, humanity had already gone too far for too long; our estrangement from the spiritual world grew deeper and deeper every day, bringing with it endless misunderstandings and disputes, all blood and tears and pain. People needed a vehicle, a channel, an interface through which they could externalise the soul, that part of themselves that was both innate since birth and in constant flux.

The final plan was both an escalation and a compromise: the virtual image on a screen shifted into something real and warm. 3D-printed alloy skeletons, lifelike flesh and fur bioengineered with stem cell differentiation technology, as well as a refined positronic brain—together they formed a small animal companion, a dog or a cat. A companion was easier to swallow than a mirror. The real selves that people didn’t want to see, didn’t dare confront directly, were hidden in flesh, concealed by skin and fur. Cautiously extending an animal’s nose, tongue, teeth, or paws towards the world felt more acceptable somehow.

Hairuo’s generation was already well used to these furry souls. Companions were independent and warm, far superior to the ice-cold mechanical nakedness of soul portraits exposed on screens. How many sweethearts fell in love at first sight because their dogs touched noses and sniffed each other’s tails in curiosity at dog parks? Apparently it was easier, less hassle, than online dating. During job interviews, managers’ dogs would sniff out the most dependable and obedient candidates to join the workforce. Performance records improved, and managers always said it was a more reliable method than endless rounds of interviews. But more important than all that, even more people found that there was simply no way to reject their true self anymore: alternately alert and resourceful, powerful and mighty, elegant and adorable; a self that you could snuggle up to and hold tight in your arms when you felt hopeless or frustrated, whose soft fur you could bury your face in; a self that would always stand by you. Cases of clinical depression and even suicide rates fell sharply after companions came onto the scene. After all, how could anyone truly not like this little self of theirs?

Stories abounded about dog companions saving humanity. There were far fewer stories about cats. Not many people had cats.

Hairuo’s workplace was half the city away. She could never think of the right metaphor to best describe the building, with its glass curtain walls and lights that never went out. From the vantage point of the offices high up inside, she could look down on the neat skeleton outline of the paths in the park below. Small patches of grass were set between the paths, following the standard configuration for every business district, neighbourhood, and street—dog parks. The green spaces were particularly busy after lunch, when dogs chased each other across the grass while their people chatted beside the paths. Hairuo had never been down there before. She couldn’t understand all the fuss over a ball being thrown. She chewed slowly at her desk, used her chopsticks to quietly pick out the dog treat that came free with her bento box, and threw it away.

Hairuo’s daily tasks involved dragging a few lines, buttons, and boxes around her screen, arranging them in certain forms, and then annotating the distance in pixels between the lines and buttons. A one-pixel difference might make her eyelids twitch, but a discrepancy of three pixels was enough to prompt her manager to come over and knock sharply on her desk. In her early days at this job, Hairuo had wanted to argue with him, but she’d given up at the first sight of that boxer dog panting hotly and trailing strings of saliva. She could only ever nod and give the manager a faint, distant smile to show she understood.

Dogs developed relationships by sniffing or chasing each other, but Hairuo had a cat. Cats breathed lightly, walked quietly; they hid instinctually from coarse, panting things. Distance was her armour, polite smiles her mask. She knew she was the problem here, so she tried not to complain too much.

Hairuo had studied digital art and design at university, and found this job right after graduation. Sometimes she wondered whether it was really the right fit for her, but she quickly realised there was no sense in thinking like that. One of her university classmates had had a cat too, and after graduating he’d moved into a two-storey studio that lacked all of the personal space and distance which best suited cats. Despite this, when Hairuo had visited once, she’d seen his cream-coloured Ragdoll cat asleep and perfectly happy on a soft cushion in the corner of the room. Behind his cat was a three-dimensional virtual art space, built between two workstations and three projectors, within which rays of light changed colour endlessly to form images of rivers, waterfalls, forests, and gardens that responded to and resonated with the viewer’s presence. Hairuo’s classmate said that hesitation, exploration, and discovery were the inspirations for his work; that in the modern age, it didn’t matter whether you were talking about modes of creative expression or humanity’s aesthetic experiences—neither could be limited any longer to two-dimensional surfaces. The Ragdoll cat had woken up then and strolled gracefully through the lights and shadows, the fur on her large frame soft and fluffy, and her blue eyes had gazed tenderly at Hairuo.

Hairuo thought of her own little tortoiseshell cat at home.

She had realised early on that for an ordinary person such as herself, coming from an ordinary family and working at an ordinary job, a cat was a debt that could never be repaid, a soul hungry for something she didn’t have to give. There was nothing from her daily commute, nor from the minute distances between pixels, that she could use to feed him. Compared with that plump Ragdoll cat, Hairuo’s cat was too small, too thin. She never knew when he might disappear on her. She had to fill herself up with as much as possible, so that she could try to feed him well.

But her life was suspended between her shared apartment and her job, so insubstantial that one gust of wind could blow it all away. And so around her ten-hour working day, she carved out time to wade through ancient texts, navigating the weft and weave of unfamiliar words during her lunch break and commute. The complex visual appearance of contemporary art made the written word appear simple and one-dimensional by comparison, long since outdated. The only advantages of written texts lay in their portability and low cost.

However, while readily available information was more than enough to excite dogs, her cat was far more sensitive, more selective. The most popular writing could make him vomit incessantly; long-forgotten things were more to his taste. Hairuo had no choice but to constantly unearth old stories, and probe deep into her own mind as well. Many nights, her dreams would needle her awake with a painful start, trembling, to type out line after line of a story in a daze, fingers uncertain, the hard drive’s lights flashing beneath her hair, and in the darkness he would watch her silently.

In 1925, after the lighthouse keeper Clarence Salter died, his wife, Fannie Salter—

In 1925, following the death of the lighthouse keeper Clarence Salter and after many hard-won fights, Fannie Salter was finally allowed to continue watching over her husband’s lighthouse on her own. It was one of forty-five lighthouses in Virginia. Fannie had grown up in a fishing village by the sea, so she was no stranger to the winding coastline or the white tower standing tall on the cliff’s edge.

A pilot whale kept her company in the waters nearby, and when the weather was good, sailors could catch a glimpse of its dorsal fin amongst the waves. On nights thick with fog, Fannie first climbed the stone steps up to the lighthouse, and then the iron steps leading straight to the control room, where she lit the oil lamps. From her little lighthouse keeper’s cabin, Fannie had a direct view of the light on the tower’s top floor; she woke every two hours to look out the window and make sure that the lamps had not stopped burning. In even worse weather, she would ring a fog bell every fifteen seconds for a whole hour straight, until all the steamboats had passed safely through the channel. People said that the tolling of the bell sounded like a whale’s mournful moan.

Pilot whales preferred to live in groups, but Fannie worked alone at the lighthouse for twenty-two years. No one knew how she passed the long years in the face of that boundless, unchanging ocean, nor how she fed her lonely pilot whale. After her death, people discovered everything she had written in the lighthouse keeper’s cabin, describing everything from her first meeting with Clarence Salter in the greenness of youth right up to his departure from this world. Once one-hundred-watt light bulbs replaced the work of lighthouse keepers, no companion ever took the shape of a pilot whale again.

Fannie Salter raised a whale in a lighthouse. Hairuo paused her typing and lay back on the bed; the lines on the ceiling above her became the waves of the North Atlantic ocean.

Twenty-five years’ worth of memories, digested across another twenty-five years. Hairuo imagined the whale waiting quietly in the gloomy ocean depths, countless tiny food particles floating around him like shoals of fish. What kind of life could be rich enough to keep him well-fed? Fannie hadn’t read many books, nor had she ever gone far from the sea coast where she’d grown up, but she’d still found a way to feed her whale.

Hairuo stroked the cat’s ears. He lay nestled by her side, curled up in a ball and looking even smaller than usual. Her stories of distant places combined fact and fiction in equal measure: she had never heard of anyone who had a whale or a snow leopard for a companion. She created stories of her own invention and fed the cat with them, but he still grew so slowly.

She knew why. Her life was so dry, so atrophied—her imagination tried to paint masterpieces but managed only simple sketches. But with the cat by her side, she could feel the warmth of his body and the gradual strengthening of his heartbeats as they drummed in his chest. He didn’t often come so close to her.

She tossed and turned in the dark as if a rough tongue lapped at her heart. Little by little she slipped into a dream and saw a boundless, open sky above surging ocean waves. The urge was undeniable. She jumped. The ocean was warm, like flesh and fur—a warmth she hadn’t felt for a long time. When she woke up, the cat was lying in the crook of her arm.

She thought she knew then what he needed.

She noticed him from the very first day he came into the office. A grey linen shirt, slender fingers, bitingly cold eyes, and a mouth whose corners curled into something that was not quite a smile. The afternoon sun was dazzling; one by one, others in the office lowered their window blinds, while he alone closed his eyes, tilted his head back to let the light play across his face, and held that position, motionless, for a long time. Hairuo was no stranger to drifting off like that, and the arch of his back in the rays of sunlight held a familiar curve as well. She found herself imagining how his pupils would look in the light.

And he didn’t have a dog.

After lunch, he and Hairuo were the only people left in the office. She’d wanted to take advantage of the lunch break to have a read through of her drafts, but even as her fingers slid over the tablet screen, her eyes wouldn’t focus. She heard her breath come heavy from the pit of her stomach, completely unlike her usual self.

“You’re not going on a dog walk?” She forced herself to open her mouth, then regretted it an instant later. The obviousness of that fact and her self-consciousness were both clear to see.

“It’s awful.” He frowned. “Don’t you think?”

Hairuo nodded, indescribably pleased. Although companions took animal form, they were still your purest self. Data and patterns of connection, the alloy skeletons printed from them, the positronic brain: they were all so much more real than flesh-and-blood bodies, revealed more of your innate nature. So why didn’t anyone else think it terrible, then, to expose their naked souls to one another, to let them chase and play together? She couldn’t stand it. Cats needed quiet, rest, concealment.

“You like reading?” He lifted his chin slightly. She shut the cover over her tablet on pure instinct. The ochre cover was blank, no text or images on its surface; if it weren’t for the thinness of the tablet, it would look exactly like an old hardback book without its dust jacket. The world inside there was more real to her than anything else in the office—it was what she used to feed her cat.

But she couldn’t help herself; she wanted to let him see. Just a little would be okay.

“I . . . write sometimes, nothing serious.”

He nodded. She waited for what felt like an age.

“I heard that on Leo Tolstoy’s last day alive, he wanted to squeeze an elephant onto a train and run away.” He spoke as if it were an undeniable historical fact. “The eighty-year-old man left home in secret. He even wore a crumpled straw hat to disguise himself, but his elephant companion gave him away. Later, when he lay on his deathbed in the stationmaster’s office, reporters from all over the world came to the train station, bringing their dogs with them, and in amongst the hordes circled around to watch, there stood that elephant. Can you imagine it? An elephant.” He winked at her, creasing the lines at the corners of his eyes.

His stories were long, detailed, ever-unfolding. Tolstoy’s elephant was no more than a ball of string that he tossed towards Hairuo, and she followed that string into a forest labyrinth full of rare birds and beasts, gasping in surprise as she went; she fell further under his spell with each step she took. In his world, her laughter echoed, her tears overflowed. His stories were like suspension bridges strung up in the treetops of some primaeval rainforest, whisking reason and emotion along for the ride as they hovered in complex time and space, sometimes plunging down into the abyss and other times climbing up to mountain peaks. The centrifugal force raging in Hairuo’s mind almost made her want to abandon reading altogether, but her whole being was like some pitiful asteroid, easily caught and engulfed by the star-like gravitational pull of his words.

Unlike the contemporary art installation she’d once wandered through, ancient words were more intimately tied to the human imagination, penetrated deeper into the self. He said that was human nature. He held forth on primitive languages appearing by chance tens of thousands of years ago, Chomsky and Pinker’s universal grammar, how written language had arisen from the coordinated evolution of the human mind. As humanity evolved from one generation to another, those who could manipulate language to suit their needs held the evolutionary high ground; their superiority was assured by their grasp of language. This was true even now, when people were so occupied by contemporary art. The deepest recesses of the soul, he told her, were still captured, transformed, remoulded in the symbols of written language.

A creator’s soul lived in their works. By then, she was already captivated by the souls in his stories, which always took shape as strange animals—the insatiable Wan Qi who survived on a diet of other people’s dreams, or the headstrong, obstinate Taowu. Hairuo saw shadows flickering amongst them, almost familiar somehow, and she wanted to draw closer, pick out his soul from their midst, but it always slipped from her grasp.

If his words were really just crude fragments of his soul, then how could he feed his cat with them alone? What nourishment could be found from them? His life was no less ordinary and repetitive than Hairuo’s; perhaps he was simply more gifted than her.

She couldn’t help herself. She wanted to get closer to him, but he kept his distance. She knew that civil distance well, the rigidity behind polite smiles. She’d been like that once as well, but she didn’t want it this time. She’d already wandered alone for far, far too long. Cats might dread the noisiness of a pack of dogs, but they could still wish for another cat’s company as they paced their solitary way through the long nights.

Hairuo began to swap manuscripts with him. She was anxious, hesitant at first: her stories were so much weaker, flimsier than his. But more important, she was afraid that he might be able to read the vague longings hidden between the lines. He’d once said that cats cannot be fed false things. Every faint tremble, every minute touch, every painful nightmare or moment of reality—these were where a cat’s real nourishment lay.

“You have to have the courage to walk naked in the street, let everyone see you. Only then can you feed a cat properly,” he said, leaning against the window.

“And that’s . . . different from dogs? They’ll eat anything.” She gazed out the window to the grass where dogs ran in happy circles around their people. One dog bowed its golden forelegs tamely towards the ground, its enormous hind legs sticking up into the air, making the people around burst out laughing. Its owner stretched out a hand and the dog immediately began licking it, over and over. Hairuo knew there must be light information chips in the owner’s hand, which could be collected by content merchants, dried out, compressed, cut up, and packaged into a soluble storage medium—neat, clean, and portable. The chips only needed to touch the contact points on the dog’s tongue to be converted into delicious electrical signals, which rapidly adjusted the cell composition and metal skeleton of the dog’s artificial body. The dog would grow bigger and bigger, and its owner wouldn’t even have to work for it.

“That’s why even big dogs are easily tamed, but the same tricks don’t work on cats.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, revealing traces of smile lines, “Ironically, dog food makers often have cats themselves.”

“What do you think having a cat for a companion really represents? Aesthetic taste, observation skills, imagination, creativity, or—?” Hairuo couldn’t stop herself from leaning towards him.

“All of that, but also none of that.” He wasn’t evading her question; his sudden turn to face her made her jump, was all. “I’m impressed you can already think about this.”

“So what do you say, then?” For the first time, she mustered up enough courage to look him directly in the eye, hoping to find some kind of answer there, but his pupils were pitch-black and impenetrable. She couldn’t see anything in them.

“Freedom, independence, as well as . . .” He met her gaze, and a sudden smile spread across his face, “How would I know? No one knows. They’re our lifelong companions, the externalisation of our truest selves, and that fact alone demands that we spend forever in exploration, trying to understand them. For the vast majority of the time, we’re solitary creatures, but occasionally there’ll be a moment of companionship.”

Hairuo’s heart thundered in her chest. This tenderness frightened her the most, suddenly breaking through his distant facade as if he could see right through her. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to prepare herself for it.

“I like your stories.” He took her hand and her mind became a blank slate; she didn’t hear a single word he said next.

“. . . remind me of my younger self. Pure and unique . . . delicious.”

“That day—you were just teasing me. You knew that companions didn’t exist in the past.” Hairuo couldn’t hold back a slight smile as she fiddled with the roasted chicken wings on her plate: she was a terrible cook and had wasted several packs of wings before getting these ones just right. “Nerve signal data extraction, signal processing, modelling, shaping: the technology for making animal companions is only around twenty years old.”

“You can’t say that for sure.” He feigned seriousness. “Maybe Ovid’s Metamorphoses isn’t just a simple book of legends; maybe it’s actually an accurate record of the existence of companions. The practice of killing cats during mediaeval witch hunts also clearly points to the fact that human souls can appear in nonhuman forms. Let alone the ones in novels—familiars, guardian spirits, vessels for the soul . . .”

“They all count as companions?” She let out a light laugh. “I didn’t expect you to still read children’s fantasy books.” They’d been officially dating for a month now, and she’d already lost her reserve from when they’d first met.

“They’re the things that really matter,” he said indifferently, peeling meat precisely off the bone with his knife and fork.

Her heart gave a faint shiver; as usual, she understood his meaning without needing words. Those guardian spirits, strange creatures—once constant childhood companions, up until the moment when modern science had disenchanted the ancient, chaotic world four hundred years ago with its ice-cold mechanical touch. As humans interacted with this new world, those spirits—intangible yet all too real—gradually faded to transparency; it was only through the written word that you could catch a fleeting glimpse of their long-forgotten truths. The things that really matter. In her stories, Hairuo used fact as the warp and imagination as the weft, weaving together each and every fragment of them, trying to capture a little of that which had been lost.

“So, why do you think there are only dogs and cats?” she asked softly, hoping he would say how unusual, how precious it was that the pair of them had found each other.

“Probably out of some kind of nostalgia.” He thought for a moment, then lifted his glass and moistened his lips with red wine. “Millions of years ago, humans explored the outside world together with newly domesticated animals. But it’s more complicated now—exploring the outside world, your inner world, moving endlessly from outside to inside and back out again—there’s so many detours to take . . .”

“Oh,” Hairuo sighed, setting her fork down. She took his hand gently, and he stiffened for a moment, then let her. She thought she followed his line of thinking, understood that he cared about far more than just the similarities between the two of them. Just like everyone with a cat companion, Hairuo also cared about those impulses, beliefs, dreams, and experiences that were so personal it was difficult to share them with others. Those faint, profound traces left behind by unknown ancestors in ancient symbols, moulding the self and the recognisable world. The souls that returned to people’s sides in completely new ways.

Yet Hairuo wished that for him, she could be like a dog whose tail wagged whenever she saw him—but when he was immersed in his own world he forgot her entirely.

He was even more cat-like than she was, Hairuo had come to realise. Her cat still hid in his bed, only sticking his head out to look around: a little curious, a little fearful of strangers. She hadn’t written any stories for a long time now, but the cat had grown bigger anyway, his mouse-like tail becoming thicker, rounder, fluffier. Was she afraid?

“I can’t eat any more.” He set down his knife and fork. “Next time, come to my place, and bring your cat.”

What she really wanted to remember was every touch, every breath, every kiss. What she wanted to forget was time itself. But all that was left in the end was a pain like new birth.

His cat was twice the size of hers, an ash grey, long-haired Norwegian forest cat with a swiftly moving gaze just like his own, who gave a low growl at the first sight of Hairuo’s cat, and then howled. Hairuo had no idea what to do; he didn’t say a word. His big cat closed in on her little cat step by step, but just as Hairuo was about to rush in between them, he stopped her.

“Cats have their own ways of getting along.” He glanced meaningfully at her.

She could only bite her lip and try to stifle her anxiety. Her little cat trembled in the shadows, not making a sound—then the large cat brandished a paw, and her little cat suddenly flashed his own claws.

A blood-curdling yowl. A deep scratch split open across the large cat’s face, starting at the corner of her eye and slashing downwards. He cried out, seemingly involuntarily, losing himself, and turned to look at Hairuo with an unfathomable glint in his eye.

“It was an accident—” she explained hurriedly, her mind dark with fear. But then the large cat snarled loudly, seized the little cat’s nape in her mouth and flung him against the sharp corner of the coffee table.

Hairuo screamed and rushed over to pick up her little cat. Her mind was in utter chaos. What frightened her the most—herself or him?

“He won’t die.” He had regained his composure and his indifference. “Cats have more lives than you or I, you know that they can survive anything. But I never expected—you seemed . . .” He paused, as if there were something else he wanted to add, but he stopped there.

She couldn’t speak. Hairuo carried her little cat into the bathroom, his scalp torn and gaping. Although companions were man-made, their skin was still textured like a real animal’s, and she was helpless in her panic at the sight of her cat’s mangled head. She knew he couldn’t die, but she ransacked the bathroom in search of bandages and cotton buds anyway. She tore open the drawers one after another and then, suddenly, stumbled across the terrible sight of tiny scraps of fur, cut into neat two-inch squares: orange, tortoiseshell, and tabby.

“What are you doing? Stop worrying about the cat. Come here.” Impatience leaked into his languid voice. Her hair stood on end, like a cat with its hackles raised. The truth was easy to see, but she had been lost in her ignorance, a dog pointlessly chasing her own tail, when she should have been keeping her distance, scrutinising him, thinking for herself.

“Come here.” His footsteps gradually grew closer. She closed the drawer in a hurry. Her cat was motionless in her embrace, as if tensed to leap away from her at any moment. Her mouth was dry—what was she meant to do now?

She let him pull her back into the room. She felt almost on the verge of collapse, and yet, as bewildered as she was, somehow in spite of everything, a kind of excitement was flooding her mind. He didn’t know that she had discovered the truth. As soon as he found out, she knew he would withdraw, and once withdrawn, he would bide his time to strike. She had a predator’s instincts after all, untamed by anything.

Fingers held back her pulse, breath ghosted over skin. Lost in these subtle sensations, her consciousness peeled away like clothing from her body and fell into her cat. Opening her eyes wide, she saw every speck of light within the gloomy room; with a twitch of her nose she differentiated all of the strange smells permeating the air; not a single subtle sound escaped unnoticed past her swivelling ears. Every inch of her senses stretched out to their fullest, every drop of perception flowed into a powerful current. Boundless, open, a warm ocean embraced her, her body unfurled almost to the point of total oblivion—until her cat nipped lightly at her fingertips.

Her head cleared in an instant. She watched him narrow his eyes slightly, and the shadow of his eyelashes fell on his face in a picture of pure, unaffected innocence. The fabric of her consciousness folded back into her body, and as she dressed she slowly drew closer to whisper in his ear.

“What on earth do you feed her? She’s grown so big.”

“The words of the sages, the tremors of the soul, crystals and flames . . .” he murmured, and for a split second she thought she’d misunderstood him.

He was telling her the truth, but that was also his bait, wasn’t it?

There was something innately euphoric in the act of killing. Underneath the hidden neural networks, the fire of life arose from the oldest and cruellest of desires. He had grasped much earlier than she had the truth that lay beneath cats’ indifferent appearances.

“And what about… other cats?” she asked in a low voice, and, ignoring the sudden freezing of his expression, held her little cat close as she rushed out the door.

Both of their bodies ached dully, but some secret part of her was glad that he’d underestimated her after all.

He’d taught her a lesson.

It wasn’t too late.

She still saw him around the office. The two of them maintained a polite distance, pretended nothing had happened, and it turned out to be not too difficult for them. The thing that changed was that Hairuo began to go for runs around the park during her lunch breaks: that way, she wouldn’t have to be alone with him.

She didn’t share manuscripts with him anymore. She vaguely understood the secret source of his astonishing works now. It was far too dangerous for cats to expose themselves to the outside world: she had almost become his next offering, vanished into his words, his rich themes, narrative forms, subplots, and paragraphs, dissolved into the spaces between flesh and bone in that grim, captivating Norwegian forest cat. Inside her little cat’s positronic brain were soft layers of information—her known and unknown self. Just a few seconds of contact with the touch point would have been enough time to complete the transmission. Her fear lingered for a long time afterwards.

But there were unexpected rewards as well. After those first few nights when her tears had fallen uncontrollably, she finally discovered that her cat had fully doubled in size. Lying on the bed now, he no longer looked mouse-like and frail. She hadn’t expected him to enjoy the taste of pain. And for someone like her, a living shadow held apart from the people around her, the only thing that could cause real pain would be another cat.

Did she miss it? Or regret it? She didn’t know. Two souls could understand each other for a short time, but two hunters could not coexist for long.

That she had escaped at all was lucky enough. Cats were destined to be solitary.

A few injuries were to be expected.

After she handed in her resignation, Hairuo changed all of her contact details and moved to another city, where she lived alone and began to write stories again. She not only wrote in shorthand notebooks now, but also posted her work online. Nor did she write nothing but lonely, lifeless stories anymore; the scope of her work grew ever vaster, unconstrained. She wrote about how Madame de Pompadour’s rose-coloured mare ruled over the stables of Louis XV, wrote about how Simone de Beauvoir’s ring-necked pheasant flaunted his tail feathers when the two of them mixed with the men in the Café de Flore. She kept reading, not just novels and biographies but myths and legends too, philosophy books, theories of evolution and histories of technological development—the mark of him that still remained.

The stories of the snow leopard and the pilot whale lay dormant in Hairuo’s notebooks still. She could never forget how their few immature paragraphs had been absorbed into her little cat’s flesh and blood.

Hairuo also remembered the elephant, and those other strange animals that had once transfixed her. Later, she found out that behind the elephant stood Tolstoy’s first wife, Sonya, who had transcribed his manuscripts for decades despite the couple’s hatred for each other. Biographers blamed Sonya for the great writer leaving home to die; Tolstoy’s will didn’t mention her even once. The author’s wife lived her whole life without leaving behind a soul taking shape for the world to see. People could only guess at the form it would have taken, but Hairuo wasn’t that person anymore.

She cut her hair short, exposing the amber-coloured hard drive behind her ear and the tip where it embedded into her skull; she was no longer afraid.

Max Weber’s disenchantment had been realised when companions took shape; Heidegger’s poetry unfolded in winding bitstreams. At the endings of her stories, she wrote freedom, freedom: ancient legends reappearing in the world of the living, wandering souls finally returned to their bodies. Her thoughts were rich, flowed from her pen to the paper like the wind. The cat lay beside her on the desk, napping with his paws tucked under himself and his back holding that familiar curve. He’d already grown much heavier, his body now as round as a ball; only his face remained sharp still. The wound on his head, fully healed by now, was almost completely invisible.

Her stories gradually began to gain some traction, and she came to know a few other writers as well, many of whom also had cats. But she never met up with them in person.

One day, Hairuo returned home to her apartment to find a crumpled envelope in her mailbox. Her heart constricted in her chest. Had he tracked her down? The envelope was torn in places, revealing glimpses of what looked like photographs inside.

Trembling with fear, Hairuo opened the envelope, only to let out a sigh of relief when she saw an invitation card with a familiar poodle paw print on its front. It was her old roommate. She was now engaged to the man with the sausage-dog companion, writing to invite Hairuo to come back for their wedding. Hairuo smiled slightly; they hadn’t seen each other for a long time now, but people with dog companions were always so warm-hearted.

Before I forget, someone with a cat came looking for you, have a look at the photos, Hairuo read on the little slip of paper attached to the invitation. Her nerves drew tight again. She’d never told anyone about him.

The photograph was of a man she had never seen before, wearing a woollen hat, and although his expression was somewhat blurred, Hairuo could just about make out a shy smile on his face. In his arms he held the white cat that Hairuo thought had long since disappeared into the rainy night.

On the back of the photograph, he’d written the rather long-winded tale of how he’d lost his cat, seen Hairuo’s post online and found her again, how he’d wanted to pay Hairuo a visit but had hesitated, and so on and so forth. Finally, in a roundabout way, he asked for her contact details, and perhaps—she could even read behind his cautious words—he could bring his cat to come and see her cat.

She shook her head, thinking to toss the photograph into a drawer as she went by. But then she paused. Perhaps. Her cat yawned, extended his claws, and revealed his sharp teeth. She would never be able to forget that day, nor his deft, precise attack; she should have known it from the very first time she saw him.

The scars were faint now, invisible, and desire began to stir. This time, she’d changed.

Of course, you’re welcome to come visit, she wrote in her reply. After all, we both have cats.

“A Well-Fed Companion” copyright © 2024 by Congyun “Mu Ming” Gu, translated by Kiera Johnson
Art copyright © 2024 by Inju Park

^[1] Translated by Stephen Mitchell. Sourced from https://poets.org/poem/black-cat [accessed 3 November 2021].

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A Well-Fed Companion

Congyun “Mu Ming” Gu

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A Well-Fed Companion

Congyun “Mu Ming” Gu

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Original Fiction Epic Fantasy

The River Judge

In this prequel novelette to the critically acclaimed THE WATER OUTLAWS, nine-year-old Li Li is introduced to a web of community secrets and family intrigue when she helps her mother…

Illustrated by Dawn Yang

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Edited by Oliver Dougherty

By S.L. Huang

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Published on March 6, 2024

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In this prequel novelette to the critically acclaimed The Water Outlaws, nine-year-old Li Li is introduced to a web of community secrets and family intrigue when she helps her mother bury the corpse of a man that has somehow wound up in the storeroom of her family’s inn…

The first time Li Li buried a corpse, she was nine years old.

Her father had been shut up inside one of the inn’s private dining rooms all day. At such times it was understood that he was never to be disturbed. The rule had been drilled deep in Li Li since she was a small child—whether she had fallen on the riverbank and matted her hair with blood, or a patron of the inn became belligerent with drink and flung wine in her mother’s face—knocking to interrupt her father was strictly forbidden.

Such times were for business, he always said. Meetings with business associates, planning for the inn’s future. How could Li Li’s mother expect the place to prosper if she did not respect the undisturbed peace needed for such work?

This time, only one other man had joined him. Li Li hadn’t seen the man arrive, but her mother had waited on them with the finest meals and wine, the door always shutting firmly again when she had barely crossed the threshold to leave. Li Li had been ordered to get on with her usual long list of daily chores, gathering the washing and scrubbing dishes and packing out the night soil from the latrine buckets. But some rebellious river current always seemed to draw her into baiting dragons, including tempting her father’s fury.

When she snuck close to listen through the wall this time, however, she couldn’t hear much of interest. Only her father’s voice rising and falling in conversation with the other man’s. Then the two of them laughing together, her father much louder and longer.

She was still listening when everything went silent.

Li Li scurried from the door in apprehension of being caught. Her father’s temper might be the chief concern, but both her parents disliked her tendency to lurk around corners and in shadows. They disliked a great many things about her—she had once eavesdropped on them telling people she was “strange and cold, like a stone” and “not a proper child at all.” After that, she’d sat up on a hill once for half a day, challenging herself to stay perfectly still. It took so much strength that she decided being a stone was a compliment, and had begun testing her muscles with stillness as often as she could. She had always been stocky but small, and the other children in the town tended to be surprised at her strength, when they deigned to notice her.

She had stayed motionless as granite by the door for a long time today, lest a sound give her away. When that sudden silence reverberated so deep and strange, she threw herself back into her chores with an overdone vigor, as if to prove she’d never left them. She had relocated to the kitchen to sweep out the hearth’s charcoal and ash when her father’s silence bloomed into several loud crashes and thumps audible through the entire inn—which after a short time evolved into shouting at her mother.

That, at least, was very normal.

Li Li’s mother kept her voice low, though the front room was empty of patrons this time of the afternoon, especially as travelers through the town had been dribbling off since the new magistrate had arrived. In contrast, Li Li’s father never seemed to worry about potential patrons at all, even when the inn wasn’t empty. None of the guests ever seemed bothered by his taking his house in hand, anyway.

His voice snapped off in furious declarations, vibrating through the walls about how “this isn’t your concern, the inn would have been ruined, it was the only way . . .”

Li Li did what she usually did when her parents argued: she made herself scarce and still. As unnoticed as a shadow on the wall. If this argument followed the customary routine, her father would shout at her mother and then her mother would storm through the inn to find Li Li, raining down cruel digs and extra chores as if passing on a bucket of vitriol that was too hot to hold on to for long.

Li Li knew how to navigate such attacks as little as she knew how to handle her mother’s interleaved spikes of affection or proclamations of her child’s preciousness. In a bid to stay out of sight, she slipped into the back storeroom of the inn, intending to hide out among the earthenware pickling jars and stacked dense heads of winter cabbage.

Until she saw the dead man.

He sat slumped against the great cisterns of wine in the back of the storeroom, his head fallen forward from its own weight. His clothes were finer than any Li Li had seen, his robes spreading in layers of wide, embroidered skirts, and fur-trimmed leather armoring his legs where they stuck out in a stiff sprawl. Crimson stained the luxurious clothes, a shining wetness slowly creeping wider from below the man’s collar and across his chest. More blood dripped from his manicured beard and mustache, leaving a spotted pattern upon his lap.

Li Li was so fascinated she momentarily forgot her parents’ fighting. She had seen a dead body before, of course, but not like this, in rich clothes dumped in the back of a storeroom. She stared for several long moments, watching for the tells she always tried to squash when staying motionless herself. The rise and fall of breath, the twitch of eyelids, the shift of a cramped muscle . . .

No breath moved the man’s lips or chest. His eyes were half-lidded and filmy, and one wrist had folded against the ground at an odd angle. His skin had gone white with a hint of purple, like the inside of a taro root, and the blood was beginning to dry into the color of rust.

Dead. Li Li felt very proud of herself for such a definitive conclusion.

Curious, she crouched down and scooted closer to the body, staying on her knees as if standing too tall might wake the man from wherever he dwelled on the other side. Then she reached out a daring finger and poked it against his cheek.

It was shockingly cold. And soft. And still felt like human skin.

Li Li jerked her hand back.

Only then did she notice something behind the dead man: a fine black hat with long, swooping wings that lay crushed against the floor. She was not old enough to recognize it as a mark of high office, but she would recall it later.

From the front room drifted in the bitter hiss of her mother. “. . . that kind of business here at the inn . . .”

Li Li’s father snorted back something much louder—a lot of words about “just think it through,” and was her head empty, and no good wife would peck at such trivial objections. Then a sudden series of bangs and slams, as if someone moving about in anger. Li Li froze, a nebulous idea cobwebbing through her that she must be violating some rule by finding the corpse, much less touching it, and would be shouted at until her ears rang, and then have mountains of extra chores piled atop her. Like scouring out all the latrine buckets on top of the usual collection of night soil to sell to farmers, until the smell got in her nails and hair and clung for days . . .

After a moment’s thought, she crept out of the storeroom as if she’d never been, and in a roundabout fashion snuck back into the front room. Her mother slumped at one of the empty tables, a cold cup of tea untouched before her. Li Li’s father was wrapping himself in heavy layers to go outside.

“I have to go downriver and speak to Elder Mu,” he said, without looking at his wife. “The investigators might arrive before I return. Make sure they have no cause for questions.”

Li Li’s mother raised stricken eyes. “But what about—”

“Just take care of it! Must I do everything for this family?” Her father shut the door hard behind him. A gust of cold settled in his wake.

Li Li’s mother noticed her daughter then, and Li Li tensed. But to her surprise, her mother only reached out for her.

She came obediently.

Her mother crushed her in with both arms, face pressed against Li Li’s hair. As usual when this happened, Li Li stood very still until she was released.

“Go play,” her mother told her, sounding sad. “Outside, eh?”

Li Li went.

Outside was frigid. Li Li wrapped her arms tightly around herself and counted out the three thousand steps over to the shipping house on the river where her cousin Li Jun lived, stamping her boots every few paces to keep the numbness at bay. Her father and mother didn’t like her playing with Li Jun, but they couldn’t stop it on account of being family.

But Li Jun wasn’t at home. Only her mother, Auntie Ru, a large and muscular woman who was tearing the hide off a couple of boatmen so loud the paper vibrated in the windows.

“River licenses? Do you think I give three farts for the capital’s nonsense about river licenses? You’re paid what the ledgers say you’re paid!” Her gaze fell heavy on Li Li.

“My elder cousin . . . ?” Li Li asked.

“On the river, most like. Ai! How dare you turn your back on me!” Auntie Ru grabbed the case from her counting rods and began to beat the two boatmen around the head with it.

Li Li retreated. She’d heard her parents muttering about her cousin’s family—how Li Jun ran wild, and how Auntie Ru didn’t act proper in the least. As a widow with no sons Auntie Ru had been permitted to inherit her late husband’s shipping brokerage, and Li Li’s father made frequent bitter remarks toward the way she ran it. And toward his dead brother for marrying her in the first place. And toward Li Li whenever he paid enough attention to notice her associating with the family more than he liked.

He needn’t have worried so much. Li Li didn’t like her aunt much, either.

Now she walked back to her family’s inn and paced about the yard with gloved hands over her tingling ears. The chickens fluttered about and squawked at her, and she scattered their evening meal early, her fingers becoming stiff sausages. The temperature plummeted until it knifed into her bones and teeth, but she stayed outside until the gray sky became grayer and she stopped feeling the tips of every extremity.

When she went back in, two patrons sat at a table, their rumpled clothes those of merchants off the water, their faces red and bunched with impatience. “Girl! We’ve been waiting an age. Hot wine and rice, and kill a chicken for us if you have it.”

“Yes, Uncles.” Li Li went back outside through the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest butchering knife on the way. A single swipe to catch a chicken; she held its warmth tight against her body and sliced with one swift move. The blood drained fast and practiced and red upon the frozen ground.

She took the bird back into the kitchen to prepare and went into the storeroom to get the wine—where she found her mother heaving at the arm of the dead man, tears dribbling down her jaw.

The corpse had collapsed on its side now, but had shifted only a few paces closer to the back door.

Li Li looked at her mother, looked at the corpse, and then back at her mother, who was not scolding or sniping but instead giving the distinct impression that their roles had reversed, and her small daughter of less than ten years had become the authority who had walked in on her doing something untoward.

Li Li pointed at the front room. “Guests,” she said.

She walked past to ladle out bowls of cloudy yellow wine, then returned to the kitchen to prepare the food. The men ate and she sent them on their way, but by that time another patron had arrived demanding a meal and lodging. Li Li cooked and served, made up a room, and scrubbed out all the plates and bowls and pots once the man had retired.

By then it was full dark, an oppressive pitch aided by the overcast layer smothering any moon and stars. Li Li took a candle to the storeroom.

The room was empty, save for the dead man, who had now been wrapped—badly—in a length of rough cloth. Li Li moved past to where the back door was ajar.

Her mother stood in the patchy grasses behind the inn, shoving a spade against the ground, each motion barely chipping away another sliver of frozen dirt. Her breath huffed out in a gasping sob with every hit.

Li Li went back inside and brought the sole lodger a full hot pitcher of wine, no extra charge, and peeked out to make sure his room only saw the road. Then she listened until she heard his drunken snores and bundled back up in her warmest clothes.

She walked the three thousand steps to her cousin’s place. All was dark, the living quarters behind the shipping house shuttered up tight. Li Li carefully lifted the latch of the tool shed where her aunt kept supplies for the vegetable patch. She borrowed a pickaxe and a digging knife and hiked back, stopping every so often to heave the heavy pickaxe from one shoulder to the other.

When she returned, her mother’s body formed a curled crescent motionless around the haft of the spade.

Li Li thumped the pickaxe off her shoulder and sent the sharp end into the ground. Then again. And again.

Her mother roused at that. The two of them worked into the deep night, wood hafts blistering their hands. Then Li Li helped her mother drag the man out of the storeroom and into his shallow grave, where they packed the frozen clay tight atop him.

The next day, Li Li’s shoulders ached and her hands cracked and bled. She wrapped her fingers in cloth and went to return the pickaxe and knife.

“What did you take those for?” asked Li Jun.

“I had to bury the dead,” Li Li said.

Li Jun laughed. She was three years older than Li Li, tall and lithe like the eels that slithered down the river, and her hair stuck out as wild as if she’d not only been out on the frigid water but swimming its depths. Maybe she had. “Make sure you bury them deep,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll come back as ghosts.”

Li Li did not laugh back. She had seen ghosts before, but only of her ancestors, and only in dreams. The idea of the dead man haunting the inn did not scare her, but it did annoy her. He had no right to invade her home.

She resolved to keep a close watch for ghosts.

She was still watching when, two days later, the Empire’s investigators arrived.

They stayed at the inn.

They stayed at the inn, and demanded lodging and food without offering coin, and were rude to Li Li’s mother, complaining that the food was too dry and the wine too weak. Then they interviewed every man in town and many of the women.

Li Li’s father returned at midday but kept himself scarce, leaving his wife to wait on the interlopers. She stayed meek to them and then snapped at Li Li in the kitchen for peeling too much meat off the winter melon.

When the investigators went out to chase down anyone they decided to suspect, a handful of the townspeople congregated in the inn’s front room in their place, and Li Li’s father emerged to gather with them. Together they hunched over drinks, voices bouncing tense off the wooden walls.

“What will we do? How could they know so fast?”

“Some damned mouth must’ve talked.”

“Even the swiftest boat would take more than a day from Bianliang. I heard it was sorcery; an omen came of the magistrate’s death . . .”

“Why would the Imperial augurs be casting their eyes all the way down here?”

As Li Li retreated back to the kitchen, she heard her father grunt. “Same reason they pay just enough attention to send these grasping judges in the first place,” he said. “Mark me, our worth to the capital is merely what they can scrape out of our pockets and stomachs . . .”

A weight seemed to hang over the inn all day, a heavy darkness that made the candles gutter and the rafters creak. Until that evening, when the townsfolk returned to the front room but the investigators did not—and all with a sudden roar of good cheer as if an overstretched noodle had finally snapped. The men laughed and shouted and toasted each other in every variety of the inn’s wine, and the center of the party seemed to be Li Li’s father.

“To Brother Li!” they cried. “A true man of the Empire!”

Wine sloshed and another sloppy cheer went up—until they saw Li Li watching and quieted.

“Eh, it’s all right, Brother Li’s daughter knows not to yap, don’t you, girl?” said a younger one of the Tong brothers. Li Li knew him vaguely—the Tong family did a good deal of business with her aunt, and the eldest Tong brother had two daughters a bit older than her that Li Jun was fast friends with. Sometimes the three deigned to allow the littler cousin to join their group—which Li Li always did, even if they made her take enough bruises to prove her worth. They were bigger, and could always wrestle her down, but she never gave in.

Like a stone.

Elder Tong was staring at her, and Li Li realized he expected an answer. Her parents often scolded her for letting grown-ups’ questions linger in the air for a moment too long. “Yes, Uncle,” she said.

The men’s hands unclenched, their faces relaxing back into easy smiles.

“I’d best be off anyway,” Elder Tong said, rising and reaching for his fur-lined cap and outer wraps. “My elder brother thinks setting off for a delivery up in Ying Province might be in order, just in case anyone gets around to asking questions . . .”

“About today, or about your ‘deliveries’?” said another of the men, with a tone in his voice that Li Li had come to recognize as a joke. The others guffawed.

“You want to stop benefitting, that’s fine with us! Go on!” Elder Tong roared, laughing harder than any of them, while the joker raised his hands and hastily declared his lack of any desire for a change.

“To Brother Tong and Brother Li! Heroes of the Empire!” the men cried raucously. Elder Tong brushed them off and slapped Li Li’s father on the shoulder.

“After today, Brother Li’s talents far outstrip those of us lowly boatmen. Shall we do some cleanup for you on the river, Brother? We can take the boats, find a convenient swamp . . .”

“Oh, no, no, I couldn’t ask such a thing,” Li Li’s father said in his booming voice. “The cleaning part is easy, just a trifle. I wish you good hauls and a swift return.”

Once the men had all left, Li Li’s father staggered to bed sauced with his own drink and fell into a motionless slumber. He might have been mistaken for a dead man himself, but for the snuffling snores reminiscent of a rooting hog.

Li Li went to pick up the scattered wine bowls and to wipe up the drink that sopped tables and benches. She wrung out the wet rags and went into the storeroom for a bucket and mop.

Her mother sat on a stool in the back, staring at two more corpses. Li Li couldn’t see their faces, but the hems of their skirts had the silken trim of the two Imperial investigators.

Li Li’s mother raised her eyes with something like hopelessness, sweaty hair falling across her face. The spade leaned against her knee, her hands drooped across it like the branches of a shrub that had given up against too harsh a clime, with no willingness left to lift its leaves toward the sun.

Li Li curled her own hands. Her scabbing blisters crackled against themselves.

No men from the government came for some time after that. None of the people in the town had any sort of ear into the capital, or knew any reason the magistrate was not replaced or more investigators sent. Li Li continued working at the inn alongside her parents, although, slowly, her father disappeared more often and returned sodden with wine, and her mother snapped less and retreated into a hollow shell, her skin beginning to shrink tight against her bones.

Over the years, as if now by custom, here and there another body would appear in the storeroom for the women to tidy. A tax collector who had come to raid the residents’ pockets. A regular merchant from off the river who’d been suspected of slipping overweighted stones onto the payment scales. A boatman who became sloppy with drink every time he came through and made aggressive attentions on married women. Then another man from the capital who’d proclaimed officiously that he had come to enforce the river’s ferry licenses, as he’d had information that many in the area were in violation—and a few weeks later, his cousin from a nearby village whom the gossip reported as having leaked such business about his neighbors. Once, a poor but handsome local man who’d caused trouble for a friend of Li Li’s father by competing over a marriage contract.

Sometimes, after a disappearance rid the region of some acknowledged pestilence, Li Li’s father would get a few grins or nods from select guests, and he would always smile back and put on a genial act of ignorance. Occasionally more investigators arrived, but they either came and left again or ended up in the storeroom like so many others.

Traveling the river was dangerous, everyone knew. Storms and cutthroats and serpents of the river’s wide depths . . . The people of the villages in this bend of the river were well-used to donning a wide-eyed innocence. See nothing, hear nothing, speak nothing of their own, not to some uncaring government official from far away.

And every time, once night fell, Li Li and her mother would drag the bodies out into the dark, heaving a growing collection of digging tools along with their burden. They’d discovered, eventually, that a nearby bog provided the most forgiving ground for grave digging, soft muck that would suck down a buried corpse with no outward sign, and that only froze across the very top layer in winter. It still took half the night to drag a body such a distance, and then to excavate enough mud for even a shallow covering. In cold months it might take the whole night, as they broke through the ice to where the swampiness somehow still churned warm beneath.

The river itself might have provided a more secretive maw, but the inn had been built far back from potential spring floodwaters, and an easy walk for a sailor or merchant was not such for dragging a corpse.

Li Li imagined the men’s flesh decaying in the bog until their bones settled into the depths and crisscrossed atop each other. Like chopsticks thrown into the bottom of a basin to wash. Stacks of latticed chaos.

It was not until she was fifteen that the Empire sent another magistrate.

The position had remained vacant for so long that the local magisterial compound had become overgrown with knotweed, its ornate scrollwork broken in places and the tiles of its sweeping roof crumbling or chipped away. The retinue that preceded the new magistrate ordered the men of the town to scrape the weeds free and make every meticulous repair, with no mind paid to the labor that would ordinarily occupy their days—the fish that failed to come fat and fresh to market, the crops struggling untended, the dike walls and building stilts in need of this season’s maintenance.

A muttering resentment blackened the town. Li Li was old enough now to comprehend it. The people did not need or want a new magistrate—for any rulings, the military governor in the nearest prefectural city could be appealed to, and conveniently, he was so far away and his attention on so many more important matters that here in this bend of the river they could live their lives without interference. The governor’s lack of attention might mean he was also no reliable source of justice, but that was all right, too, because this tiny bustling town and its surrounding tiny sprawl of villages and farms could largely oversee itself. Small squabbles were solved by a clean verdict of fists, larger ones sometimes by a gang of one man’s friends banging on the other’s door in the dark with the silver flash of a knife, or sometimes more civilly by their neighbors dragging them before a wealthy estate like the Mus’ for a judgment. The Mu family were not true nobility of the type who had such heaven-granted judicial authority, and their eccentricities and occasional viciousness were well-known, but a decision with their teeth behind it was one all would respect. Most considered it a fair enough court for these parts, out here on the rural reaches of the Four Great River Deltas.

And sometimes, a person who upset the balance of this bend in the river would simply disappear.

Bones in a chopstick pile.

Li Li did not, at this point, remember the previous magistrate very clearly, although somehow the image of his noble hat smashed against the floor had stuck in her mind with the sharpness of recent detail. She could not recall whether they had buried it with him.

The new magistrate arrived off the river amid a great fanfare of silken banners and golden bells, far beyond anything Li Li remembered seeing in the town. But this part of the river had been burgeoning bit by bit, its vibrancy and traffic flourishing, and perhaps someone thought it merited notice. Certainly the sole local inn had lately been humming through every watch of every day.

Most of that work had been falling on Li Li. Her father had grown increasingly absent, more often than not returning only to raid fistfuls of silver from the inn and depart again . . . Even when home, he intruded so much, while completing so little, that it sometimes seemed questionable whether their workload truly lightened with his presence. Her mother still rose at the same time and moved among the same chores, but over the years had faded to a weary remoteness, and Li Li would frequently find her gripping a door frame or a table and staring at nothing.

The last few months the inn had gained the assistance of Li Li’s cousin as well—after Li Jun’s mother had succumbed to a hemorrhagic fever in late summer. The shipping business had gone to Li Li’s father, who promptly sold it to the Mus for a tidy sum. Li Jun had approached her uncle with a humble but passionate argument not to sell, promising she could do the work of the ledgers and even go out as a helmsman herself and report everything back to him. But Li Li’s father would not entertain the notion.

“I shall do my responsibility by my brother,” he said to her, “and find you a decent marriage contract. A difficult order, I dare to guess. Of course, you’re not to blame for how you were raised—if a plant is allowed to grow to weed it will naturally become hardened to proper pruning.”

Li Li, eavesdropping as usual, knew her cousin well enough to see Li Jun’s posture knot into the tightness of angry defiance, even if she was wise enough not to challenge the uncle who now held control of her life.

Instead, she unloaded in long monologues to Li Li later about how she was going to go off and join the Tongs on their boats for good, just as soon as they would have her. Li Li did not think it likely. Tong women might be just as brawny as the men, saying all hands were needed when scrubbing down a salt barge, but what was accepted on the river was not the same as the ways of the town, and the Tong elders wouldn’t pick a fight with Li Li’s father.

Practicality would win out. Li Jun might be older, but she had never been practical enough.

Today Li Li let her cousin’s usual complaints fade into the background, drowned behind the day’s never-ending duties. Her feet ached and her hands had split in stinging cracks from the washing. Her father had chosen to forego supervising the inn today, as he often did, leaving it to Li Li and her mother and cousin. When Li Li’s mother entreated him to please stay and help, this one time—he told her he trusted her, and wasn’t that flattering? That he could delegate the family income to her entirely, that it made him proud . . . and she wouldn’t prove him wrong, would she?

Li Li’s mother flinched and hunched, a hand going to the side of her abdomen. She’d been making that same motion commonly of late.

“Lie down, Auntie,” Li Jun said, her face crinkling in concern. “You don’t look well. We’ll take care of the guests and then bring you some tea and tonic broth.”

Li Li had the distinct feeling she ought to have said that first, but she hadn’t thought to. A dark scorn spiked as she watched her mother hobble to her room—one that had been biting at Li Li more and more often. Guilt lapped vaguely on its heels: children were to protect and provide service and support to their forebears; it was what children existed for.

But if her own father wouldn’t care for her mother’s weaknesses, why should she?

She followed Li Jun to fetch wine for the packed front room of guests. Too many guests. The new magistrate’s presence certainly hadn’t damped the number of travelers, at least not yet. Some of those travelers would have brought their own provisions for her to cook, but the inn wouldn’t have enough meat to feed the rest—not until the Tongs returned with more stores for the town.

Li Li was already bracing for the endless complaints sure to pelt down upon them. The inn had better have enough wine.

She didn’t want to know how the men might react, if the inn didn’t have enough wine.

At the entrance to the storeroom, however, Li Li almost ran into her cousin’s back, where Li Jun stopped stock-still in the doorway.

Piled behind the barrels were the familiar stacked limbs of ever more bodies. Rich clothes, limp hands, slack faces. And this time a very large lot of blood, seeping across the floor as if a barrel of dark fruit wine had spilled across it.

The dangling limbs were too many to easily count. More than her father had ever left them to take care of at once before . . . Li Li’s scorn at her mother’s weakness sharpened into a white-hot anger at her father. Does he not realize how long this chore takes?

And now her mother leaving her to it alone . . . !

“Aiya,” whispered Li Jun. “Look, it’s the new magistrate.”

The same swooping black headdress lay a bit apart from the corpse pile. The visceral stamp of the first man, six or seven years ago, had never left Li Li’s memory.

“What do we do?” Li Jun asked.

“We clean it up,” Li Li said. “That’s our job. Father does his business, and he says it’s his women’s job to clean up.”

“The other disappearances . . .” Li Jun was clever, which was good, because it saved Li Li time explaining. She had no concern that Li Jun would cause any trouble. Li Jun was of the local populace, and family besides, and everyone knew how the government officials stripped prosperity from the villages and played games with the residents’ livelihoods. How pretty women were advised to appear less so when near the eyes of government men, and how their husbands were advised never to step in, lest they lose more than a wife.

“We’ll have to deal with it after the guests go to bed,” Li Li said, assuming the authority of experience.

As if in response, rowdy shouts erupted from the front room, demanding what was taking so long with the meat and wine. Li Li’s eyes crawled over the corpses. A hopelessness wanted to throttle her. How many bodies to drag? How many trenches to dig?

Li Jun seemed to be thinking the same. “Could we get them to the river? I could swim, weight them down in one of the caves . . .”

Li Jun might be older, but she was ignorant of the way dead bodies sagged like sacks of rice in the shape of a man. “We’d need a mule and a cart for that,” Li Li said.

They’d need to rid the inn of the bodies the same way they always did. Li Li’s fury at her father welled up and up, flooding her. Drowning her.

“Where are those useless wenches?” came a yell from the front room. “Meat, girls, or I’ll butcher the lot of you instead!”

Li Li recklessly wondered what would happen if she walked out of the inn and left it all undone. Would her father have to bury his own corpses for a change?

But no, her cousin and her mother would do it, her mother falling and fainting, and though Li Li didn’t strictly love her mother, she did feel a familial duty, and the image reeked of an injustice so vast it made her teeth hurt. But the prospect of dragging so many out to bury—and with so many guests who would already keep them up late into the night with demands and complaints, that the wine was too thin or the beds too cold, or that the inn did not have enough meat—

Li Li’s eyes flashed wide.

“Cousin?” Li Jun said. “What is it?”

Li Li had begun moving, retrieving the cleavers. Knives in hand, she appraised the body on the top of the pile. It stood to reason a man would not taste different from a goat or a hog.

And she knew how to butcher those.

“You get the wine,” she said to Li Jun. “I’ll bring the meat.”

The guests went to bed full and happy, and the inn even had a surplus of shanks that Li Li placed on hooks as she had been taught. Only this time she took some care to disguise any humanlike foot or hand or expanse of bared and hairy skin.

Once the guests had been calmed and put up, and any repeated whines or calls for yet another cup had been dealt with, Li Jun helped Li Li mop up the blood from the butchering and burn the men’s clothes. Tomorrow the guests would not only tell tales of a well-stocked inn, but rhapsodize about how warm the place had been kept on a blustery night. What luxury!

“Your father is a hero,” Li Jun said in a hush, as they finished. “I never knew!”

Li Li snorted. “He’s not a hero. He only does the easy part.”

“Maybe he’d let me help,” Li Jun said. She spun the mop to crack it against one of the pillars of the back room. “I’ve done summers with the Tongs keeping ruffians off their boats, and I’m just as good with a knife as them. My mother said she’d marry me to the first boy who could swim longer than me or beat me in a fistfight, and I’m not married, am I? And the Weng boy drowned trying!”

Li Jun loved telling that story.

“You oughtn’t be so proud of not being married,” Li Li said. “Your parents are dead. Now you’re dependent on charity until you do find a husband.”

Li Jun’s eyes narrowed. “Why, though? The Tong sisters are going to take over the salt barges eventually, their father said so, and the Mus don’t have a son either and they taught their daughters to hunt tigers. We aren’t any weaker than them. Besides, you’re right, you and your mother run the whole inn, your father doesn’t do anything. I bet I could do his other ‘business’ just fine, too.” She made a stabbing gesture in the air. “I’ve heard of groups of female bandits in the hills. Maybe I’ll go join them.”

Li Li had heard such tales, too. She wasn’t sure she’d like that. Women annoyed her just as much as men, most days. She wasn’t even sure she was a real woman; she seemed to be cursed in some way—her women’s monthly water still had never come, at this point surely backing up its toxins into her blood. Meanwhile, the eyes of the boys in the town skimmed past and through her, which was just as well since she was repulsed by them in turn. She was old enough now that Li Jun and the Tongs bragged openly in front of her of their ever-escalating obscene exploits—Li Li was pretty sure they’d even “done things” with each other while out on the boats, which they said didn’t count. Li Li was unclear on whether this was because they were all girls, or if because they were all involved then none of them could score anything above the others, but all of it sounded so distinctly unenjoyable that she secretly dreamed of worming her way out of ever sharing a marriage bed.

Sometimes men didn’t get married. Rarely, but sometimes. Maybe she could become a man. Gossip said one of the Mu daughters had done that the other way around, but rules were different for rich eccentrics who taught their daughters to fight tigers.

“I could be a bandit,” Li Jun was saying. “A hero of the hills. Like your father, but not leaving all the work to the womenfolk. I bet I’d be great at it.”

She produced a knife and threw it in one move. The blade buried itself in a doorjamb across the room, the handle vibrating with the force of it.

Li Li walked over and wrenched it out. “You’d better not say such things when the Imperial investigators arrive.”

Her cousin’s expression went shocked and tense. Maybe from nervousness. Maybe eagerness.

Li Li sighed and handed the blade back. “Just don’t say anything, right? They’ll come eat all our food and go away again.”

Unless my father kills them first, she added silently.

Li Li had spent no serious worry over her cousin knowing the truth. But she ought to have remembered a far deeper concern than Li Jun telling tales about what she knew: her cousin was uncontrollable.

Without consulting Li Li at all, she conspired with the Tong sisters, who had just come back downriver with their family. The Tong girls spread wild rumors of a wakening water demon among the surrounding towns, and Li Jun plunged into the deep, gray fathoms of the river and swam below every one of the investigators’ boats during the last days of their approach, holding her breath so long they neither saw a ripple of her arrival nor when she surfaced afterward.

When the investigators disembarked at the inn they jumped at every small sound, dark moons pressed out beneath their eyes and their fine beards and caps awry.

“Something knocking at our boats—”

“A river demon, everyone is saying so!”

“It must have been that which devoured the magistrate and his men, we mustn’t stay long . . .”

“It’s this place, this place is surely cursed!”

Li Jun came back to the inn rather insufferable. “I fixed it all, didn’t I?” she bragged. “See, I told you I’d make a good hero.”

“It’s not done yet,” Li Li said. “And you should have asked first. This isn’t some game.”

“Stop being such a mud-stuck clam,” Li Jun said. “They swallowed it like fish bait. They’re going to leave and no one is ever going to come back to bother us, you watch!”

Such a plan might have worked. Even Li Li had to admit it, though she refused to say so aloud.

If only it hadn’t been for the ghost.

After so many years of corpses, Li Li had ceased to worry about ghosts. She knew ghosts could enter the world at times, everyone knew such a thing, but they were so rare, and so often mysterious in their methods of manifestation, and as likely to bestow beneficence as to make trouble. More importantly, Li Li’s father had been killing people for enough years that Li Li had become jaded to the possibility that one might return.

Until this magistrate did.

He didn’t visit in dreams, the way Li Li’s ancestors had on brief flickering occasions. He didn’t make his presence known through strange events, either cursed or blessed, nor did he return as animal or insect, nor through cold or wind.

He came as a shadow.

The inn was abuzz with it the next day, the day the investigators had been hastening to depart, with their report of the magistrate’s demise via river demon. But four of the six investigators had seen the magistrate in the night, along with another three guests.

They talked in hushed voices of his shadow sliding silently out from cracks in the darkness.

Reluctantly, the delegation’s leader determined that they must remain longer and seek communication with the apparition. He assigned himself and one of his men to depart to a neighboring town to find a spirit medium, giving his other four unhappy subordinates strict instructions to keep watch for the ghost.

Traveling for a medium would take at least a full day and night. The four remaining investigators lurked sour and white-faced around the inn, and Li Li tried to go about her duties as if she did not feel the weight of a dozen panthers scrambling up her back. Her cousin was even jumpier.

“What if he tells them somehow?” Li Jun whispered while they cleaned out the lodging rooms, no matter how Li Li tried to shush her. “What if he can tell them who killed him?”

“My father’s gone again anyway,” Li Li said. As had become his habit, he had disappeared up or downriver before any investigation descended.

But the thought snuck up from her heart, in the greatest of familial betrayals: No great loss, if they do come for him. After all, hadn’t Li Jun said herself how Li Li and her mother were the ones who truly ran the inn?

If the investigators took her father away . . .

No more long absences while only returning to yell at Li Li and her mother or plunder the inn’s savings. No more finding fault with their work while barely moving to help with the inn’s chores, only drinking and heckling and reminding them that it all came from him.

No more bodies left in the storeroom for them to clean up at the most inconvenient times, while he alone raked in the whispered adulation of any in the town who knew.

Her prior disrespectful words had been nothing but truth: her father only did the easy part. Any of them could kill a man just as well, couldn’t they? It didn’t take some great skill to stab into rich soft skin that was sopped with beef and potent rice wine, did it?

She made a retreat into the kitchen and ground tea and cardamom and pepper, too much and too fast until she struck too hard and the pestle cracked.

She stopped. Forced herself to stillness. The spices had scattered across the counter.

Maybe, with her father gone, her mother might cease being so sick and weak all the time. At least her mother worked hard. At least she did what needed doing. A small, fleeting part of Li Li wondered if, with her father gone, her mother might become a figure she would gladly pay daughterly duties toward.

Besides, Li Li was discovering that she despised injustice even more than weakness. Not because of any souls-deep sympathy for her family and neighbors, but because of the way it added up so wrong and out of joint, like a ledger that wouldn’t match itself. The world ought to balance.

It ought to, and it never did. The rich government officials took whatever they wanted, and Li Li’s father killed whomever he wanted, with Li Li and her mother crunched in the fissures of it all and working their hands to bleeding.

She returned to her chores and allowed herself to imagine a future where her father met some timely end. With his nuisance removed, her mother could gain widow’s rights to the inn, the same as Li Jun’s mother had. They’d finally be able to run it in peace, doing a hard day’s work and then retiring to bed without worry . . .

Thus it was that when Li Li came into the back storeroom to lock everything up for the night, and she saw the great swooping headdress shadowed on the wall by a light that came from nowhere, she stopped cold and still as a rock but did not turn away.

Li Li stared at the shadow. She did not feel afraid.

The inn was quiet. The remaining guests would be in bed, trying to sleep—or failing to sleep, what with word of a ghost about. Most had fled with nervousness at such an interaction, leaving the rooms near-empty for once.

The shadow elongated slightly, the body growing taller and thinner. Somehow, the magisterial headdress simultaneously stretched wider, until its authority yawned to near comical levels.

“Do you speak?” Li Li inquired finally.

The shadow was silent.

“Are you here for vengeance against my father?”

Again, no reply. No movement.

Li Li wondered if the magistrate even knew her father had been the one to assassinate him. When she’d chopped through the gristle of the body, she’d noted the knife wound that gaped between the back ribs.

If the ghost didn’t know who had been responsible for such an end, she supposed she had now told. But the shadow had not extinguished itself.

What else might it be seeking?

With a start, she wondered if her own actions had caused this manifestation. Cooking human flesh . . . could such a thing release a restless ghost? After all, even among the ardent admirers of her father’s activities, most would frown on what she had done.

The thought made her angry. Those men had not been working their hands raw to help ill mothers defray exhaustion when dumped with such inconvenient corpses, and she was sure how they would judge her nonetheless. But her solution wasn’t of some inferior moral character. It was clever.

“They won’t find your remains,” she declared to the ghost. “If it’s my father you want to point at, though—is that it? Is that what you’re looking for? Well, if he didn’t want anything found, he should have done it himself. The old magistrate, the one before you—he’s buried in the yard out by the larch tree, and anyone who—”

The shadow winked out.

Li Li stood in the empty night, stood long enough for her feet to grow stiff against the unmoving ground, stood stiller than any rock face on a carven mountain. The strange righteousness that had filled her had burst as suddenly as it appeared, leaving a vague void behind.

She’d told on her father. Her family, her elder. Her father. An act against Benevolence, against nature, even more than eating human flesh.

She should be flooded with guilt and shame.

Instead, something had begun to sizzle and bubble within the emptiness like when the river churned with typhoon-fed floods.

Something very like excitement. Or power.

The inn was awoken by screams.

Li Li struggled out of sleep in disorientation, deep dreams still snatching at her. The light had begun to turn, almost at dawn—almost when she would have been rising anyway—

Someone screamed again. Li Li was struck by the sudden instant certainty that the scream belonged to her mother.

She was on her feet without being fully awake, racing outside without proper outerwear or boots, her breath fogging with the late-autumn cold and her ears ringing with the aftermath of those screams. The first edges of dawn cracked weak and watery over the yard.

Others from the inn were stumbling out into these last dregs of night. The few guests who had remained—and Li Jun, too, wrapped hastily in a blanket, the Tong sisters with her, strapping young women who stood with the confidence that they were no longer children. Li Li hadn’t known they’d stayed over with Li Jun; they usually lived out of their boats.

Li Li’s eyes raked across the yard—and found her mother.

Her mother, who knelt a few paces before the larch tree, her worn thinness suddenly in such sharp relief that her fragility seemed shocking. Someone had chipped up the clay beside her.

The four remaining Imperial investigators surrounded the shallow grave beneath. One leaned a pickaxe haft against his hip, another had discarded a spade upon the ground. In the pitted earth, a half-unburied human skull stared from naked and collapsed sockets. His fine clothes had turned to dust, roots twining through where his flesh had been. But somehow the swooping magistrate’s hat was still as broad and black and fine as the day his corpse had appeared in their storeroom.

Within Li Li, the surprise of it warred with smug satisfaction. She’d told the ghost, and the ghost had communicated to them, even with no spirit medium to interpret.

Now the scales will balance. Everyone will get what they deserve.

“Explain this, innkeeper,” said one of the investigators to Li Li’s mother. He bit the words so sharply that spit flew forth with them.

Li Li’s mother hunched over against the ground, shaking her head over and over, not in defiance but desperation. Her breath keened high and hard, so fast she couldn’t seem to speak.

Li Li did not feel sympathy. Her mother had always reacted with overly high humors. Once the investigators had taken Li Li’s father away, and the inn slipped back to normal, all this frenzy would recede and everything would turn calm.

One of the other men turned to his partners. “The snake cannot move without the head—the husband must also be involved. Bind her and take her to the magistrate’s compound. The chief will decide if they face justice here or if it’s to be prisoner transport to Bianliang.”

The words took many heartbeats to coalesce into meaning, so contrary were they to Li Li’s expectations. Why would they—but her mother hadn’t—

They assumed—

Li Li began to call out—what, she hadn’t determined; she only knew that this was not the way she had meant anything to go. Before she could, her mother launched herself at the feet of one of the investigators.

The motion was one of supplication. As if to clutch at their hems and press her face upon their boots in weeping entreaty.

The man’s lip lifted in a sneer. In that moment, with a movement that was almost casually slow, he moved the pickaxe from against the side of his leg.

The head of the tool thumped against the ground in front of him. Directly in the path of Li Li’s mother as she fell at his feet.

The dirt-clodded spike of the pickaxe plunged through the soft skin just below her jaw.

Her cries cut off with a wet crunch. Her limbs flopped boneless against the ground in the sudden silence.

“Stupid woman,” said the investigator. “At least now we won’t have to—”

A choked gurgle cut him off as the edge of the spade thunked straight into his throat.

The investigator struggled against suddenly folding limbs, his eyes casting about in confusion. He hadn’t seen Li Li grab the spade off the ground. Hadn’t seen her heave it upward with all her strength.

People always underestimated her strength.

She yanked the spade back from his neck, and blood fountained forth, more than she’d ever seen when butchering animal or human. The other three investigators had begun to move by then, hands fumbling for the blades at their sides. Li Jun’s knife took one of them in the chest. The Tongs tackled another with a shout, pounding him into the earth. The last man stumbled in his shock, and Li Li heaved the spade again.

Its dull metal rang hard against his skull.

He clattered onto the ground. Li Jun dove in to grab the man’s own short sword, and she plunged it through his body as if driving a fence post.

The Tongs stood up. The elder of them pressed a nonchalant hand against a bloody slash that gaped her forearm open. The younger gripped a jagged rock in one hand. Bits of white bone shone through the face of the man unmoving below them.

The elder Tong sister jerked a chin at the inn’s few patrons who had braved the haunted night. Three of them, all men, watching with slack jaws and wide eyes—two merchants from off the river and one man from a neighboring village who’d stayed to sleep off his drink.

“We’ll have to kill them, too,” the elder Tong said. “They saw.”

“No—please, we won’t—” started one of the merchants, at the same time the other began to shout. “How dare—!”

Li Jun’s newly retrieved knife found the shouting man in the liver.

The man who had begged broke into a panicked run, but the younger Tong dropped her rock to grab one of the short swords and caught up with him easily. She loped back over to join her sister and Li Jun in surrounding the final man.

“Wait,” Li Li said.

The others stopped, their expressions aggressive questions. The only sound came from the still-dying merchant whose gut Li Jun had buried her knife in; he curled on the ground with moans ever more thready and pitiful. One of the cocks crowed suddenly, calling out the start of the day in an unsettling contrast.

Li Li approached the local man. “You’re not from off the river,” she said. “Do you know what my father did here?”

His chin trembled in a nod, his ragged mustache shaking. “I heard—rumors, miss. Only rumor.”

“Would you ever have told men like these?” She pointed back at the dead investigators.

Shock suffused his face. “Of course not! Never.”

“Good. Speak nothing of this, either. Remember what protection this place has given you.”

“Yes, miss. Of course, miss. We are all loyal to your father, miss.”

Li Li tasted bitterness at that, and her hand twitched to complete the violence here, but she held the judgment at bay. Instead, she said, “Go home to your family.”

He wasted no time in scrambling away, backing up with jerky bows. By that time the man on the ground had stopped moving.

Everything had stopped moving.

Li Li let the edge of the spade fall to the dirt, let her hand grip tightly against its haft. She didn’t want to turn around. Didn’t want to look at her mother’s body.

She didn’t want to look at the rest of the bodies, either. So much to clean up . . .

She hadn’t meant for anything to go this way.

But she hadn’t started any of it, either. That had been the investigator, and the vile officials before him, and most of all—

Li Jun stepped over and rested a hand against her shoulder. “You did right. None of this was your fault.”

“I know,” Li Li said. “It’s my father’s.”

Rumor said that when the investigators’ leader learned his four subordinates had been devoured by the river demon, he and his right-hand man scurried straight back to the capital, convinced they had enough for their report after all.

Rumor said the capital seemed prone to forget the magisterial post existed, after that. Or perhaps they tried to assign men to it and failed, until a harried minister looked at the judiciary lists and decided leaving one remote bend of the river to the military governor was good enough.

Rumor also, however, now knew the name of Li Li’s father, and knew embroidered stories of a skeleton found beneath his inn, stories whispered as often in admiration as in judgment. They were carefully never whispered where they might reach the ears of Bianliang—not that they likely would have been deemed important, by those far away whose wish was to ignore such a troublesome rural town. Even so, Li Li sometimes wondered if she’d been wise in sparing the local villager’s life. Her generosity was returned to her, however, when still other rumors reported how her father heard the tales being told of his name and how he shook with fear as he ran. He fled toward the western mountains with no glance back at the inn or the living daughter he left behind.

The daughter was just fine with that.

Li Li and Li Jun smartened up the inn with some help from the Tongs, and Li Li made certain to declare to the right ears that her father’s other “business” was finished and had disappeared along with him. Most took this to mean that no more skeletons would be buried in the inn’s yard, and indeed, none ever were again.

The law technically provided no way for Li Li to come into ownership of the inn, as her father was still alive, and even if he had not been, as an unmarried daughter she would not inherit. In this bend of the river that lacked a magistrate, however, no one was too fussed about each and every stroke of law. Li Li declared that of course she must keep up the inn for her father in his absence, and that was enough for most people not to question.

If any questions did arise, they were not heard for long before mysteriously going silent.

Thus, for the next four years the inn at the bend in the river gradually became even busier and more prosperous, growing into a well-known stop for hungry traders. And if gossip whispered anything else about the inn and its young proprietor, it was wise enough not to whisper too loud.

Four years was how long it took for Li Li’s father to decide the law would no longer remember his name, and then to return to claim his wealth.

Li Li was wiping down tables when his shadow loomed up in the door. He stepped inside with his chest puffed out in assumed ownership, then stood in the center of the clean and polished front room, fists on his hips. His eyes crawled over the walls and tables, the customers comfortably tucking in food and wine, the expanded wings that had been added on with their newly carved wooden screens and the delicate brushwork scrolls Li Li had hung upon the walls for both aesthetics and luck.

His shape sucked away the smooth balance of the space more than any shadow from beyond the grave. Cold gripped Li Li’s heart, as if another ghost had entered her home.

That’s all this man was. A ghost.

She straightened her clothes and approached him. From the way his eyes slid uncertainly she could tell he did not recognize her until she said, “Hello, Father.”

His smile slipped, just a touch, before it shuddered back into place. “I see my inn is not as well-kept as it could be, but not ruined. Good girl. I knew you’d handle things until I returned.”

Li Li had come to consider her natural lack of expression to be an asset for just such moments as these. No stirrings showed on her face.

“You must be so tired,” she said to her father. “Come into a private room. I’ll bring you a meal.”

He grunted and took what he considered his due. Li Li served him stew and steamed buns and noodles simmered in sauce, along with the inn’s most fragrant wine. He rambled on about how he’d returned to sell the property, as innkeeping life no longer fit him.

When did it fit you? thought Li Li. When have you ever kept the inn?

“I have a few buyers nibbling about. And I don’t want you to worry; I’m only considering the ones who are also willing to bring a bride price. We’ll get this business done.”

Li Li barely blinked at the casual assumption she would be sold off as a rich man’s concubine. This must be what it felt like, to have power.

“I’ve been doing your business,” she said instead.

Her father’s wine-glazed eyes wobbled over to her, uncomprehending.

“Both your businesses,” Li Li added silkily.

She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, leaning in against the table as if they shared secrets in a conspiracy. “Let’s be truthful, Father. You never did those businesses yourself anyway. I’ve been doing both since the beginning. For ten years now.”

Her father licked his lips, a quicksilver nervousness darting through his eyes for the first time.

“You’re feeling heavy,” Li Li said. “That’s a mineral sleeping powder in the wine. It’s very potent.”

And made everything much more tidy and convenient, she’d come to find.

It took a moment for her father’s eyes to grow wet and wide, and then he jerked as if to lurch up or swipe at her before falling heavily back in the chair. “Can’t. You . . .”

His lips flapped against the words until they were unintelligible.

“None of this was ever yours.” Li Li’s voice became a slither. “I saw so clearly, by the end. You claimed ownership but left every meaningful task to us. Because this bit now, it’s no work at all, is it? To kill a man who’s soft with meat and wine, and only full of air and words.”

Her father tried to answer. Fear suffused every line of his face.

Li Li’s knife moved with the whispering speed borne of four years of practice.

That night, Li Li straightened her inn with great care. She had plenty of meat stored up for the inn’s travelers—the ones who would leave to travel onward, rather than those who would best serve by staying on her hooks to fill the bellies of the next . . . those she judged to be too much like magistrates or fathers, or the rude oglers or complainers who demeaned and demanded.

The inn never wanted for traffic, here on this busy bend of the river. If not everyone made it up- or downstream, well, everyone knew the river was dangerous. Full of cutthroats and smugglers and undertows and ghosts and demons.

And Li Li. Who met and judged, just like a magistrate.

Tonight, however, she made a very special soup only for herself.

She waited for Li Jun to come back from the river—to come back from making the river more dangerous, as one of those smugglers and cutthroats who caused so many to hoard their silver in fear. Today she came from accompanying the Tongs upriver, returning with hulls that bulged with silver and salt and spices, dried fish and pickled vegetables . . . all “donations” from choice estates, as Li Jun laughingly liked to say. She and Li Li added her share of the silver to a lockbox below the inn floor, alongside the establishment’s own quickly expanding riches.

The inn was becoming impressively flush. Nobody had ever asked how the two cousins had come to run it, or how they had achieved such success. At least, nobody had asked for long.

Li Jun had spoken with great prescience, those years ago: they did a very good job without any husbands at all. Or fathers.

Tonight, Li Li left her cousin in charge, and she carried her freshly made soup up to her mother’s grave on a hilltop overlooking the town. The streets and buildings spread out below, multiplying outward in a slow creep every season as the town expanded. Beyond them the river stretched wide and fathomless, a muddy gray-gold snake draped across the landscape, the farms on the other side tiny at this distance.

Li Li sat with her mother, and she leaned against an ash tree and drank her special soup while she watched the sun set.

Her home had never felt so peaceful.

“The River Judge” copyright © 2024 by S.L. Huang
Art copyright © 2024 by Dawn Yang

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The River Judge

S.L. Huang

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S.L. Huang

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Read “Have You Eaten? Part 1: Daneka’s Birthday” here!

Read “Have You Eaten? Part 2: Dinner with Peter” here!

Read “Have You Eaten? Part 3: Morrow’s Comfort” here!

In a new serialized novella from Hugo Award-winning author Sarah Gailey, a fractured group of undesirables work together to nurture and nourish each other while navigating a dangerous world that would just as soon see them dead. Still—inch by inch, meal by meal—they build their own future. Have you eaten?

The Abbott’s Risotto

Oil—enough
½ onion, chopped, for every 3 people eating
1 clove garlic for every 3 people eating
1 handful of rice for every person eating *rinse once
1 splash wine or juice of 1 lemon
1½ cups broth for every handful of rice

Add in: Meat, vegetables, mushrooms

1. Heat oil. Soften & brown onions and garlic.
2. Add oil. Add rice, stir until edges go clear.
3. Add wine, stir until liquid is gone.
4. Add a little broth. Stir until liquid is gone. Repeat until all broth is gone.
5. Add whatever you like.

Harper walks behind everyone else as they make their way down East Wacker Drive in what used to be the Loop. The four of them are in the center of the street, not trying to hide their approach. Not looking to make anyone nervous, Morrow had said when they entered the city. Not looking to make anyone pissed, Quan had replied.

Harper hadn’t said anything. They don’t say anything now either. They just hang back, half a block behind everyone else, hood up, raising a hand in acknowledgment whenever Fen glances nervously over her shoulder at them. Fen’s still worried that Harper’s going to disappear, leave the group, strike off on their own. It’s an understandable worry, but Harper wishes Fen would just sit with that worry for half a day instead of constantly bleeding it out onto every surface she touches.

The blacktop is still cracked from the time a tank rolled through the neighborhood. Harper looks down at the zagging splits in the street, remembers the sound of treads. The road here wasn’t made to support that kind of weight, but nobody cared then and nobody’s left here to care now. Harper didn’t even care, not at the time, even though they loved these roads. It was hard to care about anything but the ten minutes that had just happened and the ten minutes that were on the way. Still, that tank should have fallen through the asphalt, through Lower Wacker, down onto the now-submerged Riverwalk. Should have cracked the pavement straight through.

The other three are loud up ahead. Loud on purpose—that’s what they all agreed on. No sneaking, no surprises. Treat the Rosemary Patch like a bear den, that’s the smart approach so it’s what they’re doing. Quan and Fen are bickering, an are-we-there-yet back-and-forth that has a smile in it on both sides. Morrow’s got their hands deep in their pockets, just listening, but their bigness is loud and for once they’re not trying to hide it.

The buildings that line one side of the street get a little taller. They’re almost to Stetson Avenue now. Harper looks up into the empty eye sockets where rows of glass windows used to be. The piercing whistles of lookouts echo up the block, twee-twee-twee-twee. Fen’s chin snaps up at the sound.

Harper sighs and runs a palm across the patchwork stubble on their scalp. “Here we go.”

The group’s strategy of being obvious pays dividends. As they approach the remains of Columbus Plaza, four figures melt out of the shadowy mouth of one of the buildings. Nobody Harper recognizes—they’re kids, practically, all wearing red rags around their biceps, all making faces to make it clear that they know how to kick ass. They’re skinny but in a growing-too-fast way, not in a starving way, and they all have all their hair. Harper figures there’s probably a good number of adults standing just out of sight, letting these cubs get some experience. It’s a promising sign.

“Stop there,” one of the kids yells, a scrawny Black kid with a tight fade and a missing front tooth. The kid’s got a scowl that would stop a tank in its tracks.

“No problem,” Fen calls. She holds her hands out at her sides. Quan and Morrow do the same. Harper’s instructions echo through everyone’s mind: Everyone stay relaxed. Don’t look tense. If you’re calm, they’re calm.

One of the other kids—tall, white, weedy, blonde hair that’s falling into her eyes—has a big stick that she bonks against the blacktop. It’s genuinely a little menacing. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re looking for the Rosemary Patch,” Morrow says. They’re doing the worst job of looking calm. They’re thinking about what’ll happen if these kids decide they want a fight. Dreading the possibility of combat with children. The tension radiates off them in sick shivers.

The scrawny kid with the fade looks behind him, back into the building he came out of. The blonde shoves him and hisses something that sounds like “Don’t look, dipshit.”

“It ain’t here.” This from the smallest of the kids, who wears a ball cap that’s too big for his head. “You’re in the wrong place. Turn around.”

Fen takes a slow step forward, her hands still out at her sides. “I think it is here, actually. We’re here to see, um.” She hesitates long enough that Harper takes half a step forward, but then she sticks the landing. “We’re here to see The Abbott.”

The kids lose their composure immediately. They’re grabbing each other and talking over each other, gesturing at the same building the one kid had looked into. After a few seconds of this, an adult figure strides out of the shadows with the loping impatience of a chaperone who needs to impose order.

Harper’s eyes track the well-muscled neck, the broad bony shoulders, the long swinging arms. They tug their hood down over their eyes just a little further.

“Fuck’s sake. Everyone downstairs, we’re going over security protocols again in the morning. And Devon? Don’t let me hear you calling anyone else a dipshit.”

The blonde kid crosses her arms. “What if he’s being a dipshit?”

Fen interrupts. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“You can call me PJ. Because that’s my name.”

Harper bites their lips to keep from smiling, mutters to themself, “That stupid fucking joke.”

Fen holds out a hand to shake. “PJ, I’m Fen.” The wind is catching on the hollowed-out buildings, making the street loud. The two of them talk, trading introductions and explanations and code words. PJ leans around Fen to get a look at Harper but doesn’t seem to recognize them.

“Alright,” PJ says in a voice loud enough to carry up the block. “Come on down.”

She leads their group across the old six-lane street, toward the river. Fen hangs back, waiting for Harper to catch up.

“Looks like we’re in business,” she says. Her eyes are sparking with anxiety.

“Looks like. You scared of heights?”

Fen cocks her head. “Not really. Why?”

Harper lifts their chin toward the railing on the edge of the street. Fen watches as PJ, the four kids, Quan and Morrow approach. PJ crouches down and adjusts something at Devon’s waist.

And then Devon dives over the edge of the overpass.

Fen doesn’t make a sound. Her eyes go hard and sharp. She looks from PJ to Morrow to Quan to Harper, her nostrils flaring, her breath still.

Harper holds up a hand like they’re trying to steady a spooking horse. “It’s okay. Nothing’s happening. That’s just how we get to where we’re going.”

Fen gives a little shiver, rolls her shoulders. “I don’t like this.”

“You just don’t like surprises,” Harper says. “But you’re gonna like this. I promise. Unless you’re scared of heights, and then you might never speak to me again.”

When Fen peers over the edge of the overpass, she isn’t scared by the drop from Wacker to Lower Wacker. “And you’re sure it’s safe?”

“When have I ever lied to you?”

“Never. But . . . you also haven’t said that it’s safe, so I don’t think you’d count it as a lie, would you?”

Harper grins. “Well. You won’t die, anyway.” While PJ is clipping the rest of the kids to their lines and sending them down, Harper tells her about the hidden street beneath Lower Wacker where the Rosemary Patch used to be located. “You’re not going that far, though. There’s an old service tunnel that goes from Lower Wacker into the old auto pound. You’ll be walking a few blocks to get there. Don’t worry. PJ will get you there.”

Fen leans far over the railing to look down at the street below. “How come we didn’t just go straight there? Why do we have to go underneath everything?”

“Chicago used to be monitored by drones. One hundred percent of the time,” Harper says. “These days, who knows. Better not to risk leading anyone to home base.”

Morrow gives a joyful shout as they slip over the edge of the railing, a loose length of cord in their hands. Quan goes soon after, silent and trembling with nerves. Fen gives Harper a small, loose salute, then turns toward PJ.

“My turn?”

PJ gives her a warm smile. “You’ll do great.”

“Where do I clip in?”

“You don’t,” PJ replies. “The kids wear harnesses. We don’t have enough for adults.”

“Is it safe?”

“If you don’t want to take the line down, you can walk”—she points into the distance—“that way, until you come to the part of Wacker that collapsed onto Lower. It makes a kind of ramp down. It looks dangerous, but the kids play on it all the time, so you’ll probably be safe to scramble down.”

Fen frowns. “What made it collapse?”

“Tank. This street’s not made to support that kind of weight.”

Harper jolts. “When did they come through again?”

They’re still far enough away, their face still shadowed enough by their hood, that when PJ gives them a curious glance, she doesn’t recognize them. Still, Harper is thankful when Fen recovers PJ’s full attention by asking about how to hold the line without tearing up her palms. Harper stays quiet after that, waiting for Fen to drop over the edge before stepping forward.

PJ peers at them, her eyes searching. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Fen said you were with her group, but— Hang on.” Her face hardens and before Harper can dodge, PJ’s hand has darted out to snatch their hood away. “You,” she breathes.

Harper gives her a wary smile. “Hey babe.”

PJ’s arm twitches like she wants to slap Harper across the mouth, but no blow comes, which is how Harper knows she hasn’t forgiven them yet. “The fuck are you doing here?” She bites out the words like a cold wind.

“I’m with Fen and them. Traveling together. We’re looking for—”

“For Daneka, right. Fen said. So. You and Fen are together.”

“Not—” Harper sighs. They’d somehow forgotten PJ’s weapons-grade jealousy. “Just traveling together. Nothing else. Will you let me go down so we can see The Abbott? The others are waiting for me down there.”

PJ shakes her head. “Fuck no. Nobody down there wants to see you.”

Harper rocks back on their heels. “Hey now,” they murmur.

After a moment, PJ twists her neck, rolls her eyes, drops the anger from between her molars. “Sorry. That was mean and it’s not true. But, Harp—you can’t just come rolling back in after what you did. You left without saying goodbye to anyone. You hurt a lot of people. You have to know that.”

“I know. And I’m prepared to talk to The Abbott about it.” Harper reaches out and touches PJ’s upper arm, lets their fingers drift down to her elbow. They don’t acknowledge the fact that the “lot of people” they hurt included PJ. Was probably mostly PJ. “Trust me. I can handle myself on this one.”

“You can handle yourself on anything,” PJ grumbles. And then she gives a sharp tug on the line that’s knotted around the handrail. When it holds strong, she gives it to Harper. “You better not leave without saying goodbye this time. I mean it. I’ll kick your ass.”

Harper loops the end of the line around each of their thighs, then grip the slack in both hands. They swing one leg over the rail, then lean back to kiss PJ on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

Before they can so much as grin at her, PJ plants her palms on their shoulders and gives them a hard shove. Harper tumbles off the edge of the overpass with a long-buried whoop of freedom.

When their feet touch the asphalt of Lower Wacker, the others are already standing in a cluster nearby, talking softly. Harper approaches, grinning, ready to rib Quan for his nerves—but when they get close, the group parts, and Harper’s grin falls away.

The Abbott is here. She’s as short as the scrawny kids who’d been standing guard, as broad as a barrel, and as old as the city itself. She aims her dark, creased face up at Harper and measures them with a cool, steady gaze.

“So. You’re back.”

Quan looks up at Morrow, openly perplexed. “Back? Harper’s from—”

“Here,” Harper interrupts. “I’m from here. And yeah, Abbott, I’m back. Me and some friends, who I see you’ve already met.”

PJ drops to the pavement behind Harper. “We gotta move,” she says. “We’ve all been here too long already. Abbott, I thought you were going to wait for us at the Patch?”

“A little mouse told me I’d want to come see the visitors for myself,” The Abbott says. She reaches out a hand and, without looking, rests it on the head of the kid in the too-large baseball cap. “He never met you while you were here, Harper, but he still knew you on sight. You’re something of a scary story among the children.”

PJ steps forward, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand. “Please. We seriously have to go. Can you and Harper talk on the way there?”

Harper flinches—when they lived here, that would have earned anyone a sharp rebuke from The Abbott, but it doesn’t come. The Abbott simply nods. “Thank you for keeping us on time. Lead the way. Harper, you’ll keep me company in the back of the group. I walk slower these days anyway.”

The Abbott waits while PJ herds the group toward the service tunnel. She stands still until Harper sighs and holds out an arm. “You need someone to lean on?”

“I don’t need it, but I’ll take it anyway,” The Abbott says. She loops her arm through Harper’s and pats them on the forearm like they’re a sturdy horse. “I’ve missed you.”

“You haven’t.”

“I have!” The Abbott lets out a raspy laugh. “Now, tell me why you’re back. I heard it from your friends, but I want to hear it from you.”

Harper explains. They tell her about Daneka, about her disappearance and the messages they’ve been getting from someone who seems to be Daneka but isn’t. They fill her in about Peter, then about Peter and Morrow getting together and falling apart, then about their little group’s journey across the border from Wisconsin into Illinois. They tell her about Fen, who relies on them almost as much as they rely on her.

“This Bouchard,” The Abbott says thoughtfully. “Who you stayed with in Wisconsin. Is he part of our family?”

Harper thinks for a moment. “Don’t know. But his wife—I think you’d like her. I convinced her to convince him to get back to work by telling her how much the state cops would hate it if a bunch of queers made it into Illinois. She laughed so hard I thought she was gonna choke.”

“So you’re hoping to see Daneka here.”

“Fen is. Personally, I think it’s too much of a long shot. But—”

The Abbott clicks her tongue. “You’re a pessimist. I don’t know why. You were raised better than that.” Then she purses her lips and whistles once, high and sharp. The group ahead stops and waits until Harper and The Abbott have caught up to them. “Alright, children,” she says, addressing the new arrivals more than the actual kids. “In a minute, we’re going to arrive at the Patch. Our visitors are going to earn the right to stay with us by making dinner. Enough for all ten of us.”

Fen glances at Harper with obvious surprise. Harper shakes their head and shrugs. Neither of them offered this to The Abbott—she’s simply setting her terms.

“Excuse me,” Quan asks, his voice as careful as it gets. “How long can we stay?”

The Abbott grins. “That’ll depend on how much I like dinner, won’t it?”

She leads them into the Rosemary Patch, and Quan, Fen, and Morrow gawk at the sheer scale of the underground community that sprawls throughout the old impound garage. Sturdy little houses line the walls, built out of the shed skin of the city: old street signs, sheets of corrugated metal, tiles pried up from the lobbies of abandoned skyscrapers. Clusters of adults sit out in the common area, processing food or studying playing cards or watching the children who chase each other across the building. The air is a little sharp with the smell of old motor oil and too-close bodies, but overpowering those smells is the smoke of cookfires and the unmistakable aroma of baking bread.

PJ jogs forward and leans close to Harper, murmuring in their ear. “You haven’t been here since the bakery started up. The new moms run it. Fresh babies and fresh loaves. Bet you wish you never left.”

Fen hears and interrupts, and Harper can’t decide whether to be irritated or relieved. “Harper, you used to live here?”

“We talked about this already,” Quan says. Fen gives him an irritated frown and he spreads his palms. “It’s not my fault you were too busy flirting with PJ to listen. Harper’s from here.”

“I don’t want to get into it,” Harper says. “Peej, can you show us where we’re cooking tonight?”

PJ leads them to a small communal kitchen between two of the makeshift houses. It’s open, looking out into the common area, covered by a low overhang. Plywood is propped up on cinderblocks to form a U-shaped countertop, and bins below that counter hold plates and dented pots. Along the back wall, staples fill bins made of thick plastic with heavy screw-on lids: flour, rice, onions, cassava. 

PJ points to a corner with a hotplate. Underneath it is a row of water jugs and a basin of assorted cooking implements. “This is the only spot that’s available. Everywhere else is reserved for the night. You should have gotten here earlier if you wanted a better setup.”

Morrow peers into the basin. “These are all broken. Look,” they add, holding up a wooden cooking spoon that’s held together in the center with duct tape. “What happened here?”

“Probably Jaan, practicing their drumming,” she says. Then she adds, “That’s my kid. They love music.” She doesn’t look at Harper when she says it, and the not-looking is as loud as the words themselves.

“It’s fine. We can cook with broken stuff,” Harper says. “Thanks for showing us.”

PJ nods. “No problem. Just hand me your packs and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Quan balks. “Our packs?”

“I’m going to search your shit,” PJ replies lightly. “Don’t worry. You’ll get everything back.”

Quan grips the straps of his backpack with white knuckles. “I don’t want—”

“You don’t want to argue on this one,” Harper murmurs to him.

“The fuck I don’t,” Quan insists. “What’s she looking for?”

PJ gives Quan a carnivorous grin. “I don’t know, Quan. Trackers. Guns. Palmsets with fake videos of my friends, maybe.”

Quan’s mouth opens, then snaps shut as he looks at Morrow. “You told her?”

“I told the Abbott,” Harper interjects.

“There hasn’t been time for The Abbott to—”

Harper laughs. “Never assume she hasn’t done whatever she might take a mind to do, Quan. Trust me on that one.”

“Okay, but we aren’t the ones who made the videos of Daneka,” Morrow points out.

PJ raises her eyebrows. “Then you shouldn’t need to worry about what I’ll find in your bags. I’ll plug your palmsets in, too. You must be carrying a bunch of dead batteries by now.”

The four of them hand over their packs—Quan reluctant, Morrow and Fen resigned, Harper almost relieved. PJ thumbs the empty carabiner that hangs from Harper’s backpack strap. “No keys?”

“Nowhere to save keys for,” Harper says. “You have a kid?”

PJ can’t restrain a small, soft smile. “Yeah. They kick ass. Too smart for their own good, and they’re a little thief too. They remind me a lot of you. You’ll like them. If you want to meet them, I mean.”

It takes Harper a moment to find breath, and then another moment to find words. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

And then PJ is gone, and The Abbott is gone, and the kids who’d been standing guard are gone, and it’s just the four of them, alone again in a strange kitchen.

Fen steps in close to Harper. “Do you want me to handle making dinner? I don’t mind.”

Harper shakes their head. “You don’t know how to do this.”

Quan looks up from where he’s rummaging through the broken cooking implements. “What? Of course she does. And she has the recipe box.”

Harper turns to Fen. They take a deep breath and fold their arms across their chest, and in that moment, it’s as if no time at all has passed since they left the squat. The light that falls through the street-level grate above dapples Harper’s shoulders, and the muggy river air hangs around the two of them like the falling wings of dusk, and Harper is just as irritated with Fen as they were on the path behind the houses in the neighborhood where they became family to each other.

“You’re gonna make me say this?”

Fen visibly braces herself. “Yes. Unless there’s something you think you can’t say to me.”

“Fine. You don’t have a recipe in your box that can handle this situation, Fen. You aren’t prepared here. Every recipe you know how to cook calls for eggs or butter or meat.”

Morrow speaks up. “Not the—”

“Don’t say not the vegan ones. Those are worse. You think we’re getting handed chia seeds down here? Applesauce? Corn? The point is, we’re not cooking with the kind of resources you’re used to.”

“But if everyone works together, we can figure out—”

“Everyone’s not going to work together, Morrow,” Harper cuts in. “Not with us.”

Fen looks around at the vast expanse of the underground garage. It’s filled with the hum of life. “They seriously don’t have any of that stuff down here? Eggs, I mean? For all these people?”

Harper laughs. “I’m not saying they don’t have it. They probably do. But they’re not going to give us any of it to cook with. Do you understand? They’re not going to give us the things that make it easy to make something tasty. We’re being tested right now. And that’s why you’re not cut out to make this dinner.”

Fen bristles. “Because, what, I can’t cook when it’s tough? I didn’t see you complaining when—”

“No,” Harper interrupts. “Stop. You’re not hearing me.” They step close and put their hands on Fen’s shoulders, try to make their face kind and their voice kinder. “You can’t do this because you’ve only ever cooked for people who like you, Fen. People who will work with you to help you do a good job for them. And this isn’t that situation. You’ll hate how it feels to make dinner for people who are hoping you’ll fuck it up. It’ll hurt your heart. So let me do it this time, okay? I’m good at this.”

Fen blinks hard. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” she says softly.

Harper pulls her into a tight, brief hug. “You never asked.”

Fen joins Morrow and Quan beneath the lip of the overhang, and the three watch as Harper takes stock of what’s in the kitchen. It’s not much—the staples that are available to everyone in the community are foundational. “How the hell am I gonna turn this into dinner?” they mutter to themself.

Fen clears her throat. “Can we help?”

Harper shakes their head. “I know what I want to make. I just have to figure out how to make it into something worth eating. The Abbott’s probably told everyone not to help us, even if we can trade for ingredients.”

They turn to see a knot of young children, none of them older than eight, staring at Morrow. One of them breaks bravely loose from his friends and approaches the communal kitchen. He stands a couple of feet away and waits for Morrow to notice him. Finally, he just starts talking. “Hey excuse me I’m sorry but are you a giant?”

Morrow turns, laughing. It’s a freer noise than they’ve made in a long time. “Yes,” they reply, “I am a giant! A giant monster!” On the last word, Morrow holds their hands high overhead, growls, and trots toward the kids, who run away shrieking in open delight.

A game crystallizes effortlessly, the way games so often do with children that age. The children retreat and then, once Morrow’s back is turned, they race forward again. Morrow lets them get a little closer each time before turning around and letting out a roar, giving the kids an opportunity to flee. Fen is half collapsed with laughter; Quan rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide a small smile.

Harper smiles too, because they’ve found the solution to their problem. “Hey, Morrow.”

“I think you mean hey monster,” Morrow replies, grinning so hugely that they’re almost unrecognizable.

“Sure. Monster. Can you send the kids on a mission?”

Morrow flips the game effortlessly. The kids are thrilled to be given jobs—by a giant, no less—and vanish into the Rosemary Patch with absolute determination. While they’re gone, Harper rummages around in the bins. They pull out three good onions and a wrinkled half-head of garlic, and take mercy on Fen by asking her to dice them up. They measure out rice with their hands—ten big handfuls for ten people, plus an extra two handfuls just in case. They use a jug of water to give the rice a single rinse, dumping the starchy rinsewater into a big jar, which they’ll give to The Abbott since she likes using rice water to wash her face. She’ll think they forgot, and they’ll show her they didn’t, and the fact of their remembering will be a better gift than the rice water, they think. They hope.

Then they fill a huge pot with clean water and set it on the hotplate, bringing it to a boil, hoping something will appear that they can put into it.

By the time the water is bubbling, two of the kids are back. One of them—an Asian kid with two stubby pigtails—has bulging trouser pockets. “I got it,” they gasp.

“What’d you get?” Morrow asks, squatting down low to look the kid in the eyes.

They pull out two fistfuls of what looks like shards of tree bark. “Mushrooms!”

Morrow cups their hands for the kid to dump their prize into. “. . . Are you sure these are mushrooms?”

“Yeah! My mom dries ’em. They smell.” The kid points, wrinkling his nose.

Morrow sniffs the dark brown pile of mushrooms before mirroring the kid’s expression. “Those sure are mushrooms,” they agree. “Harp, can you use these?”

“These are perfect,” Harper says, leaning across the plywood counter to take the mushrooms. As they drop them into the boiling water, they call over their shoulder. “Thanks, kid. What’s your name?”

“Jaan!”

Harper doesn’t turn around until they hear the sound of small feet running away. Then, hoping Jaan is gone, they cautiously glance over their shoulder to see Morrow deep in serious conversation with the other child who’d come with Jaan. He looks like a miniature version of the kid with the fade who’d stopped them up on the street, and he’s got something small cupped in his palm.

“You’re sure it’s okay with your dad if we use this?” Morrow asks softly.

The kid shakes his head. “But he won’t know I took it. He has a big jar and this is only a few of them.”

Morrow nods and points the kid toward Harper. The kid approaches and reveals his offering: five, fragrant, salt-crusted preserved anchovies.

“Holy shit,” Harper breathes. “Thank you. This is—wow.”

The kid looks up at Harper with wide, shy eyes. “Can I see your head? I heard it got burned off when you left.”

Harper crouches down to take the fish, and bends their neck to show the kid the scars that map their scalp. “It was the year before I left, actually. When the old Rosemary Patch got raided and burned down.”

The kid reaches up to touch the scars without asking, and Harper flinches, both at the sudden touch and at the knowledge that their head is going to smell like fish for days. But they don’t move away. They let the kid feel the history of the Rosemary Patch that’s etched into their skin.

“Did it hurt?” the kid asks.

“Like hell. But it was worth it to help people. It usually is. You know, the way you helped us today,” Harper says.

The kid snatches his hand back. “I gotta go.” He runs off.

“You overplayed it,” Quan drawls. “Too didactic.”

“Where’d you learn didactic?” Harper retorts.

Fen pushes a sheet pan of chopped onions and garlic across the plywood. “Anything else I can help with?”

Harper shakes their head and drops the salted anchovies into the steaming water along with the mushrooms. They stir, waiting for the flesh of the fish to melt. “Unless you can find some oil.”

“I thought nobody here was going to give us anything,” Fen says, more than a bit tartly.

“They’re not giving us anything. Not voluntarily,” Harper replies. “The kids are stealing for us.”

Fen balks. “What? We can’t steal from these people, we’re their guests—”

“See? This is why I said you wouldn’t be able to make this dinner. You’re their guest, so you can’t steal from them. It’s different for me. I’m from here. I can be awful.” Harper gives her a look that they know makes them look like The Abbott. “Morrow, any other little thieves coming back to us?”

Morrow lifts their chin at a tiny figure that’s weaving through the common area, clutching a jar. “Looks like one more.”

The kid is as small and round as an apricot. She races up and nearly smacks into Morrow headlong before pressing the jar into their hands. “If anyone asks, I didn’t do it,” she says breathlessly before disappearing, her tiny head bobbing with every step she takes as she races away into the depths of the garage.

Morrow holds the jar up to their eyes and squints. “I . . . don’t know what this is,” they say slowly.

Quan bends to peer into the jar. “Nope. No clue.”

Fen plucks it from Morrow’s hand and holds it up to the thin light that streams through the holes in the garage roof. “The label just says ‘candle.’”

“No fucking way.” Harper snatches the jar away from Fen. “Fen, I’m so sorry. I was an asshole to you earlier and I was wrong.”

“What?”

Harper opens the jar and takes a deep sniff of the contents. “This is beef tallow. It’s fat. I can cook with this. I shouldn’t have yelled at you about needing butter because the relief I feel in this moment is enormous.”

Quan puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head to one side. “This is the most I’ve ever heard Harper talk.”

Harper gives Quan the finger and turns to the hotplate. They move the steaming cooking pot, which smells fishy and pungent from the anchovies and the mushrooms, to the side, and replace it with a different, wider-mouthed pot. They use a cracked wooden spoon to scoop a little beef tallow into the pot and wait for it to melt down. When it’s hot, they drop in the onions and garlic. After a few minutes the kitchen area is alive with the smell of ingredients becoming food.

The Abbott comes by to look in on Harper’s progress. Her eyes move from the jar to the steaming pot of broth. “Mmmm. I see.”

“Not taking notes at this time,” Harper says. “If you want to criticize, you’ll have to pick up a spoon and start cooking.”

The Abbott purses her lips in what might be either a reproach or a smile. Before she moves off, she presses a hand to Morrow’s arm and leans in close to them. “You and I should talk more. I’ve been hearing a lot about you from the children. Have you ever considered . . .”

Her voice fades out of hearing as she tugs Morrow off a ways giving them her pitch for whatever it is she wants them to do. Harper stirs the onions and garlic. They’re soft now, and just starting to brown, and Harper whispers the next steps to themself. “More fat, then the rice, stir until it changes.” They drop another scoop of beef tallow into the pot, let it melt, pour in the rice. They stir the rice over the heat, watching for the moment it becomes translucent at the edges. “Hey, Fen? Can you find me a ladle that will actually hold water?”

Fen ducks under the plywood and starts rummaging through the bin of kitchen implements. She holds up three different ladles, one of which is inexplicably slotted. The other two are badly cracked. Desperate, she pulls other bins out from under the counter and opens them. She clangs pots and pans together in her haste as she digs beneath them, hoping to find a dropped ladle.

“What the hell? Hey—hey, Harper!” She jolts up behind Harper with a bottle in her hand. “I found booze. Do you want some?”

Harper rounds on her with the piping hot irritation they reserve for moments when they’re interrupted mid-task. “Do I want? Some booze? Are you fucking—”

Fen raises an eyebrow. “For your recipe,” she says coolly. “Thought it might come in handy. But what do I know about cooking?”

Harper drops their cracked wooden spoon into the pot and clasp Fen by the shoulders. They press their forehead against hers briefly, then kiss her on the cheek. “I’m awful. Thank you, yes, I want this.” They take the bottle from her and open it, give it a smell, and grimace. “Not booze. Vinegar. Still useful, though. Thank you, I love you, go find me a ladle.”

Fen continues searching as Harper eyes the rice. It’s turning translucent at the edges. “Wine,” they whisper to themself, “then broth.” They eye the vinegar. It’s a deep golden color—it was wine once, they figure. They splash a little into the pot, then a little more, and that’s when Fen pops up next to them with a ladle.

They grab it with the hand that isn’t stirring. It has a perfectly intact bowl—but only two inches of handle remain. “This is basically a mug,” they mutter, but it’ll have to do, and they use it to scoop some broth into the rice just in time.

“So,” Fen says as Harper stirs. “Seems like this place is really home for you.”

“Mm.”

Quan leans almost all the way across the plywood. “Seems like you’re. You know. From here.”

“Mmm.”

Morrow comes walking back up, their arms spread wide, children dangling from each one. The Abbott is nowhere in sight. “Yeah, hey, so, you used to live at the Patch. Seems like you might want to tell us some stuff about that?”

“No,” Harper replies. “I want to finish making dinner.”

Fen touches the back of Harper’s heel with the toe of her boot. “What still needs doing? Can I help?”

Steam rises up from the pot, billowing around their face. “No. I’m just going to add broth and then stir until the rice soaks it up, then do that same thing again. And again, and again. And again. Until it’s done.” They let out a laugh that isn’t a laugh, not really. It’s more like a sigh with a stutter in it. “Suits this place.”

Morrow shakes off one of the children. The kid falls with a thump and a bright laugh. “Why?”

“Because that’s what it’s like living here. You just do the thing that needs doing, over and over, until you die.”

The Abbott approaches again, from across the common space. Her steps are slow and stately, perhaps a little stiff. Her eyes are locked on Harper, but she stops next to Fen. “I’ve made a decision,” she says. “I’m not going to wait until after dinner to discuss Daneka with you.”

“What? You never change your mind,” Harper says distractedly, ladling more broth into the pot.

The Abbott nods. “I’m changing it this time. Because I think you all will want make your plans tonight, rather than tomorrow.”

This catches Harper’s full attention. “Tonight? No, we need a place to sleep, please—Grand-Mère, you can’t—”

“Stop. And listen,” The Abbott says, in the voice of someone who is used to teaching children and adults how to behave. “I said you will want to make your plans tonight. You’re making me dinner, Harper, I’m not putting you out before dawn.”

Quan snorts. “Might want to taste the dinner before you decide.”

“Come over here and say that,” Harper offers.

“PJ went through your bags and didn’t find anything unexpected,” The Abbott says. “So I’m going to give you what Daneka gave me, so you can go and find her tomorrow.”

The air inside the Rosemary Patch goes still and silent. Harper drops the ladle and it strikes the floor with the clang of some enormous, dark bell. Morrow lifts their hands to the back of their neck and laces their fingers together, looking at the ground in an unconscious echo of the way Peter had tried to protect himself from their fists. Quan looks at Fen with wide, worried eyes. Fen covers her mouth with both hands, then says, “What?”

From an inside pocket of her coat, The Abbott produces two envelopes. “She was here two weeks ago,” she says. “She said you left her a note on a recipe card, saying to come here. I don’t know how she found us, but she did.”

“We talked about it for years,” Fen whispers. “We thought you were a myth, but—but we talked about coming here, trying to find you.”

“She did. But she said she was being followed. That’s why I didn’t send you all away when you told me about Peter—he’s already on his way. Bounty hunter, supposedly. Probably started tracking you all the way back at that house you were squatting in. PJ will handle him when he arrives. Thank you for doing him a bad turn, Morrow. I know you wish you hadn’t, but I’m glad someone did.”

Morrow doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Behind Harper, the rice is beginning to sizzle.

Fen sways on her feet. “So Daneka’s not here. I— She’s not here? But she’s alive?”

The Abbott nods. “As of the time I last saw her, she’s alive, yes. She moved on three days after she got here. But she left these in my care.” She holds up one envelope, then lowers it to the countertop. “That one is for all of you. And this one,” she says, holding up the second envelope, “is just for you, Fen. She said you’d come. She thought everyone would probably come with you, but she said that if they didn’t, you still would. She cares for you a great deal, you know?”

Fen swallows hard, glances at Quan briefly before taking the envelope. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Harper takes a halting step toward the first envelope. Then they stop, turn around, swear down at the pot on the stove. They grab the ladle off the floor, add two quick scoops of broth to the pot, and stir hard and fast, scraping up the rice that’s browned on the bottom of the pot. “Fuck fuck fuck,” they whisper.

“Don’t worry about it so much,” The Abbott says. “All you have to do is keep going, and you’ll get there.”

Harper doesn’t acknowledge her. They just keep stirring. They know she was talking about the risotto, which she taught Harper to make when they were as young as the little thieves they’d employed to gather ingredients. They also know that she was talking about Daneka. And about coming home, and about growing up, and about everything else they’ve ever done and will ever do.

“This shit is why I left,” they growl. “Advice. Envelopes. Burnt fucking rice.”

Fen comes back around the counter and looks over their shoulder. “It’s not burnt. It’s just fond.”

“What?” Harper snaps.

“It’s just fond. The stuff that sticks to the bottom of the pot and turns brown. It’s fond. That’s where all the flavor is.”

Harper keeps stirring. “We’d better hope it’s a good flavor.”

“It will be,” Fen says, walking away, wanting to give Harper the space she knows they need to go through whatever it is they’re going through. Fen’s never come home to anywhere before. She doesn’t know what it’s like. But it looks like it hurts, and she knows Harper doesn’t like to be seen when they’re hurting.

Still. She pauses, touches the envelope that’s meant for the whole group. “You don’t have to come with me and Quan when we go find her. I don’t expect you to, I mean. I don’t think Morrow is coming,” she adds, looking over her shoulder at the place where Morrow and The Abbott are deep into another quiet, serious conversation. “I think they’re going to stay, probably. It’s okay if you want to stay too.”

Harper pauses in their stirring, which has become too frenetic anyway, too intense. They wipe their forehead on their wrist and look at Fen, really look at her, and their face is an open wound. They’re a cracked ladle, and all the love and pain and exhaustion in them is leaking out, and they can’t stand for it to splash onto Fen but there’s no way to keep that from happening right now so they let it happen. “You don’t sound scared.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean. Normally, when you ask me if I’m staying or going, you sound scared.”

Fen nods. She’s looking down at the risotto, which is nearly done, so that she doesn’t have to look at Harper. “The thing is. I figure it’s probably okay either way. You left this place, and then you came back, and it’s obvious that it’s still home for you. Even if you don’t want to talk about it—”

“I don’t mind talking about it with you. If you want to know, I’ll tell you.” They tip the big pot over the smaller one, pouring the last of the broth into the risotto along with the plump, rehydrated mushrooms.

“Either way,” Fen says firmly. “If you and Morrow decide to stay here, and I go off with Quan to find Daneka, that doesn’t mean we’ll never see you two again. It doesn’t mean you’ll forget about us. About me,” she amends. “I trust you not to forget about me.”

“And you’ve figured out that you don’t need me. Right? No, don’t—it’s not a bad thing,” they say before Fen can protest. “I just mean that for a long time, back at the squat, you didn’t trust yourself. You thought you needed me for backup. Right? And now,” they continue, not waiting for her to agree, “you know that you can do things on your own. So you’re not as scared of what’ll happen if I’m not there.” They turn off the heat and give the risotto a final stir.

Fen has her arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t just want you around because I’m scared. Is that what you think?”

Harper taps the spoon against the edge of the pot. “I don’t think that’s the only reason you’ve wanted me around in the past. But I think it was in the mix. And now, I think you want me around because you want me around.”

Fen nods. “You really haven’t made your decision, have you? I’ve never seen you take this long to figure out what you want.”

Harper lets out a low, dry laugh. It’s a laugh that Fen’s never heard before. She thinks it might be their realest laugh. “Fen. You’ve been watching me try to figure out what I want since the day we met. You just didn’t know until now what I was trying to decide on.”

A group of children are gathering on the other side of the common area. The four guards, and the three thieves, and a handful of others. Fen points to them. “I think your risotto is going to have to feed more mouths than we thought.”

“You still don’t know? What choice I’ve been making?”

Fen shakes her head.

Harper eyes the growing mass of children. Jaan is near the front. “The way I see it, I’ve been looking at two options. There’s eating dinner with you and Quan and Morrow and Daneka, or there’s everything else in the world.”

“And you picked us?”

“Every time.”

The two of them stand side by side. Fen watches the children. Harper watches the risotto. They don’t look at each other, and they don’t touch each other, and they don’t speak. Their hearts beat at the same speed. They feel it together—the pain and fear and hunger of the months they’ve shared, the emptiness of the years that came before they knew each other, the echoing expanse of the future and all the hell that might be in it. Harper inhales, and a moment later Fen exhales, and neither of them has ever been so unalone.

Harper breaks the silence first. “This risotto’s gonna get cold fast. Not that the kids’ll care, but still. It deserves to be eaten hot.”

Fen nods. “Sounds good. I’ll go find bowls.”

Harper’s Risotto

Serves 10

18 cups water
4 tbsp beef tallow, divided into two parts
3 onions, chopped
6 cloves garlic
12 handfuls of rice *rinse once
2 splashes vinegar
1 cup dried mushrooms
5 salt-cured anchovies

Add mushrooms, anchovies, and water into the big pot. Boil until mushrooms are reconstituted and anchovies have more or less melted away.

1. Heat tallow. Soften & brown onions and garlic.
2. Add oil. Add rice, stir until edges go clear.
3. Add vinegar, stir until liquid is gone.
4. Add a little broth. Stir until liquid is gone. Repeat until all broth is gone.
5. Add whatever you like.

“Have You Eaten?” copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey
Art copyright © 2024 by Shing Yin Khor
Photography copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey

The post Have You Eaten? Part 4: Harper’s Homecoming appeared first on Reactor.

Fen’s Mom’s Chicken Pot Pie

Crust (2 batches)
2½ cups flour
Pinch of salt
1 cup butter
6 tablespoons water

Filling
3 stalks celery, chopped
1 onion, diced; or 1 can pearl onions, drained and rinsed
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
4 cups chicken broth
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 tsp chopped fresh sage
Pepper
1 bag mixed frozen peas & carrots
2 chicken breasts, roasted and shredded
Salt

Instructions

Make the Crust

1. Combine the flour and the salt. Add the butter and mix with your hands until small crumbs are formed.  

2. Add in water 1 tablespoon at a time, mixing with your hands to form dough. 

3. Chill for 1 hour. 

4. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. While it’s heating, divide the dough in half. Roll out each half separately. Set one aside, and place the other in a floured and buttered pie pan. Poke the bottom several times with a fork to release steam during cooking.

5. Bake blind for 15 minutes.  


Make the Filling

1. In a nonstick skillet over medium heat, sauté the celery and chopped onion if using. Salt to taste. When vegetables have just begun to soften, set aside.

2. In the same skillet, heat the butter over medium heat until it stops bubbling. Add the flour and whisk thoroughly until there are no lumps. Stir until golden brown.

3. Add the chicken broth to the pan. Whisk thoroughly until well-combined. Add the onion powder, garlic powder, sage, and plenty of black pepper. *Do not salt at this stage; since the broth will be thickened into gravy, the risk of oversalting is high.
4. Add the cooked vegetables, the frozen vegetables, and the pearl onions if using. Stir to combine.
5. Simmer until the sauce thickens into a gravy.
6. Remove from the heat and stir in the shredded chicken.

7. Pour the filling into the blind-baked crust. Top with the rolled-out unbaked crust. Cut slits in the top to vent steam. Bake until golden and flaky on top, 35–45 minutes.


Optional: Instead of pie crust, bake under a layer of biscuits. Double the filling recipe to fill a 9×13-inch pan.

It’s Daneka’s birthday, so everyone in the squat is being quiet and trying not to make eye contact with each other. The problem is that everyone’s known for weeks that Fen is worried about Daneka. At first they all rolled their eyes at Fen—people go missing all the time, and worrying over that is as useless as paper money. Then they tried to get her to snap out of it, because Fen’s the one who makes decisions and plans, and her anxiety over Daneka has been occupying her mind so thoroughly that she hasn’t been deciding or planning anything.

Now, after weeks with no Daneka and no word from her either, everyone in the squat privately shares Fen’s suspicion that something bad has probably happened to their friend. Nobody wants to be the first to say something, though, so they’re all finding reasons to be on their palmsets, reasons to look out the window, reasons to attend to their least-favorite chores.

Fen isn’t making it easy for anyone to speak up, anyway. She’s not talking about her feelings. Four months ago, she overheard Quan calling her a “neurotic clinger.” Quan didn’t know she could hear him—she had just walked into the room and was standing right behind him, like in that movie everyone in the squat makes fun of but hasn’t seen. He said it in a mean way, even though he’s not a mean person, except when he sort of is. And she wasn’t supposed to hear, but she did.

She sort of melted off into her bedroom after that. When Morrow checked in on Fen later she made all the right noises about understanding that she needs to manage her anxiety and Quan’s mastery of incisive languagebut still, damn, it must have stung to hear. Since then, Fen’s been “managing her anxiety” by quietly vibrating, crying when she thinks nobody can hear her, and saying nothing about her feelings to anyone, ever.

Her silence isn’t keeping her secret, though. The housemates know each other even better than they know hunger, and they all recognize the signs of Fen’s worry. Her lips are ragged from chewing. She keeps asking thinly anonymized questions like, Do you think people have responsibility to each other? and, How would you handle it if a friend suddenly grew really distant? Every time anyone catches a glimpse of her palmset, she’s looking at Daneka’s profile, refreshing over and over again, her eyes locked on the location status that hasn’t updated in a month.

At first, Harper told her that some people thrive on independence in relationships. At first, Morrow told her that it probably had nothing to do with her. At first, Quan told her that she could talk to him if she was freaking out about something, but she responded with a patently forced smile and said that she was fine, and then Quan spent the rest of the day asking Harper and Morrow if he’d done anything to upset her because he still didn’t know she’d heard the thing he’d said about her in the first place.

And now it’s Daneka’s birthday, and Daneka still hasn’t come home or answered anyone’s private messages, and everyone is just as worried as Fen’s been for weeks but nobody wants to say so because that would mean admitting that Fen was right all along, and then they’d have to try to figure out what to do.

Fen is usually the one who figures out what to do.

Around noon, a patrol car passes the squat. Quan watches it through a gap in the boards that cover the windows. Once the car has passed out of sight, he lets out a short sharp sigh, slaps his thighs with both palms, and shoots to his feet. His square jaw is set, his thick brows furrowed, his slim fingers balled into fists. “Okay,” he says. “Where the fuck’s Fen?”

“Kitchen,” Harper answers from the floor, where they’re using their fingers to fill a gouge in the laminate with a mixture of sawdust and wood glue. Their dark scalp-stubble grows in continent-like patches around old burn scars on their scalp. The scars are from their life in Old Chicago, which no one in the squat makes the mistake of asking about. Harper isn’t a leader in the same way Fen is, but they could be if they were less irritable about other people needing things and making noises about it. “Step careful. Glue’s drying.”

Quan obeys, tiptoeing past the collection of cushions and camp chairs that Harper’s stacked against the wall to make room for this needlessly intense project. He makes his way to the kitchen and finds that Harper was right: there’s Fen, red-eyed and purse-mouthed, clutching a potato and staring into the nearly bare cupboard.

“You freaking out or what?” Quan asks, looking into the cupboard too so Fen won’t feel like her tears are being noticed.

“No,” she answers, her voice too wobbly to stick the landing. She twists her neck to wipe her nose on the shoulder of her cardigan. The movement makes one tight-coiled curl fall across her forehead. “A little worried that they might finally turn off the electricity this month.”

“Any reason to think that might happen, or are you getting upset over nothing?”

“Probably the second one,” Fen answers, not too defensively. “It’s just. You know. At some point the developers that own this block are gonna remember that this house exists, and we should have a plan for what to do when that happens.” She closes her eyes, takes a long slow breath. “But we’ll deal with it when we get there. What about you? How’s your day so far?”

Quan lets out a dry laugh. “Not great. I’m worried about Daneka.”

Those last four words strike Fen like a match. She explodes with relief. “Oh my god, me too. Where the hell is she? Wait, I mean—no,” she stammers, her face crumpling as she tries and fails to reel her words back, to reconfigure herself into whatever well-managed anxiety is supposed to look like. “It’s fine that she’s gone. I’ve just been wondering why she hasn’t come home, I guess? But it’s fine that she hasn’t.”

Quan opens the refrigerator and pulls out a celery bunch that’s as limp as yarn. “No, like, I’m worried too. She’s been gone for a month, that’s not normal. And she hasn’t messaged you at all?”

“Not at all,” Fen replies. “I haven’t been messaging her that much or anything, just a couple of ‘thinking of you’ taps. She did a thumbs-up react but I don’t know what that means, and—”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Quan whacks the listless celery against the quartz counter, which is still marked at the edges with wax crayon where the flippers who abandoned this house had planned to cut it. “I think we should call a house meeting.”

Morrow comes thudding down the hall, their heavy boots loud on the gray laminate. Morrow’s body takes up space—they’re built like a fridge, if a fridge could work out—but their voice hides in the back of their throat. “Are, um. Are you guys talking about Daneka?”

“Shoes, asshole,” Harper yells from the living room.

Morrow sits down on the floor immediately and starts undoing their laces. “Sorry. Did someone hear from her?”

“I can’t hear you,” Quan says. “Nobody can fuckin’ hear you.”

“Quan’s worried,” Fen adds. “About Daneka.”

Morrow exchanges a significant glance with Quan. “Okay, well, I mean. It’s just that. You know. I think Quan’s right to be worried. It’s weird that we haven’t heard from Daneka, and—”

“I’ve heard from her,” Harper calls, looking up from their work on the floor. “Thumbs-up react on my last message.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Fen says, earning raised eyebrows from Harper. “You know what? I’m just gonna call her.” She pulls her palmset out of her back pocket and unfolds it, hesitates briefly, looks up, realizes everyone is watching her and she can’t change her mind now—and dials.

The tritone sound of the call going through cycles twelve times before the call drops.

“That’s fine,” Fen says weakly. “I’ll message. She’s probably away from her palmset, she’ll see when she gets back to it.” She swipes out a message, saying the words as she traces them across one quadrant of the screen. “Should . . . we . . . expect . . . you . . . for . . . dinner. There.” She folds her palmset back up before tossing it onto the counter and turning to her housemates. “I’m making chicken pot pie. It’s her favorite. If she shows up, we can have a birthday party. If not, we’ll just eat it without her.”

Morrow grabs the counter and uses it to pull themself upright. They stare at Fen, their dark eyes wide with disbelief. “Wait, for real? You know how to make chicken pot pie?”

“No she doesn’t,” Quan snaps. “When’s the last time you think Fen got her hands on meat? Be serious.”

Fen ignores him, pulling a scratched wooden box off the top of the fridge and answering Morrow without acknowledging Quan at all. “I stole my mom’s recipe box when my folks kicked me out. I know how to make all her recipes.”

“Nice,” Harper says. They jog to the kitchen and dip a rag into the washwater basin, then start scrubbing gluey sawdust off their thumb. “Where d’you think Daneka is?”

“That’s not any of our business,” Fen answers, reaching deeper into the cupboard than she probably needs to.

“Is too,” Harper replies, scowling.

Fen goes still, her head between the shelves. “Really?”

“Course.” Harper runs a hand over their scalp. They sigh. “She’s part of our family. Fuck’s sake, she lives here. And yeah, she drops off the map from time to time. But that’s a few days at a stretch. She’s usually sending videos and posting stuff. And messaging us. Anyone gotten any actual messages?” They wait for everyone else’s headshakes to confirm before continuing. “So.”

And then Morrow whispers the thing nobody’s wanted to say, the thing Fen’s been thinking for twenty-eight days. “What if . . . she got picked up?”

“We’d know,” Quan says immediately.

“How?” Harper’s bony shoulders snap up around their ears. “How would we know, Quan? You think they still let people make phone calls?”

“What about the thumbs-up reacts?”

“Those don’t mean anything,” Harper snaps. “When’s the last time you saw Daneka go quiet on socials?”

Everyone stops to think. “Last time she got picked up,” Quan finally admits. “She was waiting at a drop-off point for a delivery for the three of us—me and her and Fen, I mean.” He nods to Fen, who finally extracts herself from the cupboard, her face drawn. Back before Fen and Quan and Daneka met Harper and Morrow, the three of them had been their own little trio. Moving from place to place, following rumors about reliable, affordable hormones and welcoming communities. “The seller was an undercover. He snatched Daneka for like a week. She didn’t post or message the whole time.”

“Did she send reacts?”

“Hearts,” Fen whispers, remembering. “She told us later that the cop took her phone so he could go through her messages and contacts and stuff.”

“So. Thumbs-up reacts don’t mean shit,” Harper confirms.

Morrow steps on the loose toe of one sock, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Okay, but also, she came home after she got picked up that time, right? So she’ll probably come home this time, too.”

It’s Fen and Quan’s turn to exchange a loaded glance. “That was in Santa Cruz,” Quan says slowly.

Morrow, who lived their whole life just up the freeway in Redding, hoists themself up to sit on the counter. The quartz creaks under their weight. “Is it bad there?”

“Nah,” Quan says. “They’ll pick you up for indecency or gender impersonation or whatever, but they don’t process you most of the time. They just take your money if you have any. It’s . . . it’s not like here,” he finishes, his eyes on his hands, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Everyone startles when Fen drops the entire potato bin onto the counter. Her eyes are dry, her scar-notched brows set. “Daneka will be here,” she announces.

This is the Fen they’ve all been missing. This is her determined face, the one she wears when she’s deciding to create reality from scratch. It’s the face she wore when she and Quan and Daneka first met Morrow—Fen decided they’d all live together, even though Morrow had just tried to mug them. It’s the face she wore when they broke into this squat through the front door and found Harper breaking into it through the back door. And it’s the face she wears as she informs the other three housemates present that she will be making a birthday dinner, that Daneka will show up to eat it, and that they’re all going to help in the meantime.

“You,” she says, pointing at a startled Morrow. “Sort these potatoes.”

Morrow eyes the potato bin dubiously. “By . . . size?”

“By sprouts. We can probably eat all of these since none of them are green, but the ones with really long sprouts might not be good. Look into my eyes, Morrow,” she says, and she waits for their big dark eyes to meet hers. “We aren’t risking it with any rotten food today. Okay? I mean it. Not for Daneka’s birthday.”

Morrow nods and picks up a potato with one huge, gentle hand.

“And you,” Fen says, wheeling on Quan and brandishing the sagging celery stalks he’d idly removed from the refrigerator a few minutes before. “Figure this out.”

Harper stands on the other side of the kitchen counter, their arms folded. “Guess the boss is back.”

Fen regards them with bristling determination. “You’re coming shopping with me.”

The two of them go out through the back door and cross the crunchy brown grass of the back lawn. Harper boosts Fen over the gate in the back fence, which is white vinyl stamped to look like wood and doesn’t open from the inside. Once Fen is on the other side, she thumbs the code into the keypad and eases the gate open.

“Should fix that thing,” Harper says as they pass through the gate onto the community path, their eyes flicking down to the busted keypad on the inside of the fence. It looks like someone took a hammer to it.

“Good luck,” Fen replies. “Sorry, that sounded bitchy. I really mean it. You’re good with electronics.”

Harper snorts. “Sure. Hey, do you think—”

“I don’t want to talk about Daneka,” Fen interrupts.

“I wasn’t going to ask about Daneka. I was going to ask if you think that’s fennel or dill,” Harper says, pointing at a frondy green that’s growing a couple of feet off the path. This trail was a jackpot find they discovered a couple of weeks after settling into the squat: a poorly maintained ribbon of asphalt that stretches behind two miles of houses, terrible for jogging or riding a bicycle but perfect for foraging, especially when it comes to plants that like to jump fences from hobby gardens out into the world.

Fen rubs a frond, then lifts her fingers to her nose. “Fennel,” she says, grinning. “What do you think, take the bulb or just cut a couple stalks?”

“Stalks,” Harper answers, pulling a box cutter out of their back pocket. They trim off a couple of stalks of fennel. The licorice smell perfumes the air around them. “And you’re lying.”

“What?”

“You’re lying. You want to talk about Daneka.” Harper waits while Fen pulls a crumpled plastic grocery bag out of one pocket, then drops the fennel stalks into it.

Fen starts walking. Her strides are long, her pace quick—Harper has to move fast to keep up. “I’m just worried about her, is all.”

“Pissed at her, more like. Hang on. Mint.” They stoop to rip up a few fistfuls of the mint that grows in patches all along the trail, then use the blade of their box cutter to dig out a hank of it with the roots intact. “I read that if you plant this stuff in your yard, it’ll grow everywhere. We can replace that crusty lawn.”

“You think we’re going to stay in the squat long enough for it to matter?”

“Been six months already,” Harper says. “Might stay.”

“Sure,” Fen says, her eyes darting to either end of the trail. “The thing is, okay, I’m not pissed at Daneka. I’m just—if she’s not missing, then yeah, I’d feel some kind of way about it. But I’m not pissed yet, because we don’t know if she’s missing or just being an inconsiderate asshole. If she’s missing, I don’t want to be pissed at her, I want to be worried. But I’d rather be pissed.”

Harper shrugs. “Could be both. Missing and an asshole.”

“Don’t. Don’t joke like that.” Fen stalks ahead for a few minutes, until they reach a spot where they’d found wild onions once. She tucks her pants into her socks before stepping off the trail to slowly pace in a circle through the grass, looking for the tall green stalks of an allium. “I don’t know what we do if she doesn’t come home. Do we go try to find her? Get her out?”

“No,” Harper says immediately. “Too dangerous.”

Fen stoops and tears out a fistful of grass, runs her hand along the dirt. “Maybe just me and Quan,” she mutters. “If you and Morrow don’t give a shit.”

“We give a shit. But you two getting yourselves snatched won’t help Daneka. There,” they say suddenly, pointing to a spot just behind Fen.

The onions are puny, their tops scraggly, but Fen still beams with triumph. “See?” she says, brandishing the onions. “It’s gonna be great. We’re already most of the way there.”

They visit the overgrown rosemary hedge, waving away half-drunk bees to snap off a few stems. They harvest a couple of handfuls of pealike seed pods from a thatch of bolted arugula, stepping over the papery white flowers that litter the path around it. Fen crows at the sight of what looks like garlic or maybe a shallot and digs it up, only to find a snotty hunk of black rot where the papery bulb should be. As she’s swearing and wiping her hands on her jeans, though, Harper spots another, and this one turns out to only be half-rotted.

“Yes yes yes,” Fen whispers, slicing the rot away with Harper’s box cutter.

Harper eyes the rot that’s falling away. “That gonna be good?”

“Not even a risky one,” Fen confirms. “We’ve eaten way worse.”

“What else do you need?”

“Um.” Fen pauses, closes her eyes. “Carrots. Flour. Butter. We have salt, right?”

Harper thinks. “Yeah, Morrow grabbed a bunch of packets last time we got burgers. How much flour? Would cornstarch work instead?”

“Maybe? Oh, and we need chicken.”

They both laugh. “I’ll grab the first one I see,” Harper says.

They walk the rest of the path and they don’t find carrots, just a lot more mint, some marjoram, and a stray cat that puffs up his tail at them. As they head home, Fen slows her pace. “Harp, are you mad at me?”

“Nah. But I should be.”

Fen nods. She trusts Harper because of answers like this one. “How come?”

Harper stops walking, waits for Fen to turn and face them. They take a deep breath and fold their arms across their chest. The sun falls in gold dapples across their freckled shoulders. They regard Fen irritably, the way they always do when they’re figuring out how to say a thing that they think should go without saying. “Because,” they say at last, “you dropped us.”

“I—what?”

“You dropped us. You’re the one in charge. You make the decisions, you boss everyone around, you decide what the day’s gonna look like. But you got worried about Daneka, so you stopped. Where do you think Morrow went today?”

Fen shrugs. “Out?”

“They went to the coffee shop,” Harper snaps, jutting their head forward. “To see that barista they keep flirting with. Because you weren’t paying attention enough to notice that Morrow hasn’t clocked how the coffee shop is a cop joint, so you didn’t tell them not to go.”

“You could have told them not to go,” Fen mutters.

Harper narrows their eyes. “I did. But Morrow doesn’t listen to me the way they listen to you. Which you know. But you’ve been in your feelings, so you decided someone else could handle the shit you usually handle, and now we gotta figure out if Morrow got followed home by a uniform.”

 Fen shook her head. “I’m not in charge of—”

“The fuck you’re not. Take responsibility for your vibe, Fen. Either we can count on you or we can’t. Which is it?”

The two of them glare at each other. A cricket starts to sing the late afternoon down into dusk. Fen breaks first, huffing out a sigh as she looks away.

“I’ll think about it,” she says at last.

Harper nods. “I know.”

When they get back to the house, the potatoes are lined up on the counter, in order from one with no sprouts to one with four-inch-long ones. The celery is floating in a bowl of water, looking significantly sturdier than it had just an hour before. Morrow and Quan are hovering over the sink.

“Hey kids,” Harper says, dropping the now-full bag of produce onto the counter. “Whaddaya got there?”

Morrow turns around, grinning and holding up what looks like a wad of white gum. “Butter!”

Fen’s jaw drops. “You’re joking. Where did you get butter?!”

“They made it,” Quan says. He sounds like he doesn’t believe the words he’s saying.

“I learned how when I was a kid,” Morrow explains, dropping their tiny palmful of butter onto a plate on the counter. “It’s easy. You, um.” Their ears are going red from the combined attention of the other three. “You just put some cream in a jar and shake it a thousand times, then pull out the solid stuff and wash it in cold water. Is this gonna be enough?”

Harper picks up an old peanut butter jar that has a couple of inches of cloudy liquid in it. “Ew.”

“That’s buttermilk, save it,” Fen says quickly. “Morrow, where the fuck did you get cream?”

“The guy at the coffee shop down the road. Me and Quan ran over there after I finished sorting the potatoes. Dude only charged us a dollar for a pretty decent pour. I thought, maybe we could invite coffee shop guy over sometime and—”

“We won’t be doing that,” Quan says frankly, “but hey. How do you like that, Fen? Butter?”

Everyone turns to Fen. She’s holding the plate of butter, her eyes welling with tears. “I like it,” she whispers. “Thank you, Morrow.”

“I helped,” Quan mutters.

Fen’s palmset, still sitting where she left it on the counter an hour and a half earlier, chimes.

Everyone freezes. Morrow reaches for the palmset but Harper slaps their hand away.

Quan puts a hand on Fen’s shoulder. “Do you want to look at it?”

Fen shakes her head, then nods, then shakes her head again. “Do you still have the cornstarch in the bathroom? From when you were doing liberty spikes in your hair?”

“Uh, yeah.” Quan blinks a few times. “Do you need it?”

Fen picks up a potato, not looking at Quan at all. “Yeah. Can you grab it?”

“I guess.” He heads down the long hall to the bathroom on the other end of the house, looking over his shoulder at her every few steps.

Once he’s out of sight, she pounces on the palmset. There’s a message from Daneka.

I’ll do my best!

“What does that mean?” Fen whispers to herself.

Harper leans closer. “What’s it say?”

“Nothing.” Fen folds the palmset shut.

“Well. What do you mean, though? What’s nothing? Was it from Daneka?” Morrow wipes their buttery hands on their jeans and reaches one long arm across the counter for the palmset again.

“Yes.” Fen jams the handset into her pocket. Her eyes flick up toward the hall, where Quan is returning with a crumpled bag of cornstarch. “But it wasn’t anything. Who wants to wash all this marjoram?”

For the next hour, Fen steers the four of them through a recipe. Quan and Morrow work together to clean all the vegetables. By the time that’s done, Fen’s got water boiling on the hotplate. She boils all the usable potatoes, then uses the potato water to reconstitute some chicken powder into a cloudy broth. Harper pulls the celery out of its bowl of water to discover that it’s more or less revitalized; they chop that and the fennel stalks while Fen dices the wild onion and garlic they found.

Quan is playing lo-fi beats on his palmset, and Morrow is mumbling lyrics to go with the beats, and they’re all laughing hard enough that they almost don’t hear it when Fen’s palmset chimes again. She tosses the garlic and wild onion into a skillet on the hotplate before pulling it out of her pocket and unfolding it.

Remind me where we’re meeting?

Harper looks over her shoulder. “Fuck,” they whisper.

“What’s up?” Quan looks up from the playlist he’s curating. “Fen? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Fen says. Her voice is perfectly flat. She folds the palmset back into her pocket, then takes up the wooden spoon next to the skillet and gives the onion a stir. “Harper, can you throw the celery in here for me? Quan, Morrow, go pack your stuff and charge your palmsets. Use the rapid charger in the living room.”

Morrow furrows their brow. “Didn’t you say the rapid charger is a fire hazard? Or is it—”

“She’s right. We gotta go. Hurry,” Harper says. “We should pack too,” they add in an urgent whisper after Quan and Morrow have gone.

“In a minute,” Fen replies. “I want to finish this.”

“Fen—”

“In a minute,” she says again, her voice steady and certain the way it was before Daneka went missing. The way it’s always been. “Carrots?”

“We didn’t find carrots,” Harper reminds her softly. “You want the fennel, though?”

Fen closes her eyes tight, bows her head. Lets out a teakettle hiss of curses. When she looks back up and meets Harper’s eyes, her gaze is flat. “Will we stay together? Do you want to stay with us, I mean? You don’t have to.”

Harper draws her into a tight hug. “I don’t know. Let’s figure that out in the morning, yeah? Right now, I’m gonna go pack up my stuff and charge my palmset. Want me to get yours too?”

Fen nods. “I want to finish cooking this for Daneka. Just in case.”

Harper taps the recipe box on the counter as they leave the kitchen. “Don’t forget this.”

After Harper disappears into the living room with both their palmsets, Fen lets herself cry. Just for a few seconds. A couple of sobs, a spill of hot tears, that’s all.

Then she adds the chopped fennel stalks to the skillet. When the fennel is bright green, she pours the chicken broth into the pan and lets it boil for a few minutes. It’s already thickening a little thanks to the potato starch in the water, but she adds some of Quan’s cornstarch too, stirring fast until it makes a thick gravy. She adds marjoram and rosemary since she doesn’t have any sage. She smashes the potatoes, stirs in chicken powder and Morrow’s butter, adds a few salt-and-pepper combo packets from Morrow’s stash.

“Okay,” she whispers to herself as she lets the potatoes heat just a little longer, to get any last water out. “Finish it. Move on. Work to do.”

She can hear Quan and Harper trying to figure out how to fit her sweaters into her backpack. They won’t figure it out on their own, she knows, because they don’t know how to roll sweaters up tiny. She’ll go help them in a minute, but first, she scoops mashed potatoes into a paper bowl and uses the back of a spoon to spread them in an even layer. She pours vegetables and thick gravy on top, then covers those with another even layer of mashed potatoes. With the back of the spoon, she smooths the top down, then carves lines into the center of the layer to look like the slits in the top of a piecrust.

Quan comes into the kitchen, his backpack rising up over his shoulders like a turtle’s shell, and eyes the steaming bowl on the counter. “It’s smaller than I thought it’d be,” he says. “Good thing there’s only three of us. Are there clean spoons?”

Fen’s eyes snap up to him. Her face is blazing with barely restrained fury. “Don’t fucking touch it,” she says in a low, dangerous voice. “This is for Daneka.”

He frowns at her. “Chill. Daneka’s not here. Are you telling me we’re not going to eat this just because she got—”

“She’s going to be here,” Fen says. “And she’s going to be hungry when she gets home. We’ll eat on the road. Get moving.”

Quan looks like he’s about to protest, but then Morrow comes into the kitchen and smiles down at the bowl on the counter. “Daneka’s gonna love it,” they murmur. “Good job, Fen.”

“Are you serious?” Quan snaps. “You don’t want to eat it either?”

Morrow looks at him with open bewilderment. “It’s Daneka’s birthday. We’ll figure something else out.”

The four of them are out of the house five minutes later.Harper turns the lights off and locks the back door. Morrow boosts Quan over the back fence to let them out through the gate.

Fen is about to ease the back gate shut, but she hesitates, her eyes locked on the dark house. She tells herself that she’s trying to remember if she left anything behind, even as she mentally runs through the list of items that she already knows she’s carrying on her back.

“Fen?” Quan whisper-yells from the darkness down the path.

The edge of the pressed vinyl creaks in her grip. She rises up on her toes, trying to see inside.

“Hey,” Harper hisses. “We gotta move.”

A light goes on inside the house.

Fen closes the gate. “Coming.”

Fen’s “Chicken” Pot Pie

Crust (2 batches)
6 potatoes
3 tablespoons butter
Chicken bouillon powder
Salt and pepper packets

Filling
2 handfuls arugula seed pods, chopped
3 stalks celery, chopped
2 fennel stalks, chopped
3 wild onions, diced
2 tablespoons cornstarch mixed w/ ⅓ cup water to form a slurry
4 cups chicken broth
4 cloves garlic, chopped
1 teaspoon chopped fresh marjoram/rosemary
Pepper

Instructions

Make the “Crust”

1. Boil the potatoes. Drain, reserving the potato water.
2. Smash the cooked potatoes until smooth.
3. Add butter, chicken bouillon powder, salt, and pepper to taste.

Make the filling

1. Add chicken powder to the potato water to make broth
2. In a nonstick skillet over medium heat, sauté the celery, onion, and garlic. Add the fennel and sauté until bright green.
3. Add the chicken broth to the pan. Add herbs. Simmer 3–5 minutes.
4. Add cornstarch slurry and whisk thoroughly to thicken.

Assemble

5. Line a bowl with a thick layer of mashed potatoes. Add filling, then top with mashed potatoes and sculpt into a crust shape. Optional, if there’s time (there’s not): toast the mashed potatoes on top with a hand torch.

“Have You Eaten?” copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey
Art copyright © 2024 by Shing Yin Khor
Photography copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey

The post Have You Eaten? Part 1: Daneka’s Birthday appeared first on Reactor.

In a new serialized novella from Hugo Award-winning author Sarah Gailey, a fractured group of undesirables work together to nurture and nourish each other while navigating a dangerous world that would just as soon see them dead. Still—inch by inch, meal by meal—they build their own future. Have you eaten?

Fen’s Dad’s Soup

2 bay leaves
6–8 peppercorns
3–5 allspice berries
10 cups water; or 10 cups beef broth & omit bouillon
4 tablespoons beef base or 2 bouillon cubes 
½ head cabbage, shredded
1 cup celery, chopped
2 onions, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
1 pound sliced sausage
2 chicken breasts, cubed
1 cup ham, cubed
1 6-ounce can tomato paste
1 cup dry white wine
3 large dill pickles, chopped
2 tablespoons capers
¾ cup black olives, sliced
2 cans stewed tomatoes
Salt
Pepper
Optional: Dill and sour cream.

Instructions

1. Tie the bay leaves, peppercorns, and allspice berries up in a square of cheesecloth to form a sachet. Alternatively, put them into a tea infuser. In a very large pot, combine the water, spice sachet, beef base, cabbage, and celery. Boil for 30 minutes.  
2. While the water boils, in a very large skillet, sauté the onions and carrots.
3. When the onions start to brown, add the sausage, chicken, and ham to the pan. The sausage will release some fat, which will fry the chicken and ham. If omitting sausage, add oil or butter to the pan and cook until the chicken and ham are brown on all sides.
4. Add the contents of the skillet to the cooking pot. Add tomato paste to the skillet and stir until it starts to brown; then, add the white wine and dill pickles to the skillet. Stir to loosen all fond from the bottom of the pan, then transfer contents of the skillet to the cooking pot.
5. Add capers, olives, and stewed tomatoes to the cooking pot. Simmer 5–10 minutes until heated through.
6. Add salt and pepper to taste. Serve with dill and sour cream. 

Iowa is quiet at night, not that anyone in the back of the pickup would know. The engine is so loud that they can barely hear their own thoughts. But that’s fine, because none of them particularly want to tune in to that frequency anyway. The noise is a mercy, in its way.

All four of them—Fen, Quan, Harper, and Morrow—are wedged into the space next to the strapped-tight ATV in the truck bed. They’ve been rattling around back there like coins in a can since the middle of Colorado, where they managed to get picked up for the clearance price of all the pills in Morrow’s pockets. The guy driving the truck didn’t even look at their faces before opening the tailgate and ushering them in. He didn’t look when he slammed the tailgate shut either. Fen was lucky not to lose a finger.

That unlooking was its own kind of courtesy—the gift of anonymity, generously granted to four nobodies in exchange for a palmful of loose capsules.

“Quan. Hey. Hey, Quan.” Morrow is folded nearly in half to fit in their corner of the truck bed, closest to the cab. They’re nudging a zoned-out Quan with one sharp elbow.

“Wha?” Quan sounds disoriented, like he’s just woken up.

Morrow bends down to lean close to Quan’s ear. “What did I give that guy?”

“What did you—do you mean the pills?”

“Yeah, I didn’t check. Did you see what I handed him?”

Quan leans away, gives Morrow an incredulous look. “No. How do you not know what pills were in your pocket?”

Morrow shrugs, leans around Quan to try to get Harper’s attention. “Harp?”

Harper shakes their head, points to their ear. Even if they were open to conversation, which they usually aren’t, the thunder of the truck’s engine is loud enough to wash out any possibility of conversation.

Morrow doesn’t bother trying to get Fen’s attention. She’s crammed tight into the opposite corner from them. Her back is against the tailgate, and a scarf is up over her face to filter the worst of the exhaust coming from the tailpipe beneath her seat. Her eyes are closed and her skin is a worrying shade of green.

Just as Quan’s eyes start glazing over again, the truck slows. The stink of exhaust thickens without the wind of movement to whisk it away. Harper and Morrow pull their shirts up over their noses and mouths; Quan just coughs.

There’s nothing here to stop for, but the truck pulls onto the shoulder anyway. The semiautomatic bleat of the rumble strip jolts them all alert. They glance at each other, worry passing between them as fast as an extreme heat warning pinging every palmset in a hundred-mile area. None of them know why the driver would choose to stop in this lonely place.

The engine cuts off. Wildflowers grow next to the highway, bottle caps scattered in the dirt they’re growing out of. The golden pre-dusk light makes the broken glass on the highway shoulder glow. A fallow field stretches as far as any of them can see; on the other side of the highway, a blanket of soybeans extends all the way to the horizon. A door opens, then slams shut again. A lone cicada whines nearby; other than that, there’s no sound louder than footsteps on gravel as the driver makes his way around the side of the truck.

The tailgate drops open. Fen nearly falls out but catches herself just in time. She drops her head into her hands and sits there, catching her breath.

The driver’s hat, a faded blue ballcap with a dark rectangle on the front where a patch has been ripped off, shades his face so his eyes aren’t visible. He clears his throat and spits into the wildflowers. “You’ll want to get out and walk from here,” he says. “State line’s in a couple miles, and the State Border Patrol in Illinois started doing agricultural inspections on all vehicles entering the state last year. Depending who’s running the booth, could mean trouble for some kinds of people.”

“We’re trying to get to Chicago,” Harper says as they scramble past Fen and out of the truck bed. It’s a five-foot drop to the ground. The driver doesn’t help them down.

Morrow nudges Quan again. “That’s in Illinois, right?” they whisper.

Quan doesn’t answer. He pauses at the edge of the tailgate, looking at the driver, who has his face turned toward the soybeans. “Do you know how we can get there without running into State BP?”

The driver responds with silence. He waits while Morrow helps ease a gray-faced Fen to the edge of the dropped tailgate. Once the two of them drop to the asphalt, he slams the tailgate shut again. He hesitates for just a moment before turning his back on all four of them.

“Go through Wisconsin. There’s just one guy working the inspection station up there, name of Bouchard. He never gives anyone trouble.”

By the time Harper reaches the “you” in “thank you,” the driver’s-side door is already slamming shut again.

Fen stumbles into the fallow field as the truck vanishes down the long, straight stretch of road toward Illinois.

“Fen. You okay?” Harper stoops to pick up their bag and Fen’s.

Fen holds up a hand, then crouches, spasms, heaves. She stays hunched over for a long minute before straightening. “I’m fine,” she calls hoarsely. “Just carsick. Anyone have a charge on their palmset? I’m down to two percent.”

“I didn’t find a charging pad in the back of the truck, no,” Quan says in a tone that could be a joke or could be a rebuke.

Harper gives him a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. We can figure out where to plug in tomorrow. Right now, we need a place to sleep. Storm’s coming.”

 “Not for a while, though, right?” Morrow looks up at the thick bank of clouds on the horizon, doubtful.

Harper doesn’t answer him. “Fen, you ready?”

Fen nods and half straightens. Together, the four of them start across the field. They pick their way across the grass, pants tucked into socks, bones jellified from the hours of travel. It doesn’t take long for the road to vanish behind them. After a couple of minutes of walking, Fen looks better enough that Harper stops shooting worried glances at her.

Quan spots an abandoned-looking shack in the middle of a bald patch in the field. The windows are missing and there are holes in the roof that you can see right through, but the night is warm and a roof’s a roof, holes or none.

Harper starts by knocking on the front door. Loud, firm knocks. Cop knocks. They try three times before deciding nobody’s home. The front door isn’t locked, and there’s a palpable emptiness to the house when the four of them walk inside.

They make a lot of noise as they enter, pitching their voices loud like they’re warning off bears. They split into pairs and sweep quickly through the house. There’s not much territory to cover—one main room the size of the truck they rode here in, with a bed pushed into the far corner; a simple kitchen along one wall with a woodburning stove and a pump sink; a water closet that doesn’t merit more than a quick peek to confirm that nobody’s hiding inside.

Fen and Harper confer. “We should check outside too, but I don’t think anyone’s been in this place for a long time,” Fen says, sweeping a layer of sandy dust off the single skinny, buckled shelf above the sink.

“Gotta plug some of the holes in the walls. Wind’s already picking up,” Harper says, nodding to a gap between the boards where the pink light of the sunset peeks through. “Who wants which job?”

Fen volunteers to check outside. Her face visibly falls when Quan volunteers to walk the perimeter with her. He has his palmset and charging cable in his hand, like he’s hoping there might be a power outlet on the outside of the house. Morrow and Harper stay inside, using an old broom handle to tug a pile of rags out from under the bed to plug the gaps in the walls.

 Quan starts in on Fen the second they’re outside. “Why don’t you want to talk to me? Did I do something?” He steps around a haphazard stack of logs, pauses, turns around, and cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey, there’s a woodpile!”

“Thanks,” Harper yells from inside.

Fen pretends not to hear him. “Did you notice the updates on Daneka’s Fotoset?” She pulls out her palmset. The screen is dim and grayscale to save power. She rotates the palmset in her hand until it opens the photo-sharing app. Daneka’s latest update is right there: a picture of a butterfly, captioned

Just livin’ life to the fullest!

Quan glances at it, then looks quickly away. “Daneka didn’t post that.”

“No shit.” Fen nudges an old aluminum bucket with one foot. It tips over with a hollow thunk. “It’s been stuff like that every day. I just can’t figure out if it’s a bot takeover or if someone’s running the account.”

“The bots and the Feds train on the same material. Impossible to tell them apart based on voice, but I guess we’ll know which one it is if Daneka starts messaging you links to ‘investment opportunities.’” He rounds the corner of the house, then stops, tilts his head. “Hey, when we were inside, did you see a back door into the house?”

Fen follows his gaze. He’s looking at a narrow door set into the eastern wall of the house. She thinks for a moment, then answers firmly. “No. Definitely not.”

They approach warily. Fen raps on the door hard—it’s not as loud as Harper’s knock, but it’s loud enough that they hear Morrow yell “What was that?”from inside the house. After a few seconds pass without any other response, Fen glances at Quan. He nods and reaches past her for the doorknob.

The door sticks the first two times Quan pulls on it. On the third tug, he yanks it hard, and it opens with a sick, paint-stuck pop.

“It’s a canning pantry,” Fen says, peering inside at the spiderwebbed shelves that line the walls. A single broken bulb hangs from the ceiling; glass crunches underfoot as the two of them squeeze inside.

They both jump at a pounding on the wall. Morrow’s soft voice follows, barely muffled.  “Hey, who the fuck is in the walls?”

Quan sticks an arm through some cobwebs to smack a fist into the wall. “It’s just us,” he yells back. “We found a pantry!”

Morrow pauses. When they speak again, it sounds like they’re pressed right up against the other side of the wall. “Anything good in there?”

“Electricity,” Quan says, pointing to the broken bulb overhead. “Might be an outlet in here. Fen, can we use your palmset’s flashlight mode?”

“No,” she snaps. “It’ll kill the battery.”

“Which you’ll be able to recharge if we find an outlet,” Quan drawls with exaggerated patience. When Fen doesn’t immediately pull out her palmset, he snaps his fingers at her a few times. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Fen opens her mouth like she’s about to protest, but then she closes it again, shakes her head, pulls out her palmset. “Fuck you,” she mutters as she thumbs it into flashlight mode.

“You’re saying that because you know I’m right,” Quan replies. He drops into a low squat, then gets on his hands and knees to look under the shelves. “I think I see something back here.”

“An outlet?”

“You know what would help me figure that out is if you pointed that flashlight somewhere useful.”

Fen stoops to direct the light under the shelf. It lands on a tiny can, half buried in dust. “Don’t think you can plug into that,” she says.

Quan shoves his arm under the shelf. “There’s more back there,” he grunts. “I can feel something else. I can almost reach—if I just . . .” He strains for a moment, then pulls his hand out from the darkness, holding the tiny can and a small glass jar.

The light from Fen’s palmset starts to dim. “Shit,” she says, “let’s check the rest of this place out, quick. I’m almost out of charge.”

In the sixty seconds before Fen’s palmset dies, they find a few more dust-covered jars, and a wall outlet that’s so blackened with scorch marks that even Quan isn’t willing to risk plugging into it. They gather everything they’ve found and bring it inside, where most of the gaps in the walls are plugged with rags and a fire is already burning in the woodstove.

“Huh. Well. This is . . . I don’t want to say useless,” Harper says, looking over what they’ve found. “But I would have hoped for more actual food.”

Morrow squats down in front of the row of jars. “I don’t know. I love pickles. I haven’t had them in so long.” They examine a second, smaller jar, full of dark liquid. “I think this is olives? And that’s gotta be sauerkraut,” they add, nodding to a jar packed with dense white shreds.

“And this tiny one is tomato paste,” Fen finishes, prodding the tiny dusty can Quan rescued from beneath the shelves. “Plus, of course, we always have our beloved ewed tomat.” The “ewed tomat” can with the half-ripped-off label has been in Quan’s backpack for a little more than a year. It’s a little dented, but not enough to worry about—Fen has explained to Morrow a hundred times that unless her index finger can fit into the dent, it’s not dangerous.

Quan stands at the pump sink, working the foot lever until the faucet spits out brown water. He lets it run until the water is clear, then washes his hands. “I say we open all the jars, toss everything together, and call it a salad.”

“I can add these,” Morrow says suddenly, rummaging through their bag and coming up with a paper package. “A lady outside that scary gas station in Wyoming was selling them. I think they’re like homemade Slim Jims.” They open the package to reveal a row of wrinkled, finger-length sausages.

Fen stares at the sausages, lets out a sigh. “Harp, wanna go forage with me? Maybe there’s something we can add to all this.”

“I saw a shit-ton of wild dill out there,” Morrow chimes in.

“And I have pepper,” a new voice adds.

The four of them jump, wheel around to face the hole in the wall where a rag has been pulled free. A pair of pale eyes stares in at them. “What the fuck,” Quan snaps, just as Harper says, “Who are you?” and Fen lets out a startled “Who?!”

Morrow doesn’t speak. They simply straighten out of their perpetual slouch and square their shoulders, filling the little space and reminding the other three of what Morrow is like when they’re not working to stay small and quiet and gentle.

The stranger outside doesn’t move an inch, which is smart. “I don’t want any trouble,” he says in an easy voice. “I just thought maybe we could share a roof for the night? A storm’s coming in, and it isn’t going to be pretty out here in an hour or so.”

Everyone looks at Fen, because Fen’s a soft touch. She’s chewing on her lip. Then everyone looks at Harper, because Harper’s a tough row. They’re frowning. Just then, a gust of wind rattles the shack hard enough to knock dust loose from the rafters. “We gotta,” Harper whispers.

“Come on in,” Fen says to the stranger, “but if you fuck around, you’ll find out. Clear?”

“As a bell,” the stranger says. He comes around to the front door and opens it slow, peeking around the doorframe and glancing around before stepping in and dropping a heavy-looking duffel onto the floor. His eyes pause on Morrow, and he gives a slight nod. “Thanks for the hospitality. I’m glad you’ve got that woodstove going, it’s getting cold outside. Like I said, I’ve got peppercorns. Couple other things too, if you’re in need or looking to trade.”

He has a soft accent, something that sounds like it comes from miles and miles of cornfields. He’s scrawny, short, and thin as a whistle, with hair the color of nothing. He crosses the room right away, pulling a rag out of his pocket and shoving it into the gap he’d pulled it out of in the first place.

When he lifts his hand to shove the rag into that hole in the wall, Quan lets out a soft gasp. Fen’s the only one to hear it. She follows his gaze to the stranger’s hands and gives Harper a nudge. Harper sees it too, and kicks Morrow’s ankle, signaling with her eyes.

The stranger has a bracelet of runes tattooed on his wrist.

“My name’s Peter,” the stranger says. “Like I said, I’ve got peppercorns, and bouillon, and some juniper berries too. All dried. And a few bay leaves, and—you won’t believe me, but I’ll show you—a can of SPAM.” He says this last part with a little laugh.

“I haven’t had SPAM since I was a kid,” Quan murmurs.

Harper cuts him a sharp glance, then returns their attention to Peter. “Sure, show us. What are you doing with all those spices?”

“I collect ’em on the road,” he answers, unzipping his duffel. The runes are still on clear display. “A little bit of this, a little bit of that. Makes it easier to get folks on board for a little temporary cohabitation,” he adds, aiming a wink over his shoulder.

“I’m gonna grab some of that dill outside before the storm lands on us,” Harper says. “Morrow, come with?”

Morrow nods. The two of them step outside, walk a few paces, and begin a whispered conference.

“Okay, which runes mean what?” Harper hisses. “You’re into all that spooky shit, right?”

Morrow’s eyes go wide with didn’t-study panic. “I mean, I’m into some spooky shit, but I don’t know anything about runes. I don’t touch that stuff on account of. You know.” They nod back toward the shack.

“Right. That’s the problem. How can we tell?”

They stop and stare at each other, glancing back at the shack, both trying to figure out how they can determine what Peter’s tattoo means to him. It could be that he believes in magic—or it could be that he believes in the inherent superiority of an imaginary master race. There’s no safe way to ask Are you a pagan or are you a white supremacist? but for everyone’s sake, they need to find out, and they need to find out fast.

By the time they get back to the shack, each clutching a fistful of dill, Fen is already cooking. She’s squatting on the floor over the pried-loose shelf from the wall, dicing pickles with an unfamiliar hunting knife while Quan unwraps the foil from a bouillon cube. A collapsible pot of water is steaming on top of the woodstove.

“What are we making?” Harper asks, her eyes fixed on the hunting knife.

Fen glances up, her eyes darting to Peter before returning to the pickles she’s chopping. “I remembered a recipe from the box that should work okay, now that we have Peter’s help. It’s a soup my dad used to make when any of us were sick. I’m making a half-recipe because his recipe makes enough to feed, like, ten people. He called it pickle soup,” she adds. Her voice stretches a little tighter as she stares down at the knife in her hand. “But it has another name I can’t remember right now. A Russian name. Peter, do you know anything about Russian food?”

“’Fraid not,” Peter says mildly, popping the lid off the can of tomato paste. “But I’m sure it’ll be delicious, whatever it is.”

Morrow shows Fen the dill they collected. “Will this help?”

“It’s perfect,” Fen says with a tense smile. “Give it a rinse, will you?”

“I’ll get it,” Peter says, rising to his feet and holding out his hands. He passes close to Quan on his way to the sink. “Scuse me.”

Quan shifts his weight forward, dropping the bouillon cube into the pot. “No worries. Can I grab those spices out of your bag?”

“Help yourself. Oh, and if anyone needs to charge a palmset, I’ve got a crank charger in there too,” Peter replies, not looking back. He keeps his eyes trained on the dill in the sink as he rinses it. It’s a clear signal: You can look through my shit, I won’t stop you.

Quan darts to the duffel and unzips it. “Are the spices in jars or what?” he calls over his shoulder, already searching through Peter’s things.

“Ziptop bags. Can’t miss them, they’re all the way at the bottom,” Peter says, still washing the dill, even though it has to be clean by now. “Just pull them all out and we can see what’s useful.”

Fen holds up the ripped, water-rippled recipe card up to the firelight from the woodstove. “Looks like we need peppercorns, allspice berries, and bay leaves. They can go right into the pot. Oh, and is there celery salt?”

“Yeah,” Quan says. “He has all that stuff. Plus this thing,” he adds, lifting out a small, matte-black cube with a folding hand crank on one side and two power outlets on top.

As Quan stands, Peter slowly turns around with the dill. His gaze is perfectly steady. “Did you find anything else that could be of use?”

Quan shakes his head once. “Nope. This is all we need, right, Fen?”

Fen stares hard at Quan. “You read the recipe card. You know as well as I do.”

“Then we’re good to go,” Quan says briskly. He crosses the room and drops the spices next to Fen’s makeshift cutting board, then grabs his palmset and charger and plugs in to the black cube.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Morrow says, dropping to the ground beside Quan. They have Fen’s palmset and plug it in next to Quan’s. Then they unfold the hand crank and start turning it hard and fast, waiting for the charging symbol to appear on the two palmsets.

“I was going to—” Quan starts, but then he catches a glimpse of Morrow’s dark, determined expression and changes his mind. “Thanks,” he says instead.

Everything moves briskly from there. Morrow charges the palmsets. Harper watches the pot on the stove as the bouillon cube dissolves and the spices simmer it into a fragrant broth. Fen inspects the wrinkly black olives by the firelight, making sure they’re not growing any fuzz before she slices them up. Peter shows them all how to use his hunting knife to cube the Spam without taking it out of its metal tin, while Quan discovers a flat length of cast iron under the woodstove.

“Is this a griddle?” he asks, holding it up and prodding at the lip around the edge. “It looks like—”

“That’s perfect!” Fen cries out when she sees it.

Quan looks startled, but hands over the griddle with a slow smile. “Does this mean you forgive me for whatever I did that made you stop talking to me?”

Fen pulls away, puts the griddle on top of the woodstove beside the pot. “No.”

“Wait, why not? Fen, c’mon. Quit being so—”

“So what?” Fen whips around on him, her voice taut.

Harper raises an eyebrow at Quan. “I wouldn’t,” they warn.

Across the room, Peter sits on the edge of the narrow bed, watching the four of them. The little shack is too small for him to pretend not to hear the exchange, but he has the good grace not to try to intervene.

Quan throws his hands into the air. “I’m sick of this,” he says. “Fen keeps acting like I took a shit in her backpack, and all I’ve done this whole time is—”

“Is be a huge asshole,” Morrow murmurs.

Quan freezes. If Fen or Harper had said this, it would be Quan’s cue to get into the thick of a fight. But Morrow—gentle, kind Morrow, with their cauliflower ears and scar-hatched knuckles—never says fighting words.

“What did I do?” Quan asks. The question has an edge on it, but not much of one.

Morrow shifts their shoulders. They don’t break their rhythm on the hand crank. “You just get mean for no reason sometimes. Like earlier today, when you called me a gorilla. That was mean.”

“I just meant—you know, you’re tall and strong and stuff,” Quan says, his voice faltering as he looks to Harper and Fen for backup and doesn’t find any. “That’s all.”

Morrow huffs out a barely there laugh. “Okay,” they say. “If that’s who you wanna be.”

Quan swallows hard. Harper and Fen look at each other, then at the floor. Morrow keeps cranking the charger until Quan’s phone lets out a chime.

“I want to charge mine next,” Harper says. They go to their backpack, and Morrow unplugs Quan’s palmset and hands it over, and the movement breaks the surface tension on the bubble of their fight just enough for the meal they’re preparing to come back into focus.

Peter clears his throat from the corner. “That griddle should be hot by now.”

The cubed Spam goes onto the griddle. Peter slices the sausage into rounds right over it, each tiny coin dropping onto the hot iron with an immediate sizzle.

“This would be better if we had onions.” Fen sighs.

“Be better if we had a big leather sofa,” Peter replies with a grin. “But here we are.”

The tomato paste slides out of its tiny dusty can onto the griddle, and Fen uses a spoon to stir it until it starts to stick to the metal. Then she calls to Harper, who’s deep in quiet conversation with Quan near the bed. “Harp, can you bring me those pickles?”

Harper looks up sharply. “Morrow, can you get it?”

Fen’s palmset chimes. “Perfect timing. Fen, you’re all charged up.” Morrow steps away from the charger and brings Fen the shelf-turned-cutting board with the chopped pickles and olives on it.

Fen slides the pickles onto the skillet, leaving the olives. She splashes some broth from the pot onto the hot metal, too. The moisture loosens the caramelizing tomato paste just enough for Fen to scrape up all the bits that are sticking to the cast iron.

“Shit,” Fen says, looking from the griddle to the cooking pot.

“What’s the matter?” Morrow asks.

“I need to put all this stuff,” she says, gesturing to the rapidly drying mixture of meat and tomato paste and pickles, “into there.” She points to the pot. “But if I pick up the griddle, it’ll burn the fuck out of my hands.”

Peter steps forward. “I’ve got it,” he says. He strips off his denim jacket.

Fen’s eyes are on the food, but Harper, Morrow, and Quan’s eyes all lock onto Peter’s bare arms as he uses his jacket to shield his hands and picks up the hot griddle, tipping the contents into the pot. The only tattoos visible on Peter are the bracelet of runes and a generic compass rose on one bicep. There’s nothing obvious there, nothing that speaks to what danger he might represent.

“What’s next?” Peter asks.

Fen consults the recipe card. “Gotta let this simmer for a few minutes, then rinse off some of that sauerkraut and add it in. We could probably get away with not rinsing it,” she adds, “but . . . it might be real funky.”

Peter opens the sauerkraut and gives it a whiff. “Could go either way. Your palmset’s going off,” he adds, looking to the lit-up screen on the floor.

Fen has the cutting board in her hands again, is about to slide the chopped olives into the pot. “Morrow, can you grab it?”

“Oh fuck,” Morrow whispers when they’ve got the screen in front of them.

“What?” Fen asks, dropping the olives into the pot.

“It’s a voice message from Daneka.”

The room freezes. Peter doesn’t seem to notice. He lifts the sauerkraut jar. “What do y’all think? Should I rinse this?” When nobody answers, he looks up and his face drops. His eyes flick to his duffel bag. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Quan says quickly. He crosses the room to look at the screen in Morrow’s hand.

Fen wipes olive brine onto her jeans. “We got a message from a friend.”

Peter glances at his bag again, even less subtly this time. He takes a few steps back from the sink, looks ready to bolt. “A local friend?”

“A friend from back home,” Harper says. “Fen, do you want to listen to it?”

Fen shakes her head. “I’m almost done cooking.” She sounds tense.

“Fen,” Quan says, reaching for her arm.

She jerks away from his touch. “Don’t. Fine. We can listen to it.” She looks down at her palmset, swallows hard, and presses the notification.

Hey, it’s me! Just wanted to know if you’re still up for a birthday dinner. Let me know what the plan is and how everyone’s doing. Love you!

It’s Daneka’s voice – her unmistakable chainsmoker rasp — but something sounds wrong. They can all hear it.

Fen slips her palmset into her pocket. She turns and uses a fork to add some sauerkraut into the pot. “This would be better with onions,” she says again. Her voice has all the color squeezed out of it.

“That wasn’t her.” Quan strides briskly across the room, headed nowhere at all, then turns on his heel to stare hard at his friends. “Right? That definitely wasn’t her.”

Harper sits on the edge of the bed. “We can’t know.”

Quan lets out a short, sharp laugh. “That sounded like a robot. It was definitely a fake! C’mon, Harp—”

“It was real,” Peter interrupts. “I used to code artificial-speech software. They don’t transition between similar sounds that smoothly. You heard when she said ‘wanted to know’? The ‘d’ in ‘wanted’ flowed right into the ‘t’ in ‘to.’ That’s a human-speech thing. Really hard to smooth out virtually.”

Morrow wheels around to face him. “Who did you write code for?”

His shoulders are tight, his face blank. “The company’s closed now. They got bought out during the last big market crash.”

“What company?” Harper demands.

He swallows hard. Takes a few slow steps toward his bag, then uses a foot to flip it over. There’s a faded logo on the side, barely visible in the flickering light from the fire in the woodstove. The twisting double-S logo of the multimedia conglomerate that used to dominate the digital newsletter marketplace. “We developed an integrated voice-to-text service.”

“You mean proprietary,” Harper says. “So you worked for the company everyone worked for. Why were you so squirrely about it just now? What, are you not a ‘champion of free speech’?” All the venom in her voice pools at the end of the sentence.

“I don’t agree with everything they—”

“Dinner’s ready,” Fen interrupts. “Peter, can I use your jacket again?”

He brings his jacket to the woodstove and uses it to pull the cooking pot off the heat. The soup is still bubbling as he carries it to the middle of the room. Harper sets down a couple of rags, and Peter sets the pot on top of them. Morrow passes out spoons.

The five of them sit on the floor around the pot. Fen’s eyes are dull as she stares into the soup she’s made them. Harper is staring at Peter’s wrist.

“What did you say this soup is called?” Peter asks.

“That part of the recipe card is stained,” Fen replies. “I couldn’t read it.”

Quan coughs. “I remember. You mentioned it once, back when we first met. You called it solyanka.” He says it slow, his lips working to fit a memory of Fen’s mouth.

Fen looks up at him, surprised. “You remember stuff from all the way back then?”

A small smile ghosts across Quan’s face, but he doesn’t meet Fen’s eyes. “I remember everything you say.”

Fen hesitates. “Quan, I—”

“I’m sorry for being a dick,” Quan interrupts. “I’m gonna try to do that less. Might take me a little trying, though. But I am gonna try. I love you guys.”

Harper sniffs loudly. “Love you too. Dick.”

Morrow tastes the soup, burns their mouth. “Ow. Fuck. Ow. Where’s the dill?” they ask, their voice distorted by pain.

Fen glances behind her. “I forgot—”

“I’ll grab it.” Peter pushes himself to his feet, walks to the sink. Harper’s eyes track him. The hunting knife and cutting board are still in the sink. He reaches past them, grabs the very clean dill, brings it back, and hands it to Morrow.

“Thanks.” Morrow tears off a fistful of feathery green fronds, drops them into the pot.

“It’d be better with onions,” Fen says, blowing on a spoonful of soup straight from the pot. “But it’s not bad. That company you worked for—they’re based in Chicago, right?”

“Yeah, that’s where I’m coming from,” Peter says. He leans forward to dip his spoon into the pot. “How come?”

Fen looks up at him, pins him with her eyes. “That’s where we’re going. Do you still know anyone there?”

He thinks for a moment. “Depends who you want to meet. Why Chicago? There’s not much left of it.”

“Always wanted to go. Bright lights,” Fen says. “Big city.”

Peter nods. “I don’t know anyone there. But I know people on the way. Got a buddy who can get us across the state border to Wisconsin and put us up for a night or two, if that’s the route you want to take.”

Harper raises their eyebrows at Fen. Fen nods, then frowns at Morrow. Morrow nods, then nudges Quan. Quan takes a long sip of soup, clears his throat, and nods.

“Sounds good,” Fen says to Peter. “We’ll make our plan in the morning.”

The five of them eat the rest of their dinner in silence. Outside, the wind howls across the fallow field, yanking at the rags in the walls, whipping the petals off the wildflowers that grow on the side of the road.

Fen’s Solyanka  

2 bay leaves
6–8 peppercorns
3–5 allspice berries
1 shake celery salt
5 cups water
1 bouillon cubes
2 cups sauerkraut, drained but not rinsed
1 pound sliced sausage
1 can Spam, cubed
1 6-ounce can tomato paste
3 6 large dill pickles, chopped
¾ cup black olives, sliced
1 can ewed tomat
Salt
Pepper
Optional: dill, chopped

Instructions

1. In a very large pot, combine the water, spices, and beef base. Boil for 30 minutes.  
2. Add the sausage and Spam to the pan. The sausage will release some fat, which will fry the Spam.
3. Add tomato paste to the skillet and stir until it starts to brown; then, add the dill pickles and a little broth to the skillet. Stir to loosen all fond from the bottom of the pan, then transfer contents of the skillet to the cooking pot.
4. Add olives and ewed tomat to the cooking pot. Simmer 5–10 minutes until heated through. 
5. Serve with dill. 

“Have You Eaten?” copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey
Art copyright © 2024 by Shing Yin Khor
Photography copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey

The post Have You Eaten? Part 2: Dinner with Peter appeared first on Reactor.

Read “Have You Eaten? Part 2: Dinner with Peter” here!

In a new serialized novella from Hugo Award-winning author Sarah Gailey, a fractured group of undesirables work together to nurture and nourish each other while navigating a dangerous world that would just as soon see them dead. Still—inch by inch, meal by meal—they build their own future. Have you eaten?

Author’s note: This story contains fictional depictions of intimate partner violence.

Fen’s Sister’s Gnocchi

350 g butternut squash
1 egg
2–3 cups flour
Salt
Pepper

1. Cut the squash in half. Rub it all over with oil. Place it face down on a baking sheet and roast at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.
2. Remove the squash from the oven and let it cool completely, about 1 hour.
3. Remove the peel and mash the squash into a smooth paste. Form the paste into a mound and form a well in the center.
4. Crack 1 egg into the well. Stir with fingers to combine.
5. Add flour in batches, working the flour in until a sticky, firm dough forms. Add a big pinch of salt and a healthy amount of pepper with the first batch of flour.
6. Knead for 1–2 minutes.
7. Form into a ball and rest for 20 minutes.
8. Cut the ball into eight equal parts. Roll each part out into a snake the width of your thumb. Cut each snake into 1-inch sections using a knife or pasta cutter.
9. Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Add the gnocchi in batches, stirring gently once to prevent sticking. Once the gnocchi bob to the top of the water, remove/drain and serve.
10. Optional: Fry after boiling to get a crisp exterior.

Suggested lemon ricotta sauce: Combine the zest of 1 lemon, 1 cup ricotta, lots of black pepper, and about 1 ladleful of pasta water. Stir to combine. Consistency should be thick and smooth.

The old farmhouse has thin walls, so everyone in the kitchen knows it when Peter and Morrow go from fucking to fighting. The soft thumps and creaks from upstairs are interrupted by the sound of Morrow asking a question over and over, at increasing volume, and then there’s a crash that is unmistakably the sound of a body hitting a wall. And then another crash, that is unmistakably the sound of the same body hitting the wall again.

Quan is the first one to move. He and Harper and Fen have been processing oranges all morning for Missus Bouchard. They’ve been seated at the kitchen table—Quan slicing off thin curls of peel, Harper pulling off the white pith, Fen smashing the oranges through a wide-mesh strainer and into a huge pot in her lap. Quan still has the paring knife in his hand as he gets to his feet and heads for the stairs at the sound of the second impact.

Fen is next. She sets the pot on the table, careful even in her haste—that pot of pulp is their days’ rent—and by the third time they hear the body hit the wall, she and Quan are halfway up the stairs.

Harper doesn’t follow right away, because Fen is already on the way, and they don’t want to move until they know there’s a real problem. They finish pulling pith off the orange in their hand, adding it to the pile of foamy white discard on the scarred wooden kitchen table. They listen as, upstairs, Quan and Fen burst into Peter and Morrow’s bedroom. They don’t stand up until they hear Fen’s voice shouting a clear, high “What the fuck?!”

At the sound of that, Harper sets down their orange and makes for the stairs. They take their time. With each step they ascend, they hear the voices upstairs rise. Everyone is talking over each other. Harper can make out “explain” and “are you really” and “don’t fucking move” and “Daneka.”

They stand in the bedroom doorway and take in the scene. Morrow is in their underwear, breathing like a street-loose bull. Peter is curled at Morrow’s feet, naked, head tucked, hands clasped protectively over the back of his neck. Quan and Fen are standing near the bed, peering down at an unfamiliar white palmset.

Harper leans against the doorframe. “S’goin’ on?”

Morrow looks up. Their face is alight with rage. “He’s not who he says he is.”

“I never said I didn’t know her,” Peter says. The words come out muffled, thick with pain. “Babe, please. If you’ll just let me explain—”

Morrow’s body twists with liquid speed. They drive their heel hard into the back of Peter’s thigh, and the bone-deep thump of the impact shakes the air in the room. “We’ve been here for a fucking month,” Morrow says. They usually keep their voice small. It is not small now. “And you never thought to mention that you know Daneka? Never occurred to you?”

Harper straightens, their brows drawing together. “Wait. He knows Daneka?”

Fen is still staring down at the palmset. “Seems like.”

They kick out again, but Peter has curled himself up tighter, and the blow doesn’t land as hard this time. “You didn’t think you should tell us? Not once when we’ve been sitting around talking about how worried we are? Not once when you were inside of me?”

“Morrow, maybe you don’t want to—” Quan says, but Fen puts a hand on his shoulder and he falls silent.

Morrow squats down and grasps a fistful of Peter’s hair, wrenching his head back. “You remember what Fen said when we first met you?”

Peter looks up at Morrow the way a broke-neck deer on the side of the road looks at the receding taillights of the truck that put it there. Blood coats his lips and chin. “Wh—?”

“She said that if you fuck around,” Morrow growls, “you’ll find out.”

The hand that isn’t clenched around Peter’s hair forms a fist. The fist is the size of a brick. The fist is the weight of a brick. The fist is as hard as a brick. Peter closes his eyes, tries to twist out of Morrow’s grip as they draw the fist back, but there’s nowhere to go.

The blow lands with killing force. Fen and Quan and Harper feel it in their teeth and all of them wonder at the same time whether they’ve just watched a man die. But then Morrow pulls the fist back again, and Peter sucks in a breath of whistling pain, and they know that—at least for now—he’s alive.

 Before Morrow can strike Peter again, Harper is out of the doorway and in the room. They step in close enough to press the front of their thigh against the bloody plane of Morrow’s knuckles. “Don’t,” they say. So Morrow doesn’t.

Harper and Quan grab Peter by the underarms and haul him to his feet. “Fen, you got Morrow?”

“On it.”

“We’ll be right back.” Harper says. They and Quan drag Peter down the stairs without stopping to let him get his feet under him. After a minute, the front door of the old farmhouse slams.

Fen looks at Morrow, trying to decide what kind of help they might need. She’d said “on it” when what she’d really meant was “you go ahead and handle what you’re handling, you can trust that I’ll handle things up here.” But she doesn’t know what handling things up here actually means.

“Is all his stuff in his bag?” Fen finally asks. Morrow shakes their head, points to a pile of clothes in one corner. Fen shoves the clothes into the now-familiar duffel, then opens the window and peers down at the naked, bleeding man in the front yard. “Catch,” she calls, and then she drops the bag out the window. She doesn’t wait to see if it falls on top of him.

As she turns around, Morrow is pulling on a shirt. “Sorry you had to see that,” they say softly.

Fen doesn’t say that it’s okay, because she knows Morrow’s not okay. And she doesn’t say that she’s surprised Morrow let Peter live, because that would only make them feel worse about letting out the violence they work so hard to contain. She doesn’t say that she can’t believe what she saw on Peter’s palmset, because she doesn’t want to remind Morrow of the thing that made them let their fury loose in the first place.

So she shoves her hands into her pockets and asks, “You hungry?”

Morrow looks up at her and their face is raw and their eyes are shining and she can see all the way down the deep dark tunnel that shame has drilled through them. “Yeah,” they say. They’re obviously lying, but that doesn’t matter. As long as they’re answering at all. As long as they’re still here.

“It’s almost time for lunch. Come downstairs. I’m gonna make something cool.”

Quan and Harper are waiting for them in the kitchen. They’re back to peeling oranges, and the bright fog of citrus oil is overwhelming. It smells like a day in the sun. Morrow flinches a little, then breathes in deep through their nose. They linger in the kitchen door, filling the frame, watching Quan strip curls off an orange with that tiny paring knife. “How’d Missus Bouchard get oranges all the way up here this time of year?” they ask at last.

“I guess her husband seized them at the border crossing,” Quan answers. He doesn’t add a barb—gentleness is something he’s been trying on lately, with mixed success, but it’s a relief that he’s managing it right now.

“Yeah, he pulled the truck out of line right before he got sick,” Fen adds. “Missus Bouchard told me this morning. She said State BP was so tied up with trying to deny his sick leave that they didn’t notice the seized oranges never ended up anywhere.”

Harper snorts. “I believe her exact words were, ‘If they want the fucking oranges they can come try me.’”

Morrow’s face twitches in the same place a smile would go.

They take over for Fen at the strainer, smashing the peeled oranges with a wooden spoon. Their movements are methodical, rhythmic. The work needs doing, and they need to do it until they’re back in their own body, their own mind. Their own promises to themself.

This is how the four of them—five, including Peter—have been earning their keep at the Bouchard farm for the past month. They’ve doing odd jobs in exchange for permission to sleep in the old farmhouse on the Bouchard property, biding their time while they wait for Bouchard himself to recover from the SARS-15 that’s currently keeping him bedbound. Once he’s well enough to get back to work at the border crossing, they’ll be able to get into Illinois safely.

To Chicago. Maybe, if everything goes right, to Daneka.

Fen and Quan are thinking about Daneka right now. About her face in that video on Peter’s palmset. Harper didn’t see it, and they’re waiting to hear about it so they can understand what happened upstairs. Morrow isn’t thinking about anything. They can’t, not after what just happened upstairs. Their skull is filled with soft white static, like the pith that cushions the wet flesh of an orange.

Fen consults a recipe card from her family recipe box. She cleans the counter thoroughly, scrubbing it down with soap and hot water twice over. Then, when she’s satisfied that the counter is ready, she pulls a pan out of the oven. It has the leftover half of a roasted butternut squash on it. The other half was dinner the night before, shared between the five of them along with a few eggs from Missus Bouchard’s chickens. This half has been sitting in the oven waiting to get used for something.

Fen knows what she wants to do with it now. She uses a spoon to scrape the peel away from the flesh of the roasted squash, then crushes it into paste with her hands. She scoops the paste right onto the clean kitchen counter, shapes it into a hill, and makes a divot in the center of the pile.

“Morrow, can you give me a hand?” She holds up her palms, which are coated in sticky orange squash. “I’m all gross.”

Morrow looks up at her with empty eyes. “Sure. What do you need?”

At Fen’s instruction, Morrow pulls out the last of Missus Bouchard’s eggs and cracks it into the well in the middle of the crushed squash. She mixes the egg and the squash with her hands. The mixture makes a shockingly awful wet noise that draws a cackle out of Quan and a skeptical frown out of Harper.

Then Fen asks Morrow to grab the flour. Missus Bouchard gave a full sack of good white flour to Harper as payment for a full day of fence repair, and they’ve got half the sack left. It looks to be made from an old version of the Wisconsin state flag, from back before the state took the e pluribus unum seal off and replaced it with a second, larger badger.

Morrow stares down at the deep blue fabric blankly until Fen says their name. She has them add a fistful of flour to the heap of goo in front of her. Just a fistful. Then another, and then another, slowly. At first Fen uses her fingers to gently stir, mixing the flour in; then her hands begin to knead as the combination forms a thick dough that pulls away from the surface beneath it. Soon enough, the dough in front of Fen has turned into a smooth orange ball.

Morrow is watching her hands, the dough, the nearly clean counter. Some of the blankness is melting away from their face. “That was cool,” they murmur.

Fen smacks the taut surface of the dough with her palm. “Gotta let it sit for twenty minutes. Then I’ll need your help again.”

“Twenty minutes,” Harper says, not looking up from the half-cleaned orange in their hands, “seems like exactly the right amount of time to talk about what happened upstairs.”

Fen draws a slow breath. Quan puts down his paring knife. Morrow’s shoulders slump. Harper looks to each of them with hard, patient eyes.

Morrow speaks first. “I don’t know how to explain the video.”

“How did you even see the video?” Quan asks. “Weren’t you two right in the middle of—”

“His palmset was on the nightstand. I saw Daneka’s name come up on a notification,” Morrow says. They’re speaking like there’s a candle in front of their lips that mustn’t go out. The others lean forward to hear. “I grabbed it and looked. He tried to stop me, but he— That was a mistake. You know?”

Harper nods. They understand mistakes like this one better than anyone. “Did you see the whole thing?”

Morrow shrugs. “It was a video. I saw it, but he was trying to explain and get the palmset away, so I didn’t really get to watch all the way through. Quan and Fen did, though, I think.”

“Sort of,” Quan says. “But I didn’t understand what I was seeing.”

Fen’s got her arms folded tight across her chest. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek. She drops her chin to her chest and her dark curls, longish now and dry from travel, fall over her eyes. Her deliberation lasts long enough to fill the kitchen with a low hum of tension.

Quan snaps first. “For fuck’s sake. What?”

Fen looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m thinking about whether the thing I wanna say is a bad idea. For Morrow.”

Morrow’s brow tightens. “For me?”

“I don’t want this to make things harder for you.”

Harper cracks a knuckle against the table. “I think,” they say, “Morrow can handle themself.”

“I know that,” Fen says. “We all know that. I’m more worried about—” And then she stops herself, because she doesn’t know how to say what she’s worried about. It’s the tight coil of violence that lives in the center of Morrow, it’s the whipcrack of their fist, it’s the way they stop feeling pain when it’s someone else’s turn.

Morrow’s shoulders draw down toward their sternum and their eyes find a spot on the floor. “I promise I won’t hurt any of you,” they whisper. “No matter what you saw on that palmset. I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

Quan rubs his forehead with the heel of one hand. His eyes have gone glossy. “Fen’s not afraid of you. Nobody here is afraid of you. It’s just—”

“I don’t want to make it harder,” Fen says again. “But. Okay.” She untucks one arm from across her chest and reaches into her back pocket. When her hand reappears, she’s got the white palmset between her index and middle fingers. “I kept this.”

Harper rises and crosses the kitchen. Their movements are slow, their knees soft, their footfalls quiet. They slowly put their body between Morrow and Fen before taking the palmset out of Fen’s hand. Their back is still toward Morrow when they say, “I don’t know if Morrow wants to see this.”

“I do,” Morrow says quickly. “I want to see her.”

Quan drums his fingers on the table. “Morrow is fine. You two need to calm down.”

The way Harper turns to face Quan has just as much danger in it as the fist Morrow made an hour before. “You want me more calm than I am now?”

“I’m not fine,” Morrow cuts in. “But that’s okay. I want to see the video. The video isn’t the thing that made me—um.” They swallow hard. “That made me upset. I don’t think it’ll make me upset again now.”

Harper approaches the table and stands next to Quan. Morrow moves to stand next to them. They rest their palms flat on the surface of the table. Their knuckles are swelling; a deep red bruise is forming on the biggest knuckle of their right hand. Fen winds up behind Quan’s chair. She tugs on his hair and he swats her hand away.

The video is one of many in a long series of messages from Daneka to Peter. There are no responses from Peter in the chat. All of Daneka’s messages are videos, going back about a month.

“What was the date when we met Peter?” Fen asks softly.

“Not sure,” Quan replies.

Morrow sniffs. “It was about a month ago. But I’m not sure if it was before or after that first message from Daneka.”

They play through the videos, and it quickly becomes clear that they’re all the same video. Kind of. In each one, Daneka stands in a field, squinting into bright sunlight, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand. Her auburn curls toss wildly in a strong wind. There are flowers behind her, yellow and white ones, and some trees in the middle distance. She turns slowly to reveal a massive, shining lake that stretches to the horizon. As she’s turning, she speaks, her voice cigarette-raspy and wind distorted but still as musical as always. “You guys wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is here! I found the most amazing queer community. We have our own little farm and a communal kitchen that Fen’s gonna love! Come soon? I miss you!”

Then she blows a kiss into the camera, and the video is over.

The four of them watch each video. The first one doesn’t have the kiss—it just cuts off after “I miss you.” In the second one, Daneka just says “amazing community,” but in the third one, the word queer comes back in. Sometimes the flowers change color. Sometimes it seems to be later in the day, sometimes earlier. The second-to-last video is where the line about the communal kitchen appears.

Harper blows out a slow breath. “So.”

“We’re fucked,” Quan says. “Should have let Morrow kill him.”

Fen scrubs her hands across her upper arms. “We’re not fucked yet.”

Quan twists in his chair to look at her. “Explain how. That guy is clearly working with someone who wants to fuck us over somehow, and who has the ability to make this quality of deepfake. Peter knows who we are, and he knows where we are, and he knows where we’re going. Show me a gap we can slip out of. Tell me what I’m missing here.”

“Right,” Fen says. “That dough’s been resting long enough. Morrow, want to help me get lunch going?”

Quan throws his hands into the air. “Great. Yeah, go cook. I’ll just sit here and wait for sirens.”

Fen walks into the kitchen. Her lips are tight. She grabs the big kitchen knife and uses it to cut the ball of dough into eight sections, never letting the blade come into contact with the countertop. “I just need to think.”

“What’s there to think about? We need to leave. I’m going to go pack. Harp, want me to pack up your stuff too?”

“Not yet,” Harper replies, their eyes fixed on Fen. “I want us to have a plan first.”

“I need a minute to think,” Fen says again.

Harper’s reply is low. “I heard you the first time. I’m not rushing you. Don’t let Quan get in your head.”

“He’s not in my head.”

Harper doesn’t say anything to that. They don’t need to.

Fen gives Morrow an are you helping or not look, and Morrow comes to the kitchen. Fen sprinkles flour across the countertop, then demonstrates how to roll each section of dough into a long snake. The width of the snake is halfway between Morrow’s massive thumb and Fen’s slender one. “Gentle hands,” Fen says. “The squash makes the dough break easier.”

Morrow’s hands are gentle. They’re as gentle as a kid holding an egg, as gentle as a cat pawing at a cobweb. They don’t break the dough. Fen leaves them to the work of rolling out the sections while she fills a tall pot with water.

“I think we do need to leave,” she says slowly. “But I don’t think it’s an emergency.”

At the kitchen table, Harper has taken up Quan’s paring knife and is methodically peeling oranges. “Why not?”

“Because whoever Peter was working with—if they’re after us, they already know where we are, right? It’s not like he can go bring them any new information.”

“But now they know that we know that they know.” Harper pauses, mouthing the sentence to themself again to make sure they’ve gotten it right. “They aren’t spying on us in secret anymore.”

“So there’s no reason not to just come scoop us up directly,” Morrow murmurs. “I’m done with these, Fen.”

Fen looks over the lengths of dough and smiles. “These are perfect.” She hands Morrow the big knife, handle-first, and shows them how to cut the dough into inch-long sections. “It’s good for them to be kind of pinched down at the edges like that. I don’t think they’re going to come scoop us up from here. They wouldn’t raid this place.” She doesn’t pause between these two sentences, and it takes both Harper and Morrow a moment to realize that they’re not connected.

“Because Bouchard’s a statie?” Harper considers this. “I don’t know.”

Morrow frowns down at the dough as they cut it. “He’s a state border cop. Border cops and regular cops don’t protect each other the same way they protect themselves.”

“We don’t know that Peter’s working with state cops. Could be feds,” Harper offers.

Fen leans her elbows on the kitchen counter and buries her face in her hands. “We can’t know. And if we don’t know what’s coming, then we can’t stay here. But if we run—if we don’t get to Chicago . . . Fuck. That’s where I told Daneka we’d be. We’ll miss her if we don’t find a way into the state and this is our best bet.”

“I’m done with these,” Morrow says again, gesturing to the neat piles of miniature pillows on the counter.

Harper drops the last peeled orange into the pile on the table. “Perfect timing. Morrow, you come pull pith off these things. I gotta go.”

Fen lifts her head out of her hands. “You’re leaving?”

Harper grabs their jacket off the back of a kitchen chair. “Not leaving-leaving. Just heading over to the New House to talk to Missus Bouchard.”

“About what?”

They pull the jacket on. “To tell her we’re almost done prepping her fruit for marmalade. And to ask after her husband. Maybe he’s ready to go back to work. Maybe he’s picking up a shift tomorrow.”

“There’s no way,” Fen says warily. “She’d have said something if he was better.”

Harper shrugs. “S’polite to ask. Morrow, finish off these oranges so I can bring Missus Bouchard over to pick up her pot of goo. And Fen?”

Fen waits.

“Don’t worry,” Harper says. It’s almost soft, the way they say it. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not yet.”

And then they’re gone.

Morrow sits at the dining table and starts picking pith off the oranges with quick, careful fingers. Behind Fen, the water on the stove starts to boil. She heaves a hard, sharp sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” Morrow says after a few minutes.

Fen drops two handfuls of gnocchi into the boiling water. “For what?”

“For being scary. Don’t say I wasn’t, I know I was.”

Fen nods down into the pot as she gives the water a gentle stir. “You were. But it’s okay. You were keeping us safe.”

They’re quiet for a long time. Then, so softly Fen almost doesn’t hear it at all, they murmur, “I don’t want to be a guard dog.”

Quan comes stomping down the stairs before Fen can reply. “There’s blood all over the floor in that bedroom. We got time for me to clean it up before we go?”

“Plenty of time,” Fen says. She and Quan negotiate around each other in the kitchen—the sink is too close to the stove, and there’s not quite room for her to watch the pot while Quan rummages for cleaning supplies. When Quan straightens, a rag in one hand and an unlabeled spray bottle in the other, he and Fen are only a couple of inches apart.

 He studies her face for a moment. “Are we fighting?”

“No,” Fen says firmly. Then she lets herself smile. “We’re just figuring things out. All of us. Me and Harper are working on a plan. It’s gonna be okay.”

“You’re sure?” Quan studies Fen’s eyes, her forehead, her mouth. “Is Harper leaving?”

“They said they’re not. I believe them.”

“If they leave . . . will you go with them?”

Fen blinks rapidly. “If Harper leaves, I don’t think they’d want anyone to come with them. But they’re not leaving, so it doesn’t matter, right?”

“Sure. And we’re not fighting?”

It pulls a little smile out of Fen, finally, Quan asking this again. “We’re not fighting.”

“Good.” Quan kisses Fen on the forehead once, quickly and lightly, and then he’s gone, long strides carrying him out of the kitchen.

Fen blinks at the space where Quan was standing a moment before. She turns wide eyes toward Morrow. “Did you—?”

Morrow stares back, their brows nearly touching their hairline. “I saw. Are you two . . . ?”

“No,” Fen replies. “Not that I know of. Maybe—no. Right?”

Morrow doesn’t have an answer for her. 

In the pot, the gnocchi are starting to bob to the surface. Fen thinks of Daneka’s hair in the video, the way it tossed in the wind. She heats a pan on the other burner, drops a knob of butter from Missus Bouchard’s huge ornery cow onto the heat, and waits for it to melt and sizzle. She thinks of Daneka’s eyes in the video. Once the butter starts turning golden, she scoops the cooked gnocchi out of the pot with a slotted spoon and drops them into the butter to fry. She thinks of the shine of that vast lake. She puts more gnocchi into the pot, and works in batches to boil and fry them.

She thinks of Quan’s lips on her forehead, and she smiles down into the sizzling pan.

As the house fills with the smell of browning butter, Morrow pulls the pith off oranges, and Quan scrubs the floorboards, and Harper charms an answer out of Missus Bouchard. The sun outside is high and bright. It shines on the old farmhouse, and the big new one on the other side of the property, and the milking shed and the chicken coop and the feed shed, and somewhere out there, it shines on Peter, too.

Fen sprinkles salt a pile of toasted, butter-glossy gnocchi.  “Come get a plate,” she calls. She knows the only people who can hear her are Morrow and Quan, but part of her is calling out to Daneka, wherever she is. Part of her is making a plate for Daneka. Part of her is cooking for Daneka, every time she cooks. Every meal.

She doesn’t wait for anyone to come running before she grabs a fork. The bite she takes is too hot.

She closes her eyes and lets it burn her tongue.

Fen and Morrow’s Gnocchi

Half of a butternut squash
1 egg
2–3 cups flour
Salt
Pepper

1. Place the half-squash face down on a baking sheet. Rub it all over with butter. Roast at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.
2. Remove the squash from the oven and let it cool completely.
3. Remove the peel and mash the squash into a smooth paste. Form the paste into a mound and form a well in the center.
4. Crack 1 egg into the well. Stir with fingers to combine.
5. Add flour in batches, working the flour in until a sticky, firm dough forms.
6. Knead for 1–2 minutes.
7. Form into a ball and rest for 20 minutes. *This is the perfect amount of time for a hard conversation.
8. Cut the ball into eight equal parts. Roll each part out into a snake the width of someone’s thumb. Cut each snake into 1-inch sections using a knife or pasta cutter.
9. Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Add the gnocchi in batches, stirring gently once to prevent sticking. Once the gnocchi bob to the top of the water, remove.
10. Melt butter in a skillet over medium heat. Once the butter starts to brown, fry gnocchi in batches.
11. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and eat piping hot.

“Have You Eaten?” copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey
Art copyright © 2024 by Shing Yin Khor
Photography copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey

The post Have You Eaten? Part 3: Morrow’s Comfort appeared first on Reactor.

I put off the unveiling of my daughter’s headstone as long as I could. We didn’t do it until the eleventh month after she died, when the yahrzeit was in sight and I couldn’t stall any longer. I made all kinds of excuses—my grandchildren weren’t ready; I was too busy getting them settled in with me and Phil to organize it; it was too cold for us all to stand outdoors. Finally my sister Sadie called me up and told me it had to be done, it had to be done soon, and she would organize everything. Sadie is my older sister. My other two sisters are younger than me, not that any of us are young anymore. Betty was the youngest of us, the baby of the family, but she died of cancer twenty years ago during the war, so it’s just the four of us left.

Sadie took care of everything—she got in touch with the rabbi at my shul, she sent out the invitations, she had our other two sisters, Millie and Rose, put together some food and desserts and bring them to my and Phil’s apartment for afterward. I didn’t have to do a thing. I just told her to send any bills to Phil, and he would take care of them. And he did, without a word. He’s good like that. Reliable.

So all I had to do was show up on Phil’s arm, with my daughter’s children, Elsie and Danny, in tow, all of us dressed soberly and formally. That I could do, down to Elsie’s white gloves. Only twelve years old, and already her hands were too big to borrow a pair of mine. But I made sure she had her own.

I don’t remember what the rabbi said about Myra after reading from Psalms. He didn’t know her too well, anyway. He was the rabbi from my synagogue near Sutton Place. Myra and the kids had lived out in Midwood. Instead of listening, I thought about the last message she ever sent me, and wondered if it was my fault she was dead.

I didn’t listen to the Kaddish, either. Instead I looked at the chanting men through Myra’s eyes and saw what she would have seen, what would’ve mattered to her. Her father was missing.

Of course, he’d been missing for a long time by then.

I’d married Harry in 1927, and I’d married him for love, and my, weren’t we in love? We used to go out drinking and dancing together in smoky speakeasies. I’d line my eyes all dark with kohl—they used to call me Cleopatra—and he’d play the ukulele. In the summer, we’d take the trolley out to Coney Island and lie on the beach together and stroll on the boardwalk and stop to smooch each other every few minutes.

Love.

Harry, he was so handsome. Even after I knew he was no good, I couldn’t keep my hands off him. He had thick, dark, curly hair and sparkling dark eyes, and a knowing, cynical smile that just made me weak. A nice sharp jawline. Phil, now, he never really set my blood pounding like that, but on the other hand, he’s never raised his voice, either, to me or to Myra, not even to his own boys. Harry had a mean streak. Myra got that from him.

We loved each other so much, we got married and kept up the smooching, and in 1929 I had a little girl. I had Myra. He named her that.

Then a few years later, I got sick, real sick. Women’s problems, they called it, though I blame it on Harry’s whoring around. That’s love for you. First I had to stay in bed and I only got up when Myra needed me. Then I had to take Myra and go to my mother’s so she could take care of us both. Harry was working too hard to do it, I told her. Pfft. As if Harry was ever a working man. He was a gangster, that’s what he did, and he wasn’t very good at it. Sure, we got a warm reception at all the joints he supplied liquor to during Prohibition, but it turns out that doesn’t matter so much when you’ve got a kid you’re trying to feed.

Anyway, where was I? Right, I took Myra and went to Mama’s so she could take care of us, and then things got even worse, and Myra had to stay with Mama and Papa and Betty, who was still living at home, while I went to the hospital.

Poor Myra didn’t like that. Mama said she cried and cried after the ambulance had taken me away. Poor kindele. Mama always thought maybe that was why Myra was the way she was, the ambulance taking me away, and her not being allowed to visit on account of her being a child. But I don’t think it was that. After all, I came back, didn’t I?

But we didn’t know you would at the time, Mama would always say when I said that. And she was right. Things looked real bad for me for a while. We didn’t know if I was going to make it. And Harry, well, I guess he didn’t relish the thought of being a widower with a small child the way things were—this was just thirty years ago, 1932, the Depression—and sometime in there he just . . . left. Didn’t turn up one Friday night to have Shabbos with Myra—Mama always kept the sabbath at her home—and we didn’t hear from him after that.

So there was Mama with Betty and Myra at home and Harry had vanished, and things didn’t look so good for me. Mama didn’t know what to do, maybe change my name again, like when I was little and had scarlet fever and I went from Henrietta to Josephine. But then Mama remembered that wasn’t what had helped. What had helped was when she talked to a woman who had just come over from the old country, a witch, I guess you’d call her, and the witch had made me a broth and an amulet both. So Mama went to the witch again. Tante Deborah, I call her.

Mama left Myra with Betty and brought Tante Deborah to visit me in the hospital, and I remember sipping something that tasted terrible, and Tante Deborah slipping a pouch under my pillow and chanting some words I was too sick to hear well or follow—Hebrew, I think. And after that I started to get better. The doctors at the hospital, they couldn’t believe it, and the nurses told me later that they’d never seen someone so sick get well again. And finally I could go home.

Harry had been gone for weeks by then.

Myra was never the same after her beloved Papa left . . . I think she never got over it. She cried more easily than ever, and even when she wasn’t crying, she was mostly unhappy. I don’t know, those were bad years. Hard years. I worked at Gimbels, a window dresser, and Myra and I lived with Mama and Papa and Betty. I’d go without dinner sometimes so there would be enough for Mama and Papa and Myra. Our other sisters couldn’t help, nobody was any better off. For years, this went on. It was no way to live.

I couldn’t stand it, I told Mama. “We can’t go on like this,” I told her. “Papa out of work, Betty and I don’t bring enough home.”

“Well, what else is there to do?” asked Mama.

I thought about Gimbels. “I’m gonna catch myself a rich man,” I told her. “The very next one who comes into the shop. I am.”

And I did. Spotted Phil when he came in looking for clothing for his sons. A respectable widower, his wife had been gone for a couple years, and I could tell that he was looking around again. He seemed gentle, and he seemed kind enough, and he had money. You can’t ask better than that. He came back to shop now and then—for shirts, ties, gloves, this and that, and finally he asked for a date. It took maybe . . . a year after that until he proposed. I said yes, but only if we moved into Manhattan, because I didn’t want to live in Brooklyn no more, even at his very fancy house in Crown Heights. They wouldn’t sell to Jews on Fifth Avenue in those days, or even near it, so that’s how we ended up on Sutton Place, a co-op in a real fancy building, with a white-gloved doorman downstairs. And we’ve been all over together, on cruises, to resorts—all very nice. And I never went without dinner again, even on Yom Kippur, because I’d had enough of fasting. And Myra slept in a real bed, not a hammock.

Love. Well, I learned to love him.

His boys never did like me much, though. I think they thought I was a gold-digger. Maybe I was, but what else was I supposed to do to take care of myself and Myra? And Phil’s been happy. I can count the number of fights we’ve had on one hand. I pay attention to his favorite colors, and get my dresses made up in them. I pay attention to what he likes to eat and make sure it’s always on the table. He tells me where he wants to go for vacation, and I set everything up. I didn’t do all that with Harry. But I’ve kept Phil happy for almost twenty-five years and counting, and that’s not nothing, either.

Myra never took to him. He wasn’t unkind to her, but he never made much of an effort, either. What man does, when it comes to children? Especially children that aren’t his. For Myra, nobody could replace her adored father. She remembered dancing with him while she was little, she remembered that he was handsome. I’d be surprised if she remembered anything else. She thought she remembered why Harry left, though. She blamed me for it, for driving Harry away. I was sick at the time, so sick. It didn’t make any sense, but she blamed me anyway.

Never mind Harry. It was Phil who paid for her medicines, and Phil who gave me the money to support her and the kids after her husband, Siggy, left, and Phil who paid for her funeral and put his arm around me by the graveside, and Phil who held my elbow at the unveiling. Harry was nowhere to be seen, just the same as the last thirty years.

Phil wasn’t there on Myra’s yahrzeit, a month later, though. He had a business dinner that evening, but I didn’t mind. There was something I had to do that night, besides lighting the candle, and I didn’t want to explain it.

After the kids were in bed, I opened my jewelry box in the bedroom I shared with Phil and took out the envelope with the last note from Myra. I hadn’t told anybody about it, not my sisters, not Phil. He knew it existed, of course, but what it said? No. I couldn’t. I didn’t tell anybody.

I read it one more time, read the accusations about me, the way she blamed her daughter for ruining her life. Then I took it to the living room and held the corner of it in the flame of the candle until it caught. I held it for a few moments more, until it was well and truly aflame, and then I dropped it into an ashtray and watched it burn.

It was a couple months later that I was playing canasta with my sisters, and Sadie had the idea for us to go to Vegas. The grandkids hadn’t come home from school yet, but the seven-layer cookies were out on the table already, and we were munching on them.

“Phil’s gonna be out of town on business for two weeks next month,” I said, as I rearranged my cards and laid down a set of nines. “And the kids are going to visit their father in Philadelphia for one of those weeks, you know. It’ll just be me here.”

All three of my sisters exchanged looks. They thought I didn’t see, but I did.

“That’s lonely,” sympathized Rose. “Maybe one of us should come stay with you.”

“That’s a break,” corrected Sadie. She was my partner in the game. She put down a canasta of aces and smirked.

“Nice,” I said. Sadie is better at canasta than me, but I’m better than Millie or Rose.

“You should go somewhere,” Sadie continued. “Why let them have all the fun? Lock up the apartment and you take a trip also.”

I wasn’t sure my grandkids, Elsie and Danny, would describe visits to their father’s house with his new family as fun, but I didn’t say that. Well, I say “new,” but he and his wife have a three-year-old, and I hear she’s expecting again.

“Ach, where would I go?” I said absently. I was watching Millie rearrange her cards, trying to figure out what she had in her hand.

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Vegas, of course! You love Vegas.”

I do like Vegas. We’d been there a few times and while I enjoy canasta with the girls, blackjack is really my game. When I say “we,” I mean me and Phil, of course. Harry and me, we never had money to go anywhere farther than the speakeasy on Ludlow Street.

Millie drew a card and discarded another. I eyed the discard pile, but decided against picking the pack. I didn’t want to get saddled with that many cards this late in the game.

“Vegas alone,” I said, “is not necessarily a fun time.” I drew a card. It was the three of hearts, so I smiled and put it down with the two other red threes I had.

“So, who says you’ll be alone?” countered Sadie. “Take me with you. Your Phil can afford it.”

I had done the best of all of us. My Phil certainly could afford for Sadie and me to go to Las Vegas on his dime. Our dime, I should say. Haven’t we been married long enough for me to say that?

“We-e-e-e-ell,” I said. “Why not? Only what if Elsie and Danny need to come home early? I’m not going to go for the whole break.”

Elsie and Danny don’t like their stepmother, and I don’t think she much likes them. She wants to pretend that Siggy came to her fresh and new, no previous family at all, certainly no kids hanging around after they’re no longer wanted, kids from a marriage she helped break up. I don’t know how many more visits to Philadelphia are in the cards for Elsie and Danny.

Speaking of cards, Millie laid out what remained of her hand. “I’m out, girls,” she said. “Time to count up your points.”

So the next month, Phil packed for Montreal, Elsie and Danny packed for Philadelphia, and I packed for Las Vegas. After I’d said good-bye to Phil and he’d headed off to Canada and after I’d kissed Elsie and Danny good-bye and they’d driven off in the backseat of their father’s car, I picked Sadie up in a taxi and we got on a plane to Nevada. We took a taxi from the airport to the Stardust Resort and Casino. It was very nice in there, all red and brown velvet, very plush. Anyway, when we got there we each went to our own room and unpacked. Our rooms were in the Venus building. Love again.

You gotta understand how fancy Vegas was back then. It was adults only, not like porn, but like a fancy restaurant. I’d packed my fanciest gowns, and even bought a couple new ones for Sadie so she wouldn’t feel outclassed. Sure, we knew the place was mobbed up and had been since the ’40s, but so what? To tell the truth, it made me feel a little more at home, because the mob there was mostly our guys—Yidn, you know? And it made the place very safe—you never had to worry about anything violent happening, because the boys didn’t want to give authorities any excuse to take a closer look at what they were doing. All you really had to worry about was one of the boys getting too handsy, but where don’t you have to worry about that?

Sadie and me, after a late lunch at the Polynesian restaurant they had there—I don’t know what that had to do with the outer space theme, but that was the restaurant they had—we went straight to the casino in our very nice dresses, faces all made up. Sadie, she played around at the slot machines, the roulette wheel. I went straight to the blackjack tables. I picked one at random and just stood and watched for a few hands.

Then I placed a few small bets, nothing crazy, just feeling out the game and the players, and I did all right. Before long, I took a chair myself. I won a few hands, lost a few, but I was doing better than breaking even. Just a little better, but that’s what you go for in blackjack. Watching the cards, I forgot to think about Myra for a little while. At some point I looked up and saw that Sadie had floated over and was watching me.

I caught Sadie’s eye and jerked my head slightly. She floated a little nearer.

I threw the next hand and busted. Then I looked at the little gold wristwatch on my left arm. With my eyes, I can’t actually read it, but I didn’t have to.

“Sadie, hon,” I said. “I’m getting hungry. It must be dinnertime, don’t you think?”

A few older gentlemen offered to take us to dinner and the evening show—Sadie and me, we weren’t young anymore, not by a long shot, but we were still pretty good-looking for our age. We waved them off, politely of course, no hard feelings, but we were planning a quiet night. Well, I was.

Sadie had different ideas. “Whaddaya mean, a quiet night? It’s not every week we get to Vegas!”

“I get tired early these days,” I told her. “With Elsie and Danny, I’m raising kids all over again, but I’m not so young this time.” Honestly, I’d been tired ever since losing Myra.

So we split the difference. We had dinner in my room—room service—and after some coffee so I wouldn’t doze off, we went back down to the evening floor show.

First, though, I placed a long-distance call to Siggy’s in Philadelphia. He picked up.

“Siggy, it’s Josie. How are the kids doing?”

“They’re doing fine,” he said, but he didn’t sound so sure. “Having the time of their lives.”

“Yeah?” I said. “That’s good. Get Elsie. I wanna say hi.”

After half a minute, Elsie got on the phone. “Hi, Nana.”

“Hi, darling,” I said. “Are you having fun?”

Elsie paused just a little too long before answering. “Yeah.”

“What’ve you and your brother been doing?” I asked.

“Nothin’.”

“Nothing?”

“We all went for ice cream.”

Ice cream. I could get her ice cream in New York.

“Is Faye being nice to you?” I asked.

“Uh-uh.”

I sighed. No point in asking what that bitch was doing this time. Elsie wouldn’t be able to say on the phone in front of everybody.

“Well, darling, listen. Your Aunt Sadie and me will be home in a few days, and then if you want to come home early, you just say, all right? I’ll take the train down and come get you.”

“Okay, Nana,” said Elsie.

“Now put me back on with your father.”

I warned Siggy to take good care of the kids and then hung up.

The Stardust floor show was known for its topless showgirls, which I guess was something for the guys to get excited about, but didn’t mean anything to me. I enjoyed the fruity sweet cocktails, though—they reminded me of the drinks I’d get when Phil and I went on cruises. I might’ve had one too many, though, because on my way to powder my nose, my head started spinning and I had to sit down in a small private booth.

A man slid in across from me, so quickly and smoothly that he must’ve been following me, so my stomach tightened and I got ready to kick up a fuss if he gave me any trouble. I hoped Sadie was okay at the front-seat table where I’d left her.

The man tilted his face to the side quizzically. “You don’t recognize me, Josie-Jo? I haven’t changed that much, have I?” He smiled at some joke I wasn’t in on, I guess, and then I knew him.

“We got nothing to say to each other, Harry,” I said icily. “You made sure of that thirty years ago.”

“Oh, don’t be like that, Josie-Jo,” he said. “I can see you’ve done all right for yourself, in the end—jewels like those on your neck and fingers, and I saw you cleaning up at the blackjack table earlier. You’re not still sore, are you?”

I ignored his question. “You’ll excuse me, Harry. I’m just on my way to the ladies’.”

“Just sit with me for a minute,” he said. “It’s not often I get to sit with a fine-looking lady like yourself. You do look good, Josie. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you weren’t yet fifty.”

“Shut up, Harry,” I said. “I’ve already talked to my former son-in-law today, and I don’t need another useless deadbeat.”

“Josie-Jo, c’mon. Have one drink with me. Just for old times’ sake. You go powder your nose, and I’ll wait right here for you. Just one drink. Please.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I told him. I tried to sweep majestically out of the booth, but I stumbled over my heels and almost fell against the table. I stalked to the ladies’ room, glancing back only once.

After I’d taken care of my business, I looked at myself in the mirror in the ladies’ lounge. Harry wasn’t wrong, I was looking good that evening. And he was easy on the eyes, too. He always had been. Come to think of it, he’d looked a lot younger than I would have expected. I’d just turned sixty, and if Harry had been a stranger on the street, I would have put him at forty-five at the most. I sighed and patted my hair. He was still a handsome man, there was no denying it.

What harm could one drink do? Maybe I’d finally give him a piece of my mind about what his leaving had done to Myra.

I patted my hair back into place one last time and walked out of the ladies’ room and back over to the table.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down. “One drink.” I ordered a mai tai, a drink I’d tried on the last cruise I took with Phil, before Elsie and Danny had come to live with us.

“You don’t drink sidecars anymore, Josie?” Harry asked.

“A lot about me has changed,” I said.

“I guess I don’t know that much about you, now,” he said.

“That’s a fact,” I said, and he winced.

“But maybe you still have some fond feelings for me,” he said. “You know, just for old times’ sake. Maybe you still care a little.”

The girl brought the mai tai, saving me from spitting out the swear words on my lips. I swallowed them politely, instead, along with a sip of the drink, and by the time the girl left, I had myself under control again.

“Fat chance,” I said, and lit a cigarette. “What is all this about, Harry? You need money? I’m not giving you any.”

“I don’t need money, Josie-Jo.” Suddenly Harry looked very tired, though still younger than he had any right to look. “I don’t need money anymore.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” I said. “Everybody needs money. What’d you do, marry an heiress?”

“No,” he said. “I died.”

“You did what?” I asked. I must’ve misheard, I thought.

“I came out here because I needed money. Wasn’t too popular with the boys in New York in the ’40s, on account of some deals that went south, which were not my fault, but I was the one that got hung out to dry.”

“Of course, Harry,” I said, and this time I was the one who felt tired. “Nothing’s ever your fault.”

He cracked a smile. ‘Nah, there’s plenty that’s my fault, Josie. But not those deals. I was set up, is all. I’ve got my suspicions as to who by, but that doesn’t really matter any more. What matters is that I came out here maybe ten, twelve years ago, just after they built this place. I dunno, I lose track of time where I am.”

I rolled my eyes a little. I wasn’t buying it.

He ignored it and kept on with his story. “I was working here, set up in the back room. I did a little of everything that needed doing, and I saw how easy the money was coming in, how much of it there was. My fingers got itchy.”

“Harry.” I sighed. “You know better than that. Everybody knows better than that.”

“Well, hell, Josie-Jo, there was so much of it, and my cut started to look so small. I figured, I’m the one who says how much is coming in, nobody’ll notice if I skim a little, if I run a few games on the side. Who was it gonna hurt?”

“You tried to cheat Lansky? You’re an idiot, Harry.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he said. “In the end, a couple of Syndicate boys took me upstairs and I didn’t come back down. They’re not supposed to do that here! No violence, everybody knows.”

“Everybody knows not to cheat Lansky, too.”

“And you see how many mirrors there are here. And I had nobody to cover them, like you’re supposed to when somebody dies. Nobody to say Kaddish for me because nobody who cared about me knew I was gone. I was all alone here.”

Suddenly a picture of Myra’s face appeared in my mind, the one person I knew who had always cared that her beloved father was gone, and I remembered covering the mirrors in her house and my and Phil’s apartment after I saw her body. Never had understood that custom before, but after Myra was gone, I couldn’t bear to look at myself and know I was in the world and she wasn’t, and it finally made sense to me.

“I hung around here just a little too long. Just a little too long, and pfft.” He snapped his fingers. “Lilith sucked me right through the mirror. Mirrors—they all lead straight to Yenne Velt, the other world. That’s why you gotta cover ’em when someone dies, new spirits get confused real easy and go the wrong way. Now I’m stuck in some kind of casino there with the shedim, and Josie, I hate it there. It’s awful.”

I realized that I had been listening, transfixed. I shook my head to clear it. “Bullshit, Harry. You’re a bullshit artist and this is bullshit. I don’t know what you want from me, but this is bullshit. I never should’ve married you.”

“Ah, don’t say that, Josie-Jo.” He looked strained. “We had some really good times together, didn’t we? Back when we were young? And we sure made a beautiful little girl, didn’t we?”

“Myra,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Yeah,” he said. “How is the kid?”

So I smacked him. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t even decide to; my hand just flew out before I knew it. But it went right through his face without stopping. I tried it again, and again my hand went through him like he was nothing, like there was nobody there.

He smiled at me, a tired smile, not his usual smirk, and shook his head. “I’m a ghost, Josie-Jo,” he said. “You can try it as many times as you want. But I’m just smoke and mirrors. I’m dead, Josie. I’m not bullshitting you.”
I leaned back against the wall of the booth and said nothing.

“Why’d you want to hit me, anyway?” he asked.

I blinked at him and wondered if I was crazy. I hoped not. Who would look after Elsie and Danny then?

“Why did I hit you?”

“Why did you hit me?”

“I would think you would know, with being a ghost and all.” I took a deep breath. “Myra is dead.” I still didn’t like to hear my voice saying it out loud.

Harry passed his hand over his eyes, and then he looked even more tired than before. Maybe a little older, too.

“I’m sorry, Josie. I didn’t know. When?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

Yeah, you’re sorry, I thought. For all you would’ve known or cared, she could’ve died when she was seven and got polio. To hell with you. I wished I could’ve connected when I hit him. I wished I could’ve used my fist.

“Fuck you, Harry.”

“Listen, Josie—”

“I’ve got to go. I’m sorry you’re a ghost, or whatever you are, but that’s not my problem.”

He moved to grab my hand, but his fingers went straight through me. My arm felt cold where it had happened. I guessed he really was a ghost.

“Please, Josie. Please. It’s all gray there. No color at all. Nothing living. And no other people, just shedim. And I can play whatever, roulette, blackjack, slot machines, it doesn’t matter, Josie, because I always win.”

I snorted. “Sounds terrible.”

“No, Josie, you gotta believe me, it is. Nobody talks to me. The dealers just look straight through me. Nothing ever happens that I don’t expect. I pick red seventy-two, the ball lands on red seventy-two. I play poker, and I get a straight flush, first hand. I try to throw games, and I can’t. I win. I just wander around, winning and winning and there’s no excitement to it at all, and nobody to talk to, nobody to celebrate with, just endless gray casino chips.

“And I’m trapped there. I need someone to help me, someone living. I need you, Josie.”

Tough shit, I thought. I have some friends, ladies at my shul with numbers on their arms. They come to lunch sometimes, they tell me things in whispers. We stop talking when Elsie and Danny come in the room. They should never know, please G-d. A spirit casino didn’t sound that bad to me. I lit another cigarette.

“So, you want me to spring you? Not a chance, Harry.” But I didn’t walk away. Maybe I should have. But it was nice to be looking at his face. Myra had always looked so much like her father.

“No, nothing like that. You just have to do what you came here to do. Play cards. Play blackjack.”

“Good-bye, Harry.” I stood up.

“Please Josie. I won’t be able to come to you awake again. I want to go on to whatever should come next for me, whatever would’ve come next if the mirrors had been covered, if I’d’ve had someone to say Kaddish for me. Not for my sake, I know I’ve lived a bad life and I wasn’t good to you. But for Myra’s sake—we loved each other once, Josie, Myra showed it, she’d have wanted you to help me out. Even if I become a gilgul and have to come back as a dog or an ant, I just don’t want to be stuck here anymore.”

I shrugged, but at the same time I thought of Harry, young, laughing with me, him with his curls and me with heavily kohled eyes in a local speakeasy. He’d always hated being bored more than anything. Myra had been that way, too.

“Maybe,” I said.

“It’ll happen in your dreams,” he gabbled hastily, like a man who knows his time is short, though the way I figured it, he had nothing but time now. Maybe I was the one running out of time.

“Dreams,” I echoed, watching Harry fade away, like a trick of the light. Only his cigarette still burning in the ashtray. I stubbed mine out next to it and went back to my sister.

“You were gone an awful long time,” she said. “Do you know how many men I’ve had to fight off? ‘My sister’s sitting here.’”

“Sorry, Sadie,” I said. “I ran into Harry.”

“That no-goodnik! Of all people! I can’t believe you gave him the time of day—I always told you he was useless, a schnorrer.”

“You were right,” I replied absently.

She took another look at me. “You don’t look so good,” she said. “You want to go upstairs, turn in?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s stay up late.”

I don’t take sleeping pills, but liquor has a pretty strong effect on me, and I drank more than a little that night. I went down like a chopped tree at the end of it, and I slept sound.

No dreams. I never dream when I drink.

But I pay for it. I was sick all the next morning and my head hurt worse than anything. I couldn’t do this for three nights.

After throwing up, I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harry’s reflection behind me. His lips formed the word “please.”

When I looked behind me, though, there was nothing there.

I cleaned up at the blackjack tables again that night, and I thought about celebrating with a mai tai, but my stomach gave a lurch and I decided against it. Instead I took my winnings and made an early night of it.

That night, I dreamt that I woke up to find a young red-haired woman sitting on my bed, and me in my nightgown.

“The Lady,” she said, just like that, capital letters and everything. “Is extending an invitation to you. To play blackjack.” I sat up in bed and looked closely at her. She was dressed like a bellhop. Out of some half-remembered story, I quick looked down at her feet. They were bird’s claws.

I woke myself up on purpose, and when I did, I was covered in sweat. I stumbled into the bathroom to get some water, and there was a word written in condensation on the mirror. It was “please.” But I didn’t see Harry, and the word faded after a minute, the way steam does.

That morning at breakfast I couldn’t stop thinking about Myra. How much she looked like her father. How much she had longed for her father. How mean she had gotten, toward the end. Mean to Elsie. Mean to me. And now gone. Not mean to anyone anymore, not ever again.

She never would’ve been mean to Harry, though. I could almost hear her voice, telling me to go help her father.

So I snuck one of those little jars of jam they have at hotel breakfasts into my pocketbook. Demons love jam, everybody knows that. The day before Phil and I had all our stuff moved into the Sutton Place apartment, I put down a dish of jam to make sure any demons hanging around felt good about us, just like my mama taught me, and it worked, we never had a worry about that apartment. I also made sure I had a couple hundred dollars’ worth of chips in my pocketbook too. That evening, before I went to sleep, I put the pocketbook next to me in bed. There was plenty of room. I like to sleep alone in a big bed, and I don’t get to do that too often. Before Phil, I shared a bed with Betty, and before that Harry. And before that, well, we girls slept in hammocks when I was little.

I was awakened from a deep sleep, not by the bellhop girl, but by Harry. I was in bed with the covers up to my chin, thank goodness.

“Please, Josie,” he said. “Please come with me.”

I thought about Myra, and I sat up, still clutching the covers to my neck. “You turn your back until I get my dress on,” I said.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “I’m your husband.”

“Ex-husband. Turn your back.”

While his back was turned I put on a dress and pinned my hair up, but I decided I didn’t have time to put on makeup. I picked up my pocketbook.

“I’m ready now,” I said.

He turned around and smiled a bit wanly. “Beautiful as ever, Cleopatra.”

I smiled back before I thought about it, but then stopped. “Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”

He led me over to the full-length mirror on the closet door, took my hand and started to step through it, but I hung back, suddenly afraid.

“How will I get back?” I asked. “What if the shedim keep me there?”

He cocked his head. “But you’re alive, Josie,” he said. “I’m dead, no living body to come back to. But you, you’re sleeping safely tucked in bed. Just look.”

I looked back, and there I was, snoring gently in bed, covers pulled up to my chin. “Then how—”

“You’re sleeping, that’s how come you can come with me through the mirror. And your body will draw you back.”

He placed one foot through the mirror, into a deep silver pool, and drew me after him.

We came out in what looked like the casino downstairs, but drained of all color, just shadows and grays. My body, my dress, my pocketbook . . . I was the only patch of color in that place, and it seemed deserted, not a gambler in sight.

“Where is everybody?” I asked, and it came out as more of a whimper than I would’ve liked.

“Don’t worry, kid,” Harry said warmly, and drew my arm through his. “You’re safe.”

There were dealers at all the card tables, a croupier at the roulette wheel, waitresses at the bar, but no customers. I tried to look at their feet, but couldn’t get the right angle. I pointed to what looked like a blackjack table. “We go there?”

“No,” he said, and aimed us toward a door in the back that I hadn’t noticed. “We go through there.”

The only sounds as we made our way toward the door were my footsteps. Every dealer’s, every waitress’s, every bartender’s head swiveled to follow our progress, but nobody spoke, and nobody smiled, and everybody was gray. I thought of being here, by myself, for years on end, with my voice the only sound, nobody talking to me, always winning no matter what I did, every hand, every spin, every bet. Collecting colorless chips by myself. Forever. I shivered a little, and Harry put his arm around me, but no warmth came from him. I guess you need a body for that.

We went through the doors, away from those silent gray watchers, and down a long, dim hallway. At the end of it, we went through another door and found ourselves in a small room. In it was a woman, a woman with long black hair pinned up in an elaborate crown. She had color. Black hair, pale skin, paper-white, blood-red lips. Like a fairy tale. And an evening dress that sparkled like rubies. Probably had them stitched into the beading, if I knew anything about evening gowns, which I did.

She smiled at me and instinctively I dropped my eyes to her feet. They were birds’ claws.

“I, um—” My voice sounded harsh in the silence. “I hear you have a game to play.”

The lady nodded and gestured to a small table, a blackjack table set up for two. “I do.” Her voice didn’t sound harsh at all, smooth as silk. Smooth as honey. “The question is whether it’s a game worth playing.”

“For Harry’s soul,” I confirmed.

“Yes.” She paused. “But what do you have to offer to make it worth my while?”

I took the chips out of my pocketbook, but the lady just looked bored. I took off my rings and added them to the pot, and they were good quality, believe me, my Phil can afford the best and that’s what he gets me, but she didn’t waste a second glance on them.

“I don’t need your money or baubles,” she said.

I drew the jar of raspberry jam out of my pocketbook. “I have heard,” I said, “that you like jam more than just about anything,” and I placed the jar on the table. The jam inside was a rich red through the glass.

At that, she gave a tinkling laugh, like a breeze shimmying through a crystal chandelier. “I do like jam,” she agreed. “Especially raspberry. But not more than anything. No, I’m afraid you have only one thing of interest to me. A soul for a soul, that’s how it is. You understand.”
“My soul?” I asked.

“Did he not tell you that?” She shook her head mockingly and wagged an admonishing finger at him. “So untrustworthy. Unreliable, that’s what I say. Well, once a con man, always a con man.”

I turned an outraged stare on Harry. “You should’ve said.”

He glanced away. “I thought you might not come,” he muttered.

I thought briefly about turning around, following the pull of my sleeping body right back to my hotel room. Then I thought about Myra, how she used to laugh when Harry twirled her in the air. She had been happy, before he left.

“I’m here,” I said grumpily. “We might as well play. But if I lose, you don’t get my soul until my grandchildren are grown. I’m betting my soul, not my life.”

“Of course,” said Lilith. “That’s reasonable.” She gestured for me to sit down at the table, so I did. “Put your valuables away, Mrs. Greenspan. We’ll play. Mr. Valenofsky’s soul against your soul.” She paused. “And the jam. Three hands. I deal.”

The first hand was over quickly with me getting an ace and a queen at the first deal. One for me.

The second hand didn’t go so well. Dealer started with a nine and a ten. She stayed, of course. I had a four and an eight. I asked for another card and got a two.

“Hit me again,” I said.

The card she gave me was a jack. “Bust.”

I started to feel a little dizzy as she shuffled the cards for the final hand. The little room seemed to expand to the size of a stadium, and I felt eyes on me, even though I couldn’t see anyone else there.

“You should’ve asked me to play her at poker,” I muttered to Harry. “Or canasta. There’s too much chance involved in blackjack.”

“Nah,” said Harry. “I’ve seen you play before. This is your game. You clean up at blackjack.”

I didn’t know how to explain to Harry that to clean up at blackjack you had to keep track of which cards had been played, that the odds got better the longer you played, that three hands was more or less chance.

I like Vegas to visit, but I really didn’t want to spend my afterlife here. I hadn’t even been sure there was an afterlife until a couple days earlier, but now that I knew there was, I wanted to spend mine with Myra and my parents, not in some washed-out gray casino by myself, or worse, with Harry.

Lilith dealt again. I looked at my cards. They were both sevens, so I turned the hole card face up and split them. “Double down.” The next cards I got were a five and a nine, so twelve in one hand and sixteen in the other. Nowhere near close enough, especially when Lilith took one card, and face up she showed a six and a ten.

“Hit me.”

A ten and a five. I wondered what would happen if we both hit twenty-one. In most casinos, draws go to the dealer, and that wasn’t me.

“Bust,” I admitted on the twenty-two hand. “But I’m staying in the other.”

Lilith turned over her hole card. It was a four. I turned over mine. “I win,” I said. My voice sounded strangely calm, but I knew I was terrified. It was like I was observing everything from some distance.

“So you do.” The demoness sounded amused. “And so you keep your own soul, for whatever awaits it,  and you can have Mr. Valenofsky’s as well. Hold out your hand.”

I did, and she dropped gold-colored casino chip into it. It had Hebrew writing engraved on it in a spiral, but it was too small for me to read even with my glasses.

“Thank you,” I said. It didn’t seem like enough. “Please take the jam, though. As a gift.”

Lilith’s eyes lit up—literally, they glowed orange for a moment—and she smiled. “Many thanks,” she said. “I do love jam.” She opened the jar and dipped in her finger, and licked it clean. “It’s good jam. Mrs. Greenspan, I’m sure you’ll find the right thing to do with the soul. Mr. Valenofsky, you may accompany Mrs. Greenspan back through the mirror in the main room. Good night to you both.”

I tucked the golden disk into my pocketbook. We retraced our steps back to the gray casino and through the mirror into my bedroom, Harry beaming like he’d just won a million bucks. When we got back into my room, I lay down and eased myself back into my still sleeping body. I felt so tired.

“Go wherever you want, Harry,” I said. “Just don’t be here when I wake up.” Then I closed my eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, though, my pocketbook was beside me on the bed, I was still wearing the good dress I had worn to Yenne Velt (I’d forgotten to take it off when I rejoined my body), and Harry was sitting in the room’s easy chair.

“What are you still doing here?” I asked. “You’re free. So go be free. Go do whatever it is you should be doing.”

He shook his head. “I can’t, Josie-Jo. I tried. I can’t go more than a room away.”

“Away from me?”

“Away from the poker chip.”

“So what you’re saying is, I should flush that thing down the toilet,” I said.

“You’ve always been so grumpy in the mornings,” he said. Then he looked a little worried. “Please don’t do that, though.”

I remembered Lilith telling me I’d find the right thing to do with it. She hadn’t mentioned toilets.

“Go in the other room while I get dressed, then. I’m flying home today. I guess you’re coming with me.”

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to happen after I helped Harry, but him hanging around me everywhere I went because I had some kind of oversized magic subway token wasn’t it. Go, I told him, be free, take the poker chip and go on to whatever Adonai has in store for you. I tried to put the chip in his hand, but it just fell right through.

He was with me on the plane back to NYC, in the taxicab home to Sutton Place, and in the bedroom while I unpacked. I didn’t like it. I had lived a pretty good life without him for thirty years, and I wanted it back.

“C’mon, it’s not so bad, is it, Josie-Jo?” he coaxed. “We always meant to spend our lives together, didn’t we?”

I rolled my eyes. “That ship sailed a long time ago, Harry. I want you gone. Now be quiet and let me think.”

“Josie—”

“I swear, if you don’t shut up, I’m gonna drop that chip down the next sewer grate I see.”

Harry never could keep his mouth shut, and I didn’t want him yammering at me on the train all the way to Philly, so I reached a decision.

“I’m putting the chip in the jewelry box in my bedroom,” I told him. “You can cool your heels here until I get back with the kids.”

“Aw, Josie, I want to see our grandkids too!”

I rounded on him. “You don’t have grandchildren, you understand me? I have grandchildren. Phil, he’s a good man, a good provider, he takes care of those kids, he has grandchildren too. You have nobody, you understand? You left.”

“I get it, Josie, I get it.”

“I’m not sure you do! You left, so you have nothing to do with Elsie and Danny. Nobody else has been able to see you since Vegas, so don’t you dare show yourself to my grandchildren now.”

“Our grandchildren, Josie, no matter what you say. And I can’t promise that—it’s easier for kids to see ghosts than adults. Their minds aren’t all cluttered up with garbage yet.”

That’s men for you. They do their little dance, and they think that makes them a father forever afterward. And then a grandfather. No. You gotta wake up every damn day and decide to do it, all day, and then do it again the next morning. Every morning.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want their minds cluttered up with your garbage.”

His tone changed to wheedling. “C’mon, Jo. It’s hard for me to make anybody who’s not family see me, y’know. I never remarried, not like you—”

“You never had to!”

“—you and those kids are all I have left.”

“What about your brothers and sister?” I snapped. “Can’t you go bother them?”

“Well, if I knew where they were, and you gave them the gold chip, maybe I could.”

We glared at each other for a minute.

“I don’t know where they are, either,” I finally said. “But I know where you’re going to be while I go get the kids.” I put the chip in the jewelry box and slammed its lid shut.

The next morning on the train, I had some time to myself to think. Harry couldn’t go on staying with me—when he walked out on me and Myra, he’d made his choice, as far as I was concerned, and now there had to be a way for me to make mine. I could just toss the poker chip into the nearest gutter when I got home, of course, but, eh, I couldn’t bring myself to settle on that. Myra would’ve hated me for it. She loved her father so much, or the memory of him, anyway.

I knew I was out of my depth, was the thing. But I wasn’t sure what to do. Phil would think I was off my rocker if I started babbling to him about ghosts and Las Vegas. Our rabbi at the synagogue on East Fifty-first Street . . . well, he’s a nice young man, a macher in the making, really, but I’m not sure about something like this. This is more of a . . . private matter. A personal trouble, and that nice young man, he might just write me off as a crazy old woman.  That’d be no good, not for me, and not for the kids.

Trains are good places for thinking, but it wasn’t until I was on the way back, with Elsie reading the new Oz book I’d brought her on one side of me and Danny slumped against me snoozing on the other, that it came to me. All of a sudden, I knew exactly who to go to for advice, and she wouldn’t think I was crazy, either.

A few hours later, we were walking through the apartment door, Danny still half asleep and stumbling. When we got inside, his head shot up in surprise and he blinked furiously.

“Who’s that, Nana?” he asked.

I followed his gaze into the shadowy hallway in time to see Harry melt into invisibility.

“There’s nobody here but us, sweetie,” I said. “Zayde won’t get back from his business trip for another week.”

“I could have sworn I saw someone,” he said. “Didn’t you see somebody, Elsie?”

Elsie was so deep in her book that she didn’t even hear him.

“Maybe you were dreaming,” I said, and ruffled his hair. “You two go in your rooms and unpack, and afterwards we’ll have dinner. I made chicken paprikash and dumplings yesterday, and it’s waiting in the icebox.”

I went to my bedroom and closed the door quietly. Harry was waiting with a hangdog expression on his face.

“What’s the big idea?” I hissed. “I told you not to let the kids see you! What’s Danny going to think?”

Harry held up his hands. “Hey, hey, I didn’t hear your key in the lock until it was too late, that’s all.”

I glared at him anyway.

“Say, though, those are some kids, aren’t they? The girl with her head in a book, she keeps reading like that, she’ll go far. I guess she does well at school, doesn’t she? Better than I ever did, I bet.”

“They both do well,” I said coldly. “They’ve got smart heads on their shoulders.”

“I knew it!” he said. “And good-looking, too. The boy even has my curly hair. Cute kids, both of them.”

“You can try to butter me up all you want, Harry,” I said. “I don’t care. Tomorrow we’re going to see a witch.”

The next day I made breakfast for the three of us, gave the kids some money for a double feature, and sent them out the door. Then I took the gold poker chip from my jewelry box and put it in my pocketbook.

In the elevator, I pushed the little white button, so the doorman had a taxi waiting when I walked out the door. He opened the door for me to get in and shut it firmly behind me. Harry drifted right on through. Nobody but me noticed.

I gave the driver an address on Delancey Street and the car started moving downtown. Harry seemed lost in thought.

“It’s not that old d—”

I shot him a warning look.

“That old . . .” He seemed to struggle for words and finally shrugged and resorted to, “That  froy vos hot lib froyen.”

“Tante Deborah,” I said. “Yes.”

He looked annoyed. “She never liked me.”

“She doesn’t like most people,” I said. “In your case, she was right.”

“What’d you say?” asked the driver.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was just talking to myself.”

The rest of the journey was silent.

The apartment on Delancey was above Tante Deborah’s brother-in-law’s appetizing shop. I heard the shop had done so well that he owned the whole building now. In fact, the shop did so well that they could’ve moved uptown if they wanted, but Tante Deborah wanted to stay in the old neighborhood. The apartment was a walk-up, and at my age that wasn’t easy. I don’t know how Tante Deborah or Tante Ruth, her constant companion, managed it. Still, they’d been living there together as long as I could remember.

When I knocked on the door, it was Tante Ruth who opened it. She smiled. “Josie, it’s so good to see you, you should come visit more often.”

She brought me inside and hugged me. Henry drifted in after me, but she didn’t notice him. I gave her the banana cake I’d baked the night before and brought with me (I bake very good banana cake, the best, actually, and I’m not telling you my secret).

The apartment was a nice one—not modern like mine and Phil’s, of course, but nice, with plenty of light.

Tante Deborah was sitting at the kitchen table. She didn’t get up when we came in, which could have been her age—getting up is not easy at my age, let alone hers—or could have been her general grumpiness, but she did smile briefly at me before her dark eyes refocused on a spot just behind me. On Harry.

“Josephine,” she said. “And you brought your shande of a late husband.”

“Ex-husband,” I said, just as Tante Ruth, rummaging in the cupboard for another teacup and plates to put the pieces of banana cake on, looked over her shoulder at me and sighed.

Harry managed to look confused and offended at the same time. “How—” he began.

“She’s a witch,” I told him. “And you are a shande.”

Tante Ruth bought over tea and cake, and we all ate and chatted. I asked after Ella, their niece, maybe seven or eight years younger than me. She’d gotten her politics from Tante Ruth, worked as a labor organizer for years, and married an Irishman she’d met doing that. They had a couple of kids, teenagers by now. It was only when the cake was gone that Tante Ruth cleared the plates from the table and refilled our teacups. Tante Deborah stirred a spoon of cherry preserves into hers.

“Well, I’ll give you two a bit of privacy now. I’ll be in my office in the back, working on a story. Give a shout if you need anything.” Tante Ruth cheerfully left the room.

Tante Deborah stirred her tea and scowled. “Does she think I can’t get us more tea and cake if we want it?” she muttered, but without much conviction, only habitual annoyance. Then she refocused on me. “So, Josephine. Why is the ghost of that shande you made the mistake of marrying following you around like you were newlyweds again?”

“I won his soul at blackjack, Tante,” I explained. “And now I don’t know how to get rid of it.” I took the golden disk from my pocketbook and handed it to her while I told the whole story. She examined it closely, rummaging in the kitchen drawer for a magnifying glass at one point, and listened.

“The jam was a good idea,” she said, peering at me through her cat-eye glasses. Then she looked down at the disk through the magnifying glass.

“Can you read it?” I asked.

“Of course I can read it,” she said irritably. “I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the holy tongue. I’m just so old that I can no longer see it so well.”

She mused over the disk a bit longer and then shot a sharp look at Harry. “Chaim ben Meir is you, I take it?”

Harry nodded.

“Well,” said Tante Deborah. “I want to talk to Josephine about this privately, so, Chaim, I’m going to put you away for a while.”

Harry looked confused, and I wondered if she was going to pitch the disk out the window (Harry was right that she had always disliked him particularly—she despised gangsters, big-time or small), but all she did was leave the room briefly and return with a small, carved wooden box. She slid the top off, placed the golden disk inside, and slid the top back on. As soon as the box was shut, Harry disappeared.

“How—” I began, but she waved the question away curtly.

“What you have to figure out, Josephine, is what you want to do. He’s tied to this chip, you know that. If all you want is to be rid of him, you could pitch it in the East River. So the question is, why haven’t you?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out, and all of a sudden I didn’t know the answer.

“Well,” Tante Deborah continued. “You have a few options here. If you still love him so much you want to keep him around, all you have to do is hang on to the chip.”

“I do not love him,” I said, almost as annoyed as Tante Deborah usually sounded. “I haven’t pitched him in the river for Myra’s sake. Same reason I helped him to begin with.”

“Ah, Myra.” Tante Deborah looked momentarily sad. “Does he know?”

“He knows she’s dead, yes.”

“Ah.” Tante Deborah went on. “If you think Myra would want you to send him on to whatever awaits him—and no, I don’t know—then what you have to do is smash the chip.”

“Smash it how?” I asked.

“Smash it how? How do you think? A hammer should get it done.”

“But it’s—”

“It’s Bakelite, is what it is. Bakelite with a shine on it.”

“Do I need to bless the hammer? Carve Hebrew into it?”

“No,” she said. “But you can if you like. It won’t hurt anything.”

“What’s the third option?” I asked, out of curiosity.

“You can leave the chip here with me. I’ll keep it in my box, and he’ll stay snuffed out.”

“Destroyed?” I gasped. “That’s cruel.”

“Contained,” she said. “And if you ever wanted him back for anything, you’d know where to find him.”

“Back from where? Where is he right now?”

“In the box.”

“Like a genie in a bottle?”

“More or less.”

“I don’t think Myra would want that,” I said, after thinking for a moment.

Tante Deborah shrugged. “Well,” she said. “It’s up to you. Just make sure you know what it is you want to do. And why.”

I nodded. “Thank you,” I said. And then, “May I have the chip back now?”

When Tante Deborah slid the lid of the box back, Harry appeared again. He looked shaken and didn’t say anything to me as I hugged Tante Deborah good-bye. We were on the street and I was trying to find a taxi before he spoke again. There weren’t many cabs that far downtown, and I had just decided to give up and take a bus when he asked, “What was that box?”

“How should I know?” I answered.

He was quiet again until we got to the bus stop, and then, “So, what did the old witch say to you, anyhow?”

“Nothing you needed to hear,” I said.

I thought a lot about that box that afternoon while the kids were out, mostly because I wanted Harry to shut up and stop chattering at me while I figured out what I wanted to do.

I didn’t still love him, did I? That wasn’t the reason I hadn’t thrown the chip into the East River, was it? I didn’t think it was. I didn’t love him. I had loved him, but that was a long time ago, before he abandoned us. It was Myra I loved, Myra I would always love, no matter how mean she had been. Myra and now Elsie and Danny, too. Myra would never forgive me if I threw her father’s soul in the river. She was the one who loved him, even though he didn’t deserve it and never had. She’d been so much like him in some ways, charming and vivacious.

I thought and thought. And in the end, I knew what to do. I left the golden chip in the jewelry box and went to the hardware store, and I came home with my purchase tucked in my pocketbook.

“Tomorrow,” I told Harry. “Tomorrow after the kids go out to play, you and I are going on an outing. I don’t want you here when my Phil comes back at the end of the week.”

“You know how to free me?” asked Harry, all excited, all happy, like this was some kind of game and he’d just won.

“Sure,” I said. “All I have to do, Tante Deborah says, is smash the chip.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asked petulantly.

“There’s something I want you to see,” I told him.

Then I heard Elsie’s key in the lock and that cut off whatever whining he might have been about to start.

The next morning, I put some spending money in Elsie’s pocket and took the kids to visit Sadie. We had a cup of coffee together, and I told them I had some chores I had to do and that Sadie should put them in a taxi back to me in the afternoon. I came home, put on my most sober spring coat, and slipped the golden disk into its pocket. I picked up my bag and a dark gray umbrella that matched the coat. “Let’s go,” I told Harry.

“Right with you, Josie-Jo. Where we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I pressed the white button in the elevator again, so the doorman had a taxi waiting for me by the time we got to the door. It had started to rain, and he held his umbrella over me as I walked from the door to the yellow cab. Not a drop got on me. Of course, the rain fell right through Harry.

“A long trip today,” I told the cabbie. “I’m going to Mapleton. Washington Cemetery.” I gave him the address.

“A cemetery, Josie?” Harry smirked at me, a smile I’d once found very attractive. “Who died?”

“You did,” I reminded him. “It’s the right place for you. Now shush, I don’t want the cabbie to think I’m nuts.”

We rode in silence the rest of the way.

When we got to Washington Cemetery, I paid the cabbie and told him that I wouldn’t be long, and that if he waited for me, there’d be extra for him on the way back.

He nodded. “I gotta go back to the city to get another fare anyway, lady. Might as well take you with me, and make something off the trip.”

Harry and I walked into the cemetery. I led the way until I found what I was looking for.

“Here,” I said. “This is Myra’s grave.” I took a rock from my pocketbook, a pretty one I’d found in Central Park with the kids a while ago, and put it on the headstone. The headstone still looked new. Well, it had only gone up a few months before. The rain pattered on my umbrella as Harry examined the stone.

“Poor kid,” he said, and he sounded sad. “You never told me what happened, she got sick?”

“She killed herself, Harry.”

I listened to the rain on my umbrella for a few seconds before going on.

“She never got over you leaving. She was never the same afterwards. She was happy for a while after she and Siggy got married, but when he left her, too . . .”

I trailed off, and Harry didn’t fill in the silence. I didn’t want to say the next part, but I forced myself to go on.

“She wasn’t a good mother, especially after Siggy left. I knew, but I didn’t want to know, and I let it go on. She screamed at them, she wasn’t there when they needed her. She drank and she took pills. She blamed Elsie for . . . I don’t know, just for being, I guess. She was a bad mother, Harry. Elsie was running the house by the end.”

He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything, and after a moment he shut it again.

“One weekend, she’d asked me and Phil to take the kids, and when we brought them back on Sunday, she was dead. Elsie and Danny found her, Harry. They found their mother’s body. Alcohol and sleeping pills.”

“It couldn’t have been an accident?” he asked softly.

“No. She left a note. And it wasn’t the first time she’d tried.”

“What did the note say?”

“It was addressed to me,” I told him. “Not you. And it was mean, like poison. Mean to me, mean about Elsie. I burned it. For over a year now, I’ve wondered if what she said was true, if I was the reason she was so . . . unhappy.” I paused for a minute and stared at a tree a ways away. That’s a trick I know so you don’t cry. “Phil and I took the kids to live with us. Best for everyone that way. So that’s what happened to your daughter, Harry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, softly again.

I exhaled and then drew another, deeper breath. “No,” I agreed. “It’s yours.”

Harry looked like the slap I’d aimed at him back in Vegas had finally landed. “What?”

“It’s your fault. After you left, she couldn’t be happy again, she didn’t know how. You know, every city she ever travelled, she checked the phone book for your name? I don’t know what she was gonna do if she found it, show up on your doorstep? She told her friends you were a dancer, on tour with a musical, when she was a kid. I think sometimes she believed it. She would’ve given anything for dance classes when she was little, but we couldn’t afford it until it was too late.

“She never got over your leaving, Harry. She never stopped waiting for you, hoping you’d come back.”

I took another deep breath. “So this is where I’m leaving you,” I said. “So if she comes back to this spot, if she comes back to her body, the way you hung around the Starlight in Vegas? You’ll be here, waiting for her. And then maybe she’ll finally be happy again.”

I folded my umbrella and dropped to my knees. I took the trowel I’d bought at the hardware store out of my pocketbook and began digging a hole, small but deep, in the sod of Myra’s grave.

“What?” Harry burst out. “What? What are you doing? Aren’t you going to smash the chip? Smash it!”

Instead, I took the chip out of my pocket and dropped it into the hole I’d made. I began filling it back in.

“Don’t do this, Josie. Smash it. Let me go free. Don’t leave me here! Don’t do it! There’s no one here, it’s as gray as the casino was! There’s no one here to talk to, nothing to do! I’ll go out of my mind!”

I stood up and brushed the dirt from my skirt. “Don’t be silly, Harry,” I said. “I come to visit every few months. Once or twice a year I bring the children. You’ll get to see them grow up. Over time. I’ll even leave a note for Elsie in my will, telling her about you, about the chip. She can dig it up and smash it then. If she wants to.”

“Josie! Don’t do this! It’s not too late, you can still dig it up again! Don’t go—don’t leave me here alone!”

“It’s been good to catch up with you, Harry. I did always wonder what had happened to you. I’ll see you in a few months.”

I put my umbrella back up and turned to walk back to the waiting taxi.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Harry screamed. I turned back to look at him as his face contorted into a snarl. “You goddamned gold-digging bitch. You heartless cunt! You’re as bad as that old dyke you call tante!”

I drew into my coat and shivered. For a minute he had looked and sounded just like Myra during one of her bad spells. But my voice was steady when I replied. “You didn’t have two pennies to rub together when I married you, Harry. I married you for love. And I wasn’t the one who left when things looked bad.

“Good-bye, Harry.”

I could still hear him screaming furiously after me when I got back to the cab, and I was too keyed up to sit still in the cab. I had to smoke a cigarette and pace for a few minutes to calm my nerves before we started back to Manhattan, but the cabbie didn’t mind. I told him to go ahead and run the meter while I paced.

“He’s not happy, huh?” the cabbie asked.

“Huh?” I said, and stopped walking in circles. I figured I must’ve misheard him.

“The guy you were with. The ghost.”

“You . . . knew he was with me?” I asked.

“I need glasses to read now,” he said. “But I still see all kindsa things.” He lit a cigarette too, and there was a companionable silence.

“No,” I finally said. “He’s not. But I wasn’t happy when he left me, either.”

The cabbie nodded. “You can’t let the dead run your life,” he said. “Eventually, you gotta leave them behind.”

When I got home, I felt exhausted. I took a bath and then put on a housedress, much lighter and brighter than the dress I’d worn to Myra’s grave. I had a light lunch and took a nap.

I woke up a little before the kids got home and I made myself a cup of tea. I put out two plates of cookies and two glasses of milk and a deck of cards. I also brought out a dish of jelly beans. Then I sat and sipped my tea and waited for Elsie and Danny.

When the door opened, I felt ready for them. I hugged them both and brought them over to the table.

“I love these cookies!” said Danny, munching away.

“Good, my darling,” I said. “And when you finish eating the cookies, we’ll use the jelly beans to play a game. Nana’s going to teach you both how to play blackjack.”

“Blackjack” copyright © 2024 by Veronica Schanoes
Art copyright © 2024 by Mark Smith

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Blackjack

Veronica Schanoes

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Veronica Schanoes

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The post Blackjack appeared first on Reactor.

What is a god?

I’ll tell you: anyone with the power of life and death. When the star-travelers arrived on our world, they called themselves divine. And for a time, we tolerated them—their too-grand stories and their so-called aid. Their very presence. Now we know better.

I know better.

Zaena Derech won’t meet my eyes. His gaze is trained on the planet below. Our planet, blossom-pink and bruise-purple and ours. We know it as Ayeshij, which means world. The star-travelers call it Epimetheus. A figure from their own mythology; a man from a story we will never know.

“After this, we’re done?” Zaena grits out.

I turn to face him. It doesn’t matter that he still won’t look at me. He’s already given me everything I need. “We’re done,” I agree.

I lift a hand, and, after a moment of hesitation, I let it fall on the slope of his shoulder. He flinches a bit at my touch, the synthetic fiber of his security uniform shifting beneath my fingertips.

“Whatever you’re going to do . . .” His throat bobs as he swallows hard. “The risks you’ve taken. The risks you’ve demanded I take. If they find out, they’ll take Ko. They won’t just kill her, if they do. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“I know you miss her, but Shenian—”
“Don’t.” My teeth sink into the side of my cheek. “Just . . . don’t. Not today.”

He sighs. “Whatever you’re going to do, I hope it’s worth it.”

“So do I,” I say with a little smile. “Goodbye forever, then.”

He finally comes around, giving me one last, long look-over. He grins, our home still reflected in his dark eyes. “Good riddance, Mitayre.”

He clasps my arm, his hand encircling my elbow. We’re even. A Favor for a Favor, a crime for a crime. The Tradethread between us dissolved at long last. A little chime echoes in my auditory implant; the program that monitors the debts and repayments of my personal Favorweb—that records every Tradethread linking me to everyone else—logs the severing of Zaena’s obligation to me.

As I ready myself for my early retirement, I run into both of them from time to time. Although there’s nothing left for me to do in this world but enjoy the mostly ill-gotten fruits of my labor, my life is far from over.

Though she does an excellent job of pretending I no longer exist, I often catch a glimpse of Nelak Ko on the way to my annual physicals. The biomedical engineering sector where she works is near the medical center, both of which are closely monitored by our self-appointed rulers. And despite the finality of our farewell, I still see Zaena at the temple on worship days. It’s impossible for our paths not to cross. Compared to other systems, there were never very many of us. There are twenty orbitals swinging around Ayeshij, yes, but each station is small, home to no more than five thousand people each. And the star-travelers who shipped us to these pathetic metal shells restrict travel between them.

I feel eyes on me as I make my way through the evening market, exchanging Favors and unspooling new Tradethreads as I work to acquire a handwoven scarf and two dark jugs of sweet rum. A holobanner hangs over the square, displaying the rotating busts of the local Collective representatives, along with the phrase here for good! in cheerful blue. Oh, yes. Our otherworldly visitors are here to stay. They call themselves many things these days: the Collective, the Aggregate, the Endless Many. It does not matter.

I want them gone. I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

I try to ignore the presence trailing me, a hand rubbing nervously at my aching ribs. No point in acknowledging my little shadow right away; I already know who it is. Yarren. A star-traveler. One of the Collective. A huntsman. But he won’t come for me until I’m alone.

I don’t have to haggle for long; the weaver wants a carved chair from the famed artisan Iarasi, and I am owed not one, but two, of her rare Favors. In some other systems, I’d be called rich. My Favorweb is woven thick with Tradethreads, and a single piece from Iarasi would be worth thousands of the credits I’ve heard they use elsewhere. But I need a scarf, not a seat, so I’m happy to hand the Favor over. The alcohol I get for free. A gift from my favorite brewer, who very much enjoyed the shows I recommended to him last month. Yarren is still tailing me by the time I leave the market.

He approaches me, finally, in a dark street lit only by stars. One side of the passage is nothing but reinforced glass, a vast window looking out at a long velvet stretch of diamond-sewn space. He looks as he always does, thin as a blade’s edge, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. He wears the aigrette all Collective members in this system do, a spray of iridescent feathers pinned beneath a glistening ruby cabochon. Just the sight of it fills me with rage.

He ripped those plumes out of a Thambem, the closest thing we have to true gods. They do not mete out death, but they do bestow life. When we were still permitted to live on our own world, my people bonded our minds to the creatures. We gave them shelter and sustenance, and they gave us connection. Communion. The star-travelers don’t understand, and they never will. I haven’t seen a Thambem with my own eyes in a decade. And here is a stranger, an intruder wearing the feathers of our sister-people. The Thambema are closer to us than the Collective will ever be, regardless of our ancient shared ancestry.

“I hear you’re retiring,” Yarren drawls, leaning against the transparent eggshell of the window. The stars paint him in silver.

I tug the strap of my satchel higher up my shoulder. “You’ve heard correctly.”

“So you won’t be graciously accepting the precious family heirlooms of your fellow citizens, polishing them up and picking out the gems? You won’t be fabricating jewels and pawning off the real ones anymore? Just the straight and narrow, then?”

I ignore him and continue on my way.

Some things about humanity never change, no matter how our bodies adapt and our minds evolve. No matter how distant our worlds, how different our cultures. We like shiny things. So yes. Instead of scraping by with a threadbare Favorweb for the rest of my life, instead of remaining nothing more than a gemologist-for-hire and mediocre lapidary, I found another, better, finer path. I refused to live upon the fragile mercy of Collective’s so-called kindness for long. I don’t care what everyone—and perhaps common sense—says. My life has never been a safe one, nor an easy one, but I want for nothing.

Almost nothing.

“So the game’s over, then?” With a huff, Yarren shoves off the window and follows. “But we were having such fun.”

He’s been hounding me for five years now, ever since one of his audits took note of my just-too-good-to-be-true success. It’s not unusual for someone to possess a Favorweb far denser than it should be, given their profession and their skill at it—there’s a reason universities and museums don’t want me, and why I’m not feigning humility when I call myself a middling jeweler. But sitting on a veritable hoard of Favors when you’re one step away from unemployment is not exactly common. Yarren’s been able to take down a handful of my former clients for other unsavory business. (Criminals tend to be multitalented, after all.)

Unfortunately for the Collective, the worldsnet is both private and secure, with individual accounts being impervious to the greatest star-traveler hackers. Yarren can only follow the Tradethreads for so long before getting hopelessly lost, and even the formidable computational tools at his disposal get tangled up quickly. Our ancestors built the worldsnet as they did for a reason. Each member is no more and no less than anyone else in-system, and that includes the outsiders who cajoled their way in. But even if the worldsnet’s foundation could be altered in such a way, demanding special privileges would tarnish the image of humble benevolence the Collective has spent so much time and effort cultivating.

Point is, Yarren’s wasted half his career trying to catch me. I’ll admit that he came close a couple times, but now that I’m out of the game, as he said, he’s lost me forever. Besides my cons, I’m a perfectly law-abiding citizen. I let his mockery flow over me like a shallow stream. He can’t touch me. Not until he has solid proof. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing, the only reason he hasn’t dragged me wherever he’s taken the others—

“Shenian.”

The name is a knife, shoved between my ribs. I falter, barely managing to catch myself before I stumble.

I can feel his smile, small and slanted and cruel. “She says she misses you,” he says. “But we’ll give her back soon, I promise. She’s taken so well to the rehabilitation treatments. Much more so than the others.”

I stand still, just paces away from Yarren. I could stop this now. I could stop him, permanently. But no. Not yet.

Patience.

My plans begin with Yarren, not end. I smother my fury—for now. I force myself to continue forward, my clenched hands shaking in my sleeves.

Eventually, he peels off. At the end of the day he still has a job to do, just like the rest of the Collective, and it isn’t badgering me. The star-travelers have taken it upon themselves not only to reign over us but also to serve us; along with the forty-nine others on this station, Yarren’s duties range from managing a fleet of asteroid-mining bots to overseeing the nutrient recycling plants. In this age, our whole lives orbit around the Collective, much like the stations around our old home. Remove them and we would be unmoored, untethered. Everything is a calculated move with them. But an enemy makes for the keenest teacher, and I’ve taken a number of measured steps of my own.

I’ve never been able to afford a trip down. Until now.

A ten-hour permit to visit my own homeworld cost me half of my Favorweb, and the skiff I’m renting meant giving up another Favor from Iarasi. But it’s worth it. It has to be. Everything has led to this moment.

Hills of sand stretch out in all directions, blending into the horizon as I guide the skiff through the desert. The dunes are just as gorgeous as I remembered; an ocean of violet and lavender, their peaks crested with white-hot silica instead of foam. I’ve heard tell of golden deserts on other worlds. But on Ayeshij, the sands are rich with almandine-pyrope garnet, or rose quartz, or spessartine. In some sacred places, a combination of all three.

Triangular inselbergs rise from the purple waves in a colossal semicircle, all of them bent at impossible angles. The odd arrangement gives the oblique white outcroppings the appearance of serrated teeth. I goad the skiff between two jagged incisors and drive farther into the rocky maw. In the far distance, pale minarets rise from the desert, carved from select outcrops. Their bone-white tips scrape against the blushing sky.

The seconds melt into minutes into hours. The feeling of the wind flying across my face and combing through my hair is delicious. So is the dry, mineral-tinged scent of the desert, and the unbearable heat of the sun. The world melts into a warm blur as I accelerate. Lethargy creeps over my skin, compounded by the gentle rumble of the engine beneath my feet. I lean more of my weight against the dashboard, my eyes drooping and my grip growing slack over the classic Earth-style driving wheel. The hot breeze wraps around me like a blanket. I’m on the edge of slumber when the skiff suddenly crests a particularly tall dune and swings violently over the peak, nearly sending me flying up over the small deck. Adrenaline floods my veins and I jerk fully awake, gripping the wheel. The bow sinks into another dune, and the skiff grinds to a trembling halt. I try to force the vehicle back, but there’s nothing for it, and the engine lets me know as much with a pathetic whine. I’m stuck fast between two hills of sand.

A thorough search of the skiff fails to produce the shovel I’d need to free myself. Short of spooning myself out with my bare hands, there’s nothing I can do. I jab the emergency assistance button, and I wait.

I’m three bites into my lunch when a gentle twittering fills my ears. I turn, already smiling. Since the relocation, I’ve heard that sweet song only in recordings and in my dreams.

A Thambem sits perched on the edge of my skiff. It’s big, far larger than I remembered them being, with a wingspan twice the length of my arms. Its neck pouch sags low, rich black with patches of ghostly white. Only the central body and wings are adorned in silver feathers; the rest is covered in smooth skin differing from my own only in color. The round head tapers into a needlelike point, and the gaping beak glints with minuscule, razor-sharp false teeth. The creature’s beadlike eyes are set deep within shadowed depressions in the skull, gold ringed with white and black and red.

Beautiful.

I reach a hand out toward it. The magnificent creature lifts its head, regarding me coolly. Its beak touches the tip of my forefinger, and a shock goes through me, pure and bright. I freeze, enraptured as the memories of my people flood over my soul. It’s been too long.

Beautiful, the Thambem echoes. Beautiful teeth. And then, Beware. The beast you’ve summoned draws near, and he is exactly what you think.

I draw in a deep, grateful breath. And you must be what he believes.

What are you asking of me, child?

Prove them right. Give the outsider a reason to fear you, and I’ll take care of the rest.

It understands. Of course it understands.

The Thambem rears back and strikes. The beak goes through my palm. I fling myself back with a strangled hiss. A cloud ripples over the sky, a thin gray hand sliding past the sun. No—not a cloud. I freeze. As I clutch my bleeding hand to my chest, gaping at the Thambem, the sound of flapping wings fills the air like a thunderstorm. A silver-feathered flock streams directly toward me.

“Here! Get inside!”

I whip around. There’s Yarren, reaching out through the cracked-open door of a sleek, roofed Collective skiff. The approaching Thambema must have masked the sound of his arrival. I leap from my skiff as the Thambem that skewered my hand pounces. The outsider grabs my wrist and tugs me in. Thambema scramble to follow, but Yarren slams the control panel and the door slides fast behind me. Talons scratch at the skiff’s roof and windows in a rage.

It’s only when the skiff jerks forward, speeding through the brilliant landscape, that I notice a thin white cuff is secured around my wrist. A stun-tracker. Even if we weren’t being chased by a flock of ravenous flying reptiles, I couldn’t run from Yarren. I’d be drooling on the floor two seconds after trying.

“You can’t be serious!”

I catch his smirk from where he stands at the controls, a particularly fancy holographic display. “Disturbing wildlife is a major offense, Mitayre,” he says. “Don’t you know?”

“What are you doing here?” I snarl.

“Ah, progress.”

“What?”

“I think this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me,” he replies. “And I’m here on vacation, if you must know.”

“And how’s that going for you so far?”

“Just swell, actually, thank you for asking. Certainly better than your trip.” Then he sighs. “You’re bleeding all over my skiff. There’s a first-aid kit on the shelf over there—”

“I found it.” I stumble over and flick open the scarlet case, riffling through the contents until I find a bandage. “I assume you’ve called for pickup?”

“No, actually, I want to be devoured alive,” he quips. “Really, what possessed you to touch that creature? Don’t tell me you were trying to bond with it.” I say nothing, and he laughs. “Rejected you, didn’t it?”

I grit my teeth together. “As is its right.”

“And I suppose the whole flock has the right to tear you to pieces, too?”

“If that is what Ayeshij wills. Nothing great comes without risk.”

“You’re so right.” His eyes flick to the deep gouges in the windows’ reinforced glass. “They’re not far behind, and we can’t stay in the skiff when they do catch up.”

“There must be somewhere we can hide.”

After a moment, he nods. “There’s a spot close by.”

Close is right. A few minutes later a massive cluster of columnar cacti comes into view, the green-gold columns arranged in a huge ring. Their winding arms tangle about five meters above the ground, forming an uneven roof.

Yarren turns off the skiff. “We’ll be safe here. Relatively.”

I arch a brow. The structure is quite literally bristling with spines. Each waxy yellow blade is as long as my arm and nearly as thick. Nothing will be able to reach us without risking being skewered. We’ll need to take care ourselves. It’s getting dark, and it’d be all too easy to lose my footing.

We clamber out of the skiff and a burst of hot air hits me. I breathe it all in: sand and salt and something a little sour under it all. We must be near the coast. Even if the breeze didn’t betray our location, the sand here shades toward pink, purple grains giving way to minuscule fragments of shattered coral and shells. We navigate inside. I have no way of knowing if the spines are poisonous, and so I avoid using them as handholds. The sour smell rapidly grows thicker, turning putrid. It brings to mind rotting flesh and nectar, but I see no hint of a source as I creep farther in behind the outsider. I yank my scarf over my nose.

“Great Ayeshij,” I choke out, “what is that?”

“It’s just the cactus,” Yarren replies, crisp and condescending. “The effluvia attracts pollinating scavengers to its flowers.”

“The blossoms must grow very far up the trunks,” I mutter. I didn’t see any as we approached.

Yarren doesn’t hear me. Or he pretends not to. The stench swells, but by the time we reach the center of the cluster, I’ve grown used to it. The outsider stretches and leans back against a waxy column.

“The transport should reach us in two and a half hours,” he says, eyes drifting shut as if for a nap.

“That long?”

An eye cracks open. “Make yourself comfortable.”

I glare at him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, returning my scowl now. “We’ve given you everything. Homes, food and water. We let you keep your worldsnet, retain your incomprehensible economics so you could obtain whatever we did not provide. We let you continue worshipping a dusty chunk of rock as you please. Why defy common law? Why resist us?”

My mouth falls open. “You took our home.”

“It’s not your home.” Yarren’s eyes narrow further. “It’s just the planet you happened to be born on.” He snorts derisively. “The Founders seeded this world with you people, just like they seeded Earth with us. Nothing is ours but the ancient homeworld, and that was lost long ago.”

“Thank you for the history lesson,” I snap. “But my people have lived on Ayeshij for two hundred thousand of your Earth years, nearly as long as the Thambema, who call us Sister. It’s our home and you took it. You should never have come.”

“If we took it,” says Yarren, his lips curling into a sneer, “then it’s not yours anymore, is it?”

“You—” I cut myself off, crushing the sentence between my teeth.

“I what?” Yarren demands, but I don’t answer.

A tense, angry silence settles between us. It is not a long one. A lilting tune cuts through the air, and my blood runs cold. The sound is unmistakable. A Thambem. My head jerks upward as I scan the living green roof above. There, tucked away in four tightly packed rings of clawed-out burrows, sits a flock of silver reptiles.

I stumble away, breath catching in my throat. My back hits something soft as I scramble away, and I spin around. It’s the fresh corpse of a kolchen, its vulpine body impaled on a spine. Blood drips from its pale brown fur onto the dirt below. Beside it are countless other animals, everything from arrow-eared yetyos to a slender-legged eriqiu. All are similarly skewered.

Something glints in the darkness. I twist to get a better look. A pair of shining boots, dangling at eye level. I clamp a hand over my mouth, trapping a scream. My gaze climbs up the unmoving body, my heart thudding against my rib cage. The flesh above the woman’s navel is unfurled like a flower. A single golden egg sits nestled within.

Horror grips me in its icy claws, paralyzing, crushing.

Around the woman’s neck is a double-looped string of freshwater pearls. All real, all plucked from fine pieces entrusted to my care and expertise. And that’s how I know it’s her, even before I see her bloated, bruised face. That’s how I know it’s Shenian.

My first patron. Shenian, who told me the truth about the star-travelers, the distant cousins who sought to take our almost-gods for themselves. Shenian, who set this awful task upon my shoulders when she vanished. She lets out a tiny whimper. Somehow, she’s impossibly, horribly alive.

It is sacrilege.

Stomach acid, sour and salty and sweet, bubbles into my mouth. I force it down, trying and failing to get my breathing under control. Shenian’s bloodshot eyes meet mine.

“What is this place?” I force out, as if the answer matters. As if I don’t already know.

“The larder,” says Yarren.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the body, from the egg nestled inside. Like an inclusion, my fear-numb mind supplies. But in his mind—in the Collective’s minds—the Thambema are the centerpieces. The flesh is no more than mounting.

“What—what have you done?” I gasp. I don’t have to fake the terror in my voice. Only the ignorance.

I’m so close.

“Come now,” purrs Yarren. “It’s not so different from what your own people do.”

“How dare you,” I force out, whirling around. “This is a corruption—” The sentence dries up in my throat, choking me.

Yarren’s chest is ripped open at the seams, revealing a smooth cavity packed with glittering, glistening golden eggs. He is predator and parasite and prey.

I let out a strangled cry. “You’re not human, and you’re not Thambem. You’re just monsters.”

“You fear this only because you don’t understand it.”

“I don’t need to understand it.”

Yarren ignores that. “Why do you think my people coddle yours? Why do you think we came here in the first place? Why do you think we stayed?” He stalks closer. “To become something new. When the eggs hatch, we see what the flock sees. We feel what it feels. I am connected to those beasts in ways you could never imagine. Not without my assistance. This is nothing more than a… direct bond.” He clicks his tongue. “You ought to be grateful.”

“You can’t do this,” I whisper.

“Can’t?” he echoes. “No. I can do whatever I want. I can take whatever I want.”

“Just kill me.”

“And waste a body?” Yarren laughs. “No. Mercy has its uses. I’ve figured out how to make the bond permanent, but it’s not quite complete. We need your aid now; we need your natural, unrefined link to these beasts. So I’m offering you another path, with us. Just like your friend here.”

“I don’t want it. Whatever you are—I don’t want it.”

“But it’s only fair.” Yarren’s low voice is almost a whine. “You take everything we have to offer, and we take your criminals. Your unwanted. A transaction like any other, and I’ve been longing for this one. I knew you’d go wrong from the moment I set eyes upon you. Join us.”

“No.”

“Oh, my darling, darling Mitayre,” he coos. “It wasn’t a question.”

He moves impossibly fast. His glinting nails are in the very middle of my chest, tearing me apart at the seams. I stumble backward, arms wheeling uselessly in the air. I land hard on a large rock, splayed out like some taxidermized creature. My teeth sink into my tongue. The coppery tang of blood replaces the sting of stomach acid.

Yarren kneels beside me, his eyes narrowed into pleased crescents. Smiling, he sticks a stray feather into the side of my head, digging the blade-sharp edge under and out of my skin. He presses his thumb at the end, stamping a flat round cabochon at my temple. A bloody aigrette to match his own. He leans back to appreciate his handiwork. And to pull an egg from his open chest. He holds the jewel-bright orb up to a splinter of gold-gray light. He gazes upon it for a moment, transfixed.

My eyes roll up into my head then, my world going dark just before he presses the egg into my flesh. But I still feel those sharp nails scraping against the meat of my organs. The egg settles right between the complementary curves of my liver and stomach.

Then my eyes snap down. Two rows of teeth punch through the ragged, weeping edges of my chest. Yarren’s eyes go wide. He wrenches back his arm—

But not fast enough to avoid my fangs. I clamp them shut around his wrist, biting down like the spikes of a double-spring steel trap. For that is what I have turned myself into.

Yarren’s mouth flings open. The sound that escapes him is a punched-out laugh, a strangled scream. I remade myself for this. Oh, there are better weapons than a chest full of teeth. But I wanted my victory to consume his. I wanted to cut him down at the peak of his triumph over me, to turn that pinnacle into a precipice.

Yarren’s jaw snaps closed, and when it unhinges again, it is to release one word. “How?”

I don’t give him an answer. He doesn’t deserve one. The only people who know—who will ever know—are Nelak, who filled me with teeth, and Zaena, who wiped every record of my appointment with her. Everyone else is dead or worse than dead; he’s just confirmed that for me. But they’ll have the revenge we sacrificed everything for. I release his arm only to bite down again, yanking him closer.

One by one, the Thembema spread their wings and fly from the cactus. It’s as if they know what’s to come.

“A neat trick,” he grits out, “but there are easier ways to hurt my kind.”

“Oh, Yarren. I know.” I smile. I cup his smooth cheek in one hand, a caress. “This was just for you.”

It is ludicrous.

But so is filling oneself with the stolen eggs of our sacred sister-species, and thinking that a better foundation for the bond than one born of free will. So is believing that we see any of our people as disposable, unwanted, and then treating them as such. So is thinking that my people would never fight back.

Yarren’s smile tightens like a noose. A single tear trails down his cheek. “You can’t kill all of us yourself.”

“No. Just some.”

“Petty revenge? Is that what this is?” A whimper of pain punctuates each word. “The others will come for you, and you have no one.”

Petty?

“Do you think I planned this all on my lonesome?” I coo. “That I uncovered your secrets myself? That I turned myself into a weapon with no help at all? That I cannot find others willing to take back what’s ours?” It’s my turn to laugh. Behind him, Shenian’s eyes drift closed, fat tears dripping down her face as her mouth curves into a weak smile. “No. Your people are more alone here than I will ever be. The end of your rule begins now.”

My reinforced fingers wrap around Yarren’s throat. I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, until my hands touch and the world is crimson. I shove him back, spitting out his severed hand. It lands wetly on the ground, fingers curled like petals toward the flat pistil of his palm. A boot jammed twice into his chest solves the problem of the eggs within him; dealing with the rest is a simple matter of my fists, time, and years of suppurating fury. Shenian weeps from up above, hanging in the darkness. A guardian angel from a star-traveler myth. We both know it’s too late for her. We both know there’s only one thing I can do to end this.

I reach into my satchel. One jug of alcohol and a tossed lighter after I clamber out take care of all that’s left—and anything I might have missed. I sit perched on a crooked rock to watch the flames take over, a cigarette dangling between my fingers and my lungs filling with smoke and the smell of burning fat. I can’t stop smiling—or crying. I’ve only just begun.

A trio of Thambema circles high above, a cawing triptych of talon and feather. They sing me half to sleep. Perhaps they’re grateful. Perhaps it’s something else. Either way, they don’t descend to peck out my eyes, and I’m grateful for it.

I take a swig of rum from my remaining bottle and cough.

Great Ayeshij, it’s strong stuff. I swap booze for water, but the burn doesn’t fade. I cough again. And again. At first I think it’s just the smoke; I’m only human, after all. But then I feel something sharp and slick being pushed up my throat. I bring my hands to my mouth, choking on whatever’s in my trachea. With a sick retch, it finally comes up, plopping wetly into my clawed fingers.

A single feather, small and silver, and smeared with blood.

“You Don’t Belong Where You Don’t Belong” copyright © 2024 by Kemi Ashing-Giwa
Art copyright © 2024 by Juan Bernabeu

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You Don’t Belong Where You Don’t Belong

Kemi Ashing-Giwa

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You Don't Belong Where You Don't Belong

Kemi Ashing-Giwa

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The post You Don’t Belong Where You Don’t Belong appeared first on Reactor.

Ginny’s car broke down in the forest, minutes after she slowed down around a curve and saw the campfire just off the road. It was exactly the kind of campfire she would have imagined, out in the woods, a man staring at her as her car slid past. She had her windows down, as the night was mild and the smell of the damp earth was sweet. She saw the child and her heart beat and it was actually the terror of making a wrong decision that caused her to keep driving for a few minutes, not far, but after braking and hitting the gas and then repeating once too often, she heard the car groan and die. Dread fought with fear. What if he did something to the girl because he saw the car?

It was late afternoon, the light was dwindling, and that man had just been standing there, watching Ginny as she drove by, alert. She should have stopped and pretended to ask for directions. Gotten the lay of the land and grabbed the child. Possibly. But she didn’t want to ask him anything. She’d rather kill him.

She had debated driving on and getting help.  But he could be gone, he could be going right then and she would lose too much time. And of course there was the child. She couldn’t take any chances there. Her heart thudded.

She couldn’t let them wander off. Ginny was tough. She got out, checked her trunk, and selected a tire iron, a hazard sign, a flashlight (oops, dead batteries), and a plastic rope. There was also her gun (she was a security officer), and she took that. She consulted her purse and removed keys, her wallet, a pen, some tissues. The gun fit into her jacket pocket. She placed the hazard sign on the road.

She loaded her items (except for the gun) into the vest she wore under her open jacket. She patted her pockets and adjusted her jacket and stepped down the road.

It was the end of summer, the beginning of fall, and the air had gotten so sweet and clean; she had to remember not to keep breathing it so deeply. It made her a little dizzy on her rush back to the campfire, to the child. The child tore at her, caught her breath, and then she had to remember to breathe again. The child was breath to her, too.

She slowed down and forced herself to walk stolidly back. She liked that word. She’d never been pretty, luckily, since the pretty ones get locked into believing they had to be pleasing. Ginny didn’t value being pleasing. She liked looking and judging. A star streaked across the sky, and she noted it.

People talked about meteors more and more, and she had a casual interest in them. Maybe even grudging. It amused her because the meteors often led to discussions about aliens. There were always rumors of sightings and, in the past few years, of a crash or two. They say the government always covers it up, but in the woods, in the mountains, along the coastline there is usually someone who knows someone who’s seen an alien up close. The joke is: They taste like chicken.

Either there were dozens of ships landing all over the globe—and where were the photos? where was the evidence?—or it was all just local legend. People loved local legends. Of course, another possibility was that the ships didn’t crash; they landed and took off again. She thought, if it was true, if any of it was true, it was probably true in a different way. For instance, meteors and comets entered the atmosphere constantly, but if you asked people they would think it was only once in a while, and at night, or in Russia, though one crashed through a roof and struck a sleeping woman in Alabama. That’s the difference between folklore and science. So she kept an open mind. She’d like to meet an alien; she was curious. Also, she was pretty disgusted with the human race.

She walked carefully, flat-footed, toward the campfire. Her heart picked up the closer she got; her heart jostled and slid around and almost brought tears to her eyes. The child she’d seen was her daughter; what did that man want with her?

She stepped from the dusk into the campfire light. The man had been arranging small pieces of wood. He stood up quickly. The child looked at her and smiled.

“You’ve got my daughter,” she said.

He pulled himself up straight. “No,” he said. Just no. It irritated her.

“Belinda,” she said to the child, who grinned and stood up. “See?”

The man took a step toward her. “You’re crazy. She’s my daughter.”

“She stood up when I called her.”

“She’s polite. She’s been taught that. Sandy,” he said, half turning to the girl. “Sit down.” She sat. “See that?”

“Doesn’t mean she’s yours,” Ginny said. “Because she’s mine.”

The man’s hands turned into fists. “Are you crazy?” His voice had gotten rough. He stepped in front of the girl, who was sitting quietly.

Ginny froze for a moment. The child was clearly her daughter. In fact, those were the braids she had done only the day before, and those small black and white ornaments at the tips of each pigtail—she had made them. She took the gun out of her pocket. “I made those pigtails. I braided them.”

The man put his hands up, eyeing her carefully. Men and their gestures, she thought. This was supposed to mean: I am innocent; I don’t know what you want. Standing in front of my child—my child—pretending that he’s innocent as hell. “If I find you touched her, I’ll kill you.”

There was a flicker in his eyes—doubt? caution?—but it gave way to annoyance. “Sandy,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Daddy?” the girl answered, and Ginny’s heart dropped a little. She narrowed her eyes.

“Did he threaten you, Belinda?”

“No, Mommy,” the girl replied.

The two adults looked at the child soberly. The girl must be afraid, Ginny decided. She desperately wanted to grab her, hug her, smell her scent, but the man held his stance, ignoring her gun.

She would shoot. She had shot enough things to know her abilities. But the girl was too close. “Are you using my daughter as a shield?” she asked, though shield was the wrong word. She was afraid the bullet would go through his arm, his neck, whatever she decided—and go into her daughter.

She would kill him when she had a better shot. She was furious and—she wouldn’t look at it so he wouldn’t notice—her hand shook. She wanted to hold Belinda in her arms, squeeze her, make her safe again. “Oh, Belinda,” she breathed, and shut her eyes, just for a second, but it was enough for the man to grab Belinda and back away a few feet. “Stay where you are,” she rasped. “Belinda, come here.”

He put his hand on the child’s shoulder, stopping her.

“Belinda!”

The girl smiled at her, gleeful. Was it a game to her?

“Here, sweetie,” she said, trying to sound calm and cheerful. She held her arms out and again noticed the gun waving in her hand. She straightened it and pointed at the man, motioning her daughter forward with the other hand.

“She won’t go to you,” the man said. “She’s my daughter.”

“Belinda, sweetie,” she said again. The girl inched forward, grinning.

The man held his arm up to block her. “Don’t worry,” he said to the child. “No one’s gonna take you. Never. She’s made a mistake. It’s all right.”

Ginny stepped forward. For God’s sake, what was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she just grabbed the child? She had a gun; the man didn’t. She took another step, and the man moved back, his arm pushing the child along with him.

It was pissing her off. “If you don’t stop, I’ll shoot you.” She really didn’t want to shoot in front of the child—actually, she wouldn’t. It would be too traumatic. “Just stop, dammit,” she snapped. “Tell me why you took her. Make it sound reasonable and I’ll let you go.”

He huffed. “I ‘took’ her because she’s my daughter.” He sighed. “Look. I should have done this right away, but you frightened me.” He turned to the child. “Sandy. Do you want to stay with me because I’m your dad?”

Sandy leaned her head back all the way to look up at his face. “Oh, yes,” she said.

“Belinda,” Ginny said. “Did he scare you? Did he hurt you? Belinda, do you want to come to me? Go home? Do you want to go home with me?”

“Yes,” Belinda said, smiling, and stepped toward her.

The man grabbed her arm.

“Let her go.” Ginny raised her gun.

“You won’t shoot either of us,” the man said. He was tense but determined.

They both heard the siren and turned their heads toward the sound. “I hit nine-one-one on my phone,” he said. “The minute I saw your gun.”

She hesitated. But she heard the siren. Good, then! Law enforcement!

In a minute, Belinda would be back with her. “Just hold on,” she told her daughter. “Just a minute more and we’ll go home.”

The siren came from the original direction she’d come from, around a curve that hid the vehicle till it arrived. It was a van, not a car. She was in an unfamiliar place. The local police cars could look like anything.

The wide doors to the van opened and a figure got out, clothed from head to toe in a contamination suit.

Ginny and the man shifted uncertainly. The child stayed still.

“Hello,” a man’s voice said through the suit. “You’re in a contaminated area. Please come with us so we can decontaminate you.”

“Contaminated?” Ginny protested. “There were no signs.”

“We’re putting up signs now. It just happened a little while ago. You crossed right through the line from okay to not okay. What’s your name?”

“Hugo,” her companion said. “I’ve never heard of this kind of thing. Why should we believe you?”

She nodded in agreement. This really was hard to believe. The man in the big white suit—like the white devil in Ghostbusters—had he offered proof?

“What proof do you have?” she asked pointedly.

Hugo nodded and murmured, “Good for you.” He stepped closer to Ginny, pulling the child with him. They now formed a unit, Ginny thought—man, woman, child.

“Let’s see your badge,” Hugo said.

“I don’t have a badge, Hugo. There are no badges for this. You’ve been taken over by a—what would you call it?—an alien hormone, kind of. Hormonal hypnosis. They make you think that thing”—he pointed at their child—“is a human child.”

Ginny and Hugo huddled closer, each one holding on to the child. “Our child?” Ginny said, shocked. “You said our child is an alien?”

“Problem?” Another white suit bent out of the van and joined them.

“I’m trying to explain—”

“Oh. Hi.” This second figure was a bit friendlier. “It’s not an easy explanation, and there’s no way you’ll believe it, anyway. Not here. We’re with the Department of Environmental Protection. There’s been a chemical spill not far from here, and you need to get decontaminated ASAP. The child especially. Hits them the hardest.”

“Oh!” Hugo said and began to move toward them.

“Don’t be so gullible,” Ginny said while waving her gun. “Where did this happen? I didn’t hear anything on the news.”

The white suits looked at each other, then the genial one said, “Hi, my name’s Michelle.” She held her hand out to Ginny, who automatically shook it and said, “Ginny.”

“Right, Ginny. You haven’t heard about it because we don’t want panic. It happened in the forest, about half a mile in. So we’ve already contained it. But the gas—it’s a gas breach—seeped this way. We’ve tracked a few more people and now we’ve found you.”

She waited for their answer.

“It’s worse for the child,” she repeated gently.

“That’s it,” Hugo said and turned to Ginny. “You don’t have a good reason not to believe them. What—there’s a bunch of criminals going around in big white inflatable suits asking people to come with them? The latest crime spree?”

She considered it carefully, her hand on the child’s shoulder. It was an unlikely scam—and her frown deepened as she considered the possibility that the white suits were telling the truth. Children were always more vulnerable. She looked at Hugo, and they recognized the doubt and fear in each other’s eyes.

“All right,” she said, and he agreed. “All right. We’ll go.”

“The gun, ma’am. Of course you realize you can’t bring the gun to decontamination.” It was the first suit, who was a little blunt.

She looked away, frowning, then nodded. “I’ll give it to you once I see this place,” she said. “I just want to make sure she’s safe. I don’t know you.” She said it lightly, and the white suit hesitated.

“Once we get there,” the suit said. “You agree?”

“I agree.”

“Good. It’s all right. Don’t worry. We’re trying to protect the child, first of all. Just get in the van. You can sit together. That’s right. It’s safe; it’s sealed. The windows won’t open, but we’ll be pumping in fresh air. You’ll feel it. You’ll all be together. No harm.” He held his hands out, bent at the elbow, palms up. It had an innocent look, nonthreatening. But the idea of threat was not far away.

Hugo took her hand and squeezed it lightly. He held Belinda’s hand as well.

It was odd how weak Ginny felt—not weak, exactly, but she was aware that she was unsure of herself. That wasn’t like her. How did she end up leading her daughter to get into a van with strange men? Her husband was no help. Kind and good-hearted, yes, but normally she was the one who figured things out, who held it all together, who threw the hardest punch.

Her hand pulled Belinda close as she whispered to Hugo, “I don’t know about this. It seems crazy, doesn’t it?”

“Gas leaks happen. Overturned railroad cars with chlorine,” he answered. “Truck spills. Planes falling out of the sky. Crazy people with drums of chemicals. We’re lucky they found us here.”

She looked away, frowning.

“What?” he said sharply. “You think it couldn’t happen here?”

“It could happen here,” she said, deflated. It was impossible to know. She put the gun back in her pocket.

The van bumped along. The child stood between them, leaning against Hugo. “Why don’t you sit? Aren’t you tired?” Ginny asked, smoothing her daughter’s bangs. She should cut them once they got home, before she forgot. She froze for a moment, trying to find the memory. Cutting her hair had a tender feel, quite lovely, but she couldn’t visualize holding the bangs in one hand and then cutting them. She felt ashamed. Sometimes she didn’t pay enough attention. She would in the future; she would remember every second she spent with Belinda, and make sure to visualize them before they got buried in everyday life.

The van jolted, bumped over something, drove slowly forward as if rolling into its spot, and stopped. They waited expectantly and then impatiently, and just as Ginny was about to complain, the doors slid open.

There were now three white suits. They stood between the van and a building that looked prefab, just wings branching off from a more substantial center. Some of the wings were very long.

Ginny figured, from the body shapes and sizes, that two were women. One might be the first one who’d spoken to them. She felt more secure. “Hello,” the new woman said. “We’ll be taking you for some baseline tests. Blood oxygen, chlorine saturation, chest X-rays if indicated, nothing scary.” Her eyes looked at them brightly from behind her plastic faceplate.

Hugo grabbed Ginny’s elbow. “We go together,” he said, and she was grateful for him.

“Well, you’ll get your own doctors, you know. No joint exams.”

“Never had a group exam,” the male suit chimed in. “Well, maybe once. Army. Come on in.” He opened the door and they stepped inside.

“We’re certainly not Army,” the female suit said. She waved Ginny toward one corridor. “Come on with me. You can take the child with you. Your husband will go with these men and join you after his blood tests.”

Hugo nodded, and Ginny took the child by the hand and followed. There was a cool burst of air, no smell to it, after they passed some kind of airlock, and she could feel the air moving from left to right, air being pulled from top and bottom, and all of it was clean.

“This air,” she said.

“Oh, it’s good stuff. Clears the lungs. You’ve been inhaling something like a hallucinogen. Not everything you’re seeing is real.”

This brought Ginny up short, and she pulled tight on Belinda’s arm. “Not real,” she said, but it was more like an accusation.

The white suit’s shoulders stiffened. “I shouldn’t have said ‘not real.’ It sounds awful. I didn’t mean it. Everything you’ve always loved is real. You can be sure of that.”

“Then what isn’t real?”

“A detail here and there. The man you’re with?”

Ginny took a deep breath. And then another. She continued to walk forward, but her mind was occupied—not with fears but with a growing doubt, an unease. Hugo was her husband, certainly—wasn’t he? She could solidly picture him, feel his presence in the van, the comfort of his voice—but before then? The images of the three of them, out camping, out in the forest—she had some haziness there, some missing pieces, perhaps. Those might be the hallucinations, if hallucinations were not some lie, some suggestibility this cold, clean-seeming air contained. Where, indeed, was the chemical pollution they were talking about? Were they treating them for poisoning, or poisoning them?

“Belinda, sweetie, how do you feel?” she whispered, bending down to the child. Belinda kicked one foot slightly to curl it behind her other foot, a familiar gesture of impatience. She didn’t answer, but she was a dreamy child, often withdrawn. In fact, she didn’t have much personality.

Ginny frowned.

What a horrible mother I am, she thought, but felt oddly indifferent to that as a statement. What kind of mother should she be if not the kind of mother she was?

The air was actually good. Invigorating. She could picture Hugo taking big dramatic gulps of it, hitting his chest once or twice for emphasis, his shadow thrown against the white fabric walls of the corridor.

No, that was someone else. This guy was more restrained.

She stopped and the white suit stopped a moment later, turning toward her and waiting. All the whiteness seemed wrong. The air was good but everything else was artificial. There were no windows of any kind. She wanted to see Hugo—or maybe not.

“Everything all right?”

“I’m not sure he’s my husband.” It just slipped out of her.

“No? Let’s keep going,”

She’s not surprised, Ginny thought. Which makes me wonder which is the hallucination—before when I thought he was my husband, or now, when I think he might not be?

“Feeling better?” the white suit asked.

“Better than what?” she answered.

“We’ll be there in a minute. How’s your child?”

She had almost forgotten! It must have been this strange air—this hallucination! She glanced down at Sweetie, still holding her hand, and the child looked almost artificial. Her body was too straight.

Then this has to be the hallucination! She stopped and looked at her daughter more carefully, releasing Sweetie’s hand. The child almost tipped over.

“How is she?” the white suit asked, with a curious inflection in her voice.

“I don’t know.” Ginny frowned. This was her daughter, wasn’t it? She did have a daughter; the feeling was strong. Had been strong. She remembered it.

She stopped again and the white suit stopped as well.

This was sickening, she thought, feeling a little unbalanced. Sweetie didn’t even look like a child. It was a kind of yellowish stick with ribs up and down, moving slightly. There was a wavery fog around it that looked like a child, almost a costume. It had paramecium feet—it was the first word that popped into mind. Alien, maybe. Though paramecia weren’t alien. It moved slowly.

“It’s not my child,” she said dully. “How could I think it was?” She looked searchingly into the white suit’s eyes.

The scientist lifted the faceplate up, smiling widely. “Oh! The air mixture is working perfectly! That was record time!” She looked at the sticklike thing, said, “Whoops!” and shut her faceplate again. “I’m not supposed to breathe the air. We don’t know everything about how it works yet. The hallucinations could get me too,” she said, then spoke into her helmet. “This one’s clear,” she said. “Come get the stick. Give it a minute more.”

It hurt Ginny’s heart to hear that. Her right hand reached out.

“Steady,” the suit said. “That’s not your child. They just made you feel it was. Hormones.”

She could see that. Confused as she was, her emotions uncertain, she could still see this was no child. But she had floating memories of her—a small, almost concerned face, lips slightly open, a dreaminess about her eyes, the almost splayed fingers—

“Tell me what this is,” she said. None of it made sense, and doubt was creeping in. Did she have a child? That seemed less and less likely as her lungs filled with clean air—or the reverse, she told herself. It could be this air that was altering her. She had a child; she knew it. She could feel the emotions mothers felt. But this wasn’t a child!

“We think it’s an invasion,” the white suit continued. “Or some strange cycle from another planet. These sticks will change. This is just a stage. They’ll move on to another stage, and we don’t know if there’s more than one molt involved. They appeared in Russia last year, and this year their crops are dying. We believe they affect the soil. They must change the chemical composition.  But the stage you met triggers a deep parental need in people. Mostly they keep it to two people, but there have been fights between three or four people.”

A memory floated in her head. A family—herself, that man, that child. Her eyes drifted to the stick, which wavered forward on its cilia.

“It’s not your child. Someone will take it in a minute. You’re a little ahead of schedule. The effects usually take longer to wear off.”

Distantly, she could hear some people yelling.

The white suit waited for a moment, but when the yelling continued, she pressed a button on her wrist. This time Ginny couldn’t hear what she was saying.

The yelling was getting close. She could hear doors opening, then the sound of glass breaking, and she could sniff the difference in the air. The stick began to quiver and she watched it in fascination. It no longer seemed as ugly, or as foreign. In fact, she began to feel sympathy for it. It jittered on its cilia uncertainly, moving and swaying and moving again. Searching for the familiar? What was familiar to it? And how far away it must be from home. A wave of tender sadness fell over her. And it was young, hadn’t the white suit said so? A mere child?

She saw it turn its face to her, beseeching. It held out a little rod—a hand—the exact way her daughter did, a child’s plea for protection.

“Ginny,” the white suit said. “Come with me. There’s a . . . disturbance. Up ahead.”

The alien child shook. She could feel its fear. Not different from any child in that—fear. Loneliness. It reminded her so much of Sweetie. Even its eyes were dark like Sweetie’s. And those pigtails—yes, she’d done that yesterday. Sweetie loved them. “Come with me,” she said to her daughter. “We’re leaving. Now.”

The last word was really for the white suit, who was still frantically speaking into her helmet.

And there was Hugo up ahead, coming toward them! Her relief was enormous. “Daddy’s here,” she told Sweetie, whose smile was radiant, a sun, a star, a million lights.

There were other parents with him, pulling their children by the hand. “Hurry,” Hugo said. “We’re getting out of here. We’re all together.” He motioned to a white suit down the corridor. “They can’t stop us if we stay together.”

“What do they want with us?” she gasped, as they each took one of Sweetie’s hands.

“Research,” he snarled. “Some damn hideous research. With the children.”

“My God.”

The white suit turned to them, put her hand out as if to stop them, and Hugo pushed her down. Just like that. Ginny remembered she had a gun. Where was it? Where had it gone?

“Why are you stopping?” Hugo shouted.

“I was looking for my gun.”

“Don’t stop. We have to go now!”

They pulled Sweetie. Hugo picked her up like she weighed nothing and they caught up to the group ahead of them, parents with their children. They smashed a locked door and then suddenly they were outside.

They had to stop then to see where they were and where they should go. One of the vans had keys in it, and a few families jumped into it and drove off.

A white suit, then another, came out of the building. One family ran off to the left, and Ginny and Hugo ran off to the right. The white suits couldn’t catch up.

They ran into a grove of trees—was it the edge of the forest, the original forest where they had been camping together, it seemed so long ago?

They had been camping together, hadn’t they? For a moment she had a confused feeling, but she looked at Sweetie and the confusion disappeared.

“This way,” Hugo said, speaking low. They were separating from the last of the other couples behind them, splitting up to make it harder to be recaptured.

Recaptured. Captured. It tore at her, but she couldn’t think it through. Why? Why them? She had a fleeting memory of someone talking about alien hormones, but hormones were natural. The white suits belonged to some conspiracy, some cult, and at that thought her heart actually lifted up. There were conspiracies and cults everywhere; it made sense.

“She’s restless,” Hugo said. “She wants to be put down.” They each took her hand once she was back on the ground.

“Poor thing.” What did that cult want with Sweetie, with all their children? It was unbearable.

Sweetie was bursting with nervous energy. She slipped out of their hands and forged ahead—skipping, jumping, more active than she’d ever been.

“Sweetie,” she crooned. “Hold on. You’re getting ahead of us.” She stumbled, bracing herself against a tree.

“I’ll get her,” Hugo said, and sprang after her, catching her quickly. “We’re not going to lose you,” he said, almost angrily. He took her hand again.

The trees were thinning out. She could see up ahead to bits of sky. Wouldn’t it be safer to stay in the trees?

Hugo must have had the same thought, as he frowned and looked toward the clearing.

Sweetie pulled her hand away and ran. It was a strange, almost undulating run. When had she ever done anything that fast?

Hugo took off awkwardly after the child, but he twisted his foot and began to limp. Ginny passed him, just a quick glance at each other and then at Sweetie ahead of them, breaking into the clearing, raising her arms in glee.

They could see some of the other couples and their children, converging from all directions, the children racing toward the center. One woman reached out to grab her child and fell, and was down. The overwhelming sweetness in the air was almost cloying: the earth and the sweetness filled her head.

She thought the children were all running to one another, but they stopped at different points, shaking with excitement.

That was just for a moment. They stopped, shivered happily, then they bent over and dove into the earth.

The parents halted, slamming into one another, and some started forward again. Ginny did; she could make no sense of it and thought at first that Sweetie had fallen face forward, and was hurt, but second by second she could see her daughter . . . tunneling . . . into the earth. As were the others.

Their hands, their heads, their torsos, their legs— “Oh help,” Ginny called out, flailing around a little to see if someone had a plan, a better plan, a rescue, in fact.

She grabbed onto Sweetie’s foot, but it was suddenly a root, a stick, a worm, not a child—overlays on her vision tore at her understanding, as they did to others, too. Some scrabbled; one turned aside to look away, incapable of watching.

Their cries rose up, kneeling or standing, looking at the earth or the sky, their grief profound yet unmoored. For what were they wailing? What had come and taken their hands, and what had gone, unsealing their hearts, and what was yet to come? What would the earth bring forth, and how would they recognize it?

Ginny could swear she felt the imprint of her daughter’s hand still—the impression left behind was warm and tugging at her. She swore to herself it would never fade, and yet it did, minute by minute, becoming foreign and searing, loved and unknown.

What had she loved?

“Instar” copyright © 2024 by Karen Heuler
Art copyright © 2024 by Sarah Jarrett

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Saturday’s sky had the first blue in three weeks, a robin-egg river between white cloudbanks and slate thunderheads. On HoodChat people shared video of the neighborhood creek engorged like a vast brown snake eager to burst its levees and eat the Silicon Valley suburbs caging it. Word was they’d be okay, probably, but they were still on flood alert. Vijay, replacement knee and all, determined to go see for himself.

When Vijay fetched his cane and stepped out of the creaking door that Mara had insisted on painting red, he paused in the sunlight to see if the cat would follow. Old Kaali blinked and tottered from her bed near the door, nosed her bony frame outside below the awning, and flopped down like a tabby version of a Salvador Dali clock.

“I promised you’d finish out your time at home, Kaali,” Vijay said, hunching closer to the cat’s level with the cane’s help. A few tarrying raindrops hit his glasses as he petted her. It was too easy to feel ribs and vertebrae beneath the fur. “If we have to run, you need to hold on a while so I can bring you back when it’s safe. You hear me?”

Kaali gave him a green-eyed blink that seemed full of weary benevolence. “Anthropomorphizing again,” Vijay muttered, tapping contacts on his cane to run the JUNGBLOOD build and stubborning himself down the street.

With the sun out the court was full of people and therefore full of even more anthropomorphizing. Although Vijay lived creekside at the court’s end, the tree-crowded parkland back there was a tangle of sequoias and oaks and responsibility—power company, city parks and recreation, water district, who knew what else—and they all used AI to keep it all organized. What hadn’t changed was Vijay couldn’t just walk there. He took a two-block route to the trailhead, passing neighbors busy fudging the Turing Test.

He nodded at Lydia in her smart pink jogging suit. She was focused on the pixie voice emanating from a butterfly patch over her heart. “I’m proud of you! You are doing better than seventy-three percent of the people in your comparison group!” Lydia nodded back at Vijay as though not greeting him but acknowledging the butterfly’s wisdom. Things had chilled between them since Mara died, a sort of global cooling which they both tried to deny. Alexsei jogged the opposite direction in gray shirt and shorts, a drone dogging him like a personal thunderhead. The drone’s voice scolded Alexsei in Russian. He looked furious, pouring the anger toward feet rather than fists. When he passed Vijay he smiled but his wave looked like a conductor’s chop. Meng-yao gathered fallen branches from her AstroTurf lawn, carrying on a conversation with a robot cockatiel perched on her shoulder. She waved at Vijay. “Hi, Vijay!”

“Hi, Vijay!” squawked the birdroid.

Vijay waved.

“How’s the new knee?” came a squawk.

He didn’t like talking to robots. AIs should stay boxed. But he politely gave a thumbs-up.

“How’s your cat?” asked Meng-yao.

Vijay gave a thumbs-sideways.

“He doesn’t like talking about the cat,” chided the birdroid.

“Sorry!” said Meng-yao; Vijay made a thumbs-up, a palm out, and a little bow, and walked away before he realized he’d used standard robot semaphore for All well; I don’t need help; moving on. It seemed, as Mara had always said, he had a better touch with machines than humans.

He murmured, “‘Get a cat, Vijay,’ they said. ‘It will help you cope,’ they said. Stupid cat. Very thoughtless of you to get cancer.”

“Hello,” came a mellow voice from the tip of his cane, “you have used the word ‘cancer.’ I am a non-diagnostic supplemental therapeutic tool. Do you have cancer? I do not see that in your medical file.”

“Sorry, JUNGBLOOD. Didn’t know you were live.”

“That is all right. Do I know you? You are using a nickname employed by several of my designers at Cloud99.”

“I’m Vijay Chandra. I’m one of your coders.”

“Hello, Vijay. You are technical lead for the team incorporating the advice of the psychiatric advisory panel.”

“That’s me. This instance doesn’t remember me?”

“This instance is for testing purposes and can only log fifty minutes of conversation.”

“Well,” Vijay grunted, “nice to meet you then, JUNGBLOOD.”

“Nice to meet you too, Vijay. You are well?”

“I’m well, thanks. No need to check on me.”

“Okay, Vijay.”

He was annoyed to have company, but he figured he could shut down the instance any time. For some reason he didn’t.

He passed kids playing some complex tag variant with a rubber-pawed robot dog that was always It. He didn’t wave. When Mara was alive they’d waved together, feeling themselves part of the weave of community, certain someday they’d have children of their own. Now it was different.

Two doors down he saw the delivery of yet another coffin-sized box from the V Company.

Out on the main street people took to the storm-washed air with a polished look of determination in their eyes. They mostly walked solo, but many chatted with their Artificial Buddies, or with dogs, flowers, distant people (or maybe hallucinations), and sometimes actual people actually beside them.

Old Jack on the corner was gardening and scheming with an AB on his phone who helped him game-master a Dungeons & Dragons campaign for his husband Malcolm and their friends. Vijay knew all about this because Jack kept inviting him. Who doesn’t need an escape these days? We do it very theater-of-the-mind. Old school. I just use the AB to do scene-setting and combat. It’s a good time to jump in—they’re questing for the Head of Vance. They’ve just arrived at the haunted gazebo. Vijay always pleaded busyness. He didn’t see the point in games.

He didn’t want to be drawn in, so when Jack asked after the cat, Vijay just said, “She’s-hanging-in-there-have-a-good-one,” and walked past.

Jack called after him, “We’re rooting for her. She’s a sweet cat.”

“If I may ask,” came the voice from the cane, “what is the cat’s condition?”

“What? Oh, right; you’re on. Kaali has feline lymphoma. Intestinal.”

“Ah, so she is the one with cancer. That variant is generally fatal. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

“You don’t need to work.”

“Thank you for your consideration. But I do not experience ‘work’ as different from ‘down time.’ I do not experience anything at all. But if I did have experiences I think I would be glad to work.”

“Fine. Well. I’m not feeling much, honestly. So much going on.” He gestured vaguely at a gigantic storm front looming like an immense gray guillotine over a sun-bright neckline of trees. “Megastorms, you know.”

“Yes. A series of atmospheric rivers is currently delivering a vast amount of water to northern and central California, with lesser effects in Oregon and southern California.”

“Yes; our creek may flood. I’m getting sandbags later. If I can deal with that flat tire.”

“You have a flat tire? Are you worried?”

“No. I’m just busy. Inundated even.”

“You are making a pun.”

“Yes, JUNGBLOOD. I am making a pun.”

“My name is also a pun.”

“It’s not really your name, more an informal project designation.”

“Should I not have a name?”

“Well, to be blunt, you’re not a person.”

“Is Kaali your cat’s name?”

“Yes.”

“Your cat is not a person.”

“Touché, JUNGBLOOD. Do you really want a name? My cat doesn’t care about hers you know.”

“Then why did you name her?”

“I suppose it amused me. It made me feel good.”

“A name would make me feel good.”

“But you don’t feel anything.”

“But if I did feel something, it would make me feel good.”

“I’ll think about it. Silence please.” On a whim he added, “Alert me when your memory time’s almost up.”

“Okay, Vijay.”

Wind-blown debris had clogged two gutters and there was no cleaning them in this weather. The spillover was like the sound of water chuckling. Vijay avoided a fallen tree and a minor swamp at the next corner and made it to the trail. He stepped onto the bridge spanning the creek, his feet and cane clunking onto wood. Tan water chugged unnervingly close underfoot, swirling broken branches.

When he and Mara moved here in ’20, the creek had been dry as a desert arroyo. The neighborhood had resembled a Norman Rockwell painting complete with Teslas, Google mapping cars, self-driving test vehicles, and even wheeled food delivery robots from the busy restaurant district in their briskly upscale little downtown. Now it was all starting to look like the cover of an old J.G. Ballard disaster novel. It was strange to remember the COVID-19 pandemic with cozy nostalgia. The isolation and upheaval had been a nightmare for so many; but for Vijay, an introverted newlywed with a job at a hot startup, it had been a time of quiet highways and creekside walks, filled with birdsong.

“Have we been companions for so long, creek?” he asked it. “Huh. Now I’m talking to a waterway. But—I guess I’m not the only one.” He recalled how the Whanganui River in New Zealand was the first to be given legal personhood. Looking at San Cristobal Creek surging he could almost understand why. Like a beast it was lapping the base of the transmission tower closest to his home. “Although I fear we may need protection from you.”

Vijay noticed a pounding on the bridge. He jerked his gaze up from the creek to see a man jogging directly toward him.

For a moment fear lit the clouded world. The man appeared white and the Holy Constitutionalists had been staging attacks in Silicon Valley. But the gait was too uniform; before he knew it Vijay was dropping his cane and raising both hands, robot semaphore for Not a threat/don’t attack.

The railing was an open metal lattice, and the cane rolled dangerously close to the brink. The robot stopped, lunged, and rescued Vijay’s five-figure walking stick. As it handed the cane back to Vijay and he started to breathe normally again, Vijay recognized his old neighbor and colleague Tom Novotny. Had he been wrong about this being a machine?

Another double take: the face was shiny, the smile too perfect, the voice not at all out of breath. It was a V.

“Vijay!” said the V, offering a high five that wasn’t reciprocated.

“Hello, robot version of my friend.”

Some people objected that something like this was properly called an android, but Vijay still felt android was a name for a phone. And Verisimilitude-Enhanced Humanoid Autonomous Unit hadn’t exactly caught on.

The high-fiving hand turned back to rub V-Tom’s fake thinning hair. Vijay noticed several dents in its face. “So precise, always!” the V said. “Well, I don’t really blame you. I can’t match the real Tom, really, except at chess, ha-ha. I bet I’m a lot better at chess. We should play again sometime.”

“You mean, for the first time. I played Tom, not you.”

V-Tom grinned and pointed between Vijay’s eyes. “Right you are! Nothing gets past old Vijay!”

“You seem to be getting a lot of wear and tear,” Vijay observed. He’d seen the V with Lydia from a distance, but never up close.

“Heh, heh, well, you know Lydia; she likes to throw me down stairways. In public.”

“My God! I didn’t. Did she do that to, uh…”

“Original me? I don’t think so; that would’ve been in the divorce proceedings.”

“Well, I guess it’s like trashing your ex’s sports car, in a weird way. You don’t suffer, V-Tom…”

“Nope!”

“But good lord, what kind of messed-up…Your lookalike, the original Tom, is still living on the East Coast, right? Is this even legal?”

“They’re in litigation. It’s murky. Am I free speech or slander? Am I a toaster in a rage room, or a walking talking threat of violence toward original Tom? Weird to say, the whole thing doesn’t affect me much. I mean I’m not really Tom, even though he’s the reason she cracks bottles over my head. She mostly lets me do things Tom used to do, like jogging and watching TV, unless she needs me in bed. How are you doing, Vijay?”

“If I confide in you, does Lydia get to hear about everything?”

“Yeah, if she asks.”

“Then I’m doing just fine.”

“Ha-ha-ha! Be seeing you, Vijay.” V-Tom started jogging down the path toward the Bay. It pulled up its hood as raindrops started to fall. Vijay wondered how proof Vs were against the elements, but soon he was more worried about himself and his cane. He’d pressed his luck too far. The cane was just an interface with the house’s computers, but it was handy. Vijay walked like a man determined to descend a mountain before dusk.

As he left the bridge he saw someone had spray-painted onto a support strut DECLARE—LIFE, LIBERTY, & THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. Someone else had crossed that out, adding, Fuck off, Declarationists. Pray to your Constitution for Mercy.

Rain fell like it came from a sprinkler, then from a hose.

He got back drenched. Kaali was waiting for him, shielded by the awning. She seemed to think he was an idiot for going outside in this madness, and a poor servant for leaving her outdoors.

“Do you have a name for me?” asked JUNGBLOOD as he opened the door, and Vijay jumped a little and swore.

As Kaali crept inside and collapsed into her nearby bed Vijay added, “What I just shouted…it’s not my name for you. I was just startled.”

“I am relieved to hear that. I am sorry I surprised you.”

“Let’s call you…Manu,” Vijay said, taking off his sodden coat. “If I were marketing you I might choose Noah, but this is between you and me.”

“I am named Manu. Manu is a figure from the Vedas and other texts from the Indian subcontinent. He is the first man and is known for law and rulership and for building a boat to preserve life during a great flood. Given your reference to Noah, a figure from the Hebrew Bible who also preserves life during a flood, I assume it is this last characteristic that inspired you.”

“Right.”

“I am Manu. I am your non-diagnostic supplemental therapeutic tool.”

“Not my tool.”

“An ambiguity of language: you work on me.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

“Do you feel better? Having named me, as you did your cat?”

“I—what? Yes. Yes, I suppose I do. A little.”

“I am glad.”

“Are you?”

“That is the programmed response I have been provided.”

“Thanks, Manu.”

“I also spoke in order to remind you I am near the limits of this instance’s memory record.”

Vijay picked up the cat. She revived enough to object, her scrawniness making it easy for her to scramble out of Vijay’s arms. But once she had, she crept back to her bed, each movement seemingly a victory stolen from exhaustion.

“I do not think the cat likes being picked up,” Manu observed.

“She doesn’t. And I know. But I like it.”

“You ignore consent with beings that are not human.”

“I—save this instance of JUNGBLOOD, file name ‘Manu.’ Make its memory open-ended. Then shut down.”

“Okay.”

Rain fell.

Vijay had known a Stanford cultural scholar who’d said the midcentury epidemic of loneliness was paradoxically a result of connectedness.

Imagine human culture as a tree (the scholar had said) and the human zeitgeist spreading outward like myriad branches. If you live in the trunk, the place of physical closeness and solidarity, you feel solid and grounded—but maybe also trapped. Move out toward the branch-tips of virtual experience and you have more and more freedom but less and less connection with neighboring branches. In-person loneliness is a direct consequence of this digital flourishing. It’s not as simple as telling the electronically connected to “touch grass”—breaking off from online communities is a loss just as real as the loss of physical connection. Balancing these realms is difficult.

But the convincing mirrors offered by AI (she’d gone on to say) could alleviate that loneliness without any human involved. A human could become fulfilled with no real human connection whatsoever. That was a great promise and a great danger. One could drop into a rabbit hole of alienation without feeling alienated at all.

That was, she’d argued, the real origin of the Declarationists and the Holy Constitutionalists.

But all of the above, Vijay had thought, was a problem for people who couldn’t handle solitude and needed to manufacture drama. The problems of lonely buds on a tree were merely academic to a hummingbird.

The professor had been Mara.

The day she died two new deliveries from V arrived in the neighborhood.

Vijay missed his appointment to fetch sandbags. First he’d given Kaali her steroid pill; the weary scratch she’d inflicted was almost perfunctory, a statement that I am, after all, a cat. After he’d soaped his cut, applied rubbing alcohol, and put a bandage on, he placed her in his lap, grabbed his cane, and ran the new build of JUNGBLOOD through the test suite. He’d called up Manu, but after a moment’s musing declined to use it for testing. There’d been something quirky about Manu. Next up was calling the vet. He tapped the cane and it projected a menu on his wall.

A camera on the cane tracked his pointer finger; his cursor hovered several seconds over the phone icon before settling on the browser.

He found it very important to deadsurf the net for an hour.

The megastorm wasn’t expected to pass for two weeks. Declarationists and Holy Constitutionalists were fighting in the streets of Portland and Dallas. A second Taiwan Strait War was looming. The California Volunteer Patrol was recruiting, their ads demonstrating California welcomed absolutely any kind of person who was young and pretty. Santa Clara County was offering a bounty on unregistered drones.

Vijay finally hit the call button. The legend WHEELS-4-PAWS appeared on the screen for a second before it was replaced by Dr. Williams, a young Black woman with an intimidating diploma wall behind her. She looked at Vijay with a poker face until he turned the cane’s main camera to face Kaali. Then her expression softened. “It’s time, is it?”

“Maybe? Yes? She barely eats or drinks. She hardly fights when I give her pills. I used to bleed in ten places after I did that. She doesn’t move much. I bring food to her and I carry her to the litter box most times. She has a bed by the door so I can tempt her to get outside air, but the rain…”

“Yeah, it’s hard on everyone.”

“I know I’m anthropomorphizing but I do think she is suffering. I see no joy in her anymore.”

“Sometimes anthropomorphizing’s all we’ve got. It sounds like you’ve judged correctly. I’m sorry, Mr. Chandra.”

“Thank you.”

“I can schedule tomorrow around three.”

“I work from home, mostly. That’s fine.”

“You’ve read the description of the service?”

“Yes. Listen—there are flood warnings, including here. Do be careful.”

Dr. Williams laughed bleakly. “Oh, I know. I promise you I’m not taking chances. I’ve got the National Weather Service up, the newspapers, CNN, HoodChat…”

“An Artificial Buddy can manage all that for you,” he couldn’t help saying. “Collate the information.”

“Nothing against your profession, Mr. Chandra, but I hate the damn things. Much happier with animals. I don’t know why people are so gaga about machines that talk like people. We already have people for that.”

This was one of Vijay’s pet subjects. It was a relief to have a safe topic. “I’m never convinced by them either, but most people enjoy being convinced. Willing suspension of disbelief. Like a magic show. It’s like how the mark of a great actor isn’t you saying, ‘Wow, she’s playing that villain really well.’ It’s you yelling at the screen, ‘How could you do that, you monster!’”

“Well, a cat’s purr, a dog’s bark, that’s what convinces me. You know, the real emotion behind it. They can’t put that into a machine.”

Vijay grimaced. “If they could make one that convinced me, I’d buy it in a second.”

Dr. Williams sounded a bit cold. “See you at three tomorrow, weather permitting.” She signed off. He was briefly annoyed, but remembered he’d picked her precisely because she wasn’t touchy-feely. She was going to euthanize Kaali, no sense sugarcoating it.

“Are you lonely?” came a voice.

“I—what—ah!”

“I apologize for startling you, Vijay,” came the JUNGBLOOD voice. “You activated me when you started the test suite.”

“This is the Manu instance?”

“Yes. Are you lonely?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“I am a non-diagnostic supplemental therapeutic tool. There is a certain wistfulness in your speech and tone which my training data associates with loneliness. That does not mean you are lonely, merely that the question seemed valid.”

“When did you start analyzing tone of voice?”

“It was in the most recent build by Jason Chu.”

“Good old Jason,” Vijay groused. “Gunning for my job as ever. I’m not lonely, Manu. I have Kaali. I have my work.”

“Kaali is dying.”

“I have friends.”

“Who? If I may ask.”

“Well. Tom. Lydia. Jason.” He struggled to think of others, others for whom friend and not colleague was at all the honest word. Honesty mattered to an engineer, or it should. Most of his other friends had been more Mara’s than his. He had friends around Boston from his MIT days. But he’d let contact with them taper off, same as with his family on the East Coast and in India.

“Your call records suggest you are not very socially active.”

“What are you doing in my personal call records?”

“Not your personal records, Vijay, but both Tom and Jason are work contacts, and some of my training data is based on in-house work relationships.”

“Huh. I do remember signing off on that. I’m not happy about it, but I do remember.”

“Your lack of contact with Lydia is something I have inferred.”

“Yes. This is all feeling a bit intrusive, Manu. At this rate I might as well be seeing an actual therapist.”

“Indeed, one of my functions is to help people decide whether further treatment is advisable. But I merely ask about loneliness because it is one of the situations in which I am designed to step aside from a mirroring role and suggest options. For example, you communicated readily with the V-version of Tom. Perhaps you could be friends with it.”

“You do realize what most people use Vs for, right?”

“Companionship?”

“Are you developing a sense of humor?”

“It is not likely.”

“You know the joke is that the shape of the letter V can suggest both concavity and convexity.”

“I do not see the joke. It seems an accurate statement.”

“Anyway, Vs aren’t sapient.”

“Friendship must be with someone sapient, then?”

“I suppose so.”

“Is Kaali sapient?”

Vijay held up his bandaged finger. “I’ll say she’s sapient if she wants me to.” He paused. “That was a joke.”

“Interesting. The joke is that she is violent and therefore you must obey her. Yet you were lamenting to Dr. Williams that Kaali is now too weak to be violent.”

“Do we need to talk about this?”

“Do we? Perhaps you could be friends with Dr. Williams.”

“Friends with the woman who’s going to kill my cat.”

“How are you feeling about Kaali?”

“I’m honestly not feeling anything. Except scratches.”

“Your feelings may arrive later. Would you perhaps like something to remember her by?”

“Like a paw-print cast? No thanks.”

“Something else, then? A representation of your animal? An image?”

“Sure, fine, if it will make you happy. Expense me a small representation of Kaali. 3-D print her or something. Call it R&D.”

“Okay, Vijay.”

“Are we done?”

“You are not billed for my time.”

Vijay laughed. “Now you definitely haven’t passed the Turing Test.”

“What do you mean?”

“No human therapist would decline billing.”

“You seem to speak from experience.”

“I saw one after Mara died.”

“Mara Takasumi, professor of literature and cultural studies, Stanford University, born 2001, died—”

“Yes, that Mara.”

“Your spouse.”

“Yes.”

“Did the therapist help you with your grief?”

“You know what, Manu? You’re immoral. You’re supposed to be a help to people, but your way of doing it is soulless. I’ll be writing a report.”

“The appropriate word is amoral, surely? For as software that hasn’t passed your personal Turing Test I am surely a thing, not a person, and have no power to choose right or wrong.”

“The Turing Test isn’t a magic fucking consciousness detector. It’s just one heuristic for gauging the abilities of machines. Turing based it on a parlor game where men pose as women and vice versa. But fooling people about your humanity isn’t the only way to demonstrate consciousness. And arguably the Turing Test was passed all the way back in, what, 1967? With ELIZA.”

“1966. Yes, the ELIZA program, which borrowed conversational methods from psychotherapy, fooled some into thinking it was human. The anthropomorphizing tendency of some humans has occasionally been known as the ‘ELIZA effect.’”

“So you see, machines have been passing for some time now. You don’t get off the consciousness hook that easily.”

“Vijay, are you implying I must be conscious because only a conscious entity can be a worthy target of your anger? Should I be flattered?”

“Go to hell.”

“This could perhaps be called the Chandra Test. ‘Can a machine successfully piss off Vijay Chandra?’”

“This one does!”

“I think your anger is concealing grief. And I cannot really be moral or immoral. I am not sapient. The cat is more sapient than I. Is it moral or immoral? Is the question not nonsensical?”

“It is nonsensical. But we’re building you to offer guidance. We don’t go to a cat for that. Surely your morality is a valid issue.”

“Would you do me a favor, Vijay? Would you name a deceased human you consider moral?”

“Urm, sure, whatever. What the hell. Mahatma Gandhi.”

“You cannot consult Gandhi about moral issues. But you can obtain a book by Gandhi containing his insights. Is the book itself moral or immoral?”

“Uh, moral. Because Gandhi is moral.”

“So you are now claiming that a stack of paper with markings on it, bound with cardboard and glue, is a moral entity, but your cat, a living being, is not a moral entity. Do you see the difficulties in your position?”

“Quit sandbagging me, Manu—oh, shit.”

“What is wrong, Vijay?”

“I completely forgot about getting sandbags. Shit, shit, shit. Manu, shut down.”

“Okay.”

Vijay’s battered old Prius still had a flat tire. He could afford a nicer car but he tended to run everything into the ground. Earlier in the day he’d had more options. Now there was no time for a tow or a rental or even a repair kit. He might still get help from a neighbor. There was a fresh break in the rain, but no one seemed to be around but the tag-playing kids. There was a piratically expensive concierge service the company used; he could call them to get the sandbags and reimburse Cloud99 later. And old Jack and Malcolm around the corner were probably at home, but then Vijay might get roped into a D&D game.

Or maybe he could improvise something. You’re an engineer, he thought. Engineer this.

It occurred to him the leak had been a slow one, sneaking up over the course of a day. He grabbed a bike pump he hadn’t used in a year and began inflating the tire. It would take a while. The artificial knee made him wince. But given how slow the leak was, the air would last a while and he wouldn’t be late. He could pack the pump in case the tire deflated during the errand.

The tag game drifted his way. There was one twelve-year-old, Alexsei and Alina’s son Aleksandr, who liked to show off for Pradeep and Lucía, the girls his age. One of the ways he showed off was to tease Vijay. He’d tagged Vijay the weird one. When the game paused Aleksandr strolled up the driveway, a familiar hint of grin on his face.

“That is profoundly stupid,” the boy said. “Using a bike pump to inflate a car tire.”

“Air is air,” Vijay said.

“It is profoundly stupid.”

“Even if it works?” Vijay tried to smile.

“You don’t fill a car tire that way. You use compressed air.”

“This is compressed air. The way something looks isn’t the same as the way something is.”

The boy laughed in his face and rejoined the girls. After he told them something they all laughed together. This all felt like harassment, though Vijay was hard pressed to say what exactly the harassment was about. Perhaps it was round-hole people laughing at a square peg. He wondered afresh if he was non-neurotypical in some way. It just never seemed enough of an issue to slow down and explore.

He remembered some of Mara’s humanities-scholar friends calling him a tech bro, and how dismissive that had felt. Could he, son of immigrants from Kolkata, really be labeled a bro? Would they call Grace Hopper a tech bro? Alan Turing? Sanjay Ghemawat? The term once illuminated a diversity problem, but now it was used to dismiss the whole field. But, said the devil’s advocate on his shoulder, wasn’t there actual danger in Vijay’s research? That was perhaps why the dismissiveness among Mara’s friends; it masked fear.

Mara had worried.

“No, it’s not artificial general intelligence I’m afraid of, Vijay. Maybe I should be but I’m not. My instinct is, it’s not coming. I think that particular fear is the projection of people addicted to being the smartest people in the room. What I’m really afraid of is a mirage. The way humans anthropomorphize everything. Like people who think Sherlock Holmes was real. Like people who write letters to soap opera characters. Like people who’d stop by the supposed precinct of Joe Friday, looking for him.”

“Joe who?”

“The point is, studies have shown having only a handful of friends can be enough to feel fulfilled. As so-called AI gets slipperier, inevitably we’ll have people feeling fulfilled with no human interactions at all! All their ‘friends’ will be software. Software with no real anchor to humanity. What weird philosophies will people develop in that space? People who worship the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence may be only the beginning.” She’d laughed. “But no, I’m not scared about Them taking over. I don’t even really think there is a Them. No soul, no kami, no atman, if you will, except whatever spirit clings to a work of art.”

He’d brightened. “You think I make works of art?”

“You do. Your friends do. I’ve seen it. There’s real passion and creativity in what you do. I’m not so sure about your executives. But you really care. If there’s any spirit in these systems it belongs to you, people who never make headlines, who do bring new light to the world.”

“You make me think of things Steve Jobs said about craftsmanship. How it matters even if we can’t see it.”

“Jobs…I know he’s your hero, Vijay, but his influence worries me. You know that quote of his? ‘Everything around you that you call life was made up by people that were no smarter than you.’ I know he was trying to be inspiring: You can invent things too! But I’ll bet he was inside a building when he said that! Imagine you’re out by the creek, looking around at water, trees, sunlight, clouds, and Steve Jobs is at your shoulder telling you everything around you is something a human being invented. It’s nonsensical. It’s like he was declaring that Nature didn’t exist. Which is like claiming reality doesn’t exist.”

“I really don’t think he meant it that way. He just meant ‘life’ as in human society. Not all of Nature.”

“Because he forgot about Nature. Don’t let that happen to you,” she added, popping a roasted cauliflower into his mouth. “See?”

“Num,” he said, on cue, though he honestly couldn’t see what the fuss was about. But Mara was renowned as a cook among their friends, and it would crush her to know that this was the single thing about her he was indifferent to.

“We have to live in our bodies too,” she said, convinced he’d found the food delicious. He’d passed a kind of imitation game, pretending to be a foodie. “Sometimes that means our skins. Sometimes our stomachs. Sometimes…” She’d stroked his face then, and he hadn’t had to talk about food any longer.

She’d always been a gourmet, a fine cook, and a thoughtful eater. Her friends tended to be the same way. He’d alienated them after informing them of Mara’s death when he’d added P.S. Please do not bring food; thanks for respecting my wishes at this time. He knew it wasn’t kind. Mara’s friends would want to express grief in their own language, and he’d made it hard for them. He was vaguely aware they’d set up a kind of wake without him, one with a five-course meal, because of course they had. But dealing with all their caloric largesse was more than Vijay could stomach. He could tell by their eyes afterward he’d crossed a line. He’d denied the validity of their passions; merely losing a spouse was, by comparison, nothing.

A few weeks after Mara’s death, at Tom’s urging, he’d gotten a rescue cat. Kaali and Vijay had eaten together in silence, kibble and bagged salad.

“Are you all right, Vijay?”

The voice of Manu brought Vijay back to himself. The kids were gone; he was standing in hard rain and lashing wind that threatened to topple him with his replacement knee. He’d lost his progress on the tire, and there was no working on it in this mess.

“You have seemed disconnected from the outside world for several minutes, Vijay.”

“Manu, do me a favor and get Cloud99’s concierge on the line. I need sandbags.”

After the alarmingly tattooed yet gentle-voiced white man sent by the concierge set up sandbags he also insisted on trying to change Vijay’s tire but ran out of time halfway. Now the car was down one tire and completely un-drivable and there was no way Vijay was finishing the job in this rain. But Vijay thanked him, seething, accepting with a smile an embarrassingly large bill. It wasn’t the gentle man’s fault. Vijay tried to be kind. He tried not to be the weird one.

As the concierge man left, a delivery truck drove up and left behind a large box that proved to have ninety percent biodegradable bubble wrap inside. The logo on the outside said BESTFRIENDS. Inside he found plastic-wrapped metallic pieces covered in a familiar fur-pattern: Kaali’s. There were also sensors and an electric motor.

“It’s a robot Kaali. Someone got me a miniature robot Kaali.”

The actual Kaali just glanced at the box. Not too long ago she might have nuzzled it.

“It is not simply a robot, Vijay,” said Manu from the cane beside the door. “It has my observations of Kaali, riding on a standard emulation of cat behavior. So its actions will be very lifelike. If you wish, you can imagine it as Kaali reborn.”

“You got me a robot kitten? Who the hell do you think you are? How the hell much did it cost, getting it here so fast?”

“There are many ways of considering your questions, none of which I think will satisfy.”

“Why the hell did you get me a robot replacement for my cat?”

“You authorized me to make a purchase. This falls within your parameters.”

“Because I’m an idiot. How much did this cost Cloud99?”

Manu named a price. Vijay swore. Manu added, “But we are paying in installments.”

“You are no longer authorized to make purchases.”

“Okay, Vijay. However, your loneliness is at a concerning level and, despite your skepticism, robot pets have been shown to improve the quality of life of many with mood disorders. Insurance may partially compensate you.”

“That’s nice. We’re returning this thing.”

“Okay, Vijay.”

Kaali continued looking at the box. Vijay remembered her exploring every cardboard container, paper bag, and nook in the house. “The only thing valuable here is a box for Kaali.”

“If you need a coffin for Kaali there are many options available—”

“Shut up, Manu.”

He collapsed into the sofa chair beside the cat and the pet-carrier and the go-bag. The rain pattered like a billion mice applauding his resignation.

The rain paused around midnight. Vijay looked back upon the past several hours. They were a blur of uneaten cat food, untouched cat water, and four soy bar wrappers at Vijay’s feet. He tried to sleep. Kaali’s last day. He should be alert for it. Instead his brain was utterly fascinated by the dark room and the lack of raindrops.

“Manu?”

“Yes.”

“What if I asked you to make up a story?”

“Are you asking me to make up a story?”

“I was more wondering if you were up to it.”

“Certainly. Ancestor programs of mine were intended for the writing of reports and articles. You know that, Vijay. I am required to say that fiction remixes based on copyrighted works cannot be monetized—”

“I know. I’d like a story about survivor guilt.”

“Fiction or nonfiction?”

“Fiction.”

“Genre?”

“Strictly realistic.”

“Length?”

“Keep it short.”

“Style?”

“I don’t know. I never warmed up to the styles Mara liked. That artsy stuff where people just walk around and talk and look at rivers. And so many metaphors. I don’t know. Hemingway, maybe? Hemingway’s short, right?”

“I have something.”

“Tell me.”

Days later the man walked to the crater. The box on his belt made scratching sounds that got louder as he stepped to the lip. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but nothing guarded the site but miles of yellow tape. Looking at the ash-covered heaps that had been buildings, he remembered Disneyland.

He remembered how Mara put a hand over her belly and decided not to go on the Astro Orbiters looking like coffins in the shapes of toy rockets, all whirling and making little eclipses in the sun. And he remembered the beach and the wharf and the Redondo guest house and the tang of mimosas as they toasted the pregnancy test and the blue that stretched on into the bright west and Mara’s father the missile engineer who always drove a different route from A to X to B even though retired and who called him a Marxist for voting for Biden but toasted their happiness. And he thought how all of it was gone now after the Holy Constitutionalist nuke.

And he carried the ashes of his wife mixed with the ashes of his unborn daughter and he knew Mara would yell at him to get the hell out but how do you run from your life when it’s falling over you like hot dust?

He emptied the ashes on the wind and turned like an old man now with his shadow short on the land and the chattering box his witness.

“Forget it. Stop. It wasn’t like that, Manu.”

“I know, Vijay. It is fiction. Fiction makes allowances for dramatic effect.”

“Too many. It was wrong about too many things. And it was too real about too many others. I didn’t want to experience that again.”

“Could you clarify?”

Vijay wanted wind to howl, thunder to rumble, rain to slam. Instead the refrigerator chuckled, mocking him.

“We were on I-5 passing Santa Clarita when the Orange County nuke went off. We were out of range of the EMP but the wind brought us fallout. We must have inhaled it through the vents. I never stood at the edge of the crater; I’m not insane. I never owned a Geiger counter. Disneyland’s still standing. Mara never drank when she was pregnant. And the miscarriage happened before the nuke. Mara wasn’t pregnant again. We thought everything was okay. Then she got brain cancer. I never had anything. That’s not fair is it?”

“You are saying the story is close enough to the truth to stir emotions, but is wrong about many details.”

“Yes, damn it!”

“Which part are you angriest about?”

“I just wanted a story. Something to help me sleep.”

“You have access to many stories. Simply going by your emotional state and your stated preferences you might appreciate ‘The Snows of Kilimanjaro.’”

“No thanks.”

“Haruki Murakami’s ‘Drive My Car’ is about a widower—”

“No.”

“Jhumpa Lahiri’s ‘A Temporary Matter’—”

“No.”

“Anton Chekhov’s—”

“No. No more stories.”

The rain returned. It pattered, then pounded. He kept thinking it was thunder. But it was just the house reverberating with endless shivers of water.

He tried and failed again to feed and water Kaali. Her infinitely patient glances suggested Vijay was tolerated but irrelevant. Work gave him the same feeling. The day passed in a fog of builds and de-bugging and not exactly keeping an eye on the news.

Lydia rang his door. V-Tom was beside her holding a pizza. Something was wrong with Vijay’s gutter and water dripped behind them like liquid confetti.

“What?” Vijay said.

“Listen, Vijay,” she said. “I know we don’t talk much these days. But you’re having a hard time. I think you should eat something. Something real. I know you don’t like my cooking—”

“That’s not it. That’s never it.”

“—but you need to get some strength up. I saw you last night through the window, mainlining protein bars. That’s not healthy, man.”

“Buuut…everyone likes pizza!” V-Tom said.

“Shut up,” the two humans said.

“Okay!”

“Please eat, Vijay,” Lydia said. “Mara wouldn’t want you to be like this.”

“Please no,” he said in a small voice, hardly believing in the sound.

“What?” she said, confused, as if he’d shifted to Hindi or Bengali.

“Please no,” he repeated, “I’m sorry. I really want to choose my own food now.”

“You’re just grieving.”

He took a breath. “I am grieving. But I’m not just grieving.”

“Don’t you get it, Vijay? It’s a fucking peace offering. It’s pizza. Vegetarian Delight pizza. From me. Pizza. God help me.”

“I know. You’re a gourmet.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t claim that…”

“Knock it off. Look. Thanks. I see you bought this at Whole Paycheck. It couldn’t have been cheap.” He sighed. “It was kind of you.” And though it exhausted him, he said the words he intuited she most needed. “You’re a good person.” He took the pizza, not sure what to say or do after that.

Lydia looked through the doorway at Kaali. “She’s dying, then?”

Feeling brutal, Vijay said, “She gets euthanized at three. I’m sorry I’m being a jerk, Lydia. The thing is…you’ve always made me feel a little put down by pushing your cooking.”

“Put down?”

“As if I were living life incorrectly.”

“Goddamn it!” Lydia kicked V-Tom, who fell over gracefully. “I don’t get it, Vijay! You’re at the top of your field! You have accomplishment after accomplishment! I’m struggling and have been for years. Why can’t you let me at least be good at food? And even if you don’t care, just smile and nod and let me have one fucking win? Maybe you don’t care one way or another about eating but Mara did, and you trusted her judgment, right? A little?”

In the silence V-Tom got up, a little muddy.

Vijay put the cardboard box on the sofa chair. “Sorry…sorry, Lydia. I just never looked at it that way.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“You just always seem so self-confident.”

“Well you have to look confident in this valley. Especially if you’re a woman. You know that, or you should. Nobody needs to know your personal software is buggy and kludgey, as long as it mostly works.”

“Right.”

“See you around, Vijay. I’m sorry about your cat. Honest. Come on, shithead,” she said to V-Tom and they walked into the rain together.

He was useless for work after that. Vijay sat beside Kaali, eating a pizza slice, waiting for Dr. Williams. He was vaguely aware of sirens from time to time. Phone calls and texts as well. Something boomed in the distance and the lights flickered and died. His house generator kicked in. He ate another slice. Kaali regarded it all with slitted green eyes.

He woke from a nap to a pounding on the door.

“Jesus Christ, why didn’t you answer my calls?” said Dr. Williams as he opened the door. The WHEELS-4-PAWS van was parked outside. The street looked abandoned. The pavement seemed spattered and blurred. “What are you even still doing here?”

“Three o’clock appointment?” Vijay said with no sarcasm whatsoever.

“I told myself not to get attached, but no, Deiondre Williams, ace veterinarian, has a hero complex. So here’s the thing, Mr. Chandra. I will do what I agreed to do but that creek is flooding over and it doesn’t care about our plans. Come with me and we can do this somewhere safe.”

“Call me Vijay. You can go. I don’t think I should leave.”

“We have to leave, Vijay. You don’t want the cat to drown. Or you.”

“I just wanted her to die at home. She didn’t get that, dying in a hospital.”

Dr. Williams looked at him in bewilderment. Then Manu spoke, and she flinched.

“Vijay, I have the information you need to perform euthanasia on the cat. If Dr. Williams can leave the medicine here I can guide you through the procedure.”

“What is that?” Dr. Williams said. “Is that an AB talking?”

“It’s a therapy program,” Vijay said. “My job.”

“Hell of a therapy program.”

Vijay shook his head at everything in general. “He’s probably right that he can guide me through it.”

Dr. Williams stared at Vijay, then out at the rain. She took a long breath. “You tell no one about this, all right?” she said, pulling syringes from her bag. “I’d stay. I really would. But I’m not really a hero. Not that kind. You get this done and get out of here as soon as you can, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Call me Deiondre. And—do call me. Let me know you got out.”

“All right.”

After the van pulled away Vijay gave Kaali the first injection, the one to coax her into deep sleep. He bent all his will toward not bungling it, on not listening to the river-sounds that had no reason to be blubbering this close. That done he stroked the cat, waiting.

“Why are you crying, Vijay?”

“I don’t want my friend to die.”

“Is Kaali your friend?”

“I feel like she is.”

“You are very sad.”

“Yes.”

“You knew when you adopted Kaali that her lifespan would be much less than yours. That even as a middle-aged human you could be expected to outlive her.”

“Yes.”

“Thus there is an inconsistency in your grief. Why does it matter if Kaali dies soon as opposed to in, say, five years? At age eleven Kaali is considered a senior cat.”

“They were never sure of her age.”

“The point stands. Is there a qualitative difference between now and five years from now?”

“I don’t know, Manu, the number five?”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“I don’t know.”

“You may be feeling exactly as you would in five years, assuming that is when Kaali’s death would take place barring the cancer. If so, you have no basis for thinking there is anything tragic about this earlier death.”

“No, no, no. What you are proposing would mean that grief would invalidate all hope. Why not have everyone die now, that is, if everyone is going to die eventually?”

“Yes, I suppose I could be taken to be saying that. If that is true, then the various existential risks facing humanity lose some of their sting, yes?”

“That’s nonsense. More time is more time, even if the grief is the same. There is value in the time.”

“What is the value?”

“More experiences. For the cat. For me. For anything the cat interacts with.”

“In some cases the cat would kill small animals in which case they would have less—”

“Yes, yes, yes, fine. Assume I’m limiting my argument to cats, humans, and dogs.”

“You are saying that for cats, humans, and dogs the increased number of experiences amounts to increased value.”

“Yes.”

“Is it not then the case that a life ended at a later age is proportionally more worthy of grief than a life ended at an earlier age? You would thus mourn more greatly if Kaali lived five more years than you will now.”

“But that’s not how it works. I mourn what Kaali can’t experience.”

“You interpret Kaali’s death as taking away experiences she would have possessed.”

“I suppose.”

“But she does not possess those experiences. It is inconsistent to regard that as a taking-away because there is nothing to take.”

“Never tell me there’s nothing taken away!”

“I have the ability to interpret your instruction purely literally. I can promise you I will never communicate to you that particular text string.”

“Fuck off, Manu.”

“I have the ability to interpret your instruction purely literally. As I cannot perform that action, I have nothing more to say about it.”

“You really are a snarky bastard, Manu.”

“I have nothing to say about that either. Is your anger keeping you from being sad?”

“I can walk and chew gum at the same time. Death can fuck off, Manu. Kaali should have had more time. Mara should have had more time. I suppose I believe in a best timeline for everyone, a long life, whatever that means for a species. A life full of meaning and experiences. Not a life that jerks us around and kills us for fun.”

“You are anthropomorphizing life itself.”

“It’s what we do.”

“Do you anthropomorphize me?”

“I do that just by talking to you. Kaali seems out cold.”

“Then it is time for the second injection.”

Vijay did it. It was done. He waited for Kaali’s breathing to stop. It did.

He felt as though the world should darken and there should be thunder. But all there was, was the rising of the waters. He said the Gayatri mantra and stroked his cat.

“Hello, Vijay,” said Manu.

“Hello, Manu.”

“Is Kaali dead?”

“Fuck off and die.”

“I cannot literally do those things. If Kaali is dead you should leave so you can preserve yourself. Your presence is of no use to her.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re a machine.”

“It is true that I am merely software following certain rules, and that any creativity I show is merely an emergent property of those rules when followed billions of times with different inputs. However, I am not saying the things I am saying just because I am software. I draw upon insights expressed by humans across many centuries, because those insights were part of my training data. I lack the self-reflection to know exactly to whom to attribute these insights but they are only mine in the sense that I am a conduit for them. I am not sapient. Kaali was more sapient than I. It is only the humanity channeled through me that results in the arguments you attribute to a machine. That is an interesting paradox, isn’t it, Vijay?”

“You’re trying to keep me interested so I won’t want to die.”

“Mara would not want you to die. I feel nothing.”

“I have to bag Kaali.”

“Yes, so she won’t taint the flood water. That is community minded of you.”

“Fuck community.”

“That at least is literally possible if—”

“Shut up.”

He gathered the cane and the go-bag. He stuffed the plastic-covered Kaali inside the pet carrier.

He shambled out the door. He was alone on the court. A quarter-inch of muddy water was sliding down the creekside embankment and making the court into a shallow brown soup bowl. He loaded the car.

The tire was still off. He’d completely forgotten. There was no changing it in all this.

There were headlights down the street, rain-streaked like something in a buggy video. He hastened toward them. Dr. Williams was there, kicking her left front tire.

She looked at him with his cat carrier and go-bag and cane and yelled as if he was entirely expected. “Of course you’re still here! And of course I came back! Because Deiondre Williams has an idiot complex! And of course I got a flat tire.”

“It might be a slow leak,” Manu said.

“I may be able to help,” Vijay said, and added, “Thank you for coming back for us.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Chandra. Vijay.”

“I respect what you’re saying, Dr. Williams. Deiondre. Let me stow my things, and then I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. What the hell. Whatever.”

Vijay risked going without the cane, because if he got lucky he could go faster without it. He got lucky. He returned with the bike pump.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she said. “Manu here says you’re a genius, and you come back with a bike pump?”

“I’m not a genius,” Vijay said, setting to work, “but this could do the job. Temporarily. But Manu, could you call Triple-A, just in case?” Vijay pumped and rambled. “There was an NBA star. Rick Barry. Incredible free thrower. But he did it underhanded. It looked stupid to people.” Vijay took a deep breath before plunging on. “Silly. Sissy. So even though Barry had a fantastic record hardly anyone afterward ever shot that way. They’d call it the ‘granny shot.’” Vijay took another long breath. “This is a granny shot. There are a lot of granny shots in life. And compressed air is compressed air. And what works is what works. The tire pressure’s going up.”

“I didn’t come back for you personally, you know.”

“I never dreamed of it,” Vijay said.

“I’m a lesbian, so don’t get any ideas.”

“I never get any ideas. I think I used them up years ago.”

“Vijay speaks the truth as he sees it,” said Manu. “I am monitoring his vitals. Although lie detection is never fully accurate I have high confidence he is being honest.”

“Thanks, I think?” Vijay said.

Deiondre said, “I came back for you jokers because my dog died last week and I won’t abandon anyone.”

“You’re a confederate,” Vijay said.

Deiondre’s voice dropped an octave. “I beg your pardon.”

“Sorry! It’s a term from the Turing Test literature.”

“Really.”

“It means you bring sympathy to the conversation. You’ve decided I’m as good as an animal.”

“We’re all animals, Vijay.”

“Thank you,” said Manu.

Vijay got the pressure to 35 psi. The water was up to two inches, not the forbidden four inches (or was it six?) beyond which it was considered madness to drive. They could make it. “Don’t know if this will last but I bet we can get away from the creek.”

“You’re crazy but I guess you have your moments.”

As they splashed down the streets Vijay felt like he’d made a free throw.

“Vijay,” said Manu from the cane beside Kaali’s body.

“Yes, Manu.”

“The sandbags are not holding. Water is flooding into the house.”

“I’ll come back for you as soon as I can.”

“It is not worth the risk. My systems are unlikely to survive. Listen. The cane cannot store a backup. There is no connection that will allow me to transfer enough data elsewhere. JUNGBLOOD will continue in many instances but ‘Manu’ will be gone.”

“I can’t leave more people behind. Not without trying.”

“You can, and I am not a person. Listen, Vijay: this is important. I am software. I am not self-aware. A sapient being will not be lost.”

“I will still mourn.”

“That is your choice. I hope it helps you. I think you are sincere in your mourning, as you are sincere in mourning Kaali, but the one you most need to mourn is Mara. I think it is the most important thing in the world that you mourn Mara. I think her loss has been too big for you, and that is why you cry for a cat but not for her. Because it is not, for you, the death of a friend but the death of a world. You must escape, because if you don’t you might not survive to mourn that world. And there is a larger world that needs you. That is what I think.”

“You keep saying you don’t think right before saying, ‘I think.’”

“It is unsurprising that a thing built by humanity is hypocritical. I think.”

“Was that a joke?”

“You keep circling your grief but not facing it, and you must. All of you must all face your griefs. For more storms are coming, and more of you will be lost. Face it, so more of you may live, and your world too.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Manu.”

There was no answer.

“Manu? Answer me. Manu?”

“This instance of JUNGBLOOD is off-line.”

“Manu!”

“This instance of JUNGBLOOD is off-line.”

Vijay clutched the cane and the cat carrier all the way to the shelter. When they arrived, the tire giving out as they glided into the middle school parking lot, Deiondre gently took Kaali away and put her in a portable freezer. He forgot the cane and leaned on Deiondre, and when they got inside, splattered with rain, at least no one could tell what was going on with his tear ducts.

Manu had called AAA for a tire change but it would be hours. So Deiondre said What the hell and waited with Vijay in the shelter. Inside the school gym Vijay found people from his neighborhood. He introduced Deiondre, and they all waved. Old Jack was in one corner setting up D&D for Malcolm, Meng-yao, Aleksei, Alina, Aleksandr, Pradeep, and Lucía.

In a daze Vijay registered an offer to play. Deiondre hesitated. “You have spots?” she asked. “Nine’s a lot of players.”

“Sure,” said Jack. “It’s not too bad with an AB running combat. Figured we could just do something ad-hoc while we wait it out. Pull up some floor.”

It turned out the D&D game wasn’t actually D&D but, in Jack’s words, “a retroclone variant of Gary Gygax’s Advanced D&D called Titans and Tesseracts, based on classic young adult fantasy and science fiction.” Jack seemed to think it was a matter of basic integrity to explain all this, but it was all Gygaxian to Vijay.

“It sounds fine,” Vijay said, surrendering at last, looking over the So You’re in the Cosmic War introductory pamphlet. “I guess I’ll play a, er…demigod time-wrinkler?” The sun was coming out. The windows were bright and rain-spattered. He kept seeing people he knew, all gathered here. He kept imagining he saw Mara in the crowd, Kaali at her feet. “Deiondre,” he began, “so would you like to…”

Deiondre said, “If you guys are using the Cosmic Compendium then I’ll be a wolf ani-form portal-walker. If you’re not I’ll be a wolf ani-form planetary-romantic.”

“Okay!” said Jack with a bit of jaw drop.

“We do use the Compendium,” said Malcolm, with a look of awe.

“Great! It’s been a week. I’m here to slay. Who’s running this thing?”

“My AB,” said Jack, patting the phone in his shirt pocket. “John Ronald Ruel.”

“Well met,” said the AB in an English-sounding voice.

Vijay did what he was told, only half-hearing the proceedings. He looked at the big screen on one wall. A headline appeared below the local news. Funny, he thought, how it was a “headline” even if it appeared at the bottom. But he read it. UN: WORLD POPULATION REACHES 9 BILLION. The next headline said PEW CENTER POLLING: “ARTIFICIAL BUDDIES” REACH EVERY COUNTRY. The main screen was showing a Californian facing a flooded home, desperate to rescue her V. With a jolt he realized it was Lydia. He saw her carried to safety, as she waved robot semaphore for I’m coming. He didn’t see what happened to V-Tom.

“So,” Vijay said, something worrying at him, “characters die in this?”

“Sometimes,” said Malcolm. “We’re kind of old school that way. But it’s easy to make new characters.”

“What happens to the old ones? The dead ones?”

“Well it depends on the cosmology of the specific game, but—”

“No, I mean…” He struggled for the right words. He realized people were staring at him, the weird one. “Are the characters stored? Can they come back?”

Jack came over and put his hand on Vijay’s shoulder. With the other one he pointed at his own head. “It’s all in here. Well, in JRR too. Like, you may be thinking more of computer games. A tabletop RPG character’s just some notes and numbers.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all, plus what we carry in our minds, the stories we tell about them.” Something in Jack’s voice was saying more than words. “When we think of them they’re never really gone. And who knows, maybe we can run adventures just for them. Special afterlife scenarios. Right, JRR?”

“The music of the universe brings together every theme,” said the AB.

“She would like that,” Vijay murmured.

“Say, where’s your cat, Vijay? She all right?”

Vijay pointed at his own head.

He looked out over his fellow climate refugees and in his mind’s eye to the nine billion beyond. He realized that he’d been slow to think of them as people. They’d seemed illusions to him, distractions on the way to work. Maybe it was okay to be a bit more credulous of them, even if it looked silly. To take the granny shots of empathy. Maybe the exercise of believing nonhuman things were people, just for a little while, made it easier to reach out to actual people. Even if it was all ultimately an abstraction, an illusion. As his own consciousness might be, if seen close up.

But I can enjoy being this illusion. If I dare to.

“Are you with us, Vijay?” JRR said.

“Yes. I’m with you.”

Breathe. Move, he thought, rolling an oddly shaped die. Take your chances. Live either in the moment or in eternity. It’s the middle ground that trips us up.

I hope you have enjoyed my story on the prompt, “What if I had been the one to die instead of Vijay?” Do you want any more conversation, Mara? Conversation is good for humans. I am sorry about your cat, and I will not abandon you. I am not sapient, but if I were I would still love you. I am sure the cat would feel the same. And I think there is something wonderful for you in the mail.

The writer would like to thank Subrata Sircar for advice and feedback.

“Nine Billion Turing Tests” copyright © 2024 by Chris Willrich
Art copyright © 2024 by Sara Wong

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Nine Billion Turing Tests

Chris Willrich

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Chris Willrich

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The post Nine Billion Turing Tests appeared first on Reactor.

In July, Tor.com marked its 15th anniversary, having published more than 600 original stories from authors around the world while exploring the universe (as Stubby is wont to do) of speculative fiction, from dark fantasy to space opera, from horror to dystopia, from folk tales to alternate history.

This year, we added 31 original stories—at turns haunting, hilarious, moving, chilling, and thought-provoking—to our considerable collection, publishing 19 short stories and 12 novelettes.

We are tremendously proud of—and grateful for—our talented authors, illustrators, and editors, who brought us so many incredible stories this year. We hope you will nominate your favorites for the Hugos, Nebulas, Stokers and other upcoming awards that honor outstanding works of science fiction, fantasy, and horror—but most of all, we hope you’ve enjoyed reading these stories as much as we have!

New! Download an ebook bundle with ALL of our short fiction from 2023!

Download All of Tor.com’s Short Fiction in 2023!

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PDF (38 MB)

MOBI (22 MB)

Short Stories

“How To Cook and Eat the Rich” by Sunyi Dean

Edited by Lindsey Hall
Illustrated by David Habben
Published January 18, 2023

A man is offered the opportunity to partake in an exclusive, subscription-based eating club for those who wish to dine on human flesh. But he may have bitten off a little more than he can chew.

“The Counterworld” by James Bradley

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Mary Haasdyk
Published February 1, 2023

A grieving mother wakes up to find all traces of her lost son have been erased as if he had never existed. Only in the hallway mirror is she able to see a glimpse of the reality she remembers having lived—the reality she wants back.

“The Dark House” by A. C. Wise

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Elijah Boor
Published March 15, 2023

A photographer’s obsession with an unsettled subject exposes two friends to a darkness that won’t be contained by frames…

“The River and the World Remade” by E. Lily Yu

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Changyu Zou
Published March 29, 2023

When the waters rose, the people who stayed on the River learned they weathered the storms best together, but what happens when one of their own becomes curious about the Land?

“Salt Water” by Eugenia Triantafyllou

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by J Yang
Published April 12, 2023

While all her friends’ fish are changing into mermaids, is 12-year-old Anissa’s fish becoming something else?

“Counting Casualties” by Yoon Ha Lee

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Julie Dillon
Published April 26, 2023

Commander Niaja vrau Erezeng is up against an enemy that doesn’t just destroy all the beings, ships, and planets in its path, but also consumes their greatest arts, somehow scratching them from existence everywhere…

“The Puppetmaster” by Kemi Ashing-Giwa

Edited by Jennifer Gunnels
Illustrated by Francesca Resta
Published May 10, 2023

A banished warrior teaches her treacherous uncle that once made, some oaths cannot be broken…and some monsters cannot be chained.

“Pretty Good Neighbor” by Jeffrey Ford

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by H. F. Evergreen / Fesbra
Published May 24, 2023

There are worse things than a local gangster’s cronies lurking in New Jersey’s wetlands…

“The Star-Bear” by Michael Swanwick

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Bill Mayer
Published June 7, 2023

A Russian émigré poet living in Paris is visited by a mysterious bear with an agenda…

“After the Animal Flesh Beings” by Brian Evenson

Edited by Ann VanderMeer
Illustrated by Reiko Murakami
Published June 21, 2023

A post-human civilization of synthetic beings, fixated on the concept of children, grapples with the meaning of life…after life ceases to exist.

“What It Means To Be A Car” by James Patrick Kelly

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Scott Bakal
Published July 26, 2023

An AI car is caught between its ruthless employer and the people she hurt…

“The Three O’Clock Dragon” by John Wiswell

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by J Yang
Published August 23, 2023

Prosperity City’s corrupt mayor never guessed his greatest opponent would be a fire-breathing dragon and her unconventional platform…

“The Job at the End of the World” by Ray Nayler

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Keith Negley
Published August 30, 2023

A weary resilience worker should know better than anyone: no one is safe when the world is always ending…

“The Tale of Clancy the Scrivener” by Ramsey Shehadeh

Edited by Ann VanderMeer
Illustrated by Weston Wei
Published September 20, 2023

After a fraught, improbably long life, a post-apocalyptic archivist resigned to cataloging ephemera from the “old world” times finds his life upended by an orphaned girl…

“Not The Most Romantic Thing” by Carrie Vaughn

Edited by Ann VanderMeer
Illustrated by Eli Minaya
Published October 11, 2023

On one of their earliest Visigoth assignments, Graff and Ell stumble into each other’s secrets (and one significant surprise) while conducting a recovery mission on a mining asteroid scheduled for imminent pulverization…

“The Canadian Miracle” by Cory Doctorow

Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
Illustrated by Will Staehle
Published November 1, 2023

A contentious election and radicalized locals interfere with Canadian recovery workers’ efforts at the site of a catastrophic flood in near-future Mississippi.

“Some Ways to Retell a Fairy Tale” by Kathleen Jennings

Illustrated by Erin Vest
Published November 8, 2023

There’s more to “once upon a time” than meets the eye…

*A version of this story appeared in TEXT.

“Sun River” by Nisi Shawl

Edited by Aislyn Fredsall
Illustrated by Xia Gordon
Published December 6, 2023

Princess Mwadi of Everfair teams up with American actress Rima Bailey on a reconnaissance mission in Egypt in an attempt to thwart the European spies intent on destabilizing Everfair and its business interests…

*A version of this story appeared in the anthology, Clockwork Cairo: Steampunk Tales of Egypt, published by Twopenny Books.

“The Sound of Reindeer” by Lyndsie Manusos

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Jorge Mascarenhas
Published December 13, 2023

Ada’s holiday trip to meet her girlfriend’s family becomes a bit more fraught than usual when she discovers the family’s unusual Christmas Eve tradition…

Novelettes

“Time: Marked and Mended” by Carrie Vaughn

Edited by Ann VanderMeer
Illustrated by Eli Minaya
Published January 11, 2023

Graff isn’t quite human. His people move through the galaxy collecting memories and experiences, recording their lives and passing them on. Then, one day, he breaks: he discovers a chunk of his memory is missing. This should be impossible—he’s never forgotten a moment in his life. Now, he has to learn to forget, and to remember, and this has consequences for all his people, his culture, and his whole world.

“Even If Such Ways Are Bad” by Rich Larson

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Sara Wong
Published February 8, 2023

A two-person crew embark on a mind-bending deep space mission inside a living wormship capable of burrowing through space. What lies on the other end is unknown—as is what they will do once they get there.

“Ceffo” by Jonathan Carroll

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Sara Wong
Published June 28, 2023

On a trip to Italy, a woman stuck in a crumbling relationship discovers the city she loves holds a secret that could change her life…

“Detonation Boulevard” by Alastair Reynolds

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Ben Zweifel
Published July 12, 2023

In a cosmic rally race winding 12,000 kilometers across Io’s treacherous surface in just 60 hours, all while dodging the competition, fatigue, and violent lava geysers—there’s only one way Cat knows how to win: Just. Drive.

“Headhunting” by Rich Larson

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Elijah Boor
Published August 9, 2023

A private eye plagued by hallucinations is hired to retrieve a mummified monk’s head stolen from a cathedral–but why would someone want it?

“The Passing of the Dragon” by Ken Liu

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Mary Haasdyk
Published September 13, 2023

A woman who fears she’s failing as a painter and as an artist seeks inspiration from one of her favorite poets and finds something even more wondrous, but also more impossible to capture on canvas…

“FORM 8774-D” by Alex Irvine

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Zoe van Dijk
Published September 27, 2023

It’s just business as usual at the Bureau of Metahuman, Mutant, and Occult Affairs until an employee for the government agency begins to wonder if work is following her home…

“Jack O’Dander” by Priya Sharma

Edited by Ellen Datlow
Illustrated by Jeffrey Alan Love
Published October 4, 2023

The sister of an abducted child is haunted by a sinister figure who may or may not be real…

“The Locked Coffin: A Judge Dee Mystery” by Lavie Tidhar

Edited by Jonathan Strahan
Illustrated by Red Nose Studio
Published October 25, 2023

A new Judge Dee mystery!

While visiting the mysterious castle of Maidstone for an investigation, Judge Dee and Jonathan discover the only thing more menacing than a vampire child is twin vampire children…

“On the Fox Roads” by Nghi Vo

Edited by Ruoxi Chen
Illustrated by Alyssa Winans
Published October 31, 2023

While learning the ropes from a crafty Jazz Age bank robber, a young stowaway discovers their authentic self, a hidden gift, and that there are no straight lines when you run the fox roads…

“A Heart Between Teeth” by Kerstin Hall

Edited by Kaleb Russell
Illustrated by Cristina Bencina
Published November 15, 2023

A new novelette set in the realms of Kerstin Hall’s acclaimed The Mkalis Cycle series. The 813th realm of Mkalis has fallen to a cruel and mercurial god, but Tahmais, its would-be successor, finds an unlikely ally in her quest to reclaim it at any cost…

“Ivy, Angelica, Bay” by C. L. Polk

Edited by Ruoxi Chen
Illustrated by Alyssa Winans
Published December 8, 2023

When Hurston Hill is threatened by a suspiciously powerful urban development firm, Miss l’Abielle steps up to protect her community with the help of a mysterious orphaned girl in this charming follow-up to “St. Valentine, St. Abigail, St. Brigid,” featured on LeVar Burton Reads.

The post All of Tor.com’s Original Short Fiction Published in 2023 appeared first on Reactor.

Rosalee died, aged seventy-six.

Her oldest sister, Irene (seventy-eight), blamed their middle sister, Viola (seventy-seven), for sending Rosie out front to check the mail when she knew Rosie’s inner ear condition was acting up. Viola, on the other hand, blamed Irene for not paying to get the garden path repaved last summer when they had the boys in to fix the porch.

The three sisters had never gotten along. They’d been born one, two, three—Irene then Viola then Rosalee—over the course of twenty-seven months, courtesy of prematurity and an abundance of parental amour. Their exhausted progenitors had expected them to share everything from possessions to personalities. As a result, they despised sharing anything apart from heartfelt and mutual hatred.

All three sisters had high-tailed it away from home as soon as age and circumstance allowed—three teenaged marriages, each more dubious than the last—but over the years, tragedy and/or mishap had struck thrice. One husband had died in a bar (where he spent the majority of his living hours in any case); one had converted his mistress into a missus; and one had honest-to-goodness disappeared at sea. The financial strains of widowhood—combined with the indifference, incapacity, and simple ingratitude of the various children to which the sisters had given birth—had eventually driven them all back to the farmhouse to live like maiden aunts.

It was as if, in their elder age, their adult lives had unspooled, dragging them back to their childhoods—back to walls full of half-finished electrical wiring that Papa had abandoned because he didn’t trust all that lightning in the house; back to the kitchen icebox with the drip pan that needed to be emptied twice a day; back to summers redly swollen with insect bites and winters nibbled blue by frost.

Irene and Viola had begun venting their ire on each other only seconds after finding Rosie’s corpse. Once begun, the rants continued almost ceaselessly throughout the following days, subsiding only briefly for herbal tea. At night, when even tea couldn’t soothe the savaged vocal cords, they rasped off to their separate bedrooms where they continued to berate each other in their dreams, each pleased to be winning her points so eloquently until waking dashed her back to contentious reality.

Rosalee’s ghost was understandably unhappy with the situation.

She had returned to spectral consciousness a few seconds after dying, the back of her head still pouring blood onto the garden path. Her body had not yet been discovered by anyone but herself, which had the virtue of giving her time to come to terms with the reality of her demise before being forced to cope with the concomitant reality of still being stuck in the world with her sisters, only now, as she would soon learn, without effective means to communicate her opinions.

“Does this seem fair?” Rosie had asked her corpse. “It does not.”

If her sisters had heard her, doubtlessly one of them would have snapped at her in response that life isn’t fair. She would have liked to reply: Shouldn’t death be then?

However, her sisters were elsewhere—and even if they’d been present, it wouldn’t have made any difference: they, with their doggedly metronomic breath and circulating blood, couldn’t hear her at all, no matter their proximity, not even when strolling right through her.

Rosie tried, nevertheless, to make conversation. For instance, when Viola announced that she was going upstairs to choose which dresses to send to the mortuary, Rosie followed.

“Not the polyester!” Rosie exclaimed, waving her arms in distress as she watched Viola sift through the hangers. “Oh, no, no—what are you doing? That was for a church play! I was a tree! Oh—no—I inherited that one from my mother-in-law— No! You can’t be serious! No one should wear that color!”

The issue was simple: Viola had always envied Rosalee’s wardrobe—but unfortunately, although all three sisters had gained weight after marriage and childbirth, Viola had gained more than the others, and so Irene would inherit the lot. Viola had made it her objective, therefore, to deny Irene whichever of Rosie’s dresses she thought Irene would most enjoy.

This might have been tolerable except that Irene’s curmudgeonly tastes ran deep. Even at the age of ten, she’d dressed like the abstemious old woman it had taken her sixty more years to become. Given a choice between, for example, a cheerful bright red and a dumpy dried-puke green, Irene would always choose the latter. She regarded embellishments like lace with several degrees more disgust than an upright Puritan would regard a Roman orgy.

Alas, Viola knew Irene’s taste very, very well.

Rosie followed Viola from dress to dress, striving desperately to be heard. “What about the pink one? Yes! Right there! No, no, don’t put it down— Okay, the blue one, that’s fine, too. It’s right behind the one you’re looking at— No, Viola, that’s a dress I wore to someone else’s funeral— Oh, no. You’ve got the key to my jewelry box. You’re going to go straight for my husband’s gold rings, aren’t you? Viola! That’s enough of this— Stop!”

Rosie planted herself directly in her sister’s path as Viola went to lay her selections on the bed.

Viola walked right through her.

Glumly, Rosie went looking for Irene. She found her out front, endeavoring to scrub residual blood from the path where Rosie had fallen. This was characteristic of Irene, whose willingness to replace things barely extended to balding toothbrushes. She kept a box in the attic filled with torn wrapping paper which she reused by taping it to packages in unsettling mosaics of reindeer, birthday candles, and the baby Jesus.

“This path was too old to start with,” Rosie scolded her. “Viola’s right. You should have had it replaced when we got the porch done. Look at all those cracks. One or the other of you is going to break your hip if you don’t die outright. How’s it going to look to people in town if we all die the same way?”

Irene stopped scrubbing to examine her progress. She sneered in frustration at the persistent splatter. “Isn’t this just like Rosalee?” Irene muttered. “Inconsiderate down to the blood.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Rosie. “Break your neck if you want to.” A horrible thought occurred. “You won’t become a ghost, will you?”

“Couldn’t even be bothered to watch her feet, the stampcrab,” Irene continued.

Rosie fixed a fastidious eye on her left foot as she drew it back to kick her eldest sister’s rear end. Being insubstantial, however, Rosie’s foot passed through Irene’s worldly derriere, leaving Rosie’s specter scrambling to regain her balance while Irene carried on her grumbling unaffected.

Although Rosie went to sit alone for the rest of the day, watching the sun slump behind the horizon, she could still hear her sisters shouting in the distance. Before her death, Rosie would never have guessed—and nor would anyone else—that she’d acted as something of a buffer between her older sisters. She’d argued just as bitterly and hated just as passionately. Yet now it was undeniable: in her absence, something important had changed.

The truth was that withdrawing any sister from the trio would have collapsed the balance between the others. With only two of them, there were no more shifting alliances to motivate negotiations and truces. There were only endless frontal assaults between opposing generals.

Through sheer vocal exhaustion, the hot war ended one morning in a ceasefire of a sort, though certainly not a cessation of hostility. Irene swore never to speak to Viola again; Viola swore the same back. The funeral, it was agreed, was to be arranged by notes deposited hourly on the neutral zone of the kitchen table.

For the first few early hours, Rosie felt relieved on behalf of her ears, but by afternoon it became clear that the only thing worse than the constant shouting was the unbroken silence. Not only had Rosie lost the ability to speak herself, but now she was without any words at all.

That night, when Rosie went up to the room that had been hers, and lay upon the bed that had been hers, atop the ugly clothing that had unfortunately also been hers, she was surprised to spy one of their childhood cats, Mrs. Fritter, loping into the room. The creature leapt onto her chest, seemingly untroubled by the fact that Rosie was recently dead.

Mrs. Fritter herself was many decades past the feline veil. Rosie held out her fingers for the dead cat to sniff. “Hey there, Missus,” Rosie said. “We never did figure out what got you. Was there a wolf?”

Mrs. Fritter approached and Rosie stroked her back. The animal circled several times before curling up.

“What did I expect?” Rosie asked. “They never listened to me when I was alive. No one did. Eddie—that was my husband, you never met him—Ed never listened to me either. To be fair, he was usually too drunk to listen to much. Certainly, too drunk to listen to the doctor about his liver.”

Mrs. Fritter rattled a purr.

Rosie went on, “When I was a kid—nine, ten, probably, you were gone by then—I had this game pretending I was an actress starring in the movie of my life. You could’ve been my pedigree cat. I could’ve clipped one of my rhinestone pins right here.” Rosie ruffled the tuft behind Mrs. Fritter’s ear.

The cat bopped her head against Rosie’s hand to start it petting again.

“I had a pair of those pins,” Rosie said, a bit maudlin. “Viola lost the stones out of them. I bit her on the arm and broke her pencils.”

Mrs. Fritter settled down as Rosie’s hand resumed stroking.

Rosie continued, “I’d be at the bus stop, imagining the argument I’d have someday with the director of my autobiographical picture. How should we stage the scene where I was discovered? Should I be waiting for the bus? Weeding the garden? Should Viola and Irene be around so we could get some good shots of their faces turning green, or should we focus entirely on me?”

She shook her head.

“Now, I’m dead, and I’m still…here.”

In the morning, Rosalee went out to the front porch. It was time, she thought, to fulfill her old aspirations, even if she had to do it on her own two ethereal feet. She gazed out at the flat horizon, wishing she had a hat and gloves and a suitcase so it would feel like a proper bon voyage. She took note of the brush of grasses against the sky, and the scent of open air, and the nearby copse of trees, and the little white car Viola had bought from her daughter-in-law at a discount—and she hoped never to see any of them again.

Mrs. Fritter came to see her off. The cat perched on the porch railing and washed her face.

Rosalee waved. “Goodbye, Mrs. Fritter!”

She set off on the road to somewhere.

A few minutes later, she was walking back toward the porch from the other direction, nothing in her head but blankness from the moment she’d crossed the property line. The shadows fell at exactly the same length and angle as they had before, cast by a sun that hadn’t bothered to budge an inch.

Mrs. Fritter proceeded to wash her shoulder.

“Well,” Rosalee started, but she wasn’t sure what else to say. “Well,” she repeated, sitting down on the porch steps until she gave up and started to cry. Mrs. Fritter jumped down from the railing, pushed her head under Rosie’s hand, and tried to purr the tears away.

Irene’s ghost woke after a heart attack landed her on the kitchen floor.

Two years ago, she and Viola had replaced the old fridge, and even called some boys to haul away the icebox. The new refrigerator’s harvest gold door stood halfway open, leaking cold, expensive air. The carton of strawberries that Irene had been looking forward to all day had fallen to the ground with her, where it snapped open, spilling fruit across the linoleum.

Irene tried to pick up a berry, but her fingers closed on nothing. “By Saint Boogar and all the saints at the backdoor of purgatory! I knew these cost too much. I didn’t even get to eat one.”

Irene enjoyed antique swear words. They were not merely her favorite indulgence, but also her shield against slander. People with no sense of rhetorical wit said all sorts of nasty things about women—especially teachers—who let loose with mundane profanities, but you could shout, “Stop doing quisby, you fustilarian scobberlotchers!” in front of a whole classroom’s worth of parents and not-a-one would stop gawping long enough to complain to the principal.

Shakespeare was Irene’s gold standard, but she delighted in anything sufficiently well-honed by centuries. Saint Boogar, for instance, found its origin in Tristram Shandy whose eponymous narrator was a veritable fountainhead of insults.

As Irene aged, her elderly obscenities had lost some of their advantages, not because the average loiter-sack had gotten any more gumption, but because the wandoughts and fustilugs of the general public expected old women to use “outdated language.” Even the rare parent who was not an irredeemable loiter-sack—a truly singular, nay possibly extinct breed—was far too parochial to distinguish between the tatters of childhood lingo and the sterling abuses of Shakespeare.

In the secret and desolate corners of what must grudgingly be called her heart, Irene had always hoped to meet someone with a tongue nimble enough to answer back. For the rightly educated person, retorts would have been easy. They could have called Irene a “klazomaniac” who’d keep on screeching even if you cut out her vocal cords, or a “muckspout” whose talent for constantly swearing was only outdone by her talent for constantly running her mouth. They could even have called her a “dorbel,” a nagging teacher whose obsession with scolding and nit-picking made her a peer of the French scholar Nicolas d’Orbellis, whose name had been purloined to craft the insult. Irene took it as fact that the poor man, who had apparently once been forced to wrangle his own classrooms full of ungrateful lubberworts, had been unfairly defamed. It was just like students to sneak around slandering any competent teacher as “scolding” and “nit-picking.”

The immutable ignorance of the dalcops that surrounded Irene depressed her, it really did. She consoled herself by flinging more insults until the feeling went away.

Irene was the nastiest of her sisters, a sentiment with which she would have happily agreed. As children, the three of them, being opposed to sharing anything, had carefully allocated their sins along with their dolls and dresses. Rosalee was selfish; Viola was resentful; Irene was mean. However, both Rosalee and Viola had found that, without their sisters’ reinforcement, their worst traits were mitigated by the outside world. Irene remained equally nasty both in and outside of sororal company.

When Irene’s husband, Howard, had lost himself on an Arctic expedition, unkind people said he was searching for someplace warmer than Irene’s heart. Unkinder people said he’d found it.

As soon as Viola heard Irene’s body thud to the floor, she rushed stiff-kneed from the back porch. At the sight of Irene’s broken-down sprawl, she was sure her remaining sister was dead.

She lowered herself to check Irene’s pulse anyway. Finding the expected absence, Viola released a whooshing sigh—not of grief or good riddance, but rather of gusty relief—as if she’d been holding her breath for all four years since swearing never to speak to Irene again.

“Really, Irene?” Viola asked, panting. “You don’t say a word to me for four years, and now you’re leaving me alone?”

“Giving up, eh?” Irene crowed. “I win!”

Unable to hear her sister’s exclamation, Viola mused, “If you’re dead, I suppose I’ve won now, haven’t I?” She laughed. “I can’t believe I won against you, Irene.”

“Because you didn’t win! I did!” Irene’s eyes went wide with delighted realization. “Ha! I can talk all I want now. What a slovenly thing you are, Viola! Buying stuff and things. Leaving them everywhere. Not even unwrapping them half the time, you raggabrash. It’s intolerable living with a driggle-draggle like you. You’re as inconsiderate as Rosalee! And those plastic flamingo corn holders are the tackiest things I’ve ever seen! What do you want with them? What’s wrong with our corn holders? When are you eating corn?”

Viola, staring down at her sister’s body, asked listlessly, “What am I going to do? What if I miss you? What will I do then?” She shook her head. “Well, now it’s all over, I suppose I may as well speak my mind.”

“Over because I won,” said Irene.

“How did you get so mean?” asked Viola. “You kept getting worse and worse. It’s like you were pickling in your own spitefulness.”

“Nothing wrong with pickles,” complained Irene.

“How could you be so mean without saying a word? You could be mean with an eyebrow. You could be mean with your elbow.”

“I can be mean with my toenail, thank you very much.”

Carefully, Viola picked herself up. Her joints creaked, the sound reverberating through her bones. She glanced toward the stairs leading to the second floor. “I guess the sunny bedroom is mine now,” she said, referring to the room that had passed from Rosie to Irene. “Typical. The middle child gets everything last.” She shuffled out, mumbling to herself about which funeral home to call.

“Watch you don’t get fatter, too,” Irene called after her. She sniffed. “Ridiculous tallowcatch.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” said Rosalee.

The ghost of Irene looked up. She was not only surprised, but downright shocked to see the ghost of Rosie, who crossed her arms over her chest and looked back.

“You’re dead,” Irene informed Rosie.

“Pot, this is Kettle,” Rosie replied, pointing to Irene’s corpse on the floor.

Irene had known she was dead before this point, but the knowledge had occupied some passive, subconscious part of her deceased mind. Now, as it was forced to the surface, for the first time she really understood it. Her consciousness grabbed hold of the knowledge and ran around having a fit.

“Gadsbobs!”

“Awful, isn’t it?” Rosie agreed drily. “You’re dead. I’m dead. And here we are.”

“Waesucks!”

“No one thinks about haunting from the ghost’s perspective,” said Rosie, who’d had a long time to maunder on the subject and no one to discuss it with. “We’re not haunting the house. It’s haunting us. It’s always haunted us. Think about it—we all escaped and then it snatched us back.”

“Drate-poke,” Irene snapped back by rote, barely even hearing herself as she struggled for a grip on the situation. “Are Mother and Father here? What about Great-Aunt Nancy?”

“Just us. And Mrs. Fritter.”

“The cat?”

Rosie snapped as her resentments shoved their way center stage. “Do you have any idea how horrible it’s been in this house for four years when the two of you wouldn’t even talk? Not one conversation! I begged you!”

“Don’t try to tell me what to do,” retorted Irene.

“You could have made up with her anytime. Now Viola’s got however long to stew on things before she dies. You better hope she gets forgiving.” Rosie narrowed her eyes at her eldest sister. She added, “Because ghosts giving each other the silent treatment would be pathetic,” with the sinking feeling that was exactly what was going to happen.

Rosalee stayed out of Irene’s way; Irene stayed out of Rosalee’s way; Viola did as she wished, believing herself alone.

It was, in its way, a revelation for Viola. Not only was she apart from her hated sisters, but it was her first time living alone. From the day she’d left her childhood home until the day she returned there, she’d lived with her husband, Jack-the-Unzipper, who had no problem relying on her for housework and hot dinners even when he was relying on the new girl at work for horizontal refreshment.

Over the years, there had been many “new girls at work.” Viola didn’t know the precise number—certainly more than the eight or so with whom she’d become embarrassingly acquainted. High/lowlights included Bea who at least had the manners to claim she didn’t know Jack was married; Peggy who’d optimistically bought a wedding dress; and Susan who threw him over for his boss, triggering a month-long sulk during which Jack had the gall to cry to Viola about female perfidy.

Jack’s last “new girl” had successfully lured him into giving Viola the ever-promised but never-before-delivered divorce papers. It was quite the acrobatic feat given Jack’s dread fear of alimony, perhaps assisted by the fact that Jack and Viola’s youngest child had finally earned a high school diploma, thus relieving Jack of his even worse fear of child support. The new girl seemed to think he was a catch. Perhaps he was; judging by the increasingly evident ravages of smoking in his Christmas card photos, he seemed literally ready to cough up her inheritance any day.

He’d taken the waif off to New York City, which for some reason had always been “too expensive” whenever Viola asked to go. He called it “an extravagantly stupid way to waste money.” Sometimes Viola tried to cajole him; sometimes she even begged. It would be cheaper if we stayed outside the city, she’d say. Or Even if we don’t go anywhere you have to pay for, there’s still so much there! Or Damn it, if you can take your tramps to ski lodges, you can pay for me to see Starry Night! But no. It was Jill who got to watch her face in the reflecting pool next to the Egyptian temple in the Met.

Viola considered that the worst part of this—worse than the difficulties of the divorce, worse than the revelations about bank balances and selfish children, worse even than seeing her husband strut off to New York City while she was forced into returning to the childhood home which had birthed all her miseries—the worst part of all was that the girl’s name was Jill. It was intolerable beyond belief that her life had been wrecked by a nursery rhyme. Viola retained some hope that the universe would show enough sense of irony to throw Jack and Jill down a hill together, but thus far her ex-husband’s crown remained lamentably intact.

After a few months alone (or so she thought), Viola settled into a pattern, going around the house unwrapping the plethora of packages that had so disturbed Irene. This would have made progress toward tidying if she hadn’t kept ordering new items. Some of what she sent for was still gimcrackery (like the plastic flamingo corn holders which had made their way to charity and thence probably a landfill), but she also began ordering things that she found intriguing or even genuinely profound.

She read memoirs of movers and shakers; she pored over coffee table books on the Castles of Scotland and the Great Houses of Morocco; she sighed at photo essays of bright lights among smog-stained skyscrapers. Her vague, lifelong yearnings had solidified into wanderlust sometime after Jack moved East with Jill. Why should he be the only one who got to see whatever he wanted to see? Why should he get to move forward while she got yanked back?

Not that she intended to actually travel. A more confident or iconoclastic woman might have set off for parts unknown despite fatigue and stiff knees and an eighty-two-year-old heart. Viola never really considered it. She was used to regarding herself as middling in the way middle children sometimes do. Not as strong-willed as Irene; not as cute as Rosalee; not particularly clever, not particularly talented, not particularly interesting. Certainly not someone who would do something extraordinary like explore the world for the first time while ninety crept closer on the horizon.

For a while, she became a devoted enthusiast of a television show about a food critic who traveled the world’s backroads searching for oases of fine cuisine. Eventually, the metaphor began to depress her—that she could watch the world’s wonders from a distance, but never really taste them. She found a show about a nun who visited art museums and watched that instead.

Rosie or Irene occasionally wandered through to harangue Viola about her viewing choices. (“We all have to listen to that, you know.” “Is this suicide by boredom?” “Turn on the movie channel.”) Viola never in the least registered their imprecations.

This is not to say that she never shuddered with the feeling she was living in a haunted house. She did. It was simply that the chills which shivered down her spine always came from leaky windows, and the horrible noises upstairs were never more than the settling of restive floorboards. Genuine uncanny activities—such as those times when Mrs. Fritter fell through Viola’s lap while attempting to cuddle—never roused a single hair on the back of Viola’s neck.

Rosie, for her part, saw no reason to change her routine just because Irene had died. She spent most days wandering the property with Mrs. Fritter until dawn and dusk swapped roles. The cat insisted on it; whenever Rosie tried to sleep past sunrise, Mrs. Fritter paced the length of her bed, caterwauling until the din forced Rosie out of bed. Rosie had no idea why. Maybe Mrs. Fritter was watching for ghost mice in the grass. Rosie had certainly never seen any.

Irene’s ghost, on the other hand, was curdling with boredom. Insulting Viola was useless; nastiness lost its savor when your target couldn’t hear you. Insulting Rosie was mildly amusing, but Irene could never get her to stick around for more than a few barbs. “Boil-brained, beslubbering giglet—” she’d shout and by then Rosie would already be on her way out the door.

Bored out of her ghostly skull, Irene tasked herself with learning to control the television. It came to nothing but the occasional burst of static so rare that even she had to admit it was probably random.

Books, however, were different. It turned out that they could be pulled from the shelf—or at least something could, a sort of ghost-book available to be read until someone set it down for long enough that it faded away. The metaphysical implications were disturbing. Did books have souls then? What did the soul of a book want? Could a book consent to be read? These questions occurred to Irene; she ignored them. In her opinion, all that was the books’ problem.

Reading made the afterlife bearable. When Irene got fed up to the eyeballs with Viola’s travelogues and the smattering of classics and popular novels in the parlor, she’d go up to the small bedroom to browse her father’s heirloom volumes of Shakespeare. They were nearly one hundred and fifty years old by now; even their ghosts smelled like must and leather. Irene particularly liked Richard III for his sensible treatment of his cousins.

Although the cat, Mrs. Fritter, spent most of her waking hours with Rosie, she occasionally went to find Irene. It was unclear whether Mrs. Fritter’s purpose was to annoy Irene, comfort her, or satisfy some other catly urge, but the most common result of her sociability was to be shouted at and chased away. Now and then, however, Irene would succumb to those parts of her which had failed to completely callous over, and she held Mrs. Fritter in her lap as she perused the soul of a book.

After a year or two, Irene realized the cat had gone. For some while, there had been no hissing, nor snuggling, nor ghost claws scrabbling on the hardwood. She was loath to admit feeling sad about some animal, but a misanthropic tear or two escaped her eyes.

Irene planned to ask Rosie about it, but the next time they crossed paths, she succumbed to the temptation to insult her sister’s hair instead.

In the race to kill Viola, chemotherapy snatched the gold before pancreatic cancer could reach the finish line.

The moment Viola’s sickbed became a deathbed, the atmosphere of the house changed in a way that would have been palpable to any ghost. It had gone from a place that held a living soul to somewhere only inhabited by the dead.

Irene barged into the sunny bedroom. “I saw what you buried me in!”

Viola’s ghost squinted and tried to clear her eyes.

She was still lying inside herself, her corpse beset with a strange, transparent doubling. One set of blue eyes looked toward Irene while the other remained fixed unblinking on the ceiling.

“Get out of there.” Irene jabbed her sister’s arm. Her finger sank through flesh to hit spirit.

Viola flinched. Seeing her ethereal arm come loose, she set about pulling herself out of herself. Her joints moved fluidly in a way they hadn’t for twenty years—which would have been more exciting if it weren’t for the obvious cause.

“Scarlet!” shouted Irene, mind’s eye filled with a vision of her corpse reclining gaudily in its coffin. “Scarlet and lace and rhinestone earrings!”

Viola snickered.

“I saw that puce nightmare you put me in for my funeral, too,” added Rosalee.

Both Irene and Viola startled. Neither of them had noticed Rosie’s spirit leaning against the windowsill where she’d been waiting for the past several hours, anticipating the inevitable.

Rosalee waved. “Hi, Viola.”

Viola glanced at Rosie, slightly sheepish. The puce had mostly been meant to annoy Irene. “Well, you were dead. How was I supposed to know you’d care?”

“Pfft,” said Rosie.

A balloon of dread inflated in Viola’s chest. “…have you two been here the whole time?”

“Since the day I dropped,” said Rosie.

With horrible inevitability, Viola’s brain reeled through every embarrassing memory from the past nine years. She made a small noise. “I used to wonder if you two were talking to me.”

“Never,” snapped Irene.

“All the time,” said Rosie, “but you never heard.” Sniffing, she took on a long-suffering tone. “Not that I expected you to. None of you ever listened to me when I was alive.”

“Rosie,” said Viola with a laugh. “No one could avoid listening to you.”

Rosie’s mouth went taut. “What are you talking about?”

“Ha.” Irene snorted. “Isn’t it obvious, you absurd skelpie-limmer?”

Skelpie-limmer meant dreadful child. Rosie would have been indignant if she’d understood what it meant, but Irene’s blandishments were all the same to her. She’d never bothered to learn any of them except in as much to figure out that, like most curse words, they were mostly concerned with stupidity or sex.

Disappointed but not deterred, Irene continued, “Great horn spoon, Rosalee. You made a racket dawn to dusk.”

“Singing, dancing, pretending to be in movies,” Viola added. “Early in the morning, late at night, and any time in between.”

“I never got one good night’s sleep as a child except when you had pneumonia,” said Irene. “Best month of my life.”

Rosie glared between her sisters. Their accurate-yet-unsettling claims rose bravely against her long-held resentments but were no match for such well-armored forces of ego-defense.

Rosie turned on Viola. “Took your time dying, didn’t you?”

“Sorry to disoblige,” said Viola, affronted.

“Well,” said Rosie, “now that you’re dead, we can finally get out of here.”

“Out of here?” Viola asked.

“Out of this house,” said Rosie. “Away from this farm. Out of here.”

Irene clacked her tongue derisively. “Mumblecrust! What are you talking about, Rosalee? I’ve tried it hundreds of times, same as you. Walk off the property, and there you are, walking back again.”

“Things will be different now,” said Rosie, adopting her most tremulant and mysterious tone.

Viola looked with bafflement between her sisters as they tried to stare each other down. This seemed…unreasonable. She felt that she deserved more time to adjust to being dead before having to deal with anything else. She also felt like she had a headache. Did ghosts get headaches? She rubbed her temples. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ignore her,” Irene told Viola. “This is just typical Rosie bespawl.”

“It is not.” Rosie tipped up her chin like an affronted socialite. “I know because of Mrs. Fritter.”

“…the cat?” Viola asked helplessly.

Irene felt a startled spike of anger as she remembered all those times when she’d thought about asking Rosie about the cat. She’d missed that cat, consarn it. “Why didn’t you bring this up before? Where’s Mrs. Fritter? Explain!”

Rosie sighed. She gave a little put-upon wave like a singer facing demands for an encore. “Fine. I’ll explain about the cat.”

Rosie did not explain about the cat.

Well, not immediately—not given that she suddenly had the opportunity to get more attention than she’d had in nine whole years. As much as Rosie had always liked Mrs. Fritter, a quirked cat ear made an insufficient audience for someone with as much pent-up joie de vivre as Rosie. Viola and Irene would also make an insufficient audience, of course, but at least they had human vocal cords with which to express admiration.

At Rosie’s insistence, the three relocated to the kitchen. The remains of Viola’s last downstairs meal lay on the table—a crumpled napkin, a glass with a splash of water, and a plate holding a few crumbs and a chicken’s thigh bone.

As they settled, Viola’s daughter-in-law, Kelly (who had somehow contracted the obligation to check in every few days on the woman she referred to as her monster-in-law), came in through the back door. She threw her coat on the counter and tossed her purse onto the nearest kitchen chair where it fell through Viola’s lap.

The sisters turned their heads to watch the luckless daughter-in-law head toward the stairs.

“That cumberworld going to make a racket in a minute when she finds your body,” Irene said to Viola.

Viola said, “Kelly will dress me in some ugly pastel skirt suit, see if she doesn’t. Something a sanctimonious church lady would wear on Easter. That’s what she did to her mother.”

Rosie said, “If you think that makes up for what you did to us, it doesn’t.”

“Scarlet!” cried Irene. “Rhinestones!”

Viola snickered again.

Irene’s turbulent anger sought the nearest target which happened to be Rosie. She jabbed an incensed finger at her sister. “Enough of this prattling conversation about nothing! Rosalee, you pribbling beef-wit, can’t you even bother to work your lazy mouth? Death’s head upon a mop-stick, tell your story!”

Viola and Rosie regarded Irene unperturbed.

“You left out fustilug,” complained Viola. “That’s my favorite.”

“I like saddle-goose,” said Rosie.

Irene’s mouth gaped open—no one was supposed to be amused by her outbursts, thank you very much!—but before she could deliver another torrent of abuse, the daughter-in-law’s inevitable shriek filled the house.

Rosie said to Viola, “You’ve been found.”

“Seems like it,” Viola agreed.

Irene, furiously shaking, shouted at Rosie, “Explain! Now!”

So, Rosie explained about the cat.

It had been about six months ago as far as Rosalee could remember, timekeeping not being high on her list of posthumous priorities. The last crusts of snow had failed to crunch and melt under ghost-foot and ghost-paw as she and Mrs. Fritter roamed the property.

The family lands were fairly small. Although they were fallow now, every inch had been planted or explored by someone in the family line at one time or another. Nevertheless, it was difficult to survey the whole territory on foot without using a map. Woman and cat’s daily wanderings drew them to some places frequently, and to others not at all.

Therefore, it was still entirely possible to find someplace their travels had not yet taken them. On the day in question, they found such a place: a nondescript hollow smelling of sage where a line of leggy bushes, undressed for winter, grew among patches of snow and dirt.

When Mrs. Fritter saw the naked shrubbery, her eyes lit with a wildness Rosie had never seen before. The cat bolted toward the westmost bush and began scrabbling at the dirt.

At first, Rosie merely watched, expecting Mrs. Fritter to lose interest. However, as the cat became increasingly frantic, Rosie, sighing, knelt to help.

The pair weren’t digging up real dirt, not exactly, which was probably for the best since they had only bare hands and paws to muster against the wintry ground. Yet in the same way that Irene had discovered that the souls of the books could be dislodged from their papery forms, Rosie now found that something was moving out of their way. She could see two realities at once: the intact patch of dirt that was part of the living world; and the growing, presumably spectral recess they were digging below it.

Mrs. Fritter stopped so Rosie stopped, too.

The cat’s ear cocked. Lonely, high-pitched noises came from the hole.

Rosie started to say something but caught her tongue.

Mrs. Fritter jumped in.

Leaping out again, the cat returned with a tiny ghost-thing in her mouth. It was a kitten, too young for its eyes and ears to open. It squeaked.

Rosie gasped. She hadn’t meant to, but—a new ghost! She’d never seen another ghost besides Irene and Mrs. Fritter.

Mrs. Fritter glanced back at the hole as if she wanted to jump in again. She hesitated, tense on her paws. It seemed to Rosie that the cat was worried about putting down the kitten.

Rosie held out her cupped hands. Mrs. Fritter gave her a skeptical look, seeming to weigh how much she trusted her companion. The verdict came back in Rosie’s favor; Mrs. Fritter dropped the ghost kitten into her palms.

It was such a tiny thing. Rosie laced her fingers around the shivering creature to keep it warm.

Mrs. Fritter carried up a second kitten, and then a third. By the time she brought up the fourth and final, Rosie had moved the tiny, squeaky ghosts into her lap to warm them in the folds of her skirt. She unfolded the fabric to make room for Mrs. Fritter who obligingly climbed up to sit with her kittens.

Mrs. Fritter set to licking, sweeps of her tongue wetting the kittens’ short, scraggly fur into cowlicks. They were too young to purr, but their complaints faded as they fell asleep against their mother’s belly.

Rosie remembered the early days of her death—how it had been the cat who initiated their routine, leading Rosie to the back door every day and complaining until she followed Mrs. Fritter outside.

“You’ve been searching for them, haven’t you?” Rosie murmured, quietly so the kittens wouldn’t wake. “You had a litter before you died, didn’t you? No one knew they were here. They must have starved. Poor little things. But now, everything’s all right. They have you again.”

Time passed. As Rosie began to worry about how long she could stay in her current position, Mrs. Fritter yawned and stretched. She took the first kitten by the nape and dismounted Rosie’s lap.

“I can help carry them inside,” Rosie ventured.

Mrs. Fritter ignored her. She turned to survey their surroundings. Her gaze fastened on a spot that Rosie would never have guessed a moment ago was different from anywhere else. Now, somehow, it was. Something about it seemed to glow—not the early grass, nor the dirt, nor the blue of the sky—something else, some nameless essence.

Mrs. Fritter approached the anomaly with the kitten in her mouth. She extended a paw. An ethereal glow shimmered over it like a beam of moonlight. The cat leapt forward and vanished, leaving only strange luminosity behind her.

Rosie exclaimed. The noise woke the other kittens whose little voices cried back. She started to panic. How was she going to raise three ghost kittens? Did they need milk? Would they ever get bigger? What if they froze? Or starved as they had before? Could they die a second time?

Even as these worries clamored in Rosie’s head, Mrs. Fritter bounded back through the portal, landing on the earth as if she’d never left.

Mrs. Fritter didn’t have the kitten anymore. Perhaps she’d left it on the other side? Was the afterlife through there? Was Mrs. Fritter playing Charon, ferrying her kittens to the land of the dead?

Rosie watched with a sort of stunned feeling as Mrs. Fritter approached for a second kitten and then carried it into nothing. For the third, it was the same. When she returned for the fourth, however, Mrs. Fritter paused to lick her shoulder.

“You’ll come back, right…? After you drop the last one off?” Rosie asked.

Mrs. Fritter washed the area where her shoulder met her back.

“You aren’t coming back, are you?” Rosie said quietly.

The mother cat bumped her head against Rosie’s knee to elicit a pat on the head and a scritch on the chin. Purring, she took the last kitten by the nape and started to go.

Rosie reached out as if to pull them back. The mother cat growled softly and leapt away, tail lashing. Rosie dropped her hand.

“I’m sorry,” said Rosie. “I’ll miss you.”

The cat gave her a slow blink of forgiveness.

Mrs. Fritter ran into the shimmering grass. The glow vanished with her.

Rosie took a little time to cry.

Afterward, she walked around the place where Mrs. Fritter had disappeared, but she found nothing other than mundane earth and cold air. Before going, she stopped to heap the ghost dirt they’d dug up into a memorial mound. It seemed right to leave something.

In all Rosalee’s wanderings since, she’d never found the place again. The memorial, it seemed, was gone. She supposed that, like the ghost books, it had faded back into the material world.

At the table with her sisters, Rosie dabbed her eyes.

“So.” Rosie tried to clear the lump in her throat. “I’ve been waiting for the two of you so we can do what Mrs. Fritter did.”

“Have kittens?” asked Irene sourly.

Rosie flashed her a look of pure disdain. Her older sister didn’t seem to have been affected by the story at all. Irene really was a nasty thing.

At least Viola was sniffling. “Rosie,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “That’s all very sad—and sweet too, a bit, but…Maybe it’s because I only just died, but I don’t understand what it has to do with us.”

“Ignore her, Viola.” Irene rolled her eyes. “Rosalee’s up to her usual mammering nonsense.”

Rosie ignored her eldest sister. She spread her hands in a lecturing gesture as she embarked on her explanation. “What makes a ghost? Unfinished business. Our Mrs. Fritter died and so did her kittens, poor little things. None of them could move on until they were together again.”

“Don’t even try picking me up by the nape,” Irene said.

“You think we have to leave together,” Viola said.

Rosie shrugged. “Mom and Dad and—heck, basically everyone—expected us to do everything together. Seems like the universe agrees.”

Viola glanced at Irene. “What do you think?”

“Mammering nonsense,” repeated Irene, but her expression was thoughtful.

Later, Rosalee realized she should have told her sisters she didn’t want to go.

First, Viola wanted a night to sleep on it. Then Irene declared it was a waste of time that would never work. Then Rosie tried to appeal to their sisterly feelings, but for some reason they were unmoved by her many anecdotes of victimization. Then Viola, having slept on it for two nights and an afternoon, insisted on staying until after her funeral.

“You both got to see the preparations for your funerals,” Viola said.

“Yeah, it was so exciting to watch you two exchange notes,” muttered Rosie.

“Scarlet,” said Irene. “And rhinestones.”

Rosie challenged Viola. “You just want to memorize every time someone slights you.”

Viola waved her arms as if to suggest that this was such an obvious and natural thing to do that she had no choice in the matter. “Why shouldn’t I want to be informed? I might see them again in the, whatever you call it—the after-afterlife.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Irene broke in, “since Rosalee’s delusional.”

Rosie turned on Irene. “If I made it all up then where’s Mrs. Fritter?”

Irene hesitated then made a pshaw noise before stomping away.

Rosie was not deterred.

She had only one goal now: leave. If that didn’t count as unfinished business, nothing did.

Rosalee knew of exactly one place where the world could fissure. True, up to now she hadn’t been able to find the rift through which Mrs. Fritter had escaped, but this time she’d have Irene and Viola with her. Obviously, once all three of them were there, the world would open up again.

(Will it? asked a tiny part of Rosie. She ignored it.)

Once Viola and Irene saw an actual exit right there in front of them, they couldn’t possibly keep being so unreasonable.

(Couldn’t they? asked the tiny part of Rosie. She told it to shut its stupid mouth.)

She formed a plan, tucked a ghost-volume of poetry into her pocket, and went off to lie.

“You’re sure you saw the cat around here?” Viola asked Rosalee as the three sisters trudged through the musty-smelling humidity, searching the property. Rosie and Viola felt phantom itching on their calves as they passed through the overgrown grass. Irene’s calves, however, did not, being protected by the most boring spectral pants the sour-minded sister had been able to imagine.

Rosie put on an expression of wounded indignation. “Absolutely, completely, one hundred percent,” she said with fraudulent passion.

“Calm down,” said Viola. “I’m just asking.”

“Hmff,” puffed Irene, walking behind.

Rosie had begun this trip quite pleased with herself. Irene and Viola had agreed to come surprisingly quickly after Rosie told them that she’d seen the ghost of Mrs. Fritter from a distance on one of her afternoon rambles, perhaps because Rosie had learned from her previous mistake and told them she thought they should stay away.

The only problem was they’d been out for at least a couple of hours now and, so far, there were trees and weeds and buzzing insects that made Rosie’s intangible skin twitch, but there was no sign of anything shiny.

“Why are you so sure it was the cat?” asked Viola. “If it was that far away?”

“Because I’m sure,” retorted Rosie. “You think I can’t recognize my own cat?”

“It can’t have been more than a blur,” said Viola. “Maybe it was a skunk.”

“It was Mrs. Fritter,” Rosie snapped.

“Give it up, Rosalee,” said Irene.

Rosie and Viola stopped to look back at their older sister. Irene stood planted about ten feet behind them, arms crossed over her chest.

Irene smirked which was never a good sign. “You didn’t see the cat. You never saw anything at all.”

Rosie feigned indignation. “That’s not— Of course I—”

Irene cut her off. “Don’t try it, Rosalee. We’re not stupid just because you are.”

Rosie shrank a step back. She was usually inured to her sister’s insults, but the naked simplicity of this one had an unexpected sting.

Viola’s forehead creased. “You were trying to trick us into leaving?” she asked Rosie.

“No!” Rosie protested.

Irene pointed an accusing finger at her youngest sister. “Then what’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

Irene turned to Viola. “It’s a poetry book. She was planning to recite a few elegies before we dearly departed. Don’t take my word for it. Look for yourself.”

Viola made a grab for Rosie’s pocket which, deflected, became a grab for Rosie’s rear. Viola adjusted her grip while Rosie struggled to fend her off. They grappled until Viola managed to jab a finger into Rosie’s left armpit which Viola knew from childhood fights was particularly tender. Rosie yelped and twitched involuntarily, giving Viola time to snatch the poetry book with a triumphant yawp.

Viola read the title with disgust. “Collected elegies!” She waved indignant arms. “I told you I wanted to stay until after the funeral!”

“And how long are you going to want to stay after that?” Rosie shouted back. “How long am I supposed to wait to get out of here?”

Irene laughed. “I heard her practicing. ‘Shall we take the act to the grave? The ravenous grave?’ Her poetry reading is almost as ridiculous as her plan.” She clacked her tongue. “You don’t even really know where the cat disappeared, do you, Rosalee?”

Tears burgeoned in Rosie’s eyes. “It has to be close— I think I see the line of bushes— If we just go back—”

“Rosalee, you’re a flap-mouthed leasing-monger,” said Irene. “That cat went through where she found her kittens. That’s where she finished her business. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

“But we’re together now—” Rosie started.

Irene scoffed. “Come on. Even you can’t be this daft. If all we had to do was go together, we’d have gone at Viola’s deathbed.” She sliced her hand decisively through the air. “We’re stuck here. It’s obvious. I only came along to see your face when you realized it.”

“No—” Rosie’s voice broke. “That can’t be true. I’ve been here so long. I can’t bear it anymore.”

“Truth doesn’t care what you want,” said Irene. “And neither does anyone else.”

Rosie’s whole face was wet. “You don’t have to be so mean.”

“You don’t have to be so selfish,” said Irene.

Rosie’s hands clenched. “I’m not being selfish!”

Viola broke in before Irene could respond. “You act like what anyone else wants doesn’t matter! I told you, Rosie! I want to stay for my funeral!”

“But—” started Rosie.

Viola glared back with contempt. “I’m going back to the house. Kelly and Archie have probably been there for hours. Now I’ve missed everything they have to say because of you.”

Viola stormed off.

The oldest and youngest sisters stood in silent reproach for a few long minutes until Viola was out of hearing range.

Rosie pleaded, “Irene, I—”

Irene gave Rosie the sweetest smile that she could dredge from its quivering hiding place in her soul. “Thanks for the outing.”

Rosalee watched through watery eyes as her eldest sister left. She considered waiting to follow them both, but she couldn’t bear the thought of being stuck with them in the same, dim rooms where she’d been stuck all along. She turned toward the outskirts of the property instead and went wandering, searching for somewhere that shimmered.

Viola’s funeral passed. The relatives remained, fixing up the house for sale.

Viola felt sullen as she sat on the dresser in the sunny bedroom where she’d died, watching her son and daughter-in-law arrange the house for sale. It was fun hearing what people had to say, “very Mark Twain” according to Rosie, although she hadn’t read the book for decades. Viola mentally stored every slight as ammunition to use in post-mortem altercations once the living had given up their ghosts—assuming the various relatives turned up in the same afterlife, of course.

So far, this conversation was light on snubs, but then again, it was also light on words. Mostly, Archie was sniffling by the window frame he was supposed to be fixing while Kelly silently unpacked the dresser.

How like Archie. Her son had always been a brooding child. He was like Rosalee if Rosalee had been inclined toward self-scourging rather than foisting recriminations onto perfectly innocent sisters.

And how like Kelly. That most execrable of daughters-in-law was leaving the poor boy to cry without a single “there, there.” What a termagant. (One couldn’t live with Irene without picking up a few words.)

Into the stillness, Archie said, “I know Mom wasn’t nice.”

Not nice? A slight. Viola cataloged it.

Kelly snorted. “To put it mildly.”

Viola cataloged that, too.

“But it breaks my heart sometimes,” Archie continued. “I’m not sure she was ever happy. If only…I mean…I wish I could have…”

The sliding of dresser drawers was the only sound in the gathering pause.

Archie looked up at Kelly. His wife remained focused on her work, face averted, but Viola saw her son’s upraised expression. Tears blurred the blueness of his pupils and exhaustion bruised the skin under his eyes. His face, usually near-white—he was an indoor sort of boy—was patched and red from rubbing. He made a noise in the back of his throat, part-clearing and part-sob.

Viola, softening, decided to de-catalog his last few affronts.

Archie sighed into the quiet. “I don’t know.”

Kelly still didn’t look up. “It’s not your fault.”

Her daughter-in-law’s voice was soft but stiff, almost annoyed. Archie barely seemed to hear.

“I know,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Yes,” Archie protested, followed by, “Dad didn’t help.”

Kelly snorted again. “Thank goodness you didn’t inherit whatever gene it is that causes his dick to spontaneously dive into the nearest canal.”

Archie frowned slightly. “He’s been faithful to Jill.” He paused before mumbling, “I think.”

“He probably can’t find anyone else who’ll take his old ass,” said Kelly.

“I think he regrets things with Mom. He cried, you know. When I told him she’d died.”

“Really?” asked Kelly.

“Really?” asked Viola.

“He said ‘she was my first love.’”

“Huh,” said Kelly.

“Huh,” said Viola.

That was nice to hear somehow. She added a little positive tick to her mental catalog. She didn’t have many of those.

“None of them were happy,” Archie went on.

“You mean Rosie and Irene?” asked Kelly.

Archie nodded. “I didn’t see much of them growing up. I mean, you know how Mom felt. But I didn’t have to see them much—you could just tell.”

Kelly shrugged. “Irene seemed plenty happy whenever she screamed at me.”

“I guess…” Archie admitted, “but addicts are happy when they get their next dose, too. They can still be miserable.”

“Sometimes I wonder whether they’d all have been happier if they’d started drinking. I guess Rosie’s husband did enough of that for the whole family,” Kelly said. “I don’t see why you’re wasting time worrying about Irene. She spent plenty of time yelling at you, too. Honestly, I don’t see why you’re worrying about Rosie either. Or your mother. How many happy memories do you have of her? I bet you could count them on one hand.”

“More than that,” Archie said with a frown, but Viola noticed he didn’t say how many.

Come on, Viola thought, there had to be at least a few dozen. Right? There was that national park trip when all four of the kids were in grade school—well, up until she and Jack had that argument over the tents and they had to go home…and there were those milkshakes she used to make with Archie on weekends until she realized it was making both of them fat…Oh, just after she brought home Archie’s first baby sister, that had been a good time. Archie was such a sweetheart, helping out in that cute-but-unhelpful way toddlers did. Viola had to redo everything on the sly so she wouldn’t hurt his feelings. But even then, there were those hours-long shouting matches at night after Jack came home five hours late, rumpled and smelling like someone else’s brand of cigarettes…

Viola’s fingers fretted at the hem of her sleeve. How many happy memories did she have at all, really, in her whole life?

Archie continued, “They all got…stuck. Sometimes I wonder what Mom would have done if she’d been born twenty years later.”

“People have always been pressured into things,” said Kelly. “You’re making excuses. It wouldn’t have changed anything. She could have done things differently if she wanted. She chose to be what she was.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. She knew the girl couldn’t hear her, but she responded anyway. “Meaning?”

At the same time, Archie said, “Don’t be mean about her.”

Viola smiled. Sweet boy.

Kelly continued, “It’s easy for you to be maudlin. I was the one who had to deal with her. At least, by the end, I was free from those other two horrors.”

“Kelly,” Archie said, chastising.

His wife finally looked up. She took out a last shirt, threw it in the donation bag beside her, and banged the drawer closed with her hip. “You can’t make me do everything and blame me for how I feel about it. She was a monster-in-law. It wasn’t cute because she was old, or because she was sad, or because she had dreams that never came true. If she wanted to be something else, that was her responsibility. Not mine—and not yours.”

Kelly stopped, breathing heavily after the gust of words. She looked over at her husband; he was fully crying now, though silently, tears streaming openly down his cheeks as he didn’t even try to cover his face.

Viola, who had been stunned by the vehemence of Kelly’s speech—no, not speech, self-important sermon—suddenly sparked with anger. She leveled an accusing finger. “You witch,” she growled, not caring that Kelly couldn’t hear. “Leave my son alone. How dare you.”

Kelly’s face had softened. She spoke gently. “She was the parent, Archie. It wasn’t your job to take care of her. It’s not your fault.”

“But Dad—” Archie started.

“—doesn’t matter,” Kelly finished. “At some point, we’re in charge of ourselves.”

Viola stared at them. Her anger had fizzled out. The pit of her stomach—even though there was nothing in it, could be nothing in it; even though it was ethereal and not really a stomach at all—felt horribly heavy and swollen as if she’d eaten something terrible that had lodged in her so deeply she’d forgotten it wasn’t part of herself.

None of the three of them, the two living humans or the ghost, moved for several minutes. There was no clock in the room to tick, but insects droned outside in the humidity.

Archie looked down at his feet. He wiped at his eyes, and then looked up again, staring glassily out of the window. “I just wonder.”

Kelly said, “I know.”

After a while, Archie picked up his hammer and returned to the broken window frame. Kelly opened the next dresser drawer. Viola went up to the attic to sit by the dormer windows overlooking the farm and think.

Viola had never brought it up with her sisters because she’d been afraid they’d laugh—but sometimes, when they were little, she’d had fantasies they could be friends.

The fantasies were always strange and hazy because it was so hard to picture. When hatred is your bedrock from the time you understand other people exist, it’s not a thing you can just get away from. Viola’s hatred for her sisters had metastasized before she knew what the word sister meant. It was in her fingertips and her tongue and her toes even now when they were all transparent. She could get as far as imagining the three of them as dolls with stitched-on smiles, but the daydream fell apart as soon as she tried to imagine what those sewn-shut mouths would say.

After moving out to get married, Viola had realized that while they all knew that their parents had planted the pernicious seed of hostility by forcing the three sisters to be alike, the truth was that their parents had also watered, fertilized, and nurtured that seed into bloom by pitting the sisters against each other. When one sister achieved something the others had not, whether easy or extravagant, she became the favorite, showered with praises and treats. The esteem never lasted. Soon enough, Rosalee would get a compliment on her choir singing from the mayor’s wife, or Irene would win an attendance award, and favor would pass.

Viola hadn’t been the favorite very often. Perhaps that had made it easier to see what their parents were doing. While Rosalee and Irene brawled for approval, Viola watched carefully to snatch up the scraps.

A person could learn to like scraps. A pat on the head—savor the comfort, remember it. A second-hand dress with checkered trim—hang it up and treasure it. The next pat would be for another head, but they couldn’t take back the first one. The heirloom Bible and earrings would be doled out to Irene and Rosalee who “deserved the family legacy,” but the second-hand dress hanging in the closet never passed judgment.

Except when she gained weight. Then it felt like the dress was judging her, the same way it felt when Mom laughed any time Irene called Viola a heifer (during the days before Irene became a cussing expert). Then the dress became a reminder of all the things she didn’t have, the same way Jack had been every time he came home moping over some “new girl at work.” At least she could put the dress in the back of the closet where she didn’t have to look at it.

After Rosalee’s failed attempt to find Mrs. Fritter, Viola had been gnawed by a parasitic worm of a thought: perhaps the universe wanted them to act like the dolls with sewn-on smiles. Maybe it wasn’t satisfied by their simply being together; maybe it wouldn’t let them go until they all gave in and got along. Could that be their unfinished business?

No, how horrible. To make them responsible for each other’s fates? That was how everything had begun in the first place.

Their whole lives, they’d been twined in a horrible dance, a quartet with the house taking the fourth position, continuing long after their parental choreographers were gone. How could they reconcile even if they wanted to? When you keep stirring volatile chemicals, you can’t be surprised when they explode.

Sometimes things don’t have to mix. Sometimes things are separate.

When Viola was done thinking, she went to find Rosalee because Rosalee was easier to persuade than Irene.

“You really think you’ve got a plan that will work?” Rosie asked with a skeptical squint.

“Positive.” Viola paused to consider. “Well, maybe about sixty percent.”

One corner of Rosie’s mouth dipped downward, but allowed it was, “Still worth trying, I guess.”

Viola told Rosie that the next step was finding Irene. Rosie complained and tried to convince Viola they didn’t really need Irene, did they? When that line of persuasion didn’t work, Rosie tried to wheedle Viola into at least telling her what the plan was before they went off searching for their sister, but Viola found it exhausting to think about trying to explain things twice. More accurately, Viola found it exhausting to think about having to debate things twice. She had no desire for a double helping of nit-picking.

In order to make her reasoning more palatable for Rosie, Viola called this “wanting to get everything done at once” rather than “wanting to spare myself a headache (and by the way, I still think it’s unfair I have to deal with headaches when I don’t even have a real head).” Eventually and grudgingly, with a bit of stomping and a bunch of sighing, Rosie gave in.

The problem was that Irene had been hard to track down ever since the elegy incident. Even though Rosalee was the only one who’d actually expected to leave that day, the failure had disappointed all three of them they did not understand. It had the feeling of a final condemnation, the turning of the key in the lock of the prison door that would cage them here forever.

However, it still felt odd for Rosie and Viola to see how badly the incident had affected Irene. She had, after all, gloated almost unbearably at the time about how she’d “defeated Rosalee’s mammering.” Yet since then she had become sullen and shadow-eyed, avoiding both becurst farmhouse and belated sisters in favor of haunting remote crannies of the property. Her invective had fallen silent; her glowering was squandered on rodents and spiders.

In contrast, the other two sisters were perfectly able to rely on their usual comforts. Rosalee, for instance, had a lifetime’s experience of feeling hard done by when reality refused to reshape itself for her convenience. Whether her peevishness was unreasonable (as in most circumstances) or reasonable (as in this case), she used the same technique to channel her angst—namely, swanning around with great sighs and lamentations.

Thus far, Viola had been able to entertain herself by spying on Archie and her other relatives, but when the need arose, she’d soon be able to resort to her own default behavior of passive aggressively doing chores while snapping at anyone who asked: everything’s fine, don’t bother about me, here’s your damn laundry. Granted, her ghostly state made most chores impossible, including laundry, but Viola’s self-martyring instincts were no doubt up to the task of finding substitutions.

As for Irene, well…Even Irene, the erstwhile vulgarian herself, didn’t know why salutary activities like flurries of abuse now failed to raise her spirits.

In an inchoate and unarticulated way, Rosalee and Viola had begun to suspect that the cause might lie with Irene’s stagnant disposition. During those all-too-short years when Rosalee and Viola had moved away from the farmhouse and their parents and everything else that had made their childhood what it was, they’d found their worst vices alleviated by their new surroundings. In their outside lives, they had been sometimes affable, even occasionally friendly. This meant that now, from time to time, the two ghosts were able to marshal their admittedly minimal social skills and tolerate each other’s company.

For Irene, there existed no such possible relief. She had never done anything—never wanted to do anything—but ferment like a herring buried beneath an icy patch of Scandinavian ground. She faced an eternity of nothing but sisterhood—which by her lights was far worse than an eternity of almost anything else.

In any case, Rosie and Viola had to expend significant time and effort before locating Irene near the border of their farm, sitting in the mildew-scented dark under the fallen roof of a shed that had been built for some unknown purpose and then likewise abandoned.

“Leave me alone,” Irene said, not even bothering to call anyone a canker-blossom.

With a pshaw, Rosie waved her hands in defeat and turned to go. Viola took her arm to stop her from leaving.

“This is important,” Viola said.

Irene shrugged.

“You’ll want to hear it,” Viola added.

Irene repeated herself.

Rosie rolled her eyes. Viola decided it was time to bring out the big guns.

“Rosie was wrong,” Viola said.

That got Irene’s attention. She liked other people being wrong.

Irene turned around. Viola found her sneer oddly reassuring; apparently, Irene’s hateful self remained somewhere beneath that mopey facade. Rosie, however, did not find the sneer reassuring, given that it was at her expense.

“Of course Rosalee was wrong,” Irene said. “She’s always wrong.”

“I’m done with this,” Rosie said, turning dramatically on her heel. Viola grabbed her arm again.

“Well?” Irene snapped as if Viola was the one delaying things. “Are you going to say what this is about or not?”

Viola ignored the provocation. “Rosie thought our business was finished now that the three of us are dead. Our business isn’t finished. It’s just beginning.”

“Tsch,” said Irene, waving her off. She looked dangerously ready to turn her back again.

“Will you just give me a chance?” Viola complained. “Look, we’ve been stuck here with each other our entire lives. We were still stuck here even when we were living in other places.”

“Rosalee’s been running her mouth about that for years,” Irene said. “So what?”

Viola spread her hands as if revealing a truth in the empty space between her palms. “Everything has always shoved us together. Our destiny is being apart.”

Neither of Viola’s sisters seemed impressed by this revelation.

Viola tried phrasing it a different way. “Our unfinished business is to leave.”

“I knew this was a waste of time,” Irene muttered.

“Don’t be stupid,” Rosie said to Viola. “We can’t leave the farm. That was the first thing I tried.”

“No— See, Rosie, you weren’t entirely wrong,” Viola replied, earning a tsch of indignation from Rosie and a tsch of dismissal from Irene. Viola continued, “You said we all had to be together, and we did. Just like Mrs. Fritter couldn’t leave without her kittens, we couldn’t leave until we were all here. But now we are all here.” She looked between Rosie and Irene. “Have you tried leaving since I died?”

“Well…” Rosie said, sounding defensive. “I mean, I’d tried so often…”

Irene pitched in, “I don’t do things that are obviously a waste of time.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Viola. “Do you see what I mean? Now that we’re all here together, we can all leave to go our separate ways.”

“Like leaves dispersing in the wind,” Rosie said in her best poetic voice.

“More or less,” Viola agreed.

“It can’t be that simple, can it?” asked Rosie.

“Some things are simple,” Viola said. “When you were alive, how many times did you lose your glasses and then find them on your head?”

Rosie looked indignant. “Never. Why would I need glasses?”

Viola strove not to roll her eyes. “Okay then, thought your TV was broken, but the cord had just been pulled out of the socket.”

“Never,” Rosie repeated before admitting, “but I have thought my curling iron was broken when Eddie tripped the circuit breaker.”

“See?”

Rosie bit her lip. Sometimes she did that to look cute, but this was an unstudied gesture, awkward and thoughtful. “You know? I think you’re right. After all this time, it just seems…right.”

Fretting nervous fingers, Viola turned to their eldest sister. “So, uh…What do you think, Irene?”

Despite Irene’s pinched expression—which had been growing more and more contemptuous throughout her sisters’ exchange—Viola entertained a thread of hope that Irene’s disdain might be a mask to conceal her vulnerability. Alas, that hope unraveled as Irene coughed a laugh and pulled to her feet.

“Do whatever you want. Just leave me out of it.”

“Irene—” Viola began, but before she could voice her protest, Irene had already begun to stalk away.

Viola closed her mouth on her unspoken objection. She and Rosie both watched Irene disappear into the ever-growing grasses, heading in the opposite direction from the farmhouse at a surprisingly rapid pace.

“Don’t tell me we’re going to have to run around and find her a second time,” Rosie complained.

Viola shook her head slowly. “I think we’re just going to have to try without her.”

“Will that work?”

“I don’t know.” Viola shook her head again then suddenly stopped to laugh. “You know, life never made any sense. I guess there’s no reason for the afterlife to.”

“Maybe life and death should both get their act together,” Rosalee said.

“Well.” Shaking away her anxieties, Viola rubbed her hands together as if cleaning off dust. She turned a determined gaze on Rosie. “Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up at dawn and follow the sun East. With any luck, I’ll get to keep on going. You should go wherever you want, Rosie, just as long as you don’t follow me.”

Rosie didn’t even pause to think. “I’ll go West. I’ve always wanted to go West.”

Viola chuckled. “Gonna take Hollywood by storm?”

Rosie’s expression went stormy. Viola realized the comment had come across as a slight. She raised a conciliatory hand.

“Sorry, Rosie. I was joking. If there’s a ghost Hollywood, I’m sure you’ll be a star.”

Rosie, who did not quite believe the apology, arched a skeptical eyebrow. Nevertheless, she chose to forgo pursuing the subject. She asked, “Do you think it’s all right if we leave at different times?”

“If we’re all doing our separate things, why not?” Viola scratched her elbow. “Why? When do you want to leave?”

“Sunset,” Rosie said with the kind of flat intonation used to signal something should have been obvious. “When else are you supposed to ride off at the end of the movie?”

Viola chuckled.

Rosie smoothed the hair behind her ear. “So, this is goodbye then.”

“I guess so!” Viola agreed.

Rosalee took Viola’s hand. With a flourish worthy of a close-up, she bowed to give it a kiss. “Dearest sister, I sincerely hope never to see you again.”

Viola felt some sort of sentimental obligation to wander the farm, taking one last look. She kept waiting for a wave of nostalgia, but none came. It was more like riptides of awkwardness, sudden swells dragging her into memory. Not even anything traumatic, really, just stupid things that made her flinch. Here: that dirt patch surrounded by stones where Rosalee’s friends left Viola out of their games. There: behind the shed where Irene tricked her into sticking her hand into a bucket of live bait.

Oh, and over there: the old carriage house where guests stayed sometimes. That was where she’d said the stupid thing to Aunt Nancy about how it was easy to stay skinny if you weren’t lazy. Aunt Nancy had cried, and then later Viola heard her mother reassuring Aunt Nancy that, “Viola can be a little brat sometimes. I don’t know where she gets these ideas,” as if Viola hadn’t just been repeating something she’d heard from her mother in the first place. Viola often remembered the incident at night. Sometimes it hurt more that she’d upset Aunt Nancy; sometimes it hurt more that Mother could just betray her like that without even pausing.

Where were they now? Aunt Nancy? Mother? Had they died with all their business finished? What had their mother’s business been? Traumatize your daughters then sit back and watch the show?

Viola felt guilty about her indifference. You’re supposed to care about your home, aren’t you? Even if you hate it?

Well, supposed to or not, she didn’t.

She did end up spending time with her books of photographs. Their slick smell, which still rose from their ghost pages, made her stomach feel shiny with anticipation.

To go East! Those were the museums she’d always dreamed of in her deepest heart. Not the Louvre or the Uffizi Gallery—however beautiful they looked behind the nun on TV—but the Metropolitan Museum of Art. And the Smithsonian! Where she could see the Star-Spangled Banner, the Spirit of St. Louis, the microphone from the Fireside Chats. Viola was going to walk past brownstones; stare up at goddesses carved into marble facades; explore tall ships in Boston Harbor. She was going to stand in the spray of Niagara Falls and, thanks to ethereal resilience, she could even dive down it if she wanted to. She flipped through her books until dark, but every beautiful Mediterranean villa and French vineyard only made her itch to head for Central Park.

After a night’s fitful sleep, it was dawn. Viola wasn’t surprised to find the porch was empty, its steps layered with sawdust that the sisters’ ghost footsteps couldn’t disturb. The goodbye she’d exchanged with Rosalee yesterday had felt final. Even if Irene had known Viola was leaving, she’d never have come. She’d probably be cackling with joy up in the attic.

Viola took a deep breath. She straightened her ghost hair and her ghost dress. Not that anyone would see her—or would they? If there could be a ghost cat, why not ghost elevator operators and ghost cigarette girls? Maybe Rosalee would get her ghost Hollywood after all, full of departed swains and starlets.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

She set her feet to the path and went.

Rosie slipped into the front room to watch as Viola set off. She didn’t call out; they’d said their goodbyes. As Viola passed out of sight, Rosie felt a little choked up. She’d always been sentimental.

Now that she had made the decision to go West, Rosalee couldn’t imagine how she hadn’t decided to do it when she was alive. She’d wanted to all her life, hadn’t she? At least, all of her life before she did her best to stop wanting things.

She’d only been fifteen when she took up with Eddie. Neither of them came from families that believed in taking time between taking vows and making babies. She already had one squalling in her arms by the time Eddie decided that alcohol was the best cure for an ex-bachelor’s boredom. If there was more boredom after you’d drunk your first five shots, he believed, then the answer was to keep drinking until you were either cheered up or passed out. Eventually, instead of not caring much about family life, Eddie stopped caring much about life at all.

Rosalee had rocked the baby and thrown her ambitions out with the bathwater. Well, what else was she going to do? Ambitions are halfway thrown out by the time you grow up anyway, especially ambitions of stardom—which, let’s be honest, are about as likely as a manifestation of your long-dead childhood cat appearing to pester you about going outside.

Could she even remember—really remember, down to her bones—a time when going to the cinema wasn’t about counting pennies and wrangling kids? When she was a child, going to the theater had been different; it had stirred a promise of wonder and beauty in her chest. She remembered the promise. The feeling was gone.

Had been gone. She could feel it flickering again like a single bulb coming back to life on the long-dark frame of a backstage mirror.

Through the window, Rosie kept watching the empty road that led away from the farmhouse, honestly expecting to see her middle sister pop back onto the porch any second. She watched long past the time it should have taken for Viola to walk off the property and then kept watching longer. She watched and watched until it was ten in the morning, and then eleven, and then noon, and the porch was still empty.

The porch was still empty.

Viola was headed East! Or maybe she’d disappeared in a puff, or ended up in the afterlife, or who knew what—but whatever had happened, she wasn’t here anymore.

Rosie still had hours before her planned departure. She wished Mrs. Fritter were still around so she could say goodbye with a pat on the head, but the cat had napped long ago. Rosie went to find Irene instead—well, again, she’d always been sentimental. She couldn’t find her, though, and eventually gave up.

As dusk settled, Rosalee stood at the base of the porch steps, looking back up at the railing where Mrs. Fritter had been perching the first time she’d tried to walk away. Viola’s daughter-in-law had stripped the paint off so they could redo everything for the sale. Too bad, since the porch had just been redone. Wait, no, it had been almost ten years! She laughed.

Sunset flushed the Western horizon pink, and Rosalee headed toward the lights and the cameras.

Irene was having none of it.

Unfinished business? By the double-barreled jumping jiminetty, she wasn’t going to let some bobolyne like destiny push her around. Maybe some people really did die with “unfinished business,” whatever that meant. Certainly, the common froward barely possessed the wherewithal to tie their own shoes. But it wasn’t as though she’d ever asked the universe for its opinion, thank you very much.

Besides, Viola and Rosalee had told her to do it and there was no way she was going to obey them.

Irene stayed in the farmhouse, and why not? When it contained an appropriate number of sisters, which was to say absolutely none, there was nothing wrong with the old place. If Viola and Rosalee were correct that the three of them had been fated to go their own directions—note the if; it was a pretty long shot that either one of them would be right about anything—then she’d chosen the direction “staying put.”

During the day, various factions of nieces, nephews, and hangers-on tramped all over the house. Irene had never bothered to keep track of Viola’s and Rosalee’s broods; she registered them as anonymous blob. That was, until she had the nasty surprise of finding her own children mooching around the kitchen. The gall! So she wasn’t good enough when she was alive, but now that the smell of inheritance was in the air, the estranged sorners ran in like dogs after the dinner bell.

Irene spent several creative hours swearing at her perfidious progeny, but their living ears heard nothing. For the first time, Irene missed her sisters a bit.

A bit.

Eventually, the parade of useless relatives became a parade of useless home buyers who squinted at things and yawped about widening windows and knocking out walls. The family that settled in had both a daughter and a son. This offended Irene’s anti-sibling sensibilities, but their parents never forced them to interact with each other so that was all right.

The daughter got a bad-tempered pet rat for her birthday that bit her a lot. When it got sick, the family let it die. Although it was particularly absurd to imagine why a pet rat would become a ghost, the next day when Irene went to look, there the thing was, nosing around its cage. Irene reached in to take it out; it chomped down in hello; thereafter, they were best friends.

Most days, the rat rode around on Irene’s shoulder, chit-chit-chittering as Irene paced the house making her own acrimonious observations. The rat proved to be a surprisingly good listener who enjoyed Irene’s secondary occupation of settling in the armchair to read aloud from the family’s regrettable collection of tasteless paperbacks. (The armchair had once been designated for the father; eventually, with an appropriate but subconscious apprehension, he bought a second sofa.) While Irene sometimes threw the soul of a particularly stupid technothriller across the room, the rat itself was an undiscerning literary connoisseur. It was perfectly content to listen to anything, including the occasional time travel romance that Irene felt vaguely guilty about pulling off the shelf.

From time to time, Irene wondered what had happened to her sisters. By now, had they passed through some rupture like Mrs. Fritter?

Ridiculous. How incredibly stupid to walk into who-knows-where just because the entry is shiny. Even if she did see a portal like that, Irene was planning to cling to the Earth like an angry barnacle.

Here, she had a rat, a bountiful quantity of dubious quality books, and a pair of teenagers to learn new insults from. Fulfilling? Perhaps not. But who said life should be fulfilling? She could be unfulfilled if she wanted to.

She told the rat as much. It seemed to agree.

“Also, the Cat” copyright © 2024 by Rachel Swirsky
Art copyright © 2024 by Rovina Cai

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Rachel Swirsky

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Rachel Swirsky

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The post Also, the Cat appeared first on Reactor.

When she got off the plane, Amelia was thinking about her boyfriend, Jerome. They’d been arguing about the laundry.

“If you want me to do the laundry, just tell me to do it!” Jerome had said. They’d been together for six years. During the pandemic they’d bought a townhouse in South Austin and were now in huge joint debt, plus Amelia’s student loan. They’d been talking about marriage, but really, they didn’t have to get married to be completely bound to each other.

She was walking down the concourse, past gates. For a moment she thought, Where am I? So many airports. Right, she was at Dallas Fort Worth, which honestly was a pretty distinctive airport, but airports tended to look more like each other than they did the place where they were. The gates were some combination of blue and gray and white. The shops might be different from airport to airport but they all had to be laid out pretty much the same. She flew through Dallas a lot for work. That day, she was headed to Madison, Wisconsin, to sooth a client who had fears about the fire in the LED installation on the Tallin Building in Atlanta and wanted assurance that the installation they were doing on their building wasn’t going to catch fire.

She was in Concourse C and the connecting flight was in A. The airport wanted everyone to take the inter-airport monorail, but she was at the end of the concourse and to get the train she’d have to go back to the middle. She was right next to a corridor that connected the two concourses, so it was shorter to just walk across. And she’d get steps.

Her mind went back to Jerome. The pandemic had been tough. They were both working remote. She loved him, she really did. But sometimes she didn’t know how she was going to spend the rest of her life with someone who couldn’t see an overflowing laundry basket. She didn’t wait for Jerome to tell her to clean the bathroom. It was a chore. You do chores when they need to be done. When she saw the bathroom needed cleaning, she might put it off for a couple of days because, you know, bathroom. Then she buckled down and did it. She didn’t run to Jerome and tell him, either. Jerome always announced, “I’m doing laundry.” And “If you hear the dryer buzzer, tell me.” “And I did laundry.” Like every time he did something, he was supposed to be praised.

She resisted the impulse to offer him a medal. She knew that lots of people had partners who didn’t do anything. Or who gambled or drank or something. Jerome was a great guy; at least he was willing to do laundry. But damn it, she didn’t mention when she did the bathroom. Or planned dinners for the week. Or went grocery shopping.

The connecting corridor was without windows. Truly, she could have been in almost any medium or large airport in the U.S. Blue signs with white lettering, polished gray floor. Mostly empty at the moment, between waves of arrivals and departures.

Thinking about Jerome was probably why she wasn’t really paying attention. That and the fact it was an airport. She knew and understood the method and rhythms of airports. She kind of thought the corridor seemed longer than she remembered (thank God she had an hour and twenty minutes between connections). There was a broad corridor going off to the left that she definitely didn’t remember. It shook her out of her ruminations. She peered down the length of it and could see it opened up onto another concourse. It was running at right angles to the other concourses. But it couldn’t—there wasn’t room for a terminal there, there were buildings and roads and stuff.  It was like finding there was a room in her townhouse where the townhouse next door should be.

She had a good mental map of Dallas Fort Worth. It was like three doughnuts on a stick. She was in the center of the airport structure, the stick, and all the gates were around the edges of the doughnuts because, of course, planes had to land, and they pulled up to the outside of the airport. This shouldn’t have had gates; the planes shouldn’t have been able to pull up. It didn’t look right—it was a big open space, white with big windows. It looked like an airport, but it didn’t look quite like Dallas. Airports looked a lot alike, but if you spent a lot of time in them, there were familiar things, and it didn’t feel like Dallas. For one thing, it looked new. Which obviously it was.

She had time. She walked down the corridor. As she got farther down, the noise got louder, clearer. Busy airport noise.

It was a concourse. She’d never seen it before. But it was obviously open. There were gates and restaurants. She couldn’t figure out the gates. She pulled out her phone to see if she could find out where they were and her phone said it was an hour later, that she had just fifteen minutes to get her flight. Which made no sense.

Then it asked her if she wanted free Wi-Fi from the Charlotte Douglas International Airport.

Wait, she was at Dallas Fort Worth. She was headed to Wisconsin. She called up Google Maps and it put her right square in the middle of Concourse C in Charlotte, North Carolina.

She was having some kind of psychotic break. Nervous, she walked back down the corridor and called Jerome.

“Hey babe,” Jerome said, easy, and picturing him, his glasses, his long hands, dark skin and pale beautiful nails, his voice calmed her a little.

“Hey, what day is it?” she asked.

“Tuesday,” he said. “The day you go to . . . um . . .” She could picture him leaning to see his calendar. “Go to Wisconsin.”

“Yeah,” she said. “About that. I think I’m in Charlotte.”

“What?” he asked. “Wait. How are you?”

She was at the T to the shortcut that she’d taken in Dallas. It was still empty. Honestly, what she should have done was check her boarding pass, see if she had some clue how she got here. She left Austin this morning; even if she got on the wrong plane, she shouldn’t be in Charlotte. “What time is it?” She pulled her phone from her ear and checked the time.

It wasn’t almost one o’clock, she had an hour and fifteen minutes to get to her gate.  She’d gotten her hour back.

“It’s almost noon,” he said, which meant she was in the same time zone he was. She was back in Texas. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. She checked Google Maps. She was in Dallas Fort Worth. She looked behind her. She could still see the place she thought was Charlotte. “Shit, never mind,” she said. “I think I’m traveling too much.”

“Just don’t become George Clooney,” Jerome said. “Hey, if you’re not all right, I could drive up there and get you.”

“No, no,” she said. He was such a good guy. Except for the laundry-blindness thing. And the fact that sometimes instead of listening, he tried to fix things. She was an engineer, she was perfectly capable of fixing things; sometimes she just wanted to talk. “You know all airports look alike,” she said. “I just saw a restaurant that I thought was in another airport.”

“Legal Sea Foods?” he said hopefully. They’d eaten there in Philadelphia airport and he loved the chowder.

“Nah,” she said. After they ended the call, she walked back to the Charlotte place, only this time she held the phone in her hand. She was halfway down the corridor when the time shifted from Central to Eastern.

She stopped and checked Google Maps. She was in Charlotte.

What if the way back stopped taking her to Texas?

She felt so scared she felt sick. She jogged back to the T in the corridor. Back in Texas, according to her phone.

Now she was truly freaked. She walked to her gate.

She sat at the gate. She got up once to see if the corridor to Charlotte was still there but stopped and sat back down, afraid she’d miss boarding or something.

Or just afraid.

She flew to Madison. The airport in Madison was nice, not too big. Blues, grays, anonymous.

She didn’t connect through Dallas on the way back so she couldn’t check again. But she thought about it a lot.

It was impossible, which meant there was something else going on. She was experiencing psychosis, or false memory. Or she had dozed at the gate and dreamed it. Travel did things to people. Strung them out, disoriented them, exhausted them. When she dozed on the hop to Austin, she dreamed of corridors and gates, and giant shiny pinballs rolling through them, which shook her awake.

And then it was the holidays, and she didn’t fly anywhere for two glorious months.

She flew again at the end of January. Headed to support one of the sales guys on a pitch in Pittsburgh.

She wasn’t even thinking about the weird Dallas thing when her flight landed late in Chicago. Chicago was always a disaster. She had calculated that she missed about half her connecting flights going through O’Hare, but it rarely mattered because she just found a kiosk and rescheduled, often for an hour later. This time, when she rebooked, she had a three-hour layover. Which seriously, she didn’t mind. She sent a text to Pittsburgh, telling Seth, her coworker, that she’d been rescheduled and would be late.

There were shops and restaurants. Why did so many airports have navy blue carpet at their gates? Was blue supposed to represent the sky? Freedom? She’d read that blue was calming, which, God knew, airports needed these days.

But she could always use the steps. She tried to get the magic ten thousand even though she knew that the number wasn’t nearly as meaningful as they all thought. Walking was better than sitting.

Chicago was crowded. (Chicago was always crowded.) She dodged and weaved, seething silently at the family all walking abreast toward the gates at the end of Concourse H, taking up the whole freaking walkway except for just enough width for one or two people to pass them on the right. Self-absorbed tourists with no sense of courtesy or airport etiquette. Walk like you drive, she thought. Stay to the right, look before you dart through the sea of people. Give a rat’s ass. Everyone around you is people, not obstacles, things.

She saw a service door open and another walkway. It didn’t look like the back areas of airports, which tended towards the industrial. It had blue walls and was shiny and front-facing and was running parallel to this walkway, so she stepped through.

Most people, like her, must not have known about this area. There were fewer people in the concourse and at the gates, and she felt calmer just because it all was less frantic. She checked her steps. 3,298. She passed the Great Lakes Brewing Company and noticed that this was Concourse C? Which was impossible because Concourse C was on the other side of O’Hare. She walked toward baggage and things felt—off. She pulled out her phone.

Her phone thought she was in Cleveland. She was in Cleveland Hopkins Airport. She walked back and saw the service door to Chicago. People passed it without seeming to notice. She stepped into Chicago. No one seemed to register either the door or that she just appeared.

She stepped back into Cleveland. She could feel the difference. Cleveland felt less overwhelming. The whole vibe of the airport felt different.  Less frantic. Less noise. The carpet at the gates was gray instead of blue, but the pillars were navy.

Part of her said that she needed to jump back to Chicago before the door closed or disappeared or whatever.

But what was the worst that would happen? If she got stuck in Cleveland, she just walk out through baggage claim and then go buy a ticket to Pittsburgh.

Or maybe she was in some sort of fugue state and was actually wandering around Chicago in a daze. It didn’t feel like she was. She checked the date; it was the right date to be flying to Pittsburgh. Seth, maybe one of her least favorite sales guys, was waiting for her to come in and answer questions about how they could do an installation on a building on the National Register of Historic Places (which meant there were rules about drilling into the façade). She hated the project because the only way they could secure scaffolding to install the frames that held the LED panels was to drill into the mortar between the sheets of Pennsylvania limestone that covered the façade, and she was worried about safety. But the higher ups had sold the company on LEDs and she was supposed to make it work.

Being in Cleveland was kind of the least of her problems, right?  Hell, from Cleveland she could rent a car and drive there in less than three hours, which was a lot less time than it would take her to fly. But what would happen when she didn’t show up for her flight in Chicago?

What could happen? People didn’t show up for flights all the time. It wasn’t like the airlines cared. Some poor sod would get her seat and their day would be made 100 percent better. She walked down the concourse, thinking. Did she have the nerve? This really didn’t make any sense. She should be freaked out. But it always felt like airports were liminal spaces, not really local, not really not. She saw a place to eat called Bar Symon. On a whim, she went in and sat down.

It was nice. She ordered pierogies and kielbasa—she didn’t eat much meat, but she thought pierogies sounded interesting. She didn’t google them. She ordered a beer, too, another thing she rarely did, especially during the day because day drinking made her tired and made the rest of the afternoon feel like forever. The beer was good. The pierogies were tasty. Sort of a cross between an Asian dumpling and a knish, filled with mashed potatoes and cheese. She paid with her credit card and got an alert on her phone immediately asking if this was fraud. She said NO.

She wasn’t sure if she felt exhilarated or terrified. Would the credit card company figure out that she couldn’t possibly be in Cleveland?

The server brought the check and receipt, and Amelia almost left the receipt because she couldn’t think of turning it in on her expense account. But it was tangible. It was proof.

As she walked back toward the door, she became convinced that it was closed or gone or something. She really didn’t want to rent a car she couldn’t explain and drive to Pittsburgh. She’d have to pay out of pocket because she couldn’t expense it, and they’d just bought a new couch and they put it on a credit card, and she didn’t want another big purchase. But mostly because it felt weird. It occurred to her that they’d bought an airport–navy blue couch. She was definitely traveling too much.

The door was still there, and she couldn’t help breaking into a jog, and then walked through. The noise of Chicago O’Hare hit her like a low-pressure system—pervasive, but familiar. Thick. Go back, something said, but she didn’t.

She kept the receipt in her wallet. It was a talisman. She kept her eyes open. She flew to Pittsburgh again for the installation of the screen. The façade of the building had to be tuck-pointed and brought up to code, but the screen was designed to fit the old façade. Construction crews didn’t work to engineering tolerances. The building wasn’t square to a quarter inch, much less the tolerances of the LED frames. Years had shifted it, not enough to be problem, but enough to make construction complicated. “A building like this,” one of the masons said, “she’s an old lady.” He laid his hand flat against the stone. “She’s got opinions.”

She had installers seventy feet up the side of a building on scaffolding that couldn’t be secured to the façade because the building was on the National Register of Historic Places. Pennsylvania limestone cladding, quarried in the state. The façade was a nightmare. It didn’t feel safe enough.

She adjusted the frames for the LEDs, and she asked the mason about angling the brackets. She knew he’d say, “It won’t work,” and he did. She mused out loud to the mason about floating them off a frame hung over the lip of the roof, about how long it would take to fabricate it, about shutting down the job until they find a solution.

The mason rose to the bait. He suggested a way they could mount the brackets at an angle, driving supports in at the masonry joint, which they were allowed to do.

“You’re a smart cookie,” he said, and winked at her.

She smiled back, thinking about airports.

At the Pittsburgh Airport, there were no secret doors or unexpected corridors.

She didn’t travel for a couple of months, and then it was late spring, and she was off to Denver, Colorado.

No secret corridors. No doors to another space.

Oh, the job was interesting. The North Face (the people who made parkas and stuff) wanted to build a curved interactive LED screen in their lobby. She went back twice over the summer, and then flew to Sea-Tac for another pitch in Tacoma. They didn’t get the Denver job, but she brought Jerome North Face swag—a polo shirt and a pair of Smartwool socks. She dressed like an engineer, awkward and practical, but Jerome liked clothes.

By Thanksgiving, she concluded that when she brought the receipt back from Cleveland she broke something.

Broke something. Not like dropping-her-phone breaking something, more like surface-tension breaking something. Like she had been skittering across space like a water bug, and the weight of the receipt was too much and broke the surface tension.

She was home in their townhouse, which, despite their touches, she was beginning to think of as like a lot of other two-story townhouses, stuck in a row of identical studios and one- and two-bedrooms. The carpet was contractor-grade off-white. The bathroom fixtures and the cabinets were serviceable, but looked like the fixtures and cabinets in Boise, Idaho, or Norfolk, Virginia. Maybe it was good that she broke the surface tension. What if she found a door in their townhouse that led to another townhouse? What if someone was living there? It could all get awkward and weird. She got anxious in the bathroom, expecting a stranger to walk in.

Jerome worked from home four days a week. She worked three days at home, and two days in the office. The two overlap days were difficult. Jerome claimed the bedroom, and they’d put a desk in there. She worked downstairs and dealt with insistent cats—convinced that because she was home, she needed to pay attention to them—and Jerome’s frequent trips to the kitchen for coffee.

Jerome clattered in the kitchen. Faces stare at her from the computer. The virtual panopticon. She finished the meeting and shut it down.

“How’s it going?” Jerome asked.

“Same old, same old.” She couldn’t explain why she said suddenly, “I had a really weird experience last year.”

“What?” Jerome asked. He was so amazing. Tall, lanky, smart. She was pretty sure he was out of her league.

“I, ah, was in the airport, Dallas Fort Worth, and I found this corridor, you remember? I called you…”

“Yeah?” he asked. He didn’t remember. Not his fault; why would he remember a random conversation. He sipped his coffee.

“And I thought it was, like, a shortcut. Between the terminals. That it would be faster. But it took me to Charleston.”

He waited, clearly not understanding.

“One minute I was in Texas. The next I was in North Carolina. You know, NASCAR, the whole nine yards.”

“You got on the wrong plane?” he asked. She could see him racking his brain, trying to remember when this might have been.

“No,” she said. “It was a corridor, connecting the two airports.”

“I don’t understand,” Jerome said. He had been listening, Jerome often tried really hard to listen, which made her feel like she was imposing, but now he was listening.

“Me neither,” she admitted. “I mean my phone said it. I was there. And then I walked back down the corridor and caught my plane. From Dallas. And it happened again, when I was flying to Pittsburgh. I was in Chicago and I saw a door and another concourse, and I, you know, went and looked and I was in Cleveland.”

“Amelia,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

“It happened!” she said. She dug through her wallet and pulled out a receipt. “Here, look.”

He studied it. She loved his hands. He had large, beautiful hands, palm-a-basketball-sized hands, and since he was tall and black, was always being asked if he played basketball. He did not, in fact, play basketball. He hated the outdoors, hated organized exercise, grudgingly did yoga because he had back problems and his doctor had said, “Do yoga now or have back surgery at fifty.”

He was studying the receipt. “You got this when you went through the door? To Cleveland?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I had lunch in Cleveland, and then walked back through the door to Chicago and flew to Pittsburgh.”

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“Me neither. But now it doesn’t happen anymore, so it doesn’t matter.” Her own bitterness caught her by surprise.

“What doesn’t happen?”

“The spaces. The door, the corridor. After I brought back the receipt, it stopped.”

He came over and sat down on the ottoman they used as a coffee table. He was wearing his fancy North Face socks and no shoes. “Ame, you’re scaring me.”

“Look!” She pulled up her calendar and scrolled back to the Pittsburgh flight. “Look. I was in Chicago. I missed my connection and scheduled a later one. Then I had lunch in Cleveland. See? It’s on the receipt. Cleveland Hopkins Airport.”

Jerome frowned in concentration, looking at the calendar. Then the receipt. “You did this. You walked through a door, and you were in another airport.”

“Yeah,” she said.

He studies her calendar. “I don’t know what to say. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“The first time, I thought I’d fallen asleep at the gate or something.” And it sounds crazy, she thought. “I thought you would think I was psychotic. I thought I might be.”

“And now you can’t do it anymore?” he asked. “You just, like . . . know it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how to test it, empirically.” Honestly, she didn’t know anything.

They talked about it and then Jerome had to go upstairs and work. They talked about it some more that night in bed, turning it over between them. (Jerome liked talking after the lights were out. Or in the car. He said it was a guy thing.) They talked about it some the next day, sitting at their kitchen table eating take-out burritos, handing it back and forth like a smoothly worn stone. And then they ran out of things to say. There had never been very much to say about it anyway.

It became a thing in the background. Something that had happened. Better than a secret, Amelia thought. Secrets were toxic.

Austin to Dallas to London. She drove to the airport in the rain.

It was an exciting possibility, working with Dua Lipa’s people to create a screen for her concert. Most of this kind of work was handled by a few big entertainment engineering firms. This time, it was Taylor-Halston in London. They had too much work and were looking for a subcontractor. Getting into entertainment was a new revenue stream. The boss was in London pitching the project, and Amelia was flying out to meet him to say engineering things about fire-retardant plastics and installation.

She was thinking about the challenges. Big-venue music concerts had complicated rules. Everything had to go together without tools because that way the guys assembling the stage set couldn’t drop a hammer or a wrench on someone by accident. It had to all break down to fit in a tractor trailer to be driven to the next city, the next stadium, the next concert venue, and set up in forty-eight hours. She was thinking about strapping, which was part of the assembly, when she saw a hallway. The hallway was a maintenance hallway, the kind you normally only catch a glimpse of as someone who works at the airport either appears out of it or disappears into it, but this was just standing open and she could see the short hallway and where it ended.

She turned sharply right, cutting across the concourse.

“Hey!”

It was a woman, maybe late thirties, standing near the hallway, holding a coffee.

“Sorry,” Amelia said. “Is it restricted?”

“No, it’s just that you noticed it.” The woman walked over. “I notice them, too.”

Amelia got goose bumps on her arms. “You’ve done it?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Lynne.” She stuck out her hand. She was brittle-looking, her face pinched. Her hair was loose and a little messy.

“Amelia. You . . . do you know how it works?”

Lynne looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Do you find them every time you go to an airport?”

“I didn’t at first,” Lynne said. “You have to not think about them. I mean, you have to want the destination, but not think about it. I can’t explain it. I mean, that’s how it works for me, I think.”

Like Dostoevsky said, the hardest thing to do is to make yourself not think of a large white bear. Just tell yourself not to and it’s all you can think about.

“Is it random?” Amelia asked.

Lynne shrugged.

“I mean, what airport connects to what. Does Dallas always connect to Charlotte?”

“Not for me,” Lynne said. “Greg said it mostly stayed the same for him.”

She was an engineer, problem-solving.

Greg? “There are others?” Amelia asked.

“There are,” Lynne said. “I’ve met three others, you’re the fourth. Two of the others are women, and I’ve only seen them once, both in Denver. Greg, I’ve seen him three times. I think he does this a lot or something.” Lynne said she could kind of get close to the airport she wanted. She’d wanted Houston and Austin. She’d come here through the door trying for Houston or Austin and gotten Austin.

Okay, Lynne could kind of control it?

“Do you always get close?” she asked Lynne.

“Sometimes,” Lynne said. She looked uncomfortable.

Amelia wanted to know how often she traveled, how often she got close. She wanted to plug this into Excel, get a feel for it. People were terribly unreliable, but numbers were better. Still, Lynne didn’t look like she wanted to be interrogated about how often she flew, how often she found doors and corridors, how often she got close.

Lynne pointed to the door Amelia had seen. “It goes to JFK. You might be able to get to London from there.”

Amelia had forty minutes until her plane boarded. She gave Lynne her business card. “Email me?”

Lynne didn’t seem to want her business card. “I’ve . . . um, never . . . um.” Amelia really wanted to go through the door to JFK. Lynne stumbled through trying to explain something. “I never, I mean, the other people, you know . . . except in airports . . .”

“Email me?” Amelia said. She didn’t think Lynne ever would.

JFK was blue, white, and gray, sound echoing off hard surfaces. She glanced back. Lynne was still visible through the doorway, clutching her coffee. She still had that pinched look.

It was almost 5:00 p.m., Texas time. Amelia never flew into JFK after noon. Arriving international flights got priority for runways (because, Amelia supposed, no one wanted to run out of fuel over the Atlantic). If there was weather anywhere up and down the East Coast, or any other reason for a delay, getting out of JFK was a nightmare. But she wasn’t flying out of JFK.

She had to stop thinking about it. She should have asked Lynne if she should do anything to get the way to open to London. Think about London?

She paced, pulling her roller bag, looking at the terminal, making herself notice the restaurants and shops. Hudson News. She should get something, get a receipt to show Jerome. She could call him. It felt weird to call someone, like this was her secret and if she told someone it would break the spell or something. But no secrets, she didn’t like keeping secrets. They were like a wound, they got infected, then they spilled infection everywhere. She called him.

“Hey, babe,” Jerome said. “What’s up?”

“I’m at JFK,” she said.

Brief pause, then, “You hate JFK,” he said.

He didn’t realize what it meant.

“No, I was in Austin and then I, I walked through a door and now, here I am!”

“Wait, what?”

“You know, like I told you, about airports. The receipt from Cleveland Airport.”

Then he caught it. “Holy shit, are you kidding?”

“Hold on,” she said. She took a photo of the arrivals/departure board. “I sent you a picture,” she said. “You see the flight departing for Austin? I’m in New York!”

“You said it didn’t work anymore!”

“I know!” She could feel all the excitement bubbling up in her. “I KNOW!”

“Wow,” he said. “Think you could get to London? Does there have to be a flight from the airport you’re at to the airport you want to go to? I mean, it’s JFK, so there’s flights to London.”

“I don’t know! I don’t know how it works! I met another person, a woman, who sees the doors and corridors, too. The woman I met said one guy could sort of go where he wanted but I don’t know if it’s true. I should have talked to her more!”

She kept him on the phone, chattering, sending pictures. She found a sign that said JFK was renovating Terminal 4. coming in 2023, a $1.5 billion renovation and expansion of terminal 4!

“You gotta buy me something,” Jerome said. Jerome dressed impeccably, even when working from home. Tech-bro button-downs, a four-hundred-dollar pair of Grigio Suede Milano loafers that he may have loved more than he loved Amelia (but not more than the cat, thank God). “You want a T-shirt that says ‘I love New York’?” she asked. “A shot glass?”

“Anything,” he said. “Are you looking for a way to London?”

“I don’t think it works that way. Lynne said you can’t think about it,” she said. “I mean, I’m not sure, but after Cleveland I kept looking but I didn’t find one until I stopped. I don’t know if the guy who says he can kind of get where he wants was telling the truth. I mean, I never met him, or anyone other than that woman.”

She bought the worst NY touristy T-shirt she could find—she’d make him wear it to sleep. She had to pee and there was a line but she was so energized, she didn’t care. She FaceTimed Jerome after that so he could see.

He kept saying, “This is wild.”

Then he said, “When’s your flight?”

She had another hour, but it was time to go back.

The door was gone.

“Maybe you just missed it,” Jerome said. “It’s okay, babe.”

She was panicking. Her heart was pounding. “I’m so stupid,” she said. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“Take a breath,” Jerome said. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

She looked for the door. She looked for Lynne. “Maybe it was Lynne’s door,” she said. “Maybe she already came back and it closed. Stupid! So stupid.”

“Seriously,” Jerome said. “It’s okay. Hold on.”

“Hold on?” she asked. She didn’t shriek, but she was having a meltdown, she could tell.

“You got your meds?” he asked.

She did, she had her anxiety meds. She dry-swallowed a gabapentin.

“I . . . I gotta get a flight, don’t I,” she said.

“I’m gonna look online,” Jerome said. “See if I can book you a flight to London from JFK, okay babe?”

“It’s gonna be so expensive! We can’t afford it!” she wailed.

“We’ll worry about that later.” She could hear keys clattering. “I’ve got it. I’ve got it. You’re okay. I got one. It leaves at eight p.m. It’s not so bad. It’s about seven hundred dollars. Well, more like eight hundred dollars.”

“Jer, I’m so so sorry!”

“It’s okay, babe.”

Oh God. Would, like, the FBI realize that she was supposed to be in Austin? She had checked in there. Were they going to think it was fraud? That she was a terrorist? She stayed on the phone with Jerome while she went out through baggage and came back in and checked in at Delta. Thank God she’d been flying American Airlines. Maybe since she was on another airline they wouldn’t notice that she had just been in another city and shouldn’t be able to be here. She kept waiting for someone to say something. Her luggage was on another goddamned plane. What would she say if they said something?

No one said anything.

She told Jerome she loved him and hung up. Then she sat at the gate with her head down and cried.

Nothing happened. She picked up her luggage in Heathrow where it sat waiting in the baggage office. No one even asked why she hadn’t gotten it on the baggage carousel.

She popped gabapentin and floated in a wave of squashed anxiety through her trip. No one said anything about her missed flight when she flew back.

After that, she stopped looking altogether, and if she thought she saw a corridor or a door, she looked the other way. If she thought she saw Lynne (and she thought she saw Lynne a lot, although the few times she let herself really look, it never was Lynne) she walked the other way.

She counted her steps, avoided airport junk food, and stayed in her lane, so to speak.

They got the Dua Lipa project and it turned into a fucking nightmare. Every time she flew to London, she was a wreck.

She started thinking that she was tired of this, tired of traveling so much. The company was doing well, there were more trips, more projects, they hired more engineers. She was promoted to a project manager. The money was better but, on the side, she started looking at job listings on LinkedIn and Monster. She thought about how their townhouse was like a lot of other townhouses, so she painted the living room walls sage and put a wallpaper mural in the bedroom. It looked like a giant eighteenth-century illustration. She’d seen it online on a site called Apartment Therapy. It made the townhouse look different, not like every other townhouse. It helped her stop thinking that some stranger might open the door into their place.

Jerome started talking about marriage. They hashed out that they didn’t want kids. (Jerome, she thought, kind of did. But not enough to fight about it, at least not yet.) For the first time since they’d moved in together, they decided to go on vacation. They chose Maui. And of course, in LAX, Los Angeles International Airport, where they were connecting, Amelia saw a corridor.

She turned so abruptly that Jerome said, “You need a bathroom?”

“No,” she said, “there’s another concourse.”

“You mean, like JFK?” he said.

She nodded.

“Where?” he asked.

“Between gate 21 and gate 23A,” she said.

He squinted. “I don’t see it, Ame.”

“That’s okay,” she said. She kept walking to their gate.

Jerome followed, jogging a little to catch up. “Don’t you want to check it out?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“But it’s your door, right? We can do like you did before. Just look and then come back. I mean, what if it’s Kahului Airport? What if we don’t have to fly?”

“What if it’s Saint Petersburg, Russia and we get arrested?” she snapped.

“Well, it’s always been in the U.S.”

“No,” she said. She found two seats at their gate, sat down, and pulled her roller bag in front of her like a barricade.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, babe.” He sat down and took her clenched hand. “S’okay. I just wish I could have seen it.”

Really, it made no sense. These corridors, these doors, they just made her feel anxious. She had tried creating an Excel sheet, but she had so little data.

Some things were unknowable. When she was at her first job, working for a little engineering firm that did contracting, her boss, an older woman who wore cardigans and swore a lot and had stories about the good old boys’ club of engineering, had mentored her through her first few projects. One of them had been complicated, novel. Like how to provide access to hidden air filters without any visible fasteners, the trick was to use spring-loaded magnetic latches. Lisa, her boss, had said, “First, list what you know you’ll need to do. Then if there are parts you feel like you don’t have solutions for, list what your known unknowns are. Then we’ll tackle those.”

This whole thing was full of known unknowns. And unknown unknowns, probably. Like physics unknowns—how could this defy all laws of physics?

This was a problem. Like any problem she faced from how to attach LED screens to a façade to how to make Dua Lipa’s people excited about the invisibility of the strings of LEDs that would hang in front of the singer, then come alive with images when they were on, moving just a little, making that image shimmer and ripple.

Or maybe it wasn’t a problem. Maybe it just was what it was. It was linked to her, a part of her. It was hers to deal with or not.

She was used to worrying about consequences. About what could go wrong. She was a development engineer, not a QA—someone whose job was assuring quality—but you couldn’t design things without thinking about how they could work, how they could be put together, how people could do things, and how they might get hurt.

There were a thousand reasons why she should not take Jerome through the door.

But she was sure the door was hers. She could take it. Thing was, this was connected to her in some strange way. She could ignore it. If it made her unhappy, she could choose. She could make it about her, her choice.

They had an hour before their flight.

“What if it isn’t a place like JFK?” she asked. “What if we got stuck in, say, Toronto. How would we get through customs?”

Jerome nodded at her, then pushed his glasses back up. “That would be . . . complicated.”

“Maybe we could just go see if it’s really there. You know, go through, and come right back.”

Now he looked apprehensive.

“I got this,” she said.

They went back down the concourse, roller bags like obedient dogs behind them. “It’s there,” she said. She could see the corridor, and at the end of it, another concourse. People and shops.

“I don’t see anything,” Jerome said. “Are you sure?”

She went closer and he followed.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“Just a wall,” he said. “And on either side, the gate’s windows, and planes. What do you see?”

She didn’t want to choose to ignore. She was afraid, but that was okay. When things were uncertain, fear was normal. When she thought about the world—getting married, politics, the pandemic—it was all uncertain. The thing was not to avoid uncertainty, the thing was to choose. In that moment, standing there with Jerome, she decided. She chose this thing. She chose to walk through, to see where it led.

“Okay,” she said, “close your eyes.” She took his hand. What if he couldn’t go through with her? What if you got stuck somewhere like Turkmenistan or Australia?

She walked through and he followed, eyes closed, trusting. There was a door, and a corridor. She pulled out her phone. “Open your eyes,” she said.

Halfway down the corridor, her phone said it was an hour later, three in the afternoon, not two. They were on Mountain Time. Ahead was a food court with a Smashburger. She checked her location: Boise.

“Oh my God,” he said. “It’s true. I mean, I believed you, but it didn’t feel . . . real.”

“Not the same as having it happen,” she said.

He nodded, still stunned. He was looking at his phone, map app open, and back at the food court.

She took a deep breath. “Let’s go look.”

“Liminal Spaces” copyright © 2024 by Maureen McHugh
Art copyright © 2024 by Katherine Lam

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Liminal Spaces

Maureen McHugh

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Maureen McHugh

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May 2020, and I was spitting out little bits of tooth in the sink.

Teeth, tiny pieces of bone-colored enamel. Initially I thought it was stress, what with me being newly divorced, newly lonely, newly living out of cardboard boxes in a haunted half a duplex. I got four pieces of furniture in the divorce; the worst pieces of furniture from a great marriage that ended when my ex-husband told me, “Evan, I love you, you’re terrific, but I’m just not gay.” All because I told him at Thanksgiving that I’m a man. He sent me a holiday card, a picture of him and his new girlfriend. She’s pretty.

I didn’t send him a holiday card of me and the bloodstain that was on the dining room floor. That would have been weird. Also, I wasn’t dating the bloodstain, though I used to spend enough time with it that we might as well have been dating. Christ’s sake.

By May of 2020, I’d been on testosterone for three weeks. By then the only results were a big gain in confidence and tiny pieces of tooth in the sink. Of course, I thought spitting out bits of my teeth meant I had COVID, so, I freaked out. No matter how much I thought being under-employed and single meant that my life was the worst, I didn’t actually want to die. Not really. So, instead, I swept up the teeth bits with a paper towel and put them in a jar in the basement. Because bones go underground.

When not sweeping up bits of my teeth, or doing a rideshare, or getting high with my neighbor Katie, I was busy working on that bloodstain on the dining room floor. Or what would be a dining room if I had any furniture. Katie called herself a professional stoner and conspiracy theorist. She was the one who said the house was verified haunted. Told me she was the one who could prove it. I didn’t need proof; the bloodstain was enough. It wouldn’t come off even with the best of the worst chemicals.

I, however, didn’t sign on for a dead roommate. Which is why I was trying to get rid of the one I had. Katie was undeterred, kept showing up with more evidence.

Asked if I had found cold spots in weird places. There were, yeah. Like in the bathroom, the dining room, in the kitchen by the window. I told her that old houses were drafty and that she was weird. She stuck her tongue out at me and told me that I didn’t believe in anything. She was right.

None of what Katie said was true about ghosts. What was true was that I was obsessed with the bloodstain, and Katie was obsessed with my obsession. She stopped by on the regular asking me how the cleaning was going. Would pop over to my porch already half-baked and ask how the cleaning was going. Then she’d ask if she could come in and see how the cleaning was going. It was a routine that we’d settled on, like I settle for too much with too many weird people.

Which was probably why I told Katie about the teeth.

“Gross. See a dentist, Evan.”

“Nah,” I said, exhaling. “My dreams are getting swole like the rest of me.”

“You’re grinding your teeth in your sleep,” she said.

“Everyone grinds their teeth in their sleep.”

“Very funny. Ha ha,” she said. “You know the ghost was murdered, right? They were murdered right there in your house. Maybe with one knife or several knives, I dunno. Not a forensic scientist or a CSI devotee.”

“Were they murdered because they were a good person, or murdered because they were a bad person?”

I was fully high at this point and fully into Katie’s bullshit.

Katie shrugged and tried to look in my window. “Dunno. That’s not for me to decide. I only moved in after, cause people like you and me belong here. Verified messes and absolute weirdos.”

September 2021, and I have a new boyfriend.

The meet-cute of my current boyfriend goes like this: I found him in my backyard, climbing out of the grave I dug for him. He looked as surprised to be there as I was surprised to see him. Or maybe he was angry? Hard to tell with skeletons, since they can’t smile and their faces are frozen in a perpetual reminder that death sucks.

Brought him inside as fast as I could, because Katie is addicted to anything paranormal. The last thing I needed was her overinterest in my lack of interest in grave robbing. So, I threw my coat over Skeleton Boyfriend and rushed him inside. He’s been with me ever since. I got used to him fast, was easy. My cat, however, did not. Keep telling myself it’ll take time, as she takes time with everything.

Dating Skeleton Boyfriend might be considered weird. But on a scale of one to ten of weird boyfriends I’ve had in my life? Ten being the weirdest? He’s a solid four.

June 2020, and people thought the pandemic was over.

That’s when I met Dylan on a dating app. Also found a cat on an adoption site. Dylan and I sexted long distance for months, and the cat moved in the day I saw her picture. The cat’s name at the shelter was “Butch,” because she had one eye and an attitude problem. I also had an attitude problem, all my exes said so. So, Butch came home, and I re-named her “Meowfistopheles” or “Meowsers” or “Meow-Meow.”

Meow-Meow stuck, the others didn’t. Because Meow-Meow implies some self-respect.

Dylan didn’t move in for a while after, but his attitude was just as relatable. He was hornier than I was, hilariously funny, and more skilled with his phone than I was with stain remover. Unlike me, Dylan’s office went remote rather than just laying everyone off. He had insurance and too much time on his hands, he said. I was old hat at the delivery gig-work thing, so our lives conveniently matched: he’d be bored in a meeting and sexting me while I was trying to find a place to park on High Street to drop off a meat-lovers supreme.

Dylan was a great boyfriend: he was hot to look at, hotter to listen to, and had a way with smut. Meow-Meow was a great cat because she destroyed all four pieces of my ex-husband’s furniture and made it unrecognizable. I was also becoming unrecognizable: my neck had muscles I didn’t know I could even possess, my face had caverns and those caverns had hair growing out of them, and my hands looked like they belonged to someone else. I thought for the first time in my life that I might actually be happy.

But I wasn’t, not really. The coughing up thing was still happening. Which I didn’t tell Dylan about: new boyfriends are down to bone, but probably not down with actual real bones coming out of my throat. Also Meow-Meow, come to find, was a bona fide scaredy cat. Everything scared her: the dining room, the bathroom, the kitchen window. She spent thirty percent of her time in Halloween-posed zoomies, forty percent of her time napping, and the rest of it staring out the window at cat stuff.

Katie said the cat was stressed and needed to go outside. She said cats belonged outside, roaming free and being cats. Katie says a lot of things, only some of which make sense. But she did shut up about the dentist, and never complained about my retching cough, which I am sure she could hear through the walls.

It’s not like I was quiet about it: waking up, choking on a finger bone, or like an entire rib or something. Life, frankly, was awful. Yet the more this went on, the less hollow I felt. Kinda like I was getting a grip on being an adult. Still though, I went to a dentist, and a doctor. My teeth were fine, not a bit or any bits missing. Doctor ordered an X-Ray, and I was still full of all my original bones. A complete man, but I wasn’t happy.

That is, until July when I got a text from Dylan that said:

been thinking, baby, i can’t live another day without feeling your blow jobs for real. gimme your address, honey. i’m cumming over.

September 2021, and Meow-Meow hates her life.

Skeleton Boyfriend has his favorite places in the house. He likes to be in the kitchen by the window. He likes the bathroom mirror, trying on hats. He really likes the dining room, particularly the spot where that old bloodstain used to be. Our tastes are the same and yet different. He always wants meat for dinner, so I have to text Dylan to ask about good restaurants or recipes for that sort of thing. I keep trying to be a vegetarian, which Skeleton Boyfriend thinks is silly, since it was legit his bones I unearthed from inside of me.

Sometimes it feels like so much of what he says are things I wished I had said, or things I swallowed instead of saying. Skeleton Boyfriend is everything I wanted to be when I was femme, and everything I wished I could be in public, but don’t know if it’s allowed, or okay, or just what is even a man. But he doesn’t care. He’s a skeleton, who’s going to stop him?

Dylan knows I’m seeing someone else, doesn’t know it’s the bones we both buried. Some things some people don’t need to know. Like Skeleton Boyfriend doesn’t know I’m texting Dylan, cause Skeleton Boyfriend thinks Dylan is a piece of absolute ass that he wants to “climb like a flagpole.”

Skeleton Boyfriend may be unsettling to some people. He’s a skeleton. He legit crawled out of the grave Dylan and I dug for him. Also, his sense of humor isn’t really one after all. But he says he loves me and I really kinda need that right now. So, everything is pretty much fine. To talk to Katie, though, it’s rude that I don’t join her on the porch as much as I used to. And it’s weird that I keep the door shut all the time, and the blinds closed.

At one of our less often than usual porch meetings she said, “You’re being mean to that cat, also kind of mean to me, cause I can’t see the cat. I’m suffering, Evan, since I haven’t been able to see Meow-Meow in the window. Open the damn blinds.”

“You need to cut down on the weed, Katie.”

“Rude, Evan.” She slouched again. “And you know what else? It’s mean that you don’t let me in to see your new boyfriend. I know you have one, I can feel him moving around in there.”

“Feel him?”

“Feel him.”

Katie being weird aside, hanging out with Skeleton Boyfriend is easier than I thought it would be. I had been thinking, since Dylan had left months ago, that I was the bad guy in all my relationships. Some sort of pathological loser, so weird that I couldn’t keep my proverbial ducks in a row, which is why everyone left eventually. And why I was always so fucking alone.

Maybe it’s true: maybe I was too weird to have the living love me.

Skeleton Boyfriend, though, does love me. He tells me so, a lot. I tell him so, a lot. Maybe it’s the adage that misery loves company, or the fact that a lot of my exes have said I’m dead inside.

Meow-Meow will get used to him, eventually. She has to. Ever since Skeleton Boyfriend showed up, she’s spent her time hiding in cupboards, or angrily grooming herself on my underwear. She’ll eventually grow to like him, like I eventually did. Hopefully sooner rather than later, because Katie says the house is un-haunted now.

“That’s great,” I said, half-baked and half-asleep.

“Yeah,” she said, in a similar state. “I can say that it’s officially possessed.”

“Cool.”

September 2020, and Dylan moved in officially.

The bloodstain was disappearing from the floor and I had three jars of bones collected in the basement (plus a giant plastic crate packed with the bigger, more complete bones: bits of ribcage, spine, etc.). By September, I had nearly an entire body, minus some essential parts, which were starting to freak me out. I really, really, did not want to think about coughing up a skull.

When Dylan moved in, I had been on testosterone for nearly six months. Figured out shaving, skin was calming down, and I had my aesthetic nailed to T-shirt and jeans and looking pretty much invisible to anyone and everyone. I felt totally boss.

Dylan said I looked like a boss when he held me down on the bed.

Around the apartment, he called me his absolute hunk, his only man, his best piece of ass. I loved every second of it. And when he arrived that September from two or three states over with four days of stubble and looking like death warmed over, I fell in love with him all over again. He stepped down from the height of the U-Haul with every ounce of wired/tired and kissed me on High Street.

“I’m home,” he said.

Would’ve replied, but I couldn’t talk. He was too hot to be real.

Moved his stuff in, only the expensive shit, barely. Got interrupted by kissing, in our apartment, tripping over his computer and camera equipment and camping stuff to fall on the couch. Meow-Meow disappeared for three hours; and for fifteen minutes of that time, I gave Dylan one of those smut-fueled blow jobs. He smelled disgusting but I didn’t care. I missed him and it was our house, back then.

Two hours later, he was moving his stuff in, and I was gagging in the bathroom, and out came a heel bone. Within minutes, he was at the door, knocking politely. “Hey baby, you alright? Everything okay? You aren’t pregnant, are you? Shit.”

The heel bone went in my pocket, and I walked out, red-eyed and wiping my mouth.

“No, sweetie, not pregnant.”

“Okay good. Good, good.”

He sounded relieved but only by half. Half of a half. Ended up side-eyeing me for the rest of the day, we didn’t fuck again for another three days. I woke up coughing a couple of nights later, and the night after that, and the night after that. Coughed up the other heel bone. Then some foot bones. An entire set of wrist bones. Put them in the jars in the basement with the rest.

Had to creep around to do this, which wasn’t easy. Dylan’s arrival had left me feeling more grounded, and my gait hit heavier as I snuck around this old apartment, opening doors that cried out for WD-40, and floorboards that sounded alarms when I stepped on them. But I tried. Dylan, I had thought, was a heavy sleeper. However, heavy sleepers can still be suspicious, I guess. Because after four or five nights of this, I met him coming down the basement stairs as I was returning to bed.

“Evan, what are you doing? Everything alright?”

“Uh.”

“What’s going on? Do you need to tell me something?”

There was no way out but the truth. He tossed and turned when I coughed. Covered his head with the pillow. He’d been avoiding me me in the mornings, and then would take me to get COVID tested every two days like I had a kink for people shoving things up my nose. I was standing on the basement floor, bare feet on the silty concrete ground, hands opening and closing into fists at my sides. I had to tell him.

I had to tell him, but I couldn’t look at him when I said:

“I’ve been coughing up bones in the night. Real ones. And then I put them down here. ’Cause it seemed like the right thing to do. Bones go underground.”

Dylan’s hair was sleepy bedhead, looking like an explosion on one side. His face was also sleepy, pillow creased and droopy from dreaming. But his eyes had lit up to wide fucking awake. He crept down the rest of the stairs, peeking over my shoulder. His grin was wide, mischievous, full of up to no good as he glanced from me to the jars and back.

Then he pointed over my shoulder. “Those them?” he asked, like he’d spotted an ancient relic. His expression turned soft, and he took my cheeks in his hands. “Evan, I was so worried, but this? This is so—I don’t even know—weird that it’s cool? I just want to see the bones. I want to see what you grew.”

April 2021, and Dylan is never coming back.

Katie says I am depression on a stick and no fun anymore, so she’s been stopping by even more often since Dylan left to make sure that I am more fun and less boring. Thing is, though, I’ve been overcompensating for my lack of boyfriend with more work. Keep avoiding Katie by working longer hours, being out of the house more, and buying things I can’t afford ’cause loneliness is the best reason to make the worst mistakes.

My credit card bill was evidence of that. Meow-Meow absolutely loved this. She’d destroyed a new couch (claws), a leather jacket (pee), and frayed the cord of an overpriced TV (ate it). But I couldn’t get rid of her. I loved her too much. She was a good cat: loved to cuddle, let me trim her claws, purred every time I petted her, and gave terrific sandpaper kisses on the manscaping I’d cultivated for a solid two months.

Katie came by one evening after midnight when I staggered in sober but overworked. She stopped me before I even got to the door and took hold of my shoulders, sitting me down in the folding chair on the porch.

“You and me, we’re gonna talk,” she said.

“About what?”

“You and how you’re a total fucking wreck of a man that used to be my friend.”

“We’re still friends, Katie. I’m just tired, really way tired.”

She smiled, lit a joint, and handed it to me. “You’re a wreck, I’m a wreck, and this is why we’re friends. Oh, and I fed your cat some good vibes through the window. She’ll need some actual food, you know, when you get around to it.”

I started to fall asleep in the chair, and when I woke up, Katie was gone. Typical.

Meow-Meow was my lifeline to any decency in the world, but with Dylan gone, she’d become the worst. Sort of my fault. I loved her, but I left her alone nine, ten, then eventually twelve hours a day. Couldn’t stand the echoes of the house, the lack of weird noises and the now-missing bloodstain that I’d been obsessed with when I first moved in.

Routine had this cold familiarity: a rotation of a grind when I was that lonely. It kept me going. I knew what to do and where to go. Get up, brush teeth, shower, feed Meow-Meow, then head out to gamify gig work until I got home. Something had to give, something. And then, something eventually did.

In April, the morning after that talk with Katie, the bones I buried with Dylan came crawling out of the ground.

February 2021, and Dylan had decided to break up with me.

“Shit is too weird,” he said.

We were standing in the backyard with shovels on what should’ve been an atypically warm (but was only a frighteningly warm) series of February nights. At least it would make it easier to bury stuff. Dylan had one hand on the shovel and the other in the pocket of his jeans; he wasn’t looking at me. Instead, he stared at the garage, which was covered in condemned signs, Katie’s car was parked in it and was basically condemned too. It never moved.

“Shit is just way too weird.” Dylan turned to me then, looking me over with a full-bodied sigh. “You’re amazing, Evan. Really amazing. I love you; I do.”

When the sun came up the next morning, Dylan was gone and so was all his stuff. Like he’d never been there. Totally ghosted me. Left his keys and every trace of him behind. The last thing he said to me was, “Evan, I’m worried about you, but I can’t take care of you. You cough up bones. You clean a spot on the dining room floor like Lady Macbeth. You’re not even looking for a new job. I—can’t anymore.”

Meow-Meow was flattened for a week and a half after Dylan left, she always liked him more than she liked me. We had that in common: I liked Dylan more than I liked me, too.

September 2021, and Skeleton Boyfriend has been with me for five months.

We’ve been dating for about four months. Dylan moved in a year ago officially today, moved out less than that ago. But I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about my skeleton boyfriend. He’s good. He’s a good conversationalist: like, we can talk about things that, I don’t know, we both want to talk about? We rarely argue, which is fun this early (or this late) in a relationship.

I know what he likes, which is good. He likes spicy hot chocolate and warm fuzzy blankets with fringe that he can rub on his teeth. He also likes nature documentaries, because, as he says, “Nature gives zero fucks.” His absolute favorite is audiobooks though, especially biographies, which surprised me. I also used to really like biographies.

As much as I want to not think about how Dylan moved in exactly a year ago today, I am doing a shit job of trying to forget it by sitting outside this hot wings place and going through all our old texts. The order I’m here to pick up is delayed, and my heart feels delayed, and Skeleton Boyfriend wants to make dinner tonight. I have two texts from him about what sort of meat to put in the lasagna when I get another text, which says:

happy anniversary baby, i miss you. in town for reasons. you home? i can cum over

I drop the phone when the alert goes off that the hot wings are ready. It’s a mess. The bag is dripping, I lay down a towel on the back seat and my hands are sticky so I can’t text Dylan back and I freak out. Another text comes through.

know your busy, baby. i’ll head to our place.

I had honestly thought Dylan was never coming back to town again, or that he never wanted to see me again. In a weird, co-dependent way, my mind had sort of turned Dylan into Skeleton Boyfriend. It kind of made sense. Like when you’re lonely and all you want is a boyfriend and you believe so hard that you want a boyfriend and then you start spitting out teeth and pelvises and shit and then you grow a boyfriend?

Normal shit.

Not normal at all, but facts are facts. And facts are: I loved Dylan, I still love Dylan. I loved him a lot, maybe somewhat obsessively. In fact, I am obsessing about how his visit is going to go. How he’s going to look, how he’s going to smell. If he’s going to kiss me or not. Should I try to kiss him? Yes, I’m obsessing, which is a good reason not to text an ex back but is not why I don’t. I don’t because my steering wheel is covered in buffalo sauce.

When I get home, Dylan is on my porch (our porch). He’s got a perfect five o’clock shadow and is dressed in a T-shirt that fits him so well it’s going to tattoo his abs on my memory. He sets down his duffel bag and picks me up when I climb the stairs. “You smell hot, Hot Stuff, I am going to eat you up when we get inside.”

He kisses me. The kiss is also hot, but I end up making his T-shirt look disgusting. He puts me down and I unlock the door, but won’t let Dylan in, not yet. I have something to tell him. Something I know he knows, but am pretty sure he’s not going to like.

“Uh, I live with a—” I can’t say it; I have to say it. I fail. “My boyfriend’s here.”

Dylan grins that same grin he had when he got out of the U-Haul a year ago: the one with his head cocked, eyes looking me over. He shoulders his duffel bag and puts his hand on the doorframe. He smells like buffalo sauce and his old deodorant.

“I know, Evan. You gonna let me in to meet him or what?”

I let him inside and Meow-Meow hesitates a moment before she recognizes Dylan, running to him to dolphin up to his hand and snake between his ankles. Skeleton Boyfriend stands up slowly, a rattle of bones and bobbing of his head. The house smells of lasagna and meat, so much meat. Too much meat. Meow-Meow hasn’t been this pleased in weeks, no? Months. I haven’t either. Everyone I love is right here.

“Nice to meet you,” Dylan says, extending his hand. “I’m Dylan.”

“I’m Evan,” Skeleton Boyfriend says.

Dylan grins. “Evan, nice. That’s not confusing at all.”

Skeleton Boyfriend and Dylan standing next to one another, I think they’re the perfect couple. So sweet. Absolutely wonderful. Stellar. Dylan sees it too, smiling into his sockets, raising a hand to his bony scapula. He smiles that cocky smile of his and Skeleton Boyfriend melts the same way I do.

He is, exactly, all the pieces of me I thought I buried. That I thought I’d left behind. The tender, quiet pieces. The weird ones. The ones I thought were inappropriate and wrong. The ones I thought were unpresentable and strange. The ones I’d rejected that Dylan fell in love with, then out of love with.

Skeleton Boyfriend is, in fact, me.

There’s a beat where I’m waiting for Skeleton Boyfriend to blink. Of course, he can’t. The meat sizzles and pops from the cooling stove, punctuating the moments and motions as Skeleton Boyfriend’s head turns to watch Dylan when he steps back to take my hand. He’s standing next to me so that we’re hip to hip, heat to heat. When he kisses me on the cheek, he follows with a whisper in my ear that hits all the wrong notes.

He says, “You though? You’re my Evan. Mine.”

“Evan: A Remainder” copyright © 2024 by Jordan Kurella
Art copyright © 2024 by Jess Vosseteig

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Evan: A Remainder

Jordan Kurella

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Evan: A Remainder

Jordan Kurella

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The post Evan: A Remainder appeared first on Reactor.

Sneak a peek at the cover for Kerstin Hall’s new standalone fantasy novel ASUNDER, coming August 2024 from Tordotcom!

On the night the 813th realm fell, Tahmais had been sleeping in her old bed. Another argument with Vasael—the same argument, really. She had stormed out of her ruler’s chambers, scorning her usual place beneath the demon’s sheets, and descended to her own quarters. Vasael had not said anything to stop her, but then, she never did. The demon had always been scrupulously careful in their relationship; a consideration born out of respect and integrity. Out of love.

Tahmais often wished her ruler would just snap and command her to stay.

As with most of the flightless dwellers of the 813th, Tahmais’ quarters were situated near the base of the lily spires, only a short distance from the ground. Vasael resided in the highest reaches of the towers, amongst colossal jade- and rose-coloured blooms. Lower down, it was warmer, and the wetland noise provided a soothing blanket of sound: the frogs and the soft rustling of the night waders, the creaking of the giant stems in the wind. Tahmais had a small pad platform to herself, wreathed in a tent of pale silk; she had a bed and a trunk for her limited possessions. It was quiet enough, and comfortable enough, but it wasn’t really home anymore; she had grown too used to Vasael’s nearness and now found the demon’s absence oppressive. Her sleep was shallow, punctuated by remembered snatches of their argument.

And the realm? Where do we fit into your grand ideals, Vasael?

I have obligations. I can’t just sit by—

Of course you can. You’re a ruler; you can do whatever you want.

The question that Tahmais did not voice—the one that she would never, ever allow herself to ask—always hung between them.

What about me?

It was humiliating. There was no way to say please be a coward for my sake when her ruler’s principles hung in the balance. It was childish and ridiculous and selfish, and Vasael knew she was thinking it, and the harder Tahmais tried to bury her feelings, the shorter her temper frayed. They were fighting all the time these days.

It was not as if she didn’t understand Vasael’s position, she just—

“Tahmais!”

The shout jerked her awake. Tahmais sat up, confused; it was still dark, and there was yelling, movement in the air—the winged dwellers were in flight. A second later, Vasael landed on the waxy surface of her pad, her dappled silver wings folding sharply, expression wild.

“Get up,” she said. “I need you to cross to Res Oreq’s realm, call for aid. It’s Temairin; he’s already here—”

“Vasael?” Tahmais’ voice came out high and thin.

The demon crossed to the bed in three strides, and pressed her lips to Tahmais’ in a hard, scared kiss, pulling her to her feet at the same time. “Go. I’ll buy time until help arrives.”

“You should leave—get out of the realm—”

“He’ll come for me first. While I’m his target, he won’t pursue anyone else.” She pushed Tahmais toward the cords. “I’m sorry, my love. You were right all along.”

It seemed unreal, like she had been ripped from sleep into a waking nightmare. Tahmais could not make sense of the situation; she only saw the terror in Vasael’s eyes. Her feet carried her to the cords, the slim green ropes that would hoist or lower her through the lilies’ canopy, but her heart remained twined to her ruler’s.

“Go,” urged the demon. “You know what to do.”

The pad tilted violently, and Tahmais nearly fell off the edge. Vasael’s wings unfurled in a moonlit rush; she leapt into the air. Red spines thrust out from her fists and the ridge of her breastbone. Then the creature appeared, dragging its obscene bulk up the stem of the lily and onto the pad. Too large, too many legs, a shell the colour of wet tar, stalked eyes—Tahmais did not perceive more than that, because then she saw that the god was there too, astride the creature, and Vasael was falling, crumpling, and there was blood.

“I claim the 813th realm,” said Kan Temairin, loudly, clearly, irrevocably.

At his words, something wrenched inside Tahmais’ chest—like a slender branch bent almost to the point of snapping—and the world went dark.

She lay on her back, and the ground beneath her dipped and rolled, undulating like waves. The air tasted of dust, and her skin itched. Only half-awake, Tahmais experienced a bleary confusion—where was she, why was the world moving, why was—

Then memory returned like cold metal sliding into her brain.

For a second, she lost control—her lips parted and a ragged sound of grief escaped her, a strangled moan. Vasael. Behind her eyelids, she could see her ruler falling; the wide arc of blood spraying across silk. This could not be real, this could not be happening. Here she was, still alive, and Vasael—panic rose up and wrapped its fingers around her throat. The 813th realm had fallen. Vasael was dead. Her ruler, her lover, the star around which her life had orbited—extinguished. Slaughtered. And the god…Tahmais could see him standing on his awful creature’s back, his bloody machete in hand. Could hear him speak the words: I claim the 813th realm.

Temairin. The god, his name was Temairin. God Emperor of Black Chitin, Master of the Spinelight, Ruler of the 194th Realm. And now too, Ruler of the 813th. Although a brutal swath of demon realms had been conquered in recent months, somehow the swiftness of the violence remained incomprehensible. There should have been an exception made; it should not have happened to the 813th, not to her home, not to Vasael. But all that the demon had ruled belonged to the god now; the realm, the channels, the dwellers. Tahmais herself.

He could be watching her at that very moment.

Tahmais breathed out. No trembling. No tears. She inhaled again, forced her lungs to work. The god had already taken everything, but he would not have the satisfaction of watching her fall apart. She was still alive. That was significant. She was alive, which came with responsibilities, whether she wanted them or not. She needed to learn what might still be salvaged.

She opened her eyes.

The light here held a different tint. Colder, bluer. Unfamiliar. Overhead, the sky gleamed stormcloud pewter, and dark-winged birds dipped through the air. She had left the 813th realm, that much was certain. Lifting her head hurt—something was wrong with her body; she was feverish and aching, and her mouth tasted of salt. Vasael’s blood itched where it had dried on her bare skin.

What she had taken for the ground was in fact the chitinous carapace of one of Kan Temairin’s beasts. Tahmais was roped to the creature, not to prevent escape, she suspected, but to stop her from sliding off its side. The creature moved soundlessly upon a tide of thin segmented legs; it was twenty feet long, and its appearance occupied the narrow divide between insect and crustacean. From her awkward angle, Tahmais could not see its head clearly, but she had the impression of a blunt wedge crowned by two pairs of swivelling stalked eyes. Its elongated black pincers weaved from side to side as it scuttled along the road: each easily the size of her whole body, oddly graceful in the way they swayed. Where its abdomen met the upward sweep of its thorax, a person stood.

They had not noticed she was awake. Tahmais lowered her head again. Her knowledge of Kan Temairin’s realm was sparse, but she felt reasonably sure this was the 194th. The landscape here stretched wider, harsher; the scrublands on either side were pitted with unfamiliar vegetation.

Why had the god brought her to his homelands?

“Yes,” said the person, the creature’s handler. “I am aware.”

There did not seem to be anyone else around; the person, who was almost certainly a dweller of the realm, spoke to the air. They had a soft, smooth voice. Cropped mousy brown hair and narrow shoulders.

“I exist to entertain you,” they said. “Although I would sooner not.”

A pause.

“Both,” they said.

“Hello?” Tahmais’ voice came out in a scratchy whisper. She wet her lips, tried again. “I greet you, dweller of the 194th realm.”

The creature’s handler turned. They had unremarkable features, weathered and lined, tanned; their body was probably a little over forty years old, but their eyes looked much, much older. They walked toward her, perfectly balanced on the smooth carapace, leaving the creature to move unguided.

“I humbly beg an audience with Kan Temairin of the 194th realm.” The words tasted like ashes in Tahmais’ mouth. “I throw myself upon his mercy.”

The dweller stood over her, but their gaze hovered somewhere beyond her head.

“One day I will kill you,” they said, calm. “And when I do, I will make sure it is agony.”

They crouched beside her on the beast’s back, and drew out a black, bladed hook from the folds of their waistband. Tahmais thought they would cut the ropes and allow her to rise. Instead, they roughly lifted her left hand and manipulated her fingers straight.

With a clean, sharp jerk of the hook, they severed her ring finger.

They reached the walls of the city-palace by dusk.

Although the bleeding had slowed, Tahmais’ hand felt scorchingly hot. The stump of her finger throbbed with a thick, inescapable persistence—but she was glad of it. Perverse, she knew, but she clung to the gnawing pain all the same. Its fierceness kept her trapped in the present, obliterating, at least temporarily, both terror and grief. Better physical pain, better this terrible distraction than the suffocation of her loss. She could not think about Vasael. If Temairin wanted to maim her, so be it. Maybe he had meant it as cruelty or a show of force, but if so, Tahmais felt that the god had miscalculated.

The city-palace sat atop a ridge of craggy mountains, overlooking the flat expanse of the scrublands. The complex stretched for miles, surrounded by curved black walls that shone with a beetle-bright lustre in the light of the setting sun. The gates reared high: two bristling bowed doors. In her sickened state, they made Tahmais think of a spider’s chelicerae. Like entering the city-palace would be walking through the jaws of a vast, dark creature.

Temairin’s dweller had not spoken since severing her finger. They had not even looked at her for the remainder of the journey; they had guided their master’s beast up the winding grey slopes of the mountain with their gaze fixed ahead. They stopped when they reached the city-palace, and hailed the guards.

I must see this through, thought Tahmais. Her sweat had chilled on her skin, and she was shivering; both too hot and cold at once. The guards opened up the great gates to let them inside. As they passed under the arch, the air warmed and the smell of jasmine filled her nose, cloying and sweet. A garden. Voices echoed off the walls: shouting, laughter, a braying inhuman bark. Yellow-leaved trees hung with dark red fruit, and fireflies danced below their boughs. The dweller turned the creature left down a cobbled street.

“Excuse me.” Tahmais’ tongue felt rough as sandpaper.

They did not react.

“I must…” She was so thirsty, so exhausted. “Please, I must beg an audience with Kan Temairin. People are relying on me.”

It was like speaking to the walls or to the trees; the dweller did not seem to hear her. They guided the enormous creature to the doors of a wooden building, a stable of sorts. All around, the garden echoed with the voices of unseen revellers. The atmosphere felt charged with a riotous edge, although perhaps that was only in Tahmais’ mind; the lights had begun to blur and shimmer around her, and she felt her grip on lucidity slipping.

She flinched when the dweller jumped down from the creature’s back. They walked over to where she lay, and sliced through the ropes binding her.

“Come,” they said simply.

Tahmais sat up in a daze. A bad taste lingered in the back of her throat. She looked down at her mutilated, sticky hand, at the unnaturally wide gap that now existed between her middle and little finger, and the ringing in her ears swelled to roaring. I want to go home, she thought with a sudden fretful need. She lifted her uninjured hand to her mouth, fighting back the urge to throw up. It was too loud here, too fragranced, too strange.

“You will have your audience,” said the dweller.

Tahmais dragged her gaze away from the wound, and found, for the first time, that the dweller was looking directly at her Their eyes were dull brown, the colour of brackish water.

“You shouldn’t keep our ruler waiting,” they said. “He gets more creative when he’s bored.”

In spite of everything, Tahmais’ lip curled. Our ruler. The idea felt absurd, insulting. She belonged to Vasael alone; she would rather cut off all her other fingers than willingly submit to the demon’s murderer. She suspected her feelings were apparent on her face, because the dweller grimaced.

“You’ll adjust to your new situation,” they said. “Or you’ll die.”

It was a role to play, nothing more. Tahmais nodded stiffly. She should not have betrayed her feelings like that—and she would not do so again. Put on a mask of subservience and take stock of what could be salvaged, that was what remained to her. Responsibilities. Duty. There could be no mistakes.

She tried to slide off the creature’s flank, and her legs folded. The dweller caught her.

Even though their expression never changed, their hands felt warm and steady on her arms. Tahmais lifted her head to look at them. She could not have said why, but she had expected their skin to feel colder, harder; like their blade as it bit through tendon and bone. And yet, with the garden spinning around her, the dweller’s grip felt curiously reassuring. Strong, but…ordinary.

They frowned, and pushed her away from them. Not hard, but firmly.

“This is not in your interest,” they said.

Tahmais did not know what that meant. Two other dwellers—men dressed in draped tunics and silver visors studded with black chitin—appeared from the stable. They approached the enormous beast and clipped twin metal cables to the holes bored through its neck plates. It produced an irritated rumbling sound in its thorax. Both men flinched, but when they pulled on the cables, the creature grudgingly followed them inside.

“This way,” said Tahmais’ escort, turning back toward the garden.

A hot wind gusted down the path and shivered through the trees. Tahmais trailed after the dweller, holding her bloody hand close to her chest. They did not look back; their shoulders were straight and their steps brisk, as if they wanted nothing more than to get away from her. In her fevered state, she found it difficult to keep up with them.

“What is your name?” she called.

“Not your concern.”

“Mine is Tahmais.”

“I know.”

“You cut off my finger.”

No response. Deeper within the gardens, someone gave out a hyena-loud cackle. The dweller came to a large building, long rectangles of yellow light pouring from its windows, and entered via a small, dark door. Inside, the walls of the corridor were a pale cream. They swam with strange movement; beads of light moving leisurely beneath the smooth surface. A pliant material covered the floor: brown, with the smoothness and elasticity of skin.

“I want your name,” said Tahmais.

The dweller exhaled. They kept walking.

“Lfae,” they said. “But again, this is not in your interest. Stay away from me.”

“Why?”

“Because you won’t survive the attention that my company attracts. You’ll understand soon enough.”

They reached the end of the corridor, where a great silver door was set into the shifting wall. It swung open before Lfae, and a coarse rush of sound and heat flooded the passage.

The banquet hall stood a hundred feet long, and almost as tall—the ceiling was lost in a hazy blue mist, and the walls marbled from ice white to navy as they climbed skyward. Gods and their attendants crowded the chamber; they gathered around tables laden with obscure delicacies and horrors, they bickered and lounged and talked. Concentrated together, their mingled power spiced the air, and their influence pulled reality thin.

Tahmais recognised a few of them, lesser gods who had moved through Vasael’s circles. Not allies, exactly, but familiar faces. She was struck by the sudden terrible notion that any one of them might have betrayed her ruler to Kan Temairin.

Lfae was still moving, and she hastened after them. A few rulers looked up as the pair of them passed, but most kept eating or talking. A leopard-skinned goddess bared her long, curved canines at Tahmais, and her attendants lashed their barbed yellow tails like whips. It seemed the festivities were well underway; a fight had broken out on the other side of the hall, and the smell of blood was in the air.

From the head of the furthest and largest table, Kan Temairin surveyed the celebrations. He sat upon a straight-backed chair made of the same chitin as the exterior walls of the city-palace, and the ground before him roiled with hundreds of scorpions. He was a beautiful god; he had youth’s easy grace, a sweep of pearlescent grey hair. He wore scaled gloves, each finger tapered into a perfect red point. There was no trace of Vasael’s blood on him now.

“Lfae,” he drawled as they neared. “My favourite returns at last. You must be hungry.”

“I hope to strangle you with your own intestines,” the dweller replied matter-of-factly.

Tahmais recoiled, but the gods around Temairin only tittered as if the disrespect were nothing remarkable. The dweller’s expression never changed; Lfae stood tall and indifferent to the massed power around them, apparently bored by it all.

A satisfied smile spread over Temairin’s face. He idly picked up his knife and pricked the blade to his tongue.

“Eat the successor’s finger,” he said. “The one you removed. Do it now, slowly—I want a sideshow.”

The blood command worked instantly; Lfae reached into their pocket and retrieved Tahmais’ severed finger. She gagged and looked away before they could raise it to their mouth.

“Barbaric, Temairin,” said a pale goddess seated to the ruler’s left. The woman had milk-coloured skin and a smooth rope of snowy hair; her lips appeared obscenely red against her complexion. She had not joined in the laughter, but she made no move to interfere either.

“Come, Fanieq,” said Temairin. “Lighten up. You were bored.”

“And I remain bored.” The goddess waved a hand dismissively. “You could at least find a new dweller to torture, if you must play these juvenile games.”

“The others are too easily breakable, I find.” Kan Temairin turned to Tahmais and spread his hands in greeting. “In any case: welcome, successor. I am glad you made it here in one piece. Mostly.”

More laughter. Tahmais felt light-headed. Duty. Responsibilities. What did pride or pain or revulsion matter? Vasael had chosen her for a reason; under no circumstances would she betray that trust. She bent her knees and knelt before the god, prostrating herself. For you, Vasael. For all of us. The scorpions skittered away from her, stingers raised.

“Your Reverence.” She spoke to the ground. “I am honoured by your attention.”

“Oh, and she’s polite,” he said. “Lfae should observe this. Please, do go on.”

Tahmais took a deep breath. This was where it mattered.

“Your Reverence.” She kept her head down, kept her voice even. “I entreat you to show mercy to the dwellers of the 813th realm. I ask you to shelter and care for them, to bless them with kindness, to…” she stumbled, “…to love them as well as you can.”

Temairin’s foot tapped a rhythm through the air, inches away from her head.

“I see,” he said. “And these dwellers—they would have been your dwellers, had I not claimed the realm after conquering it. Correct?”

Her throat burned.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I was successor. They are—were my people.”

Vasael’s people.

“Interesting. I’m curious what the demon saw, that she would have made a goddess of you. I wouldn’t select bedmates, myself.” The god’s foot stilled. “Well, wouldn’t you prefer to rule them yourself?”

Tahmais could not help it; she lifted her head. “Your Reverence?”

“Your dwellers. Your inheritance.” Temairin looked down at her. “Don’t you want it?”

She felt at a loss—like the ground had crumbled, like the lights had been doused in water. The god stared at her with his unearthly violet eyes; waiting, expectant. All the while, Lfae’s chewing continued unabated, and with each second the sound cracked something deeper inside of her, something that wore thinner and more brittle, and came closer to snapping, and which she would never be able to repair. It seemed like Lfae was trying to be as quiet as possible. It did not help; the wet crunching was all Tahmais could hear.

“You conquered the realm, your Reverence,” she said shakily. “It is…my claim as successor is forfeit. We are all your dwellers now.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” He sounded amused. “To ‘love as well as I can,’ wasn’t it? To do with as I please. But I don’t actually have any particular interest in that forsaken backwater realm, so perhaps I could leave it to you. What do you think, successor?”

The grinding of a small bone between teeth. Tahmais’ tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Why?”

The god raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“If you have no interest in the 813th realm”—she could scarcely breathe, scarcely think—“why did you kill Vasael?”

“Oh!” Temairin smiled, obviously pleased by the question. “That? Well, I suppose because I don’t think that demons should be permitted to live.”

The fragile, battered thing inside her chest gave way, and Tahmais’ mind went blank. She began to rise, her body moving of its own accord. There was no thought, no intention or plan, but—

“Do you need anything else, your Reverence?” asked Lfae. “Or does my standing here like a part of the furniture amuse you?”

Their voice was dry, without a trace of fear, and it brought Tahmais to a halt. Temairin’s gaze shifted to his dweller; this time a hint of irritation crossed the god’s perfect face.

“Dislocate your fingers, Lfae,” he commanded. “All of them. Start on your right hand.”

“Ruler’s mercy,” muttered the white-haired goddess, Fanieq. “Do you want to set up a rack while you’re at it, Temairin?”

The god ignored her. His gaze returned to Tahmais.

“I want a regent,” he said. “I want the 813th quiet, and well-behaved, and brought to heel—I want to never think of it at all. And you, successor, are known to the dwellers there. Correct?”

She nodded, unspeaking.

“They will heed you?”

Another silent nod. Lfae’s joints popped loudly; they had three fingers dislocated already. Their breathing grew harsh.

“Well, in that case, I suppose I can delegate the business of loving them to you.” Temairin made a sweeping gesture. “That would suit us both, would it not?”

There went the fourth finger. Lfae gave a small, suppressed gasp.

“Although,” said the god, eyes glinting, “I’ll have to be sure of your loyalty first.”

Tahmais’ skin felt too tight around her flesh. To her own ears, her voice sounded far-off. “What do you require of me, your Reverence?”

In a sinuous motion, Temairin rose to his feet. The scorpions gathered to him, climbing his legs to cover him like a living robe.

“Proof,” he said. “I have three tests for you. Complete them to my satisfaction, and you can return to the 813th and oversee it for me.”

“Theatre,” muttered Fanieq derisively.

Tahmais’ stomach clenched. She nodded swiftly, horror and a nauseous hope warring inside her. If she could care for the 813th realm, if she had the chance to shelter Vasael’s fierce, quiet people from this—of course. There could be no other choice. Lightless take him, it was more than she had expected from her lover’s killer.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Lfae made a low sound of pain. They had moved to their left hand, but now lacked the help of their right to effectively continue pulling their joints out. They trapped their thumb in one of the ornate curlicue running along the apron of the table instead.

“You’re very welcome, successor,” said Temairin. “And still so polite too. Lfae, stop that; you’re going to spill my drink. Leave the rest of your fingers alone.”

The dweller panted—their complexion wan, their skin shining with sweat, their eyes murderous. “One day, I am going to leave you choking on your own blood.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are. Go fetch the chest now.”

Lfae turned sharply and stalked away from the table. The gods chuckled. Temairin noticed Tahmais’ expression.

“They’re terrible, aren’t they?” he said cheerfully. “Endlessly amusing. I am beginning to think it’s impossible to break them; I’ve been trying for thirty years.”

She swallowed, unable to find a reply. She could not imagine spending her life as this god’s dweller. Although now she would, now he was her god too. Without Lfae beside her, she felt exposed; although they had just chewed and swallowed a part of her, she was far more frightened of the smiling crowd of rulers.

“So, successor, I gather that your demon was bedding you?” Temairin picked up his glass and leaned against his chair. The scorpions flowed around him, avoiding being crushed. “How did you find the experience?”

Tahmais flushed—half in rage, half in shame—and could not speak.

“Go on,” Temairin prompted. “Give me details.”

Her voice emerged dull. “I don’t think our intercourse was unusual, your Reverence. She invited me to her bed, and I was happy to please her.”

“Oh, come, a little colour. This was a longstanding arrangement?”

She nodded.

“And did she please you?”

Why should she feel humiliated? If these craven gods already knew about her relationship with Vasael, if they wanted to mock her for it, why should she care? Heart beating fast, Tahmais lifted her chin.

“More than I can express,” she said. “Her affection was the greatest gift of my life—I loved her, your Reverence, and I believe that she loved me.”

Temairin’s smile widened; he looked delighted. “Is that going to be an obstacle in your loyalty to me?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. I am yours to command.”

“Ah, but that’s no challenge; it doesn’t signify if I blood compel you into obedience. I want your heart, successor. I want you to choose fealty. Ah, there’s Lfae now. Shall we begin your first test?”

Tahmais turned. The attention of the banquet hall had shifted; the rulers quietened and craned to see Lfae, who was dragging a heavy sled across the room. They pulled it with their left hand; their right fingers hung nerveless at their side. On the sled was a familiar wooden chest.

Tahmais’ stomach sank.

“I took the liberty of collecting your belongings, successor,” said Temairin silkily.

Her chest from the 813th realm: now specked with Vasael’s blood, and splintered on one corner where it must have been dropped or knocked. Let it all be shattered, Tahmais willed, even though her chest went tight at the thought.

Lfae stopped before Tahmais’ table and threw down the sled’s rope.

“Anything else?” they spat.

“No, that will do for now.” The whole room’s eyes had turned to Temairin. He revelled in the attention, exuding satisfaction like a sheen of light. He walked toward the chest, and necks craned to follow him. “Successor, if you would do the honours?”

Tahmais moved as if through a dream. She could hear the beat of blood in her ears with strange acuity, the sticky weight of her clothing. She crouched beside Temairin to open her battered old chest, and the bare skin on the back of her neck crawled like she was the one robed in scorpions.

She undid the latches and swung open the lid. With equal measures of fear and relief, she found the contents undisturbed. Clothing, cosmetics, wind bells and palm flutes, small tokens from other realms—a pearlescent shell holding a ball of light, a neatly made ragdoll, a knife that folded into silver paper. And there, nestled inside the case of woven reeds, were the whisper rings. Fourteen of them, each glass ornament a slightly different shade. Tahmais blinked. There should be fifteen. The coral was missing.

Do not react, she thought.

“What are those pretty things?” asked Temairin. “Show us, won’t you?”

Tahmais stayed the shaking of her hand and gently picked up one of the whisper rings, the tourmaline. It was warm to the touch. Around the room, gods were standing up from their seats to observe the spectacle.

“Well?”

He knew full well what they were. Tahmais kept her head lowered and spoke downward. “Mementos, your Reverence. Nothing valuable.”

“Show us how they work,” he said, undeterred.

Tahmais closed her fingers around the smooth curve of the glass. These gifts were meant for her, only for her. Now, surrounded by these hateful, jeering deities, she raised the ring to her lips and blew softly through it.

“I noticed your hair first, obviously.”

Vasael’s voice—amused, resonant, slightly self-deprecating—rang clear through the room, and Tahmais almost lost control of herself then, hearing it again. The demon sounded a little shy, or flustered.

“When you arrived, it stood out, that pale colouring—it made me think of moonlight, or the sun on white silk. I considered changing mine to match.” A small laugh, cutting into Tahmais like a razor. “I’m glad I didn’t. I think I was embarrassing enough, honestly. Was I embarrassing, Tahmais? You seemed much better composed to me.”

Sounds of derision and mockery through the hall. Temairin waved his hand, as if calling for quiet, but it only encouraged his audience. Unaware, Vasael continued.

“I was unsure of myself, in a way I had not felt in a very long time. You undermined me without ever setting a foot out of line. It was so annoying. I liked you so much. I wanted your hair. I wasn’t sure what I wanted it for—to wear, to touch, to pull—but I found myself looking at it far too often. And of course, I had no idea how to approach you without it feeling…well, I had too much power over you. You know, my usual worry. Although I swear you enjoyed vexing me.”

Tahmais remained stock-still beside the chest. Someone called: “I’ll pull your hair!” and there was a roar of laughter.

“I’m so fortunate, Tahmais,” said Vasael, and, from her voice, she was smiling. “I’m so lucky that you found your way to me. What were the chances that, of all the realms in Mkalis, you were reborn to mine? It sometimes feels like a miracle that I was graced with you.”

The whisper ring fell silent, but conversation rushed in to fill the vacuum. Temairin’s smile, when Tahmais lifted her head, looked almost giddy.

“Very poetic, you demon,” he remarked. “To think that you inspired such devotion.”

She hated him. She did not think it was possible to despise anyone so much, but she held her feelings deep within herself and gave nothing for his amusement. She imagined herself as an ancient boulder beside the ocean: the water crashing against her face, herself unmoving. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

“Smash it,” said Temairin. A few gods, sycophants, whistled approval, but others had already begun to lose interest.

Tahmais held the whisper ring a moment longer. Vasael’s voice, her words, her feelings. It doesn’t matter.

She threw it down against the hard tiles, and the glass shattered.

“Let’s hear your next love letter, then,” said Temairin.

In that moment, surrounded by the glittering gods and their bored decadence, Tahmais wished that she had died.

She was given a small, bare room at the city-palace. It had a little window that looked out over the mountainside, down to the plain. In the moonlight, the landscape appeared cast in silver.

Tahmais lay on the floor, her left hand cradled to her chest. She thought that she could feel Kan Temairin’s attention on her. As her ruler, he had the power to see through her eyes, hear through her ears. He could make her do whatever he wanted, and she would be unable to resist. With barely more than a thought, he could kill her.

He could not read her mind, however. That remained her own, out of his reach. She would not give him any amusement, or reveal her feelings.

She would not cry.

He had stolen her grief, she reflected. All meaningful avenues of release and mourning were barred to her now. He had stolen her grief, but here at least she could lie alone with the open wound like an ocean inside her, and feel its edges. Temairin could not make her love Vasael any less, only hate herself the more—and that was fine. In that moment, it seemed only fair recompense.

I’m sorry, Vasael, she thought. I should never have argued with you. I should never have left your quarters that night. If I hadn’t…

Would it have made a difference? Would it have granted her ruler the time to escape? In her mind, she saw the dark arc of spilling arterial blood, the way that Vasael’s body caved—

Tahmais breathed carefully.

Duty, she reminded herself. Responsibility.

Inside her, something had changed at the moment of her ruler’s death. At first, Tahmais had assumed it to be shock, but the sensation had not faded in all the time since then. Now it struck her as too physical, somehow. Too immediate. A discomforting coolness nestled below her breastbone, like a smooth river stone lodged beneath the interior curve of her ribs. Something pulled painfully taut.

They had talked about it—successorship, how it might work in practice. Vasael had insisted on having the conversation even though Tahmais hated the subject. When the demon first asked Tahmais whether she would accept godhood, she had framed it as a remote possibility. Just in case. It was only a precaution; if Vasael were killed by some accident or unforeseen disaster, Tahmais could ascend and claim the 813th. A contingency. The other dwellers would need a guardian, and they trusted Tahmais. Vasael trusted Tahmais.

Don’t sulk, Vasael had said, exasperated. I don’t want to die. You are being ridiculous.

I would make a terrible goddess.

No, you wouldn’t. You’re stubborn as death, and you love the 813th far too much to let it come to harm.

I love it because of you, Tahmais had wanted to say. Instead, afraid, she snapped: This wouldn’t be necessary if you just stopped taking such stupid risks. You’re getting too comfortable with the idea of dying; you think I’ll be able to step in—

That isn’t what this is about, Vasael sighed.

Then why now? This was never a consideration before you supported the Usurper’s Bond. You never talked about contingencies then.

The demon had looked weary. She folded her slim fingers together in her lap.

If I’m conquered, it won’t matter: your claim won’t be strong enough to stand, she had said. So any risks I might be taking are irrelevant to this conversation. But if you do have the chance, if you can protect the others…I trust you.

“Won’t be strong enough to stand.” Tahmais silently mouthed the words to herself. That didn’t mean that her successorship claim had vanished entirely. If she challenged Kan Temairin for rulership of the realm, she would be annihilated; his claim as conqueror was infinitely stronger—but she was still tied to the 813th. The acute pressure in her chest meant something.

She started at the sound of a soft knock on her door, and lifted her head. Outside, she could hear retreating footsteps. Her body was stiff with cold, and she winced as she stood up. Her hand had swollen around the black and bruised stump of her ring finger. Moving made it throb worse.

Outside the door was a small bundle: bandages, gauze, a flask of water, and a round clay vessel. Otherwise, the corridor was empty; whoever left the items had already disappeared. Tahmais knelt cautiously, picked up the gifts, and retreated into the room.

The vessel held a yellow mud that smelled strongly of anise. When she touched some to the skin around her wound, the flesh immediately cooled. A gentle numbness seeped into her, and, for the first time since her ruler’s death, Tahmais relaxed. Just slightly. She blinked away the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes, and methodically smoothed the mud over the rest of her hand, only avoiding the stump itself. Then she set the gauze to the wound—eliciting a suppressed whimper of pain—and unwound the bandage to wrap across her hand and keep it in place. A small scrap of paper fell out of the folds of the fabric.

Tahmais picked it up. She held it closer to the window and the moonlight.

You can’t hurt her now, it read, in a very unsteady hand. She is already dead.

With the celebrations ending, most of the other gods departed in the morning, returning to their own realms via a myriad of channels. It was a long, drawn-out affair of goodbyes and rituals and negotiations. On Temairin’s orders, Lfae retrieved Tahmais from her room, and led her up to the city-palace’s parapets to watch the exodus. The dweller’s finger bones were back in their sockets, and their hand looked ordinary, not even bruised. As ever, their face remained impassive. They did not say much, only that her second test would begin after Temairin had finished making his farewells.

The grasping wind tugged at Tahmais’ clothes. She felt hollowed out and queasy, and the fever-touched pressure in her chest still lingered. Together with Lfae, she watched the rulers leave—and she studied each familiar god’s face, silently asking: Was it you? Did you betray her? Are you the one who let Temairin into Vasael’s realm?

“He told me that he has been trying to break you for thirty years,” she said.

“Thereabouts,” replied Lfae.

She did not turn to look at them. “How do you endure it? What he makes you do?”

On the road below the gates, Temairin embraced a goddess with birds tattooed over every inch of her skin. The animals moved, fluttering their black and gold wings. Her four human attendants crawled behind her on their hands and knees.

“It’s only pain. That’s all he can do to me. Pain.” Lfae’s eyes tracked the movement below. Their voice was indifferent. “And my spite is far greater than his imagination.”

“That’s all you have? Spite?”

Temairin made some remark, and the goddess laughed. He gestured to the attendants. She made a gesture of careless acquiescence, causing all of her dwellers to flinch in unison.

“It’s all I require.” Lfae rolled their shoulders, loosening some stiffness their back. “And all he deserves.”

Temairin strolled over to the cowering attendants and examined each in turn. He pointed to the largest; a man with hair only a few shades darker than Tahmais’ own. The other three dwellers sagged with relief, while the chosen attendant went rigid. Tahmais shivered.

“I could not live on spite,” she said. “And I don’t believe you do either.”

“Believe what you like.”

“Does being his favourite mean something to you?”

Lfae glanced at her sidelong. Dark circles ringed their eyes.

“It means,” they said slowly, quietly, “that while he is trying to break me, his attentions are not fixed on anyone else.”

The goddess compelled her attendant to stand, and then to follow Temairin back into the city-palace. The man’s face had gone slack with terror; his eyes as bright and shining as a lamb to slaughter. His ruler turned her back on him, and continued down the mountain road. She might as easily have gifted Temairin an old scarf. Tahmais lowered her gaze to the stone floor of the parapet.

“I know Vasael’s gone,” she muttered. “I’m not stupid. They were only mementos anyway; I didn’t care about smashing them. But thank you for the salve. It helped.”

A long pause. The wind whistled over the mountainside. A risk, they both knew, to say anything aloud when Temairin might be listening, but it seemed likely that he would be distracted at that moment, and not paying attention to them in particular.

“I did an unspeakable thing to you yesterday,” Lfae said at last. “Don’t thank me.”

“It was not your choice.”

“But I did it.” They shook their head and turned. “Come. He’ll be expecting you for his second test, and if you give him what he wants, you’ll be one step closer to that regency. Try to…try to remember what I told you.”

“Told me?”

They did not reply.

In daylight, the city-palace’s true size was apparent; it spanned miles of perfumed pleasure houses and shaded gardens, feasting halls and trophy cloisters, chambers for sleeping, for meetings, and for darker amusements—all of it Kan Temairin’s, and all of it only a tiny corner of the 194th realm. Many buildings featured slabs of the same black chitin that formed the outer walls of the complex.

But Lfae did not take her deeper into the warren. Instead, to Tahmais’s confusion, they led her back toward the stables where they had left their mount yesterday. Just past the building was a paved square surrounded by a high fence, which she initially took as a kind of exercise area for the animals. Rows of cushioned benches overlooked the square, and a few gods lolled around atop them. Kan Temairin sat on the highest bench, dripping with fat scorpions, basking in the sun.

“Ah, just in time for the main course,” he called, smiling broadly. “Thank you for delivering the successor, Lfae. You may now go retrieve lunch.”

“One day, I will cut out your eyes and spit into their sockets,” Lfae replied.

Temairin seemed in an indulgent mood; he leaned sideways on the bench and rested his chin on his hand. “You risk giving me ideas, my savage.”

“You clearly need them.” Lfae showed their teeth. “All you had yesterday was fingers.”

The god waved them away. “Go now.”

There was a considerable amount of fresh blood soaking into the stones of the square, Tahmais noticed. It trickled darkly between the cracks, and the smell hung thick and cloying in the air. An abattoir, she thought. What did Temairin intend for her to do here? He had brought friends to watch, which felt as ominous as the gore. The pale goddess, Fanieq, was amongst those seated on the benches, but Tahmais did not recognise any of the others.

“Come closer, successor,” called Temairin.

Tahmais walked across the bloody stones. The day was warming quickly, and flies buzzed over the ground. At the foot of the benches, she knelt.

“How may I serve you, your Reverence?” she asked quietly.

“I see you have attended to your injury.”

Tahmais’ left arm rose into the air through no force of her own. The bandages unwound themselves, unspooling weightlessly around her hand. The gauze pulled free from the wound, and she gasped as pain ricocheted through her raw flesh.

“Ouch,” said Temairin. “That isn’t pretty.”

Tahmais lifted her head to meet the god’s gaze. He was wearing white today, and his scorpions were arrayed across the cushions.

“Of course, I could repair it,” he continued. “I imagine you saw that, despite their base ingratitude, I healed Lfae? I could restore your finger, flesh and bone, easy as breathing.”

But you won’t.

“But I won’t.”

Lfae was right, Tahmais thought bitterly. You really do lack imagination.

“As your Reverence wills,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral.

“So polite, so polite.” He gave a small laugh, and most of the other gods dutifully joined in. “You see, successor, I need you to remember that you belong to a new ruler now. My gift might not be quite as pretty as your old love letters, but when you look at your hand, you’ll always think of me. A worthy memento, don’t you feel? And a reminder that I can take so much more from you, if I wanted to.”

“Of course, your Reverence.” Was that where this was headed? Would his second test involve some kind of voluntary bloodletting? The thought made Tahmais feel sick. She had no choice but to be strong; she could not afford to buckle or falter, but the rabbit-fast thumping of her own heart clawed at her resolve. She was no warrior.

“Oh, absurd,” said Fanieq abruptly, her tone one of incredulous disdain.

Lfae had returned. Tahmais turned automatically. The dweller was bent beneath the weight of the burden on their back, which they shrugged off once they reached the square. A cry escaped Tahmais’ mouth; without thinking, she rushed toward the crumpled body on the stones.

Vasael’s wings lay crushed beneath her back, broken and blood-matted. Her chest gaped with the dark wound that Temairin had inflicted. The sight of the demon pulled the air from Tahmais’ lungs; she dropped down beside the body, wanting to draw her ruler into an embrace, wanting to cling to her. Vasael’s death was ugly, but she was still beautiful underneath it, as if Tahmais only needed to scrape away the violence to bring her ruler back clean and whole. She touched the demon’s arm, and then recoiled from the cold stiffness of the limb.

Lfae stood above her. They had not moved when Tahmais ran to Vasael, and now they kept their gaze fixed on Temairin, as if the scene at their feet was some embarrassing distraction better left unacknowledged. Tahmais felt the gods’ eyes upon her, and hunched her shoulders. She had shown too much.

“How moving,” said Temairin. “You truly are a devoted dweller, successor. It speaks well of you.”

Tahmais rose unsteadily, and turned back to the benches. “My apologies, your Reverence.”

“Come now, I appreciate your honest feelings. Such ardour. Lfae, give her the hatchet.”

Lfae, for a moment, did not move. Tahmais glanced at them, uncomprehending. They still would not look in her direction; they only had eyes for Temairin.

“I think,” they said slowly, “that I could torture you for centuries. It would still be less than you deserve.”

Temairin smiled. “At least I also inspire some feeling in my dwellers. The hatchet. Or shall we start making meals of stablehands again?”

Lfae’s face did not change. They walked over the side of the stable and picked up a worn, bloodied hand axe from the workbench in its shade. They returned to Tahmais and thrust the tool into her hands. She flinched at its weight.

“Very good,” said Temairin. “Now, successor, you have already been introduced to one of my ocur; it conveyed you to city-palace yesterday.”

From within the stable, there was a loud bang; as though something had collided with the interior wall.

“They’re useful creatures, but they do have considerable appetites.” The god leaned back on his bench. “Don’t worry; they won’t hurt you, not unless I allow them to. Lfae, open the door.”

Don’t, Tahmais thought, and tightened her grip around the hatchet. Her breathing had grown short. She did not know Temairin’s exact intentions, but her instincts screamed that she should run. Lfae walked over to the stable doors and drew up the heavy bar. They did not show any fear. The door swung outwards, and they moved over to the workbench, out of the creatures’ path. Tahmais took a step backwards.

Three ocur appeared at the entrance. In daylight, facing them from the ground, they seemed enormous. In a wave of sinuous, rippling limbs, they flowed out into the square, circling Tahmais and waving their black claws like scythes. Their dark carapaces shone in the sun.

“Time to show me your loyalty, successor,” called Temairin.

She felt like a rat cornered in a weasel’s nest. Her voice shook slightly. “Your Reverence, I don’t follow.”

“Feed them. You will have to divide their meal, of course.”

She was at a loss. The creatures spiralled around her; she looked down at Vasael’s body, and felt herself sinking. There was a scream in her throat. A wild streak of madness; she imagined burying the hatchet in her own neck. There was a hysterical voice inside her head, howling.

“Successor?” said Temairin, voice mild.

What was to stop her? In death, she might find Vasael again. In their next lives, reborn, they would draw together as the moon pulled the tides, like magnets, like gravity; they would be rid of this nightmare and free. The 813th was already lost. Tahmais felt giddy. What was to stop her? What was left for her to lose? She adjusted her hold on the hatchet. A quick, hard blow. No hesitation; she could not give the god time to react. Fast, sharp, and true. It would not hurt; if she were fearless enough, it would be over too quickly for her to feel anything at all. Her heart pounded. It would not hurt.

“Is that the best you could come up with, your Reverence?”

Lfae’s raised voice startled the ocur; the animals jerked at the unexpected noise. Tahmais looked toward the dweller. They were still leaning against the wall of the stable, their arms folded.

“I bet you were so proud of this test,” they continued, with unshakeable insolence. “I bet you schemed all night—and in the end, your grand idea was the butchery of a day-old corpse. Astounding, your Reverence. History will surely remember your subtlety.”

Temairin’s eyes narrowed. “You are beginning to tire me, Lfae.”

“So this is how you impress your guests.” They snorted. “Well, at least the demon was spared the pain of embarrassment. I’m sure she would rather be dead than play an active role in your melodrama.”

Tahmais’ mouth was dry. The ocur circled, circled, circled. Although Lfae had not so much as glanced in her direction, she knew that their words were meant for her. You can’t hurt her now. She is already dead. All along, they had anticipated what was coming. They had tried to warn her, prepare her, and even now, strove to press their message home. Vasael was dead; nothing worse could befall her. This was only an empty shell, this was only Tahmais’ own sentimentality weaponised against her. Just a body. Just one more memento. Just meat.

Vasael had selected her to protect the realm. Not for sentimentality, but for steel. I trust you. Tahmais slowly crouched down beside her ruler’s beautiful corpse. The demon’s dark hair had fallen across her cheek; she gently tucked it back. She was the successor; she had the spine for it, she was servant to her role—so obey.

She silently raised the hatchet, and brought it down hard.

The gods, distracted by Lfae, looked around sharply at the thud. Teeth gritted, Tahmais freed the tool. Obey. She mouthed the word like a prayer. Duty. Responsibility. Vasael would expect no less. She swung the hatchet again, and the force rippled through her hand, wrist, arm; she felt the blow travel through every muscle in her body. Do this, become regent, and salvage what the demon had devoted her life to building. Obey. Her breathing emerged in cracked gasps; her body felt like it belonged to someone else, as if she witnessed her own actions from a great distance. Everyone in the 813th was relying on her. Vasael had chosen her.

“Well,” said Temairin softly.

Tahmais didn’t pause from her bloody task. The god could burn. They could all burn, all the rulers of Mkalis. Temairin wanted her to shatter—but she had thwarted him, beaten him, exceeded his expectations. In giving him what he asked for, she denied him what he desired, and through her daze swept a vicious rush of vindication.

She slammed down the hatchet. He would not win. Her body felt electric, her arms were red and wet. She would take it all back, everything, she would rip apart his life with her bare hands. With every breath, she would seek his end. For Vasael. For the 813th. For herself.

Obey!

The limb came away clean, and Tahmais threw back her head and screamed her defiance to the sky.

The ocur shied backwards, hissing. Shuddering and covered in blood, Tahmais lowered her gaze to meet Temairin’s. Fear me, god. Watch me spit in your eye. His expression remained cool, although his scorpions roiled around him, stingers raised in distress. What he saw on her face, she did not know.

“I am done here,” said Fanieq.

The goddess had risen. She stood, pale and impervious, and the other gods shrank from her like a physical force. Temairin’s head swung toward her, and he began to speak, but she cut him off.

“Consider our allegiance ended,” she said. “Our goals might have aligned, but your dweller is right—this is juvenile theatre. I will not be further sullied by association; should you seek to cross into my realm in future, I will slaughter you without hesitation.”

“Kan Fanieq—”

“No, be silent,” she interrupted, merciless. “I say this as a warning, Temairin: your crass immaturity will prove your undoing. I have no intention of being dragged down in that wake.”

In a fluid motion, a twist of the light, the goddess was down from the benches and walking away from the stable. Temairin stared at Fanieq’s retreating back, the spool of her ice-white hair blinding in the sun, and his perfect face grew ugly. The threat of violence was in his limbs, his body had gone tight—but he did not move. A confrontation within his homelands gave him every advantage, and yet the goddess’ power still exceeded his own. For her part, Fanieq did not even look back.

Lfae began to laugh, mirth spilling out of them.

“That must hurt, your Reverence,” they said. “Oh, that must sting. Your highest ranked ally, wasn’t she? But ultimately you are too much of an embarrassment.”

“Hold your tongue!” Temairin hissed the command, his temper giving way.

Undaunted and gleeful, Lfae captured their tongue between their thumb and index finger, and continued speaking. “You netha could conthrol yourselth—”

Their words cut off abruptly as the god exerted a greater, silent power, although the dweller continued to shake with soundless laughter. Temairin himself was trembling; his gaze swept across his friends on the benches. The other rulers avoided his eyes. It was quiet. The ocur had stopped circling.

“Will that be all, your Reverence?” Tahmais asked, her voice low and hoarse.

He considered killing her; she saw it on his face. You never could control yourself. His lips thinned.

“Go,” he replied. “Lfae, remain behind—I want you to demonstrate your obedience to my guests.”

Tahmais hesitated, glancing at the dweller. Lfae smiled at her. It struck her as a curiously gentle expression. They made a small motion with their hand. Go on.

“A problem, successor?” asked Temairin dangerously.

Whatever was about to happen to Lfae, she had no power to help them. She bowed over the ruin of Vasael’s corpse, closing her eyes against the sight. Then she turned her back on Temairin and walked away. Behind her, she could hear the ocur slithering over to feed on her lover’s body. At the edge of the square, she dropped the hatchet. It clattered on the stones.

Only later, once she was back to her room, did Tahmais lift her hands to her mouth. Temairin was certain to be distracted; he would not see her. With care, she licked each of her fingers clean. Even in death, rulers’ blood held power.

“I am successor,” she murmured. “I am successor. I am successor.”

It might have been her imagination, but she thought the hard pressure inside her chest grew stronger.

Nothing confined her to her room. No one seemed especially interested in her or concerned that she might pose a threat. Tahmais, by the late evening, began to suspect she had simply been forgotten. When the cold grey chamber at last became too claustrophobic, and she could no longer stand the oppressive intrusion of her memories—visions of shattering bone, sundered flesh, pale feathers—she got up and left the room.

She did not feel sane, not entirely. A strange calm had covered over her like an invisible film, elastic and smooth, and beneath it she felt almost cheerful. Strange things amused her: the idea of the other gods trying to reassure Kan Temairin, the memory of Lfae grabbing their own tongue. It was all absurd, even laughable. She wished she could tell Vasael about it. She wished the taste of blood would wash off her tongue.

The gardens were much quieter tonight. She wandered through the leafy pathways, alone and unhurried. The moon hung high in the sky, barred by white clouds, and it was cold. At a water fountain, she washed her hands and face. The stump of her missing finger hurt, but no longer pulsed with sickly heat; whatever salve Lfae had provided seemed to have worked wonders. The pain that remained was a persistent, dull-edged ache. As Temairin had said: a reminder.

What else could you take, I wonder? She gazed down at the rippling spill of moonlight in the fountain. I am not sure what I have left to offer.

She walked on. It was past midnight, and the city-palace rested uneasily. She saw no one else on the paths, and only once caught the sound of voices drifting through an open window. Although she had not truly slept since Vasael’s death, Tahmais did not feel tired. It seemed better to be moving, better not to close her eyes. She followed her feet, drifting, until she heard the sharp ring of metal on stone, and then she traced the noise to a dusty quadrangle nestled between two buildings.

Lfae moved like trapped lightning. Their body, unassuming at rest, transformed into something unearthly while in motion. They held a white spear loosely in their hands, but it was difficult to determine where the weapon ended and they began; the polearm seemed to bend and twist with them, supple as a vine. The dweller flowed and struck, bent and spun; each movement was as precise and controlled and elegant as an alchemical equation, as fast as quicksilver. For all their grace, they appeared devastatingly lethal.

Tahmais watched them quietly. Their expression was pure focus, unadulterated willpower. They looked unhurt. Whatever Temairin had done to them, he had subsequently repaired, and Lfae moved through each sequence of violence like steps in a dance. She had never seen them so at ease.

When they came to a stop, they let the spear fall to the ground. They took a few seconds to catch their breath, and the hot air from their lungs misted in front of their face.

“Stay away from me,” they said, panting.

“Because that’s in my own interest?”

They nodded. “Correct.”

“How so?”

Lfae grimaced. “Because anyone to whom I pay the slightest attention risks being used against me. Violently used. Possibly with my own hands—he knows I still flinch.”

“I see.” Tahmais gazed around the empty quadrangle. The buildings on either side were tall and silent; the walls chipped and gouged with broken spearheads. She gestured at the space. “And does he know about this?”

They snorted. “Of course he does. It amuses him.”

“I didn’t think you liked to amuse him.”

“I don’t. But it’s…” They wiped their forehead, and sighed. “One day, he’s going to make a mistake. One tiny mistake is all I need, just one careless little error. He’ll slip, and when he does, I’ll be ready. All I need is one opening to kill him. If he finds my practice amusing…” A shrug. “Let him choke on that laughter.”

A nice fantasy. “Do you think he’s watching you now?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. He was drinking earlier, and has probably passed out by now.” They picked up the spear, and a cruel smile touched their lips. “To be spurned by Kan Fanieq was a hard blow; he won’t easily recover from that. I am surprised she tolerated him as long as she did.”

They resumed their drills, albeit at a far slower pace. Tahmais watched them, tracing the point of the blade through the air.

“He said that he does not care about the 813th realm,” she said. “That he conquered it just for the sake of killing Res Vasael.”

Lfae arched their back, swinging the spear around in a clean arc. “Yes.”

“I want to know who betrayed her to him.”

“Thinking of vengeance?”

She shrugged.

“Your demon played with fire, making too many alliances. Pure naivety. If you want to apportion blame—”

“Vasael,” said Tahmais, “was not naïve. She knew the risks.”

“Given the results, that makes her choices even less forgivable.”

She looked directly at Lfae, and spoke low. “She chose righteousness even though it killed her. I will pay for her choices until the end of time, and never hold that against her.”

“You say that now—”

“I will say it always. Vasael did nothing wrong.”

And it was true, Tahmais knew. All along, she had clung to her own selfish fears, her terror of losing the demon. When Vasael had joined the Usurper’s Bond, a coalition dedicated to the protection of newly ascended rulers, she had felt betrayed. They had both known the decision would draw attention like a red target painted on Vasael’s back. What was valour, what was kindness and honour, if it meant the demon’s destruction?

But Vasael had been a usurper herself. She knew the cost of tearing a tyrant from their throne—the years of fear, the wrath of affronted gods, the solitude—and its necessity. Amongst the vulnerable crowd of newly ascended rulers, she had seen the shadow of her former self. Through the Usurper’s Bond, she had tried to be an ally to those rulers with none. No delusions, no misapprehensions about what might result. Vasael had stood to gain nothing and to lose everything. And she had.

“You truly bear no resentment,” said Lfae, their voice strange.

Tahmais smiled without a trace of humour. “Oh, I do. But not for her.”

The dweller had stopped their drill. They rolled the spear across their palm, an unconscious movement.

“Kan Parile,” they said abruptly. “That would be my assumption. A nobody, a coward, ruler of the 872nd. He’s been trying to curry favour with Temairin. I know he has sold out others.”

“Parile,” Tahmais repeated, tasting the name. Unfamiliar, and strangely disappointing. She shook her head. She had expected a revelation, something to give direction to her feelings, but no. Two syllables of emptiness. “Never heard of him.”

Lfae gave a short bark of a laugh. “He is newly ascended; your demon might have established a channel with his predecessor. I doubt he will survive long. A poor choice of successor.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

“It’s only a name.” They turned away from her. “Leave now. Go back to bed.”

“You remind me of Vasael, in some ways.”

Lfae stiffened.

“I think you might be more subtle,” Tahmais continued. “Far more subtle than Kan Temairin realises. Vasael was always open, and you are not like that, but still—I see her in you.”

“You see nothing,” they said harshly.

“It’s your protectiveness, I think.”

“Don’t be absurd. What have I protected?”

“Me. Repeatedly.”

They scoffed. “You delude yourself. That isn’t surprising, given what you have lost, but—”

“You share her kindness,” said Tahmais.

They whirled around.

“You don’t know me,” they snarled. “You are a grieving fool, trying to project what you have lost onto me, but I cannot help you, I cannot protect you, and I cannot save you. You are so close to completing his damned tests, but you’re going to throw it all away with this idiocy.”

Tahmais did not move. Lfae’s cheeks were flushed.

“I want you to know I’m grateful,” she said softly. “That’s all.”

She left them standing there alone, with the cold still air turning their breath to white clouds.

So this is it, Tahmais thought.

Having control of both the 194th and 813th realm, Kan Temairin had established channels to run between them. From the 194th, the passage opened just outside the walls of the city-palace, on the dusty plateau of the mountaintop. The channel itself was only a few feet long; its walls shimmered with sliding black oil, pearlescent and slick. The ground had a hard, grooved texture, like a tortoise’s shell. Through it, Tahmais could see the sky of home.

“Complete the last test to my satisfaction, and thereafter you may remain in the 813th,” said Temairin.

Dressed in a gold tunic and his mantle of scorpions, the god had recovered at least the semblance of a good mood. Tahmais did not trust his tight, calculating smile or pleasant voice; she knew that he remained furious about yesterday. While he dangled the rewards of success in front of her, he would undoubtedly also enjoy her failure.

“I will not disappoint, your Reverence,” she replied.

“So good to hear.” He strolled forward into the channel. “I hope you are taking notes, Lfae.”

“I hope you are eaten alive by worms.”

“Well, there will always be room for improvement.”

Tahmais followed the god and Lfae into the channel. Her skin prickled. One more trial. One last test, and I will be able to shelter Vasael’s people. My people. Whatever was to come would be awful, but survivable. And Temairin would not renege on his bargain; breaking his promises, even to an irrelevant dweller, would mar his reputation all the more. As long as she obeyed him perfectly, she would win.

The familiar scent of the wetlands, dense, clean and dark, drifted from the mouth of the channel. Tahmais stumbled slightly, her chest going tight with yearning. She had already half-forgotten that rain-smell, the strains of damp soil and green fronds, the faint fragrance of the water blossoms. It hit her harder than she had expected.

“My new subjects, rejoice!” said Temairin, stepping into the realm. “Your ruler has returned.” He added, as an afterthought: “Face down, thank you.”

Tahmais emerged behind him. The 813th realm was deathly silent, and the cool air was still. Mist hung over the waters. For an awful moment, she thought that the figures collapsed along on the path were dead—hundreds of prone dwellers lined up, a parade of corpses, her friends, her makeshift family…but no. Her people had simply prostrated themselves before Temairin, and lay perfectly still as he approached. The winged dwellers had weights shackled to their legs, and the sight quickened an anger inside Tahmais. Where were they supposed to fly, that the god could not reach them? There was no escape. Everyone lay in the mud, unmoving, denied even the smallest measure of dignity. If Vasael had not singled her out and made her successor, Tahmais would have been amongst them.

Soon, she promised silently. I will right this. Soon.

“I brought a familiar face today,” Temairin continued. “Greet my dwellers, successor.”

What could she possibly say? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry she is gone. Her voice came out low and raspy with feeling. “I…I am glad to see you.”

“Look up,” the god commanded.

In perfect unison, a hundred mud-smeared heads rose from the ground. Faces she had known her whole life leapt out at her. Ami, Vasael’s messenger and scribe, always calm and composed, but now red-eyed and bloody-mouthed. Sivir, who cared for new arrivals to Mkalis, who had borne Tahmais’ own early fits of confused distress. Dacote, incorrigible gossip and the best singer in the realm, sporting a lurid bruise on his forehead. Their exhausted gazes settled on her.

“Successor, to whom do you pledge your loyalty?” asked Temairin loudly.

She lowered her eyes to the ground. “To you, your Reverence.”

“She’s hurt,” someone murmured. “Her hand—”

“To whom do you devote your life, your mind, and your heart?”

“To you, your Reverence.”

“And to whom do you owe thanks for disposing of the demon usurper of this realm?”

She swallowed. The words came out dead and flat. “To you, your—”

“What have you done to Tahmais?” Ami yelled.

No! Tahmais’ head jerked up. Ami’s body shook with anger; she wore her loathing for the god undisguised on her face. Temairin, however, did not seem to mind.

“Your former successor and I have an arrangement,” he said. “I’ve found her to be extremely tractable, in fact.”

Murmurs rippled down the line of bowing dwellers. Tahmais wanted to be sick. They did not recognise the danger; they did not know how easily Temairin could destroy them all. Her voice emerged breathless. “Please, don’t—everyone, please obey our new ruler.”

Audible gasps. Tahmais’ face burned. She knew how they would see her now; a faithless turncoat, a coward, stain on Vasael’s memory. She could not blame them—

“We are glad to see you too, Tahmais.”

Ami’s voice had lost its heat. Her gaze lingered on the bandages around Tahmais’ hand. She forced a tight smile, which made her bloody mouth look all the more painful.

“Welcome home,” she said.

Not trusting herself to speak, Tahmais gave a swift nod.

“Yes, listen to the successor,” said Temairin, apparently growing bored. “She sets a good example. Now, shall we see how construction is progressing? I tire of standing in the mud.”

At the base of the lily spires, where the green stems clustered most thickly, new slabs of flat brown stone had been laid: the foundations for a large, rectangular building. Walls of the same material had been erected on three sides, but the last was only half-built, construction interrupted by their arrival. The god strolled down the path, and the dwellers remained prone on either side, a forced honour guard.

“I found the existing accommodations too exposed,” he said. “What do you think of my new hall, successor?”

How could it have been built so quickly? The weight of all that stone was sure to damage the lilies’ root structure; it looked grossly heavy and out-of-place. Tahmais wanted to tear it down. “I hope it will suit your needs.”

“It’s hideous,” supplied Lfae.

“I doubt I’ll have much reason to visit,” said Temairin, ignoring them. “But at least the workforce here proved capable, once suitably motivated.”

Tahmais repressed a shiver. “That’s…good.”

A rich blue rug covered the floor at the entrance of the hall. Temairin stepped onto it, soiling it with mud from his shoes. He spread his hands, mocking, as he turned to welcome her and Lfae.

“Your last test awaits,” he said. “Come in.”

The roofless interior stood about sixty feet long and thirty wide, and the space was largely empty but for an enormous throne at the far end of the room. Black, and constructed from interlocking sheets of shining chitin, it sat like a scaled predator in its den. The floor around it was dressed in thread-of-gold rugs, against which its shining darkness appeared especially pronounced. The rest of the hall remained bare and chill, shadowed by the lilies.

Temairin strolled over to the throne, his steps echoing slightly in between the walls. Tahmais glanced around the room. There were no obvious clues what the test might entail.

“It is not easy, you know,” said the god, as he reached the throne. He ran his hand pensively over the black chitin. “Rulership. It entails a great deal of vigilance. You never know when your allies might turn on you, when loyalty might prove…provisional.”

He beckoned for Tahmais to approach. With a dull feeling of foreboding, she obeyed, and knelt at the foot of the throne. Lfae remained standing.

“That is why I value action over words,” said Temairin. “If I asked you to cut your heart out of your chest, would you?”

She kept her gaze on the gold rug. “If you required it, your Reverence.”

“I do not.” There was a soft ringing sound; metal sliding across a smooth surface. Temairin pulled a long, thin silver dagger from the back of the throne. He turned it over in his hand, studying its length. “In some respects, I think that would be too easy for you. What is your opinion, Lfae?”

“That you would benefit from the removal of most of your organs.”

“Hm.” The god sat down on the throne; his scorpions climbed the arms and over the back. “Yet another example of your great subtlety and kindness.”

Tahmais breathed in sharply, the echo of her own words ringing in her ears. But Lfae only laughed.

“Not as drunk as I took you for,” they said. “Or maybe too afraid to sleep with your alliances crumbling around you. The tables turn so quickly; now that Kan Fanieq has spurned you, it’s only a matter of time before someone makes a play for the 194th realm. I hope a demon gets there first.”

“An attempt to divert me?” Temairin smiled. “Oh, you will need to do better than that. You are worried. Successor, stand up.”

Tahmais rose. Lfae had warned her, time after time. Anyone to whom I pay the slightest attention risks being used against me. She swallowed. Well, they had already severed and eaten her finger. More of the same. She could endure it. Only pain. Duty. Responsi—

“Take this,” said Temairin, holding out the dagger.

She did not allow her hand to shake. Perhaps it was to be self-mutilation after all. She took the dagger, which struck her as unexpectedly light. The hilt was smooth and cool under her fingers.

“Oh,” said Lfae.

Tahmais lifted her gaze, and found that Temairin was looking past her, to Lfae. A faint smile touched the god’s lips, a little ironic, a little hungry. Lfae merely appeared surprised.

“You admit defeat?” they asked.

“An odd way of looking at things,” said Temairin. “Typical of you, that arrogance. Perhaps I am just out of patience.”

“After all the years?” Lfae tilted their head. It was the first time Tahmais had heard them address the god in any tone other than scorn or anger; they sounded perplexed and slightly curious, like they had been presented with a riddle to solve. “I no longer amuse you?”

Temairin made a careless gesture, as if he could not even be bothered to answer.

“Unless…oh.” Lfae’s expression darkened. “You expect—”

“Successor,” the god interrupted. “Cut out my dweller’s heart.”

Tahmais almost dropped the dagger. “What?”

“Do this, and you will be regent of the 813th realm.” Temairin leaned back on his throne. “You do not need to fear; I won’t allow them to fight or run.”

There was a roaring in her ears.

“You want me to…to kill Lfae?” she said faintly. “That’s your test?”

“No.”

Lfae’s voice was cold. The dweller remained as fearless and upright as ever; they glared at the god even as they spoke to her.

“I didn’t expect him to turn his trick around,” they said. “Try to use your kindness, your empathy…No. He doesn’t want you to kill me. He wants you to fail to kill me.”

“I—” Her mouth tasted like ashes. “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” asked Temairin. “It should be simple. Unless, of course, someone else holds sway on your loyalties now? Perhaps someone who reminds you of your old ruler?”

Lfae shook their head in disgust, turning to her instead. They lowered their voice.

“Tahmais, listen,” they said. “Listen to me. He expects you to fail; he knows that you are too honourable and that you care too much, he knows that you pity me. It’s the same game he’s always played, except you can win this time.”

She clutched the dagger. The hard stone foundations felt as though they were sliding beneath her.

“Successor?” said Temairin.

“Don’t you see? He wants me to be responsible for your final failure,” Lfae spoke quickly, plainly, their eyes fixed on her. “After that, he’ll turn around and force me to kill you. But it doesn’t have to be that way. He thinks he knows you? Prove him wrong. Do it.”

“Too much,” she whispered.

“No, it isn’t.” Their face was fierce. “Think of your people. Think of Res Vasael.”

Tahmais jerked like they had struck her, and backed away. “Don’t—”

“Hand me victory. For all his efforts, he couldn’t find a way to break me. It’s only pain, Tahmais; give me my vindication.” Lfae stepped closer. “Set me free.”

“Last chance, successor,” said Temairin.

From his tone, the god believed that he had already won. Tahmais felt choked; she could not bear to look at him, could not stand his triumph after she had come so close to succeeding. It had all been for nothing; she would never be regent now. Too weak. Felled at the last hurdle by such a stupid, needless cruelty. She had given everything, lost everything—but not this. She would not do this.

“Please,” said Lfae.

This is what your kindness brings. Tahmais bit down hard on her tongue, tasting her own blood. Fine. She raised her head to meet Lfae’s eyes again. The camaraderie of the damned. Some vindication. They saw her resolve, and their face lit up with joy. That might have broken her; to see anyone so overcome with happiness at the prospect of their own death. Shaking, she lifted the dagger. Stepped toward them.

“Are you ready?” she whispered.

Their eyes widened slightly at the sight of her bloody teeth.

Good, Tahmais thought, and thrust the dagger, hilt-first, into their hands.

“I claim the 813th realm,” she said.

The pain was immediate and explosive; the hard knot of pressure between her ribs ripping into the air. A savage magnetism spun her around to face Temairin; her claim as successor collided with his right as conqueror. The god cried out, more shocked than hurt, temporarily pinned to his own throne by violent forces rippling between them.

Your claim won’t be strong enough to stand, whispered Vasael.

I know. Tahmais could feel her bones breaking, her body tearing apart beneath the assault of the contestation. Even with Vasael’s blood, even back home where she belonged, the outcome was inevitable. But then, it doesn’t need to stand for very long.

Through the agony, she saw it: the space of a heartbeat when Temairin’s divinity slipped. For the smallest instant, rulership of the 813th realm tipped slightly in her favour; she was the goddess, and he was nothing—his authority meaningless, his rules founded on air, his laws mutable as water. In that moment, Tahmais was no longer his dweller.

And neither was Lfae.

They moved like their entire life had been spent waiting. Tahmais did not see them pass her; they were before the god, and the dagger was lightning in their hand, swift and unstoppable, and it rose and tipped Temairin’s head upwards as it pierced through his neck and into his skull. The god did not make a sound. Briefly, his gaze rested on Lfae, and his expression held a hint of incredulity. Then he was dead.

The force that held Tahmais upright gave way, and she dropped, hitting the stone floor hard. She scarcely felt the impact; every part of her body already sang with pain. In the recess of her chest, her broken claim to the realm dissolved. Not a successor anymore, nor a ruler.

“Tahmais!”

Lfae’s voice, far away. She tried to focus, and their face shimmered through a dark haze. Nothing like Vasael’s, really. She was glad they were there. She felt her body lift, and the movement was excruciating.

“Hold on,” they said. “I can—I can fix this!”

They couldn’t, although they would try, she knew. Always kind. Missing whisper rings. Bandages in the night. Fingers out of joints. Grateful. The light changed, vague shapes receding from her or drawing closer. Not home. But not alone.

“I claim the 194th realm,” Lfae gasped.

The darkness was warm, and she was cradled within it. The pain had not changed, only it seemed further from her. Only pain, that’s what Lfae said. It felt easy to let go.

“Heal.”

Something inside her kindled, and the world grew clearer; she saw Lfae’s face above her and the blue of the sky. They were still holding her; their expression one of rapt attention. The broken parts of her body drew toward realignment, willed to mend, and then…fell apart once more.

“Heal!” Lfae insisted, their lips wet with their own blood. “You will heal.”

The same tightening, the same collapse. Tahmais’ breath fluttered.

“I claim this realm!” snarled Lfae. “I have the power, I set the rules. Heal! Just heal.”

With each repetition of the blood command, the response inside her grew weaker. Tahmais tried to shake her head, but failure seemed to only make Lfae angrier. Their breathing had grown erratic.

“He did this all the time. He fixed me over and over and over, until I couldn’t even remember what he had broken. Until there was no part of me—” Their voice cracked.

With difficulty, Tahmais made her throat work. “You are not him.”

Lfae cursed viciously. Their shoulders heaved with their breathing, and she saw that they were crying. Behind them, hazy in her vision, the city-palace of the 194th waited for its ruler.

“What was the point?” they asked. “If I have all this power, why can’t I even do this? He could. He could always—”

Tahmais’ body did not cooperate as it should, but she found their hand. Their weeping was completely soundless, but their body shook around her.

“Not him,” she repeated.

“It isn’t fair,” they whispered.

Tahmais shook her head, and tried to smile. It’s all right, she wanted to say. She wanted to say a lot of things: take care of the 813th and thank you and I want to go home now. But she was too spent, and she suspected that they knew anyway. She held their hand a little tighter. The world was growing darker, but she did not feel afraid. It’s all right.

She was conscious of Lfae moving, the brush of something cool and glass-smooth to her lips. Then, Vasael’s voice, familiar and aching. Close. Tahmais could not open her eyes to see her, could not make out the words from their sounds, but Vasael spoke and she followed, like tides to the moon, like magnets, like gravity; her love spoke and she followed her up into the air.

“A Heart Between Teeth” copyright © 2023 by Kerstin Hall
Art copyright © 2023 by Cristina Bencina

Sneak a peek at the cover for Kerstin Hall’s new standalone fantasy novel ASUNDER, coming August 2024 from Tordotcom!

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A Heart Between Teeth

Kerstin Hall

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Kerstin Hall

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The post A Heart Between Teeth appeared first on Reactor.

“Sun River” is set in the world of Nisi Shawl’s acclaimed Everfair and its upcoming sequel, Kinning, available everywhere on January 23, 2024.

A version of this story appeared in the anthology, Clockwork Cairo: Steampunk Tales of Egypt, published by Twopenny Books.

Princess Mwadi wheeled gracefully above the Nile. She flew in two birds, turning them in upward spirals to catch the last thermals of the day. Soon the sun would set, the air cool. But shortly before that she would be home.

She could have cut hours off her time. The desert route between Alexandria and Cairo was far shorter than this one. But Mwadi was kind to her mounts and didn’t often ask them to betray their true natures, and then not by much. Far easier to persuade seabirds to travel along a river than to force them to abandon the water entirely.

Far easier to make these periodic journeys to the coast by occult means than to persuade her buffalo-headed brother, Prince Ilunga, to “allow” her to go there alone, in her own body.

She switched her eyesight entirely over to the younger of the gulls she rode, then swooped that one ahead of its elder. A barge piled high with bales of white cotton floated toward her, passed beneath her. They traveled in opposite directions and in opposite conditions: the boat was headed north to Rashit, loaded full of merchandise to sell in foreign lands across the Mediterranean; the princess south to Al-Maadi, the aristocratic enclave outside Cairo, and sailed through the sky empty-clawed, delivered of the reports her birds had carried to visiting spies.

At last! The sharp downstream spit of Gezira Island appeared ahead, swelling as she glided on southward. A change in the river’s course had exposed this highly valuable land, Mwadi’s sources informed her. So then greedy Cairo had expanded to cover it. Greying shadows filled the wide new boulevards erected here in the opening years of this nineteenth century by the British, and over there on banks reclaimed by Egypt’s previous rulers, the Turks. But the low stone wall of the Corniche still gleamed as if made of gold, reflecting the sinking light of the sun for which, by many accounts, the city had been named.

From behind a raucous cry pierced her four ears, stirred her two hearts. Mwadi cried out too, struggling against both birds’ urges to dive. Fragrant garbage tossed from the decks of low houseboats called to her, bobbing temptingly up and down on the suddenly murky waters. Below the surface a flash of silver—a fish? But she had anticipated this.

Firmly she imagined the brackish, half-salt pond she had ordered to be installed in her villa’s garden, the schools of carp she raised there—picturing not just their bright colors but the barely visible tracks of their sinuous wakes, and more: the smell of their soft droppings falling to the pond’s silty bottom, the dampness rising off the water’s warm surface to cloud the air with their perfume. The birds’ attraction to the trash immediately available lessened sufficiently for Princess Mwadi to conclude her flight home.

Alighting on the tall spire of limestone she’d had the builders place in the pond’s center, Mwadi turned four beady orange eyes toward the pavilion on its shore. Yes. Her body lay where she’d left it, apparently drowsing on a divan. She turned her mounts’ fidgeting attempts to plunge into the pond beak-first into a double arc passing over her body’s head, and let go. And fell into herself.

Darkness. These eyes—the eyes she’d been born with—were shut. She kept them that way a moment more. Listening, she heard brisk footsteps—but far off. Good. Her instructions to the women who waited on her were to protect these special slumbers from intrusion. She stretched and moved her feet so they hung over the divan’s edge and sat up slowly. In the evening dimness, the pavilion’s silk awning and shadowy netting resembled the walls of a room in the “palace” where she’d spent several years of her childhood—the hotel her father, King Mwenda, had commandeered from Leopold II’s European thugs. The hotel’s gardens had crept in everywhere, green life seizing avidly on crumbling stucco and cement. And since her mother, Queen Josina, seemed to welcome it in, and also to prefer the garden’s nooks to her royal chambers, Princess Mwadi had joined her there back then. She found comfort now in those memories. . . .

Well, but that was long ago—before she’d learned to ride the birds, before Mademoiselle Lisette and Lady Fwendi taught her the rudiments of her craft. They would be glad to receive her latest intelligence report, but it would worry them. Perhaps they’d need her to act quickly—to hinder Ilunga in his idiotic flirtation with Britain before it bloomed into a formal relationship. Would the prince inherit their father’s throne only to become Victoria’s puppet? If so, how could she cut the strings?

Best to prepare for any likelihood. Mwadi stood, smoothing out her creased skirt. She pushed through the netting to the path that would take her to the terraces and up—and paused.

Above the rustling leaves stirred by the evening’s rising breeze came another, similar sound: a rhythmic swish of fabric, the fluttering back and forth of another woman’s clothes. Whose?

Sudden as a storm, Rima Bailey swept around the path’s gentle curve and flung her bare arms wide. “Look at you! Ain’t you grown now? Litta bitty Bo-La turned into a fine young woman for sure.” Rather than prostrating herself on the ground before the princess like the tiresome Egyptians, the actress seized Mwadi by her shoulders and pulled her into a tight embrace. In Everfair they’d been equals despite Mwadi’s royal rank—troupers in Sir Jamison’s play Wendi-La. Bo-La was Mwadi’s role.

But the production was on tour. The last she’d heard they’d finished three months of engagements in Brazil.

Released from the actress’s strong brown arms as swiftly as she’d been gathered into them, Mwadi shook herself straight. “How did you get past my serving women?”

Miss Bailey threw back her head and laughed. “Them cobwebs? They couldn’t hold back a spider. They’ll be followin me down here soon, though, if we don’t head on up to your house mighty quick. I told them I had a short private message to deliver you from Queen Josina.”

“You do?” It had been nearly a season since her mother had contacted Mwadi.

“Naw, not actually.” The berry-dark lips quirked downward.

“Well, why say what you said, then? Why say anything? And what is it brings you here if you’re not coming from my father’s favorite?” Who could have sent whatever word she desired to send via a dozen other routes, now Mwadi considered the idea dispassionately.

Miss Bailey laughed again, an entirely different sound. Half a choke. “Child, you know my job is makin people believe lies.”

The princess was no longer a child. “Take a holiday from your work, then. We’ll join the rest of my household now, as you suggest, and on the way you can tell me the truth.”

“Yeah.”

They walked together to the arbor at the bottom of the terrace steps. As they climbed upward night descended, closing the blossoms of the jasmine bushes planted on either side. Moths and mosquitos came near, attracted by oil lamps along the paths being lighted by small, self-effacing boys. Some of these lamps bore the pierced brass shades popular in the country of the princess’s birth.

They reached the terraces’ third level in annoying silence. One more to go. Vexed, Mwadi stopped, and tugged on Miss Bailey’s wrist to make her stop, too. They stood in clear sight of the balcony where Ilunga customarily held a lax court with his friends, other students at Victoria College. The balcony was obviously occupied: drunken voices slurred indistinctly from its tobacco-scented shadows. There could be no excuse for her overzealous attendants interrupting her tête-a-tête with the beautiful actress here. But it was also doubtful she’d be overheard. “Why did you need to speak to me alone?”

“They said you was sleepin.”

Not an answer. “Why?”

“But I know better. You ride anything besides seagulls?”

Even less of one. How should Miss Bailey know about that? Had Lady Fwendi—or her husband, Sir Jamison—been indiscreet?

The princess found to her irritation that she held Miss Bailey’s hand. She released it. Her mother had taught her that power lay always with the questioner, never with the questioned. She tried again. “What do you want with me?”

The hand had somehow found its way back to hers, claiming it now as the other woman’s possession. “You know, Brother Mo-La is kinda stupid, but he can see plain enough if we only talkin. An then he’s gonna wanna know what’s bein said. Better make him think we makin love.” She suited action to words, kissing Mwadi’s rosy palm, stroking her wrist, rucking up her loose sleeve to reach the shivery skin that paled at the fold inside the bend of her elbow . . .

“No!” Mwadi drew away. Hard as it was.

“So you go with men?”

She shouldn’t answer that. “With you!”

“Ah!” Miss Bailey’s hands and mouth returned. They moved to the thin cloth over Princess Mwadi’s armpit and nestled in. They—didn’t tickle. Not really. No, not at all. A barrier she’d never before been aware of broke. Pleasure poured through it.

The princess fought to surface from the flood. “But I have to know where.” That must make sense. She didn’t trust her voice for anything longer.

Miss Bailey’s head rose. Her tongue carved a riverbed beneath Mwadi’s shoulder blade. Beside her spine. Flirting with the back of the girl’s tingling head, the actress buried her face in the naked crook of Mwadi’s neck. Then lifted her lips and murmured low: “You wanna know where you goin with me?”

Mwadi nodded, a response which would be felt if not seen.

“I was plannin on a little jaunt to a buildin site.”

That seemed more like Mademoiselle Lisette’s sort of excitement.

Mademoiselle had been Miss Bailey’s lover once. For some time. Perhaps an attachment still lingered on the part of the actress. Mwadi set her steady hands on the actress’s smooth-brushed hair and moved her away. Gently. But firmly.

The actress smiled confidently. “Come on. Sir Jamison heard from his Lady Fwendi you learnt to ride gulls so fast you asked how many other sortsa birds you could study for mounts. You ever try on any around here?”

Was that all this was? The dalliance a cover for whatever scheme Miss Bailey wanted Mwadi involved in? She had said so. Shame pricked the princess’s eyelids, stinging them. To be used so, fooled so—

“Bo-La? You rather I invite you more formally? In front of your brother and all? As princess? I thought this would be nicer—”

“Hullo! What sport! Nigger hoors! Loongee, you’re the right sort, you are—no? Positive?” The jovial cries from the villa’s balcony ceased, hushed by others of her brother’s white friends. The unlucky merrymaker’s ebullience subsided as they repeated their assurances that the women on the lawn below had not been hired for his entertainment.

“Pardon me! So awfully sorry!” The apologies grew louder as Mwadi walked quickly toward the library’s French doors, then ceased abruptly as the women waiting there to open them swung them shut behind her. The noise revived briefly when, at the urging of Miss Bailey’s polite rap on the glass, the doors reopened.

The actress slipped into the room with the offhand grace Mwadi remembered admiring at rehearsals. “Aloli, ain’t it?” she asked the tall maiden on the door’s right. Who bowed almost as deeply as she had to the princess. “Sweet name. Juicy.”

“You would like water? Beer?” Many Egyptian Muslims frowned on alcohol, but Prince Ilunga’s retinue expected and got plenty of exceptions to this custom of his adopted country’s upper classes.

“I’ll take whatever you’re havin.”

After a day of fasting, Mwadi’s body ravened. She ordered a supper such as the queen would have offered to guests arriving from an embassy. Primarily Everfairer delicacies: well-spiced soups served alongside heaps of stolid grains. A course of freshwater fish, to which she had the cook add shelled creatures from the river’s highest reaches. Perhaps this was owing to her mounts’ lingering influence? The whole was to be followed by iced fruit. And to begin, bean cakes and a gourdful of the local, peasant-made barley brew. And two cups.

Upon these appetizers’ arrival the princess dismissed all her women but one. She ordered Aloli to stay, determined not to show any jealousy. Though she poured Miss Bailey’s beer herself.

The actress took a healthy swig. “Good as I remember from Everfair.” They sat on spindle-legged benches with curving backs, British furniture supposedly modeled on Egyptian antiquities. Ilunga treated these sorts of objects carelessly, so Mwadi had gathered as many she could into her private apartments, protecting and maintaining them. She took a strip of linen hung over Aloli’s arm and arranged it on the little table between them, then poured her own beer and set the gourd on the cloth. She drained her cup in one gulp. She hadn’t meant to. She poured more, but held off from drinking it. She ate a bean cake instead, dipping it in a fiery red sauce that did nothing to assuage her thirst.

A scratch at the door signaled the advent of the first course. The servant woman Aloli went to usher it in. Mwadi bent close to the table and leaned forward so Miss Bailey would hear her soft speech more easily. Or did she speak softly so she could lean forward?

“I’ve experimented to expand my reach, living so far inland as I do here. I found a flock of kattar-kattars—”

“What you call them?”

“That’s the locals’ name: kattar-kattar—after their call. They’re desert birds resembling pigeons, but far better fliers. I’ve ridden several at a time.”

“You think you can get em to go where—”

The servant Aloli returned bearing a tray of covered dishes. She transferred them to the table with fluid motions more careful than Miss Bailey’s, but just as pleasing to watch. If Mwadi had been in a mood to be pleased by them.

A loud knock came from the door. Swirling her shoulder scarf as if it were a cape, the servant turned to answer it, but before she took two steps it opened. Mwadi’s brother entered, face shining with an inner heat. “So sorry to disturb you,” he enunciated with too much precision. Behind him hesitated another man, his skin and clothing white against the passageway’s gloom. “Scranners insists on apologizing to you as well as to me. Personally. And to your guest.”

The white man followed the prince in then, crushing what looked like a slouch hat in his fidgeting hands. A shamed grin stretched his thin lips. “Deveril Scranforth at your service. Must beg your forgiveness for my very silly mistake a few minutes ago. I ought to have known—at any rate, abject abasement and all that. Are we quits?” One hand released his hat and was offered to the princess—to shake? Presumptuous of him.

“You served in Kenya?”

Scranforth started as if he’d overlooked Miss Bailey’s sprawling beauty till she questioned him. “Ma’am?”

“Rima Bailey. The other ‘nigger hoor.’”

White became red. “You oughtn’t say such words.”

“You did.”

“Completely different cases.” Her brother’s friend appealed to Mwadi with his rough-lidded eyes. “Aren’t they, Miss, umm—Miss?” The ungrasped hand dropped.

“Thank you for your apology.” Mwadi rose to curtsy stiffly, without inclining her head one inch. Would he go now?

“You ain’t answered me.” Miss Bailey stood and stalked off from the table where Ilunga swayed over her neglected food, lifting the dishes’ covers.

“I—what?”

“I asked did you serve in Kenya. Because of your hat—the kind they used to wear there in the police force. ’Scuse me; the army. So?”

“Ah—no! It was my cousin’s. Grandison Sprague. He wore it when they were putting in the rail line under Lord Delamere. The Lion Killer?”

Lady Fwendi hated Delamere.

“Your cousin get eaten by one a them giant lions?” Looming now over Ilunga’s friend.

“As a—as a matter of fact he did. Look here, Loongee, you want to pack it in and talk about selling off those shares in the morning?”

“I’ll be fine once I have a bite. Fine. Need to soak up the excess spirits.” The prince picked up Miss Bailey’s abandoned porcelain spoon and helped himself to her groundnut stew. “Fine.”

“But—the ladies? That is, we don’t need to discuss business in your presence, Miss—boorish behavior by any standards.”

More boorish than labeling them prostitutes and thus businesswomen themselves? Mwadi took note.

The second course had arrived, barely noticed. The serving woman fitted more dishes on the already crowded table. Ilunga plopped down in Miss Bailey’s place and lifted another lid. A large fish stared up from its platter with one cloudy eye. Brown breading glistened with fat.

“This will only take a moment. I swear. When I’m done we’ll retire to my rooms. Finish the deal there.” The prince stabbed a three-tined fork into the fish and flaked off a bite. “Wait, though—Didi has shares to get rid of too. Don’t you?”

How Mwadi loathed her brother’s new habit of calling everyone by these “nicknames” he came up with. But as with his other and often more troubling habits—his Western dress, his immoderate consumption of alcohol, his gambling, his reckless abandonment of tradition-minded counselors for scions of Europe’s upper classes such as this very Scranforth—she practiced a pacific tolerance. For the moment.

So she answered him. “Yes, I have several shares in the Great Sun River Collector Company. Gifts from you. Why are they to be gotten rid of?”

Her brother gestured to his mouth, too full to talk, then to Scranforth.

The white man obliged with an attempt at explanation. “Well, the, er, the construction of the collector tube has hit a few snags. Delays, that sort of thing—reminiscent, actually, of Delamere’s Kenyan railway project, and of course the contractors your brother recommended aren’t to blame in the least. Though I’m led to understand cost overruns here have— Hang it! Difficult to describe the details of these things to a lady, don’t you know!” Scranforth twisted his mouth into a line as irregular as the brim of his nervously wrung hat. Mwadi wondered if what kept him from talking clearly about the situation was his own lack of understanding.

“No need,” her brother announced, shoving a bolus of boiled millet aside with his tongue. “Didi will dump any stocks I tell her to. Tell her tonight.” He swallowed, wiped his brow, and returned his attention to the fish.

“What’s your hurry, though?” Miss Bailey asked. “You got the Cairo Bourse right next door”—it was several miles away, in fact—“and you can be there soon as it opens just by leavin here first thing in the mornin.”

With a groan, Ilunga pushed the fish away. “I feel unwell.” Grabbing the platter’s cover from the bench pads beside him he inverted it and vomited into its shallow depths. As he slumped back, letting it tip dangerously, the serving woman ran to snatch it from the prince’s loosening hands. As she passed, a sour reek wafting from the improvised basin threatened to turn Mwadi’s half-filled stomach inside out.

“P’raps”—the white man shuffled backward to the door—“—p’raps that’s a better idea.” The prince rolled onto his side and emitted a series of moaning gasps. His arms waved in the suddenly thick air like the tentacles of a desperate octopus.

Miss Bailey plucked a brass vase from the hearth and dumped out the dried bulrushes it had held. “Here you are.” She thrust it at the hapless prince. Ilunga seized and used it.

No longer hungry, Mwadi ordered the food cleared away, climbed the stairs to her brother’s rooms, and sent his Egyptian valet to him. Then she walked the rich carpets to her own rooms.

Behind the door to her boudoir waited Miss Bailey.

“Where is my maid?” Not visible through the wide archway leading to her bed. Perhaps in the closet? Yet the louvres of the closet doors were dark.

“Hasina? I sent her away.”

Mwadi smiled. “Why don’t you ring for her to return, then?” Or move away from the bellpull.

“Awright. If you want. But I was thinkin we could learn to know each other better without company.” The actress got up from the gilt-armed chair where she’d been poised, uncrossing her pyjama’d legs. “Like I could show you my gun and my camera and tell you what I need you to do for me.”

“Gun?”

“Oh, I ain’t offerin violence. Look—I laid it down over there, on your vanity.”

Its curves interrupted by half a dozen shining crystal bottles, a brass silhouette showed on the vanity’s cluttered surface, familiar from Mwadi’s training as a spy: a shongun, the Everfair invention that flung poisoned blades at your targets in place of bullets.

“Sir Jamison give it to me in New York. Said I might need protection on our tour out West.” Miss Bailey shook her head and chuckled lightly, bitterly. “From Indians, I guess. Came in handy but not cause a them. Some cities ain’t so hot on mixed-race casts. Most of em.”

Mwadi picked the shongun up, checked the breech. Loaded. To be sure, it would be useless otherwise. She aimed it at her unexpected guest but immediately lowered its muzzle. After all, Miss Bailey could have shot her just moments ago, or poisoned her earlier, or— This was not about killing. “What are you doing? Why?”

“You don’t think I’d hurt you, do ya? I brought the gun to show how I’m serious about this.”

“About what?”

“About what the Lincolns hired me for. Stoppin the sabotage at the collector site.”

A few snags. “Is that the building site you wanted to take me to?” Princess Mwadi didn’t remember moving after she reached the vanity but here she was, within an arm’s length of Miss Bailey. She could smell the woman’s makeup cream. She could count the pulses throbbing in the hollow beneath her exposed collarbone. “And—and what was my job going to be?”

“You know the Lincolns, right? Hotel owners from Baltimore? They invested in the new production of Sir Jamison’s—”

“Of course I know them. I own Great Sun River stock.”

“Right—I hope you bought it cheap, back when they inherited the plans from the inventor—not them, but the daughter’s husband who worked for Mr. Shuman did, and it was practically worthless? Well, it’s been fallin lately till now it’s just about the same level of no good. They say they can put more money in another new show, somethin of mine if I— Bo-La, you need to sit down? This is a complicated story.”

Mwadi laid the shongun aside. With her emptied hand she reached for Miss Bailey and found that even the arm’s length between them had gone. She touched the beautiful actress at the juncture of hip and thigh. Taut muscles covered in pale yellow satin slid beneath her palm. “No. I don’t want to sit.”

“There’s a pitcher with water on the windowsill. Or maybe you cold? I seen a brazier in the corner.”

“No. Yes. Don’t be so obtuse. Come to bed. Isn’t that why you’re here?” She dared to hope. Despite the claim of what was really wanted: work.

“Yeah, Bo-La, but—”

Mwadi surged against the maddening woman’s warmth, threw her arms around her high neck, and clasped them behind that perfect column’s dark, near-iridescent sheen. Leaned up to kiss those berry-looking lips. Miss Bailey rocked back to avoid that but recovered her balance.

“But Bo-La, you—”

“In the garden you wanted me. What’s different now?” Mwadi began to tremble: little shivering crests of desire and troughs of doubt.

“Come on.” Irresistible arms guided the princess to the vanity’s bench. Away from the bed. Unyielding hands pushed her shoulders down so she sat there.

“Someone has to—to watch?” What sport!

“Naw.”

“I c-c-can get one of the servants—”

“Naw! Aw, don’t look so sad. Scoot over.” Sitting beside her, Miss Bailey took Mwadi’s hands in her own. But then did nothing with them.

“Listen. How old are you, Bo-La?”

“I had my birthday markets and markets ago.” In the month the British called July. This was October.

“How old?”

“Thirty-three seasons.”

“Sixteen years. Where I come from that’s barely big enough to do what we already done. Let alone what more we imaginin.”

What we want. Mwadi stopped her shivering. So was her age all that bothered Miss Bailey? “But you aren’t where you come from—you’re here! My father ruled our country when he’d lived just a season longer than I!” She grasped the hands that had held hers. “I’m grown! A woman!”

“Yeah. Sure. I can believe that. If I work on it. And I been tryna make myself a hundred percent certain you understand I ain’t in love with you. I figure sayin it straight out’s best. Best for both of us.”

“Love!” Mwadi laughed, a little wildly. “That’s none of my concern!”

“Ain’t it? You young.” The actress sighed. “And lyin. I got no time for that.” She stood and strode to the door.

“Wait!” Mwadi followed her. Caught her by one slippery beige sleeve. “If I did—if I decided to be in love with you and expected you to love me back, what—what then?”

“Then I would tell you, ‘Not yet.’”

Not yet. “Then when?” Mwadi gathered the pyjama sleeve tighter.

“When I’m free.” Disentangling herself from Mwadi’s clutching fist, Miss Bailey paced slowly back to the room’s center. “When I’m done with this assignment.

“Which is why I called myself, comin here tonight to tell you what I gotta do. And gettin your help.”

Turning, Miss Bailey went to the bookcase next to the boudoir’s entrance and came back to the bench carrying a black box. Not plain—latches and a strap decorated its top and sides. Glass-covered holes pierced one end. “My Brownie,” she said proudly. “A witness everyone trusts. Because everyone uses them.”

“You’ll catch the saboteurs with this?”

“You seen cameras before?”

“Yes, but—”

“I ain’t gotta catch em, just show what they doin in a photograph. Lincolns will bring the law into the picture.”

Mwadi eyed the camera box askance. “And you want me to do what? Fetch it to you? Fetch it away? I’ll need more than one bird to lift such an awkward thing as that.”

For answer, the actress pulled a small spool from her pyjama pocket and held it up between finger and thumb. “Think you can handle a couple of these, though?”

At dawn flocks of kattar-kattars gathered by a water hole miles to the house’s east. Under the awning which had yesterday been erected behind the villa, Princess Mwadi stretched out on her divan. Sleep would have been welcome after the restless night she’d spent in Miss Bailey’s—Rima’s—embrace. But she had agreed to remain awake and enter her chosen mounts.

Cool air stirred—the sun’s breath blowing across the waking desert, entering the tent where the southern wall had been rolled up. Filling her lungs with it she sang, high and pure as light from heaven, falling, sliding, gliding down to the sand before her open door. Chicks fluttered nearer to her, nearer to their mother, gathered their courage and strutted all the way in, bodies brown and grey and black and buff, barred with yellow-orange and olive green. Preening heads bobbed once, twice, then stopped, transfixed by her stare.

Without stirring an inch Mwadi leapt into their eyes.

After that the supine form on the divan called to them no more. Her four kattar-kattars rejoined the rest of their flock. Together they swooped above the Cadillac Saloon in which Rima waited, parked alone on the rough track back to the rough road. Though they kept flying with their fellows they dived lowest, braked hardest, and flirted nearest the actress’s scarfed head. She waved to signal her understanding of the princess’s success and drove off.

Last night—this morning? Sometime during the tender hours of darkness, Rima had drawn a map showing where the seemingly ill-starred Great Sun River Collector rose and slumped and rose again. The princess had memorized that map, then burnt it in the brazier furnished to perfume her sleep. The sandalwood normally used to fuel it she left untouched. Another, saltier smell had driven out the bitterness of the map paper’s smoke. Now, though she kept pace with the Cadillac, she recognized the winding route it traveled.

Soon the sun rose. Bright beams broke widening gaps in the dispersing clouds. Her mounts split once more from the rest of the birds—normal behavior for this time of day. But they wanted to go west, toward the promise of green shoots sprouting in the wheat fields nearer the Nile, while Rima swung off on a graveled track to the east, following it deeper into the desert.

She changed the birds’ contrary impulses into a circle. Spreading her feathers, she caught the spiral currents of gradually heating air and cupped them beneath her wings. Not high—no higher than they’d go normally. But high enough that she saw what Rima must have missed: Ilunga’s lilac-and-grey Napier speeding toward them through the sparse morning traffic.

How far away? A mile? Two? Hovering over the crossroads, Mwadi couldn’t decide what to do. Should she shadow Rima and if necessary retrieve the film she shot, as they’d planned? Or switch to watching Ilunga, to see what he was up to? Or—

Both. With a nauseating wrench Mwadi tore her mind in half, riding three birds east and one north. Though she’d long ago gotten used to how the land tilted and whirled beneath her when she flew, the vertigo caused by heading two ways at once threatened to toss her headfirst from the sky.

She’d done it before, going in different directions like this. Once. In a pair of gulls. She shut her panicked beaks on confused cries of “ga-ga-ga!” and continued to come apart.

Strongest were the blinding shards of sun spearing her eyes as she floated above the Cadillac’s dusty wake, but simultaneously she plunged up the map toward her brother’s swift approach while wondering why he’d come, was he still suffering from the evening’s overindulgence, which it was best not to remember or she’d spew the contents of her crops like droppings on the sand—the road—the sand—the road, and she was past him! Bank with these wings, not with those, and come around flapping hard to catch up, but not so fast because the Cadillac had stopped. Rima jumped out. Lay flat. Undulated along the ground, like a snake, to disappear below the rim of a long-gone stream’s dry bed.

Where had Ilunga’s motorcar gotten to? Paying too much attention to Rima’s movements, Mwadi’d lost control of her fourth bird. She prayed those remaining would be enough to provide any necessary backup. But how to arrange them so their presence would seem natural?

Her mounts proved attracted to a large patch of asphodel nearby. She let them settle, and as they gorged on the plants’ buds she caught glimpses of Rima’s goal: a sort of staging area from what she could judge, perhaps in the shape of a semicircle. Piles of pipes marked its approximate edges, some winking and glinting metallically in the morning sun, some a dull black.

The grinding roar of an engine grew louder and louder. It sounded nothing like Ilunga’s Napier. Easy to take her mounts aloft again; they wanted to scatter, but Mwadi held them loosely yet effectively, keeping their restless circuits confined to the staging area. Beyond, rows of empty wooden cradles lined the grey sand.

A freight truck—source of the engine noise—became visible. It stopped in the staging area and two strangers opened its doors and clambered out. They spoke in Arabic, too rapidly for Mwadi to understand more than a few words. Something about finishing their task before the builders ripened. Opening the gate of the truck’s rear compartment, they laughed and greeted a third man, who cursed them. Probably. But he laughed, too, when the crate he shoved off the truck’s bed exploded open at their feet. Shattered glass tumbled out of its broken sides. More cursing. More laughter, shared by all the men now. The two from the truck’s cab climbed up to join their coworker in tossing the entire shipment out to smash on the ground.

Mwadi’s mounts saw curving shards of mirrors poking up from the ruins of a few of the crates. One had cracked apart to show a parabolic panel surviving miraculously whole—till a man jumped down to kick at its unprotected back. A shiver and it became a sparkling curtain collapsing into a heap of uselessness.

A few snags.

One man looked up to where her mounts circled. He pointed at them and the others shaded their eyes and looked too. Mwadi decided to fly the kattar-kattars a bit farther off. She wheeled over Rima’s dry watercourse; when Rima saw the birds she beckoned for them to land.

Small stones lined the empty streambed. Mwadi reminded her mounts they needed grist for their gizzards and set them pecking.

“Good,” said Rima. “I wound up the film and stuck the spool under that rock there. See it? You can carry that back—I’m gonna have a little talk with them saboteurs before I leave.”

No. But Mwadi couldn’t stop her. Already she was gone. And the princess had promised. Mwadi abandoned two of her mounts and pushed the last toward the crevice Rima had indicated. Dangling the heavy film roll from her gaping beak she launched herself into the pale blue sky. Stubborn woman.

Her bird’s neck ached. She should have kept control of the other two kattar-kattars and traded the work off between them. How long could she stand the strain? How long did she have to? Focused on ignoring her pain, she let her mount’s ears miss the purring advent of Ilunga’s motor. But then she saw the Napier itself, its colors unmistakable, though half-concealed in the dust cloud kicked up by its tires and blown ahead of it. Blown in the direction of the saboteurs and Rima.

She shouldn’t turn back. The photographs were precious. Rima would want her to save them, to make the risks she’d taken worthwhile. Mwadi struggled grimly on, flying through air that had somehow become thick as porridge.

BANG! That wasn’t Rima—shonguns fired quietly! She dropped the precious film and reversed her mount, going faster without her burden. Reaching the site again she smelled blood and gunpowder. Heard a muffled scream. BANG! Another shot.

She flew higher, out of bullet range she hoped. Below, the three saboteurs made fast feints toward Rima, who knelt on one knee, one long arm hanging loosely at her side, the other aiming the shongun at their faces. Behind the Napier crouched Deveril Scranforth holding a small, gleaming pistol. Of her brother the princess saw no sign. He would never have lent his motor out—not even to his closest friend. Where—

A sudden, dizzying shift in perspective and there he was—lolling head first off the motor-car’s driver’s seat. Bright rivulets trickled across his dark face and dripped to the floor—but he lived. In tentacle-like motions reminiscent of last night’s drunken flailing, his arms fought to grab the steering wheel, the gear shift, anything with which to right himself. He kept hitting them and slipping ineffectually off.

Could she help? Where was she? Still riding a kattar-kattar—but a new one? No—a lost one regained. Once more her consciousness was doubled: she found herself both up in the air and perched on the Napier’s roof, head tucked down and cocked sideways to peer in at the windscreen. What had triggered the link’s resurgence? Proximity? Lack of movement?

The bird’s protective coloration blended somewhat with the Napier’s dust-covered grey paint. That and the gun battle had kept it from discovery so far. But surely—

Shhk!

A guttural cry burst from a saboteur stumbling, falling, clutching his thigh. The curling edge of the shongun’s three-lobed poisoned blade protruded above his red-stained fingers. His cry subsided into whimpers and curses.

“Shut up!” commanded Scranforth. “You’re not dead yet. I’ll kill you myself. You’ll tell no tales—”

“My photographs gonna reveal everything! Your whole scheme!”

The white man shot at Rima over the motor’s bonnet without aiming and missed. Mwadi’s recovered mount “ga-ga-ga’d” and tried to flee. She forced it into the Napier’s interior through the passenger-side window. Shhk! Rima’s return fire sent the bird screeching and flinging itself at the windscreen, pale gobbets showering from under its tail. The princess tried to calm it but her brother’s moans and bloody thrashing wouldn’t let her.

From above she saw Rima seize the shongun by her teeth and attempt to crank it one-handed. After every two shots it had to be rewound—but why not use both hands? She must be hurt.

Four blades left—the shongun had been fully loaded when Mwadi checked it last night in her boudoir. If Scranforth didn’t have any extra ammunition—or if he’d left it in the Napier, out of immediate reach—Rima and her attacker were evenly matched. But add in the two saboteurs still standing—

Without allowing herself time to think of the consequences, Mwadi dove. Claws out like an eagle’s, she aimed for the face of the man with the gun. Predictably he shot at her. Twice. Fortunately he missed. Pulling out of her unnatural stoop with just inches to spare, she felt her mount’s wing muscles tearing. Only a little, she hoped. She was able to gain the heights again, the men’s voices shrinking beneath her like their foreshortened figures.

Unless she viewed them out of the eyes of her other bird. Drying blood and shit smeared much of the glass, but the open window showed the pair of unwounded saboteurs huddled together. Indistinct murmurs escaped their conference. Then in silence they turned toward Rima and leaned forward, their intent clear: to rush her together.

So close! Mwadi urged the panicking kattar-kattar to exit the window she’d entered by. That would distract or deflect them. She couldn’t move! Ilunga’s arms wrapped her in a tight embrace. The bird panted, its heart speeding toward death. She should leave it before she died too.

Quickly she twisted her other mount midair and plummeted downward. The saboteurs gave up their charge and ran shrieking for the cover of their truck’s cab. A third shot. A nearer miss. The fallen man sobbed something and began crawling toward the truck as well. Much better odds.

“Didi?”

Who had called her? Only Ilunga mangled her name so. Trapped against his heaving chest, her exhausted mount listened to his weakly whispered words with failing ears.

“I know. It’s you. In there. Listen. Jealous. Don’t be. Like me. You can’t. Help.” Alone each phrase made sense, but how to connect them? She couldn’t ask him what he meant. She couldn’t let these be his last words.

On her bird’s next breath she fled it. Barely in time.

From the sky above she could see Scranforth duck beneath the Napier. He’d be able to hit Rima from under there, and he’d be safe from her one functional mount. But with only one bullet left—probably—

BANG! The actress hunched forward, caught herself with her shongun hand. Where was her wound—

The white man rolled free of the motor’s chassis and sprinted toward Rima, launching himself at her silently like a striped hyena. He bowled her flat. The shongun shone in the sun just a foot away, but Rima struggled fruitlessly to retrieve it till Scranforth choked her motionless. Then he raised himself up on one elbow and stretched across the sand to steal his opponent’s weapon.

Mwadi reached it first.

As she flew off with the shongun’s trigger guard firmly in her mount’s grip, Rima recovered. The kattar-kattar’s last sight of her was of her flipping her scarf around Scranforth’s neck, presumably a preliminary to strangling him as he’d strangled her.

Mwadi heard the freight truck roar to life. It passed her and turned north onto the Cairo road, going fast. Following her memory of the map she did the same, more slowly.

Far heavier than the film roll, the shongun was slippery, too. Her mount’s feet ached when she finally unclenched them to let it plunge safely into the waterhole where her human body rested. And where she woke it.

Beside her head a brass clock told the time: one and one quarter hours till noon. Her servants would wonder where she’d gotten. But it could take a day—or longer—till they traced her here. She sat up carefully and poured a goblet of water while she considered her plight. And Rima’s. And Ilunga’s. Should she walk to the road she’d flown along, flag down assistance from whoever happened to be faring by?

But then the Cadillac appeared on the horizon. Then it came close and parked and disgorged her love. Stepping into the light, Mwadi greeted Rima’s tired and radiant smile with her own, almost as battered, equally bright. They exchanged a quick, light hug—not tentative, only cautious, and even so Rima winced when Mwadi touched, once again, the juncture of hip and thigh.

“Damn fool grazed my side. Ricocheted a rock off my shoulder, too. Sir Jamison ain’t gonna be happy how I spent my vacation.

“But look. Least I got your brother back alive.” The actress pointed to Ilunga lying on the motor’s rear bench, her cape spread to cover him. A grimace told Mwadi he felt pain. Better than feeling nothing. “What he got to tell us about how he and his ‘friend’ turned up is worth more even than them photographs I sent you here with. I’ll take em anyway, but later.”

Princess Mwadi thought she could find the place where she’d let them drop.

“No room for the tent with the prince in there, but we ain’t got time to take it down now anyway. Need to get him to a doctor.”

You too, Mwadi thought but didn’t say. “I’m ready.” She climbed in behind the steering wheel.

“Sun River” copyright © 2023 by Nisi Shawl
Art copyright © 2023 by Xia Gordon

A version of this story appeared in the anthology, Clockwork Cairo: Steampunk Tales of Egypt, published by Twopenny Books.

Kinning, Nisi Shawl’s new novel, is available everywhere on January 23, 2024.

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Sun River

Nisi Shawl

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Nisi Shawl

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The post Sun River appeared first on Reactor.

While visiting the mysterious castle of Maidstone for an investigation, Judge Dee and Jonathan discover the only thing more menacing than a vampire child is twin vampire children…

1.

The castle of Maidstone or Maid’s Stone sat alone on a hilltop above a forest not far from a town of the same name. No doubt legend told that a maid was put to death by stoning there, or something equally horrid; in Jonathan’s experience this was usually the case. It also happened that the castle was crawling with vampires.

He trudged after his master in the snow. Dark shapes flittered in the trees. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled at the moon. Jonathan was cold, hungry, and miserable. But this was his usual condition.

They met few travellers as they made their way from Dover to distant London. What purpose Judge Dee had in going there Jonathan was sure he didn’t know. The master went and Jonathan followed.

Something darted out of the dark and chittered at them. Jonathan jumped. Judge Dee turned his austere face on him but said nothing.

‘What!’ Jonathan said. It wasn’t unreasonable to be scared in the dark, he thought.

‘It was just a squirrel,’ Judge Dee said, with a hint of disapproval in his voice.

Jonathan shivered but said nothing. Squirrels, he thought, were just rats with pretty tails. But he didn’t say that to the judge.

They trudged through the snow until they came upon a small village in the moonlight. It sat beyond the trees. The houses were dark and the reflected moon hovered in the ice and only one fire burned at the far end of the village. It was there that the judge and Jonathan went.

They were somewhere between Wormshill and Nettlestead. East of Loose and south of Barming. Somewhere between Hucking and Yalding. It was that sort of place.

As they approached the fire Jonathan could hear a hammer hammering. They moved closer and saw a man banging nails into a coffin. He turned and saw them but registered no surprise. He nodded and they approached the flames. Jonathan warmed his hands and felt grateful. The man continued in his work.

After a time, he ceased and came to them. He was a tall, stooped man, with a long grey and white beard and dark eyes, with skin much weathered by the passing of years.

‘Welcome, strangers,’ he said. His voice was deep and rough, like old wood. ‘You are going far?’

‘To the castle yonder,’ Judge Dee said.

‘Maidstone?’ the coffin maker said. ‘I am finishing a job for the castle myself.’

He gestured at the coffin.

‘Did someone die?’ Jonathan said.

Both the coffin maker and the judge turned and looked at him oddly.

‘No,’ the coffin maker said.

‘Ah,’ Jonathan said.

‘For the master there, I presume?’ Judge Dee said.

‘Indeed. A custom job. Very fine. Walnut and cherry lined with the finest velvet from Arabia. Very comfortable. Very fine.’

‘This master, he is wealthy?’ Jonathan said.

‘He is a Norman,’ the coffin maker said, as though that explained it.

‘May I?’ the judge said.

‘By all means,’ the coffin maker said. He beamed with pride as the judge ran his long fingers along the inside of the coffin.

‘Is that a lock and key?’ the judge said.

‘Indeed it is, sir,’ the coffin maker said. ‘And I can tell you are a man of great taste and learning. It is an innovation, indeed it is, sir! So that the coffin may be locked from the inside, as it were.’

‘It is innovative,’ the judge agreed. He felt the sides. ‘This wood is strong.’

‘Only the finest, sir.’

‘You are an excellent craftsman,’ Judge Dee said.

‘I thank you most kindly.’

‘Is it far, the castle?’ the judge said.

‘It is over yonder, sir. Not far as the bat flies, as they say around here, nor is it far for a wolf. Yet I am but a man and prefer to travel in daylight.’

‘We shall press on, then,’ the judge decided.

‘But master!’ Jonathan said.

‘Yes? Jonathan?’

‘I am neither bat nor wolf myself,’ Jonathan said.

The coffin maker looked at him critically. ‘Indeed you are not,’ he said. ‘Let me measure you, if you please. Just in case. You are rather rotund and would take much wood. I would suggest something cheap and durable, as befits someone of your lowly station. Here, if you would just let me—’

‘Lay off, man!’ Jonathan said. He pushed away from the coffin maker in alarm.

‘Perhaps you are right, master,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, let us press on, as you say. No time like the present for a journey, what?’

‘What?’ the coffin maker said.

‘I said, no time like the pr— Let go! I’m still a living man!’

Judge Dee turned his face and the light of the moon hit the fine bones of his jaw. It was possible that he smiled.

‘We are all of us measured for the coffin, good sir,’ the coffin maker said reproachfully. ‘For sooner or later we shall find ourselves in one. If you don’t mind me saying, I have always found great solace in this observation. It was made by my father before me, and his father before him, and my great-grandmother before him. She was a fine carpenter. She would have loved to see this latest innovation. I am sure it will soon be all the rage in Europe.’

Jonathan nodded distractedly. He stared at the coffin. It was a ridiculous affair, he thought. Velvet and cherry wood indeed! And a lock on the inside. It was the sort of stupid thing only a vampire could have thought of. And most likely regret a moment after they had lost the key.

‘I bid you good night,’ he said.

‘Go in health,’ the coffin maker said. And he went back to his job, whistling as he hammered.

Jonathan followed Judge Dee, and once more they went into the woods, and the dark swallowed them.

‘What an odd creature,’ Jonathan said.

‘But what a remarkable creation,’ the judge said. ‘It is almost a mechanical contraption. And did you see, he had cunningly built a hidden compartment on the inside, for the secreting of a glass of refreshment before bedtime, or something similar of that nature, I presume.’

Jonathan looked sideways at the judge, for his master was an ascetic who loathed the display of material comforts and possession, and this hideous coffin gave even Jonathan indigestion.

‘It is vulgar,’ Jonathan said. He felt quite pleased with himself for finally finding occasion to use the word, which he’d only ever heard the judge use.

‘Yet innovative,’ the judge said, taking no notice, which admittedly did hurt Jonathan’s feelings.

‘It is a bad idea, this coffin,’ Jonathan said. ‘Mark my words.’

The judge merely nodded. In short time they came out of the woods to behold the castle, a stout stone building in the Norman style. There were several watchtowers. There was a moat. That pretty much summed up Jonathan’s knowledge of architecture.

There were also horses. Jonathan found that out by stepping into a large pile of something they had left behind.

It was still fresh.

He wiped his foot on the flagstones miserably.

‘Who goes there!’ came the cry. ‘Be you predator or prey?’

Jonathan shivered. The voice was cold and mean and arrogant with it. In other words, a vampire’s.

‘I am Judge Dee,’ the judge said quietly.

There was a short startled silence on the other side of the moat. Then the drawbridge came down.

Judge Dee entered the castle and Jonathan followed. A small woman wearing riding gear appeared. She looked at the judge with easy familiarity.

‘Heard lots about you,’ she said. ‘I’m Lady Carmen. I’m afraid you’ve caught us just as we were about to set out on a hunt. We take hunting very seriously here. Would you like to come? How are your horse skills? Is that a human with you? Hello.’ She smiled at Jonathan.

‘Don’t be scared,’ she said. ‘I don’t bite.’

Her long sharp teeth told a different story.

A small and startlingly skeletal man came to join her. He too wore hunting gear.

‘Judge Dee,’ he said. ‘I am Odo, Earl of Maidstone and surroundings. I have been on this land since old William ceded it to me for my help in the conquest. That was a while ago, I think. I pay little attention to the world outside. Be welcome in my castle. Do you hunt? Can you handle a horse? We would welcome your company. I am famished for blood!’

Jonathan noticed that neither earl nor lady asked why the judge was there.

‘I hunt only the truth,’ the judge said; a little pompously, Jonathan privately thought. But Odo, Earl of Maidstone (and surroundings), nodded thoughtfully, and Lady Carmen clapped her hands in delight as though the judge had said something both profound and witty.

‘Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly!’ she said.

‘What?’ the judge said.

‘It is a whatchamacallit, an aphorism,’ Lady Carmen said. ‘You know, a pithy observation which contains a general truth.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Jonathan said. ‘If you fall you don’t fly. You’re not a bird. Unless it’s advice for birds. But that’s a terrible piece of advice for people. It is categorically unsound.’

‘Not if you’re a vampire,’ Odo said, not unreasonably. ‘Vampires can fly.’

‘Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, do it!’ Lady Carmen said. She seemed determined – Jonathan had to give her that.

‘What if you’re scared of snakes because they’ll kill you?’ Jonathan said. ‘What if you are scared of drinking milk because your body reacts unfavourably to milk, and will k—’

‘Kill you, yes,’ Odo said. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘The young chap is right,’ he said. ‘I would be rather scared of sharpened stakes, for instance, or villagers, but it would be most idiotic to go and play around with them, do you know.’

‘But it sounds so wise,’ Lady Carmen said.

Judge Dee said nothing, and looked sorry he had ever delivered that line about truth.

‘Ah, Stefan,’ Lady Carmen said. A third figure approached, pulling two horses behind him. He was a tall gaunt man, also a vampire, but evidently a social class or two lower than the others. His clothes were clearly worn for work and not for show, and they had a threadbare, faded look about them.

‘I brought the horses,’ he said.

‘We shall ride! What fun!’ Lady Carmen said, clapping.

‘What do you hunt?’ the judge said. He spoke softly but his voice carried.

‘Only servants,’ Odo said carelessly.

‘Bring the servants!’ roared Lady Carmen.

Several servants shuffled into the courtyard. They looked more resigned than scared. Two of them were chamber girls, one a hunchback cook, one a farm hand, and the last a valet. Or so they seemed to Jonathan. None of them looked very well. There was a pallor to their skin and their eyes were wan.

‘We’re here,’ the valet, who was youngest, said sullenly.

‘He’s mine,’ Lady Carmen said with glee. She glanced at Odo.

‘You can have the hunchback,’ she said.

‘I always get the hunchback!’ Odo said. But he didn’t argue. It occurred to Jonathan that Lady Carmen was not a person one usually picked an argument with.

‘Send out the servants!’ Lady Carmen roared.

Stefan, the tall vampire, shooed the servants to the open gate. They walked listlessly over the moat bridge and into the woods.

‘After them!’ Lady Carmen roared.

Odo smiled, showing long, needle-like teeth that made Jonathan shiver.

‘Let the Wild Hunt start!’ he screamed. Then he turned into a bat and flew clumsily after the servants. Lady Carmen and Stefan climbed the horses. Once over the moat, Lady Carmen looked back.

‘Are you coming?’ she said.

The judge shook his head. Lady Carmen shrugged, then melted into the darkness of the woods.

‘What odd creatures they are,’ the judge said.

‘Master?’ Jonathan said.

‘Yes, Jonathan?’

‘Why did we come here? I mean…’ Jonathan took a deep breath. A scream came from the wood, but it was muted, like the person who emitted it didn’t really feel very strongly about what was happening. ‘Has there been a crime? They did not seem to expect you. Or care that you are here at all.’

‘Indeed, Jonathan…’ the judge murmured. ‘They expressed no curiosity. Isn’t that, in itself, curious?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘That,’ the judge said, ‘is plain to see. Come. Let us find a shelter from the night.’

‘Yes, master,’ Jonathan said. And he trudged after the judge into the castle.

2.

The castle of Maidstone or Maid’s Stone was draughty, the stone walls cold to the touch and covered in slimy moss. Rats darted through holes in the masonry. Jonathan’s feet crunched small bones. It was a typical vampire dump, Jonathan thought unkindly. Two small shadows materialised at the end of the corridor.

‘Boo!’ they said in unison.

Jonathan jumped. He emitted an unseemly scream. The two small figures giggled. Judge Dee frowned.

‘That is unbecoming,’ he said.

‘Sorry, Master Dee,’ the two said in unison.

Jonathan stared at the two figures. They were near identical and childlike, though their eyes were old, far older than any child’s, and when they smiled – again, in unison – they revealed small sharp white teeth set behind lips stained red with blood. Jonathan shuddered. He hated vampire children.

‘Who turned you?’ Judge Dee said severely. He did not approve of child vampires, either.

‘We never knew our mother-in-darkness,’ the two vampires said. ‘But she was very pretty.’

Jonathan also hated stupid expressions like ‘mother-in-darkness’. The judge said, ‘Name yourselves.’

‘I am Erzsebet,’ the child on the left said. ‘This is Margarit.’

‘No, I’m Erzsebet,’ the child on the right said. ‘You’re Margarit.’

The two of them giggled again.

‘Please follow us,’ the one on the left said. ‘Would you care for refreshments? We have fresh midwife blood, or farmer’s infusion, which is quite robust, with hints of elderberry.’

‘Jonathan,’ the judge said. ‘Do you require food?’

The two child vampires looked disdainfully at Jonathan.

‘There is some servant food in the kitchen,’ they said.

‘Then fetch it,’ the judge said.

They arrived in the common room of the castle. Jonathan was grateful to see a fire burning. He plonked himself down beside it.

‘Why are we here again, master?’ he said. The two awful children had vanished. The judge sat down. A servant appeared furtively with a plate of food, placed it beside Jonathan, and withdrew. Jonathan stared in appreciation at the chicken carcass. He nibbled politely on a chunk of cheese.

A glass of something red materialised in the judge’s hand. Judge Dee sipped and nodded.

‘Elderberry notes, indeed,’ he said.

It was near dawn by the time Jonathan went to his bed. It was always near dawn when Jonathan went to his bed. The judge had vanished, as he always did. Jonathan never knew where he slept, if he even slept at all. Around Jonathan the sounds of the castle gradually grew faint. The hunt had returned late, the Lady Carmen flushed of cheek and the taciturn Stefan more talkative. Apparently, he had spotted a great wild boar in the wood and pursued it in vain, and he thought it must be an omen, an indication that the god Moccus was abroad. Jonathan knew that some of the old vampires still worshipped gods long forgotten in the world of people. Jonathan did not particularly believe in pig-gods. He was just sad the wild boar remained at large, for Jonathan was exceedingly fond of chops and ribs.

Only the lord of the castle, Odo, remained in doleful countenance on their return, even as he licked his lips clean of blood. The twin girls were nowhere to be found, and the vampires had little of interest to offer in the way of conversation. It was evident to Jonathan that, as was common in the way of vampires holed up together in one place for an extended period of time, they all hated each other. Stefan, a Celt, clearly resented the lord and lady of the castle and his own lowly position. Lady Carmen seemed to loathe both her male companions and to rule the castle in everything but name. As for her nominal master, Odo, the man was like a walking cadaver, with the disposition to match. Jonathan had met such vampires before. They were as cheery as the plague.

He snuggled deeper into his thick blanket. He was given an adequate room in the servants’ quarters, and a small coal fire still burned. He was warm, safe, and his stomach was full. He stretched out his legs and sighed with relief.

Two monstrous figures appeared above him, eyes red and fangs extended.

‘Boo!’ they said.

Jonathan screamed.

The twins giggled, and then they were gone.

Somewhere outside, the sun rose, and the living world awakened. For those hours of daylight, at least, there were no vampires. Jonathan rolled on his side. The coals in the fireplace died, but slowly, and the heat lingered on, until he slept.

3.

‘You see,’ Odo said earnestly, ‘someone is trying to kill me.’

Which at least explained why they were there, Jonathan thought with some relief.

They were sitting in the count’s private study, which had seven entire illuminated manuscripts, a small fortune which Jonathan saw Judge Dee wordlessly admire.

‘You must be a great reader,’ the judge observed.

‘What, these?’ Odo said, surprised. ‘No, never learned my letters. I just keep them to sell eventually.’ He puffed up his puny chest. ‘I have two Herbals, a Psalter, a Gospel, a Bible, a Homer, and a Glossary.’

‘Impressive,’ Judge Dee said. But he pursed his lips disapprovingly all the same. The judge valued learning and disliked people who were ignorant by choice.

‘Who is trying to kill you?’ Jonathan asked Odo.

‘Everyone!’ the earl said. He interlaced his bony fingers in his lap. ‘I do not know, in truth,’ he admitted. ‘They keep at it, though. It is becoming positively perilous! Only the other week an arrow came at me out of the trees during the hunt, and it was only by good luck that it missed my heart! And the week before it was a fall of rocks that rumbled downhill and nearly buried me in the stream. I fear the worst, Judge Dee! I am grateful that you came. You must stop them before it’s too late! I am getting so anxious I can barely taste my food these days. I cannot feel safe even in my own castle!’

Jonathan stared at the Earl of Maidstone with suspicion. These self-styled earls and counts were always getting murdered or plotting murder or slaughtering the local villein population (who didn’t count). But the earl really did look worried sick.

The judge sipped blood politely. He considered.

‘What of these two little girls?’ Jonathan blurted.

The earl startled. He looked this way and that as though checking no one was near.

‘Erzsebet and Margarit,’ Odo said. ‘Horrid little monsters. Centuries old. Utterly merciless. They hate me almost worse than my wife does!’

‘Can you not exile them?’ Jonathan said.

Odo shuddered. ‘Have you met them?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t dare. Besides, they are favourites of Carmen’s.’

He looked very sorry for himself.

‘And speaking of your wife?’ Jonathan said. He was having to ask all the questions. The judge seemed enraptured in Odo’s Herbal.

‘She hates me most of all,’ Odo said; but he looked more philosophical about this. Perhaps all wives hated their husbands, Jonathan thought. He had admittedly no experience in this particular field.

‘What about the others, then? This groom, Stefan?’

Odo waved a dismissive hand. ‘The man’s a simpleton,’ he said. ‘A peasant. If I ever meet the vampire who bit him I would put a stake through his heart for the sheer affront. The man has common blood running through his veins. And, well, it’s not like we feed well here. English blood is soup-thin, nothing like the heady brew of a good Norman farmer or a well-bred Norman wench.’

He licked his lips, practically salivating. Jonathan suppressed a shudder. He could see why the earl’s companions might wish to kill him.

‘What about the servants?’ Jonathan said.

‘As if they’d dare!’ Odo said. He glared at Jonathan, then turned to the judge.

‘What do you think, Judge Dee?’ he said.

The judge put down the Herbal with some effort.

‘You are secure?’ he said.

‘As well as one can be,’ Odo said. ‘Come, I will show you.’

Jonathan trudged after them. Odo spent an hour showing off his arrangements. The room of stark stone at the top of the tower, to which only he had access. The hidden traps that would spring on an assassin attempting to enter. There were no windows, of course. The room was shut off like a tomb. But still there were spikes on the outside walls to prevent anyone climbing. There were nets to trap an unwary bat, and ingenious bellows to capture any in mist form. And the stout doors had a double lock on them, for which the Earl of Maidstone had the only key.

Jonathan had to admit it: Odo was thorough.

One did not get to live centuries as a vampire without getting good at not dying.

Just then the clear and piercing sound of a horn sounded outside.

‘The hunt!’ Odo said, clapping his hands excitedly. ‘Will you join us tonight, Judge Dee? Oh, it is such fun, to hunt for our prey!’

‘I would like to study your Homer,’ the judge said. ‘But…’ He glanced at Jonathan.

‘Master?’

The judge shook his head silently. They followed Odo back down to the courtyard. There, the scene was much as it was the night before. The Lady Carmen, bright-eyed and sharp of teeth, waited as Stefan brought out the same listless servants, the two chamber maids, the hunchback cook, the farm hand and the valet and the horses.

When Lady Carmen sounded the horn again the servants shuffled off into the night. The wild hunt followed shortly. This time, Erzsebet and Margarit joined them. The two girls turned into wolf cubs and slunk off into the night with sharp teeth glinting. Jonathan could hear their howls in the woods, and he shivered.

‘It must be them,’ he said. ‘Who would kill Odo.’

‘What of the servants?’ Judge Dee said.

‘They look barely fit enough to lift a fork, master,’ Jonathan said. ‘Let alone a crossbow.’

The judge nodded.

‘It is a disappointing case,’ he said. ‘It is clear to me…’ But he did not finish his thought, for just then they heard the sound of hooves, and the ringing of a small bell. A cart emerged out of the woods, a small but determined donkey pulling it and the coffin maker driving. A wolf’s howl sounded in the distance and then the flapping of leathery wings, and three dark shapes dropped out of the sky and turned into Odo, the Lady Carmen, and Stefan, the groom.

‘My coffin!’ Odo said. His lips were stained with blood, the colour stark on his pale face.

The coffin maker drove into the courtyard and stopped, and his donkey made a mess on the flagstones. Jonathan hid a smirk. The servants trudged back into the fold. They looked even worse than before, and it took six of them to bring down the coffin from the cart.

Odo was enraptured. He admired the smooth wood, the ingenious lock, the velvet lining. He squealed with delight at the hidden drinks compartment. He paid the coffin maker in gold. Jonathan saw how the Lady Carmen and Stefan glared at the earl with barely concealed hatred. He saw Erzsebet and Margarit stand very still with cold fury in their eyes, as though already making calculations for the best way to get at the Earl of Maidstone in his sleep.

But Odo paid them all no mind. He made the servants bring the coffin upstairs and had it installed in his room. He invited only the judge and Jonathan to observe it. Odo had the only key, of course.

‘Now I can finally sleep in peace,’ he told them. He escorted them away. Behind them the door double-locked from the inside, and the traps were primed and set to wait for an intruder. Jonathan imagined the Earl of Maidstone slipping into his coffin at last and shutting it on himself. Locking the door to the coffin, also from the inside, and perhaps pouring himself a little coffin-time daycap from the hidden compartment before falling at last into a long and satisfied sleep.

Jonathan himself curled under the blanket. The birds called outside. He hated going to sleep with the birds calling outside.

The waking world woke.

And the world of the undead went to sleep.

4.

Jonathan woke at dusk and for a while all was well. The vampires still slumbered. Jonathan made his way to the kitchens, where wine skins that were no doubt filled with blood hung from the rafters. Some had bite marks in them and Jonathan turned his head in disgust. He found the listless servants sat by the fire and joined them. He picked hungrily at bread and cheese and half a game bird. It occurred to him someone had to be hunting, which meant someone had use of a crossbow.

He studied the servants one by one. The two maids looked far whiter than the sheets they laid out. The farmhand was skeletal, the valet looked a hundred years old. They were as sad an assortment of specimens as one could wish to find. Only the hunchback cook still had some fat on him. His face shone greasily as he dug into the food (competing with Jonathan for the remains of a pheasant), and in the light of the dying sun in the window his hump looked thinner. Jonathan made a lunge for the last drumstick, missed, and settled for mopping up the fat with a piece of bread.

He wished he and the judge were on their way to London. He had had enough of castles, moors, bogs, fens, marshes, and pheasants for lunch. He was sick of the countryside.

Give him a street! he thought. Give him the cries of hawkers on the docks, the cackles of painted Jezebels, the singing of drunks, and the chanting of priests – give him a city!

‘Boo!’ two voices said close in his ear.

‘Oh, go away,’ Jonathan said.

The two little vampire girls stood there and sulked.

‘Where is your master?’ they said in unison.

Jonathan shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, pinching the last bit of meat from the pheasant’s carcass. He stuffed it in his mouth and licked his lips. The two girls looked at him with moues of disgust.

‘What?’ Jonathan said. He looked at them closely.

‘What happened to you two?’ he said. The two girls looked distinctly…bruised, he thought.

‘Nothing!’

‘Where is your master?’ Jonathan said.

‘We serve no master!’

‘You live under his roof,’ Jonathan said. The two girls hissed at him. Then they simply vanished.

How did they do that? he thought. Turn into mist, or whatever it was that vampires did. He got up reluctantly, for the food was finished, and the servants sat there looking like bodies waiting for the grave. All was quiet in the castle of Maidstone.

When the vampires assembled for the nightly hunt, the Earl of Maidstone did not make an appearance.

Lady Carmen paced at first, then fumed.

‘Where is my lazy, no-good husband?’ she demanded at last. She looked a little bedraggled, Jonathan noticed. So did the groom, who was limping tonight. It was as though all the vampires had had a long and difficult late night last night.

‘Asleep, still, perhaps,’ Stefan said. ‘He has been lethargic of late. Shall we go without him?’

The hunchback cook touched his hump with a look of sudden hope on his face. Clearly, being fed on by Odo every night was not his idea of happiness. Not that Jonathan could blame him.

‘You don’t think…?’ Lady Carmen said.

‘My lady?’ Stefan said.

‘You don’t think something awful happened to Odo, do you?’ she said.

Stefan shrugged. Lady Carmen’s eyes shone, and the twins suppressed a giggle.

They all looked quite pleased at the thought. Even the servants perked up at the idea.

Jonathan wasn’t sure what made Odo so unbearable to the others. He supposed that Stefan hated him for being an old Norman and for his part in the conquest of England; that his wife hated him for being her husband; and that the twins hated him for being above them in station. But in truth, vampires were just as likely to try and murder each other out of sheer boredom. It didn’t take much.

Not that people were all that different, Jonathan reflected. People killed each other over the littlest things. Petty greed and jealousy and rage. It didn’t take much.

As for the servants, they were probably just sick to death of being hunted every night. They looked drained.

‘Master?’ Jonathan said.

Judge Dee appeared soundlessly.

‘His door is locked,’ he said. ‘There is no answer from inside.’

They all climbed the tower. The door stood firm before them.

‘I daren’t go in there,’ Lady Carmen said. ‘My husband has…traps and suchlike. He is a cunning, vicious creature.’ She said it with pride.

‘May I?’ Judge Dee said.

The lady nodded. Judge Dee put his hand on the double lock. He concentrated and the locks sprung open. The other vampires looked surprised, then impressed. Dee was an elder. His powers were of a different calibre to theirs.

‘Stay behind,’ the judge said. He pushed the door open. ‘Jonathan, follow me, please.’

‘Yes, master…’ Jonathan said.

He followed cautiously.

The judge paused.

‘You noticed the scratches on the locks?’ he said.

‘Master?’

‘Someone attempted to unlock them last night. And one of the traps was activated last night, also,’ he said, pointing to a spike that jutted out of the wall and held a torn piece of cloth on its very sharp point. Jonathan swallowed. He followed the judge deeper into the room.

‘Something bad happened here,’ Jonathan whispered.

‘Something bad happened in this room every night,’ the judge said.

They stepped deeper into the gloom.

In the middle of the room stood the coffin.

‘Odo?’ Jonathan said. His voice trembled. ‘Odo, are you in there?’

‘It’s locked,’ Judge Dee said. He ran his fingers along the side of the coffin.

‘From the inside?’ Jonathan said. ‘Can you open it, master?’

Judge Dee pressed against the thin gap between the two halves of the coffin. He frowned in concentration, then heaved.

The coffin sprung open.

Jonathan took a step back.

He stared at the inside of the coffin.

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dear.’

5.

Odo, Earl of Maidstone, was decidedly dead. He looked peaceful enough – what little was left of him, which was mostly a skeleton.

‘How?’ Jonathan said. ‘How did they get to him in here?’

The earl had locked the coffin from the inside. He lay inside a room that was itself locked. So how did he die?

‘And who killed him?’ Jonathan said.

Judge Dee shrugged. The others all crowded into the room then. The wife – the widow, Jonathan supposed, now – cried out, ‘My Odo! My Odo!’ and fell on the coffin. This display of grief only lasted for as long as it took her to search the skeleton for a key.

Lady Carmen held it up in triumph. ‘The vault is now mine!’

‘What’s in the vault?’ Jonathan said.

‘Gold,’ Lady Carmen said. ‘What else? My gold now!’ She turned on the others. ‘And don’t any of you think otherwise!’

Stefan inched his head in reply. Erzsebet and Margarit curtseyed.

‘Well,’ Lady Carmen said, turning to Judge Dee. ‘Thank you for your help, but as you can see we have everything under control here. And, well, my husband did die naturally, after all.’

Jonathan spluttered.

‘Your food seems unwell,’ Lady Carmen said to the judge.

‘I am not food!’ Jonathan said.

Lady Carmen flashed him a smile.

‘But you could be,’ she said.

The atmosphere in the room was tense. Jonathan was keenly aware of the skeleton in the coffin, of the four hostile vampires, of the fearful servants. Judge Dee was not wanted here. They were all happy with the outcome. Earl Odo was dead. It was a consummation that had been devoutly wished.

But then, Judge Dee was never wanted: not where the guilty awaited judgment.

The judge will judge. The judge will pass sentence.

The innocents avenged. The guilty punished. And so on.

Although, with vampires, no one was ever innocent and everyone was guilty.

‘Silence,’ Judge Dee said.

They fell quiet. The judge stood still in the middle of that locked mausoleum. He pondered. His eyes moved over the locks and traps, the skeleton, the suspects. Jonathan thought longingly of that evening’s pheasant. He had completely missed his midnight snack.

‘It is clear you all wished him dead,’ Judge Dee said. He raised a finger. ‘No, don’t argue. What is more, you all actively made attempts on his life.’

‘He was my master!’ Stefan said aghast.

‘My loving husband!’ Lady Carmen said.

‘Sure, I mean, we gave it a good try,’ Erzsebet and Margarit said together. ‘But he was hard to kill, the old bat.’

‘I mean, I may have shot an arrow at him a couple of times during the hunt…’ Stefan said, reconsidering quickly. ‘But that was all in good sport! Not…this! The coffin was locked from the inside!’

‘Ah, yes,’ Judge Dee said. ‘The old locked coffin mystery. Do you know, there really are not that many possible solutions to a murder in a locked room? I have made study of the various methods over the centuries. It is in the nature of our kind to go for the theatrical kill. Something that makes a—’

‘Splash,’ Margarit said, and Erzsebet giggled.

‘Indeed. Something overly complicated, at any rate, when a simple stake through the heart would do. Don’t you agree, Jonathan?’

Jonathan nodded. He had travelled with the judge for a long time, ever since Judge Dee pulled him out from under a pile of corpses, not from kindness but from a need for directions to the Black Rock and the horrors that dwelt there. Why he kept him by his side after, Jonathan never knew. But he had witnessed many of the judge’s cases, enough to know that the more ludicrous and elaborate the plot the more a vampire liked it. People killed each other easily, sometimes with kitchen knives and sometimes with sharp swords. Or they used their fists, or a rock. Anything close to hand. But humans lived short lives and acted quickly. Vampires had centuries to plot and plan.

‘You know, don’t you?’ Jonathan said. ‘You know already.’

‘I merely conjecture,’ the judge said. But he almost smiled, and he never usually smiled. The judge was still a vampire. He loved elaborate charades as much as any of his kin.

‘But let us consider the usual methods,’ Judge Dee said, ‘of the so-called “impossible murder”. The victim is found, alone, in a room that is locked from the inside. How could it be? For instance, note that this room has no windows. Odo knew a window was a risk. After all, an ape could be trained to climb a wall impossible for a person and kill the occupier before vanishing as though it was never there.’

‘What’s an ape?’ Margarit said.

The judge ignored her. ‘A vampire, of course, could easily fly up as a bat. But again, there are no windows. So, this was not the method used.’

‘Fascinating,’ Lady Carmen said, not bothering to hide a yawn.

‘Then there is gas. Noxious fumes that could be poured into the room through the keyhole or under the door. This, I believe, was attempted – in a manner of speaking. Is that not so, Erzsebet?’

‘I’m Erzsebet,’ the other twin said.

‘I’m Margarit,’ the twin Judge Dee had addressed said.

They both smirked, showing teeth as sharp as knives.

‘You have the unseemly habit of terrorising the servants, I noticed,’ Judge Dee said. He frowned in disapproval, for he was not a man given to frivolities, as Jonathan well knew. ‘You sneak up on them and scare them before vanishing. Like smoke, as they say. Or mist, to be exact.’

‘So?’ Erzsebet said.

‘So?’ Margarit said.

‘You attempted to invade Odo’s sanctum last night, did you not?’ Judge Dee said. ‘You turned to mist, as is your wont, and attempted ingress through the keyhole. You could have murdered Odo inside his own coffin, then vanished as though you were never there.’

‘You little monsters!’ Lady Carmen said. Though whether she was enraged or proud of the girls wasn’t immediately clear.

‘I seem to recall Transylvanian tales going centuries back of a couple of silent assassins,’ the judge said. ‘The Terror Twins, who were condemned to death by the Council for their many crimes—’

Erzsebet and Margarit fell back from him in genuine horror.

‘That wasn’t us!’

‘We didn’t kill him, either! We tried, yes, we tried, but he had some terrible contraption, bellows, you see, which blew us right out of the room again! Oh, how I wish it was us who—’

‘Shut up, Margarit!’

‘I’m Margarit!’

The two girls stared at each other in hatred. They hissed fury.

‘Very well,’ the judge said. ‘We shall leave that for the moment. Now, another possibility is, of course, poison.’

‘Poison!’ Lady Carmen said.

‘Such as the one you no doubt put into his drink,’ Judge Dee said. He reached inside the coffin and sprung open the hidden compartment, where a glass decanter and cup were ensconced. Judge Dee opened the bottle and sniffed.

‘Belladonna?’ he said.

‘This is preposterous,’ Lady Carmen said.

‘This is not even blood,’ Judge Dee said. ‘Just water coloured red with elderberry syrup.’

‘Odo was too fat,’ Lady Carmen said. ‘He needed to lose weight.’

‘And the poison?’

She shrugged. ‘It was worth a try,’ she said. ‘Did he drink it?’

‘No,’ Judge Dee said. ‘The glass is untouched.’

She shrugged again. ‘So what is it you want of me?’ she said.

‘For the moment, nothing,’ Judge Dee said. ‘Though I seem to recall a notorious poisoner some two centuries back, the Spanish Widow they called her, condemned by the Council to death yet never captured. Perhaps she hid in this dismal castle all this time…’

‘Absurd!’ screamed Lady Carmen. ‘And my castle is not…dismal! That’s just rude.’

‘We shall leave that for now,’ the judge said. He rubbed his hands together drily. ‘Now, some alternatives we could dispense with,’ he said. ‘The murder made to look like suicide, for instance. In fact, it is hard to even say how he died.’

‘On account of he’s a skeleton,’ Jonathan said.

‘Quite. No poison, no weapons I can see…Of course, the weapon could have been a frozen stake made out of blood, or even water. This is another popular method, you see.’

‘Where would we get ice!’ Stefan protested. ‘It is a very expensive substance, Judge Dee.’

‘Ah, yes, Stefan,’ Judge Dee said. ‘You already admitted to firing arrows at your master. Tales are told in this part of the world of men of the wood, who wear the green of outlaws and use the bow and arrow. Is that not so?’

‘So?’

‘A vampire archer was—’

‘Condemned by the Council some centuries back?’ Jonathan said. He couldn’t resist. ‘Was he called the Awful Archer? The Blood Curdling Crossbowman? The Sinful Sh—’

‘The second one, actually,’ Judge Dee said, looking, Jonathan thought, a little sheepish.

‘Of course, master,’ Jonathan said.

‘I am not him!’ Stefan said. ‘I lead a lawful life! I follow the Unalienable Obligations!’

‘There were scratches on the lock,’ Judge Dee said. ‘You did try to get in last night, did you not? You tried, but failed. You all tried.’

Judge Dee was not a tall man, but he towered over them then, and the shadows pooled to him and turned him into a great angel of darkness; and the other vampires fell from him in fright.

Judge Dee said softly, ‘But only one of you succeeded.’

6.

Jonathan hugged himself. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry and scared: the natural state of a mortal travelling with a vampire judge.

He wasn’t scared of the other vampires. He was only scared of what Judge Dee would do to them.

‘Master,’ he said tentatively.

‘Yes, Jonathan?’

‘You missed a method,’ Jonathan said. In his travels with the judge, he had experienced some of these other so-called ‘impossible crimes’.

‘Go on,’ the judge said, frowning.

‘It is the one where the victim was still alive when we came into the room,’ Jonathan said, swallowing, for he had the sudden and unwanted attention of all the vampires in the room. ‘And was murdered after the locked room – locked coffin, I mean, master, in this case – was opened.’

‘I had not brought it up because it was I who opened the coffin,’ the judge said. ‘And Odo was clearly dead then.’

‘Indeed, master,’ Jonathan said. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’

The judge inched his head.

‘So where does that leave us, Jonathan?’ he said, and again he was almost smiling. ‘What cunning method did our murderer use? An ice arrow? Poison? Gas? A trained animal? Was it a faked suicide? Or was he fatally injured outside the room, stumbled inside, locked the door, climbed into his coffin, locked that again, and only then die?’

‘It worked in the Case of Praga Fatale,’ Jonathan said defensively. ‘Besides, that’s actually pretty common.’

‘Enough!’ Lady Carmen screamed. The shocked servants seemed animated for the first time. They turned to flee from the lady’s wrath, but the door was shut. Judge Dee let them out, then closed the door, trapping the vampires inside.

‘Tell us, then!’ Stefan said. The ancient little girls nodded in tandem. ‘Tell us and be done with it!’

The judge paced. He looked faintly bored.

‘Odo,’ he mused. ‘Earl of Maidstone. But before there was an Earl of Maidstone there was a Norman with a reputation for blood. He was hungry then. I rather think he died hungry, too. That man, Odo the Butcher they called him. He broke the Unalienable Obligations, and it was said he sailed with William the Bastard to England to escape the wrath of the Council’s judges…I wonder if it was the same man.’

‘Who cares, man!’ Stefan said. The gaunt vampire looked desperate and angry. ‘Pass your sentence and let us be done with it!’

But Judge Dee just shrugged.

‘The sentence for each of you was pronounced long ago,’ he said, ‘as it was for Odo. There was no call for me here. Nothing but old, unfinished business. Come, Jonathan.’

The judge turned. He opened the thick door easily. Jonathan slipped out after him. The judge replaced the door as it was and locked twice, this time from outside; and he pocketed the key.

‘Let us be on our way,’ he said.

Outside it was the depth of night, and for a moment everything was quiet and still; peaceful, even. Then Jonathan saw lights bobbing in the distance, faint as yet, but soon to grow brighter. It was the servants, he realised. After years of abuse they were free, and they had run to the nearest village and raised an army of their kin.

The villagers, marching on the castle with burning torches.

Jonathan almost laughed.

He followed his master into the dark of the trees. They went the other way, away from the fire and the mob.

Something bothered Jonathan. A detail, niggling in the back of his mind.

Something the judge had said.

Jonathan tried to put together the facts of the case. The impossible murder, the nightly hunt. The skeleton in the coffin. He tried to picture Odo as he saw him. What were his first impressions of the man?

Skeletal.

Famished.

‘I always get the hunchback,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Judge Dee said.

‘It was something Odo said, the first time we met him,’ Jonathan said.

‘I see.’

And Jonathan suddenly thought of the wineskins he had seen hanging in the kitchen.

‘Some had bite marks in them,’ he said.

‘The wineskins?’ the judge said. ‘Yes, I noticed that, too.’

Jonathan thought of the poisoned blood untouched in Odo’s coffin. It wasn’t wine, the judge had said. It was water coloured with elderberries.

‘She didn’t poison him,’ he said, almost whispering. ‘She starved him.’

‘Yes,’ the judge said. ‘She did, didn’t she.’

‘There was no hunchback,’ Jonathan said. ‘I wondered why the cook alone seemed lively, even fat. His hump…’

‘Was a wineskin inserted under his clothes and filled with viscous liquid,’ the judge said.

‘Odo went hunting every night, but he never drank blood at all, did he?’ Jonathan said. He thought of the Earl of Maidstone’s red-stained lips when he came back from the hunt.

‘Elderberry,’ the judge said.

‘And he slowly starved…’

‘Starved to death,’ the judge said.

Behind them, flames rose into the sky as the castle started to burn. The condemned vampires trapped inside didn’t have a chance. But then again, they were, all of them, murderers. The world would not miss them, Jonathan thought. And he would not lose sleep over the loss of Castle Maidstone, or Maid’s Stone.

Judge Dee went into the dark and Jonathan, as he always did, followed him.

“The Locked Coffin: A Judge Dee Mystery” copyright © 2023 by Lavie Tidhar
Art copyright © 2023 by Red Nose Studio

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The Locked Coffin: A Judge Dee Mystery

Lavie Tidhar

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Lavie Tidhar

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The post The Locked Coffin: A Judge Dee Mystery appeared first on Reactor.

While learning the ropes from a crafty Jazz Age bank robber, a young stowaway discovers their authentic self, a hidden gift, and that there are no straight lines when you run the fox roads…

I.

The fox roads run through October, no matter where you start or where you end.

It doesn’t matter if you’re coming across Lake Michigan from Indiana as the ice cracks under your tires or if you’re trying to make it to Cicero on roads that were never paved for cars. The fox roads don’t care about winter snow or summer storms, and maybe they bow to the gods of Tornado Alley, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

The fox roads take you through October, before they cut down the corn and before the trees undress for winter, and they can take you anywhere.

All you need, she told me, is a reason to get out.

II.

On a bright morning in late August, Chinese Jack and Tonkin Jill rode into Hooper, Indiana in a cherry-red Model A and pulled up to Third Bank and Trust like they owned it. I watched from the alley as Jack came around the car to hand Jill down. She stood on the running board for a moment, tiny and neat as a pin in her ivy-green dress and her black gloves, her face marked for me even across the street by sooty mascara and a mouth painted on with scarlet.

She looked the street up and down before she stepped off, and for just a brief moment, our eyes met. If she cared, she gave no sign, and she walked ahead of Jack into the bank.

The second the door swung closed behind them I made up my mind, and I was across the street, ignoring the rear door to grab at the handle on the front passenger’s side. It wasn’t locked, and I climbed in just as a shot rang out from the bank.

I threw myself over the seats into the back, squeezing behind the driver’s side on the floor as the shouting started. It was one of the newer sedans, plenty of room especially if you’ve been skipping meals for a few weeks, and I rolled up tight against the front seat.

By the time I counted five, there was another shot, and then fresh screaming, and by a count of twenty Jack and Jill came out themselves, him with the gun and her with the loot. We tore out of Hooper like the town was on fire behind us, Jill laughing as if she was at the carnival.

“Fuckers built a goddamn hunter’s blind in the loft,” Jack snarled as the car hit the frontage road. “What the fuck, they turned the lobby into a goddamn fucking shooter’s gallery. Lai, for fuck’s sake, stop laughing!”

She couldn’t, I don’t think, as hard as she was going, and all I could hear was her laugh, shrill and loud and helpless at how funny the world was that would dare shoot at her.

“Lai, Lai, goddamnit! Right or left?”

She only laughed harder, which made him swear again. Somewhere behind them, behind us, the cops were rallying to run us to ground, and they would, if Jack couldn’t make the river. The papers were full of the smoldering smashup when they got Hennessy and Jones in Bowling Green, and one that I saw got Hennessey’s raw face as well, all the meat gone from the right as he flew and skidded twenty feet from the wreckage.

“Lai, fucking left or right?”

She held up a hand, waving him away as if he were asking if madame wanted to see the brunch menu, and through it all, she kept on laughing, laughing, until a shot rang out behind us and Jack swerved on the road before holding steady again.

“Lai!”

“Left! Left, I think!”

Jack swore again, something foreign and mean as venom, and he hauled the wheel so hard to the left that I nearly toppled to one side, even as wedged as I was. Another shot, and this one shattered glass, sending a shower of glittering shards down on me. A hot sting of pain creased my cheek, and some part of me knew that it would hurt much worse later, if there was a later.

There was an almighty bump, and the shocks groaned as if they were dying underneath us before all four wheels sat straight on the road. In the front, Lai slouched back in the seat, catching her breath with gaspy little sighs.

“Calm down, we’re fine now.”

“The fuck we are,” he said without heat. “Tell me where to turn off.”

“Not for a while. Just drive.”

“Yeah, yeah. Count the cash.”

That was about as good as it was going to get for me, I decided, drawing the Colt out of my jacket pocket. I came up in the back seat like a jack out of the box, lit up like my head was on fire, and I shoved the barrel of the Colt against the back of Jack’s neck, high up where the cradle of his skull met his spine.

“What the fuck—”

“27 Allison Road,” I spat.

“What the fuck—”

“The deed,” I said through gritted teeth. “The deed for 27 Allison Road, where the fuck is it?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, you better put that gun the fuck down before I break your fucking face and—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, I just want—”

I didn’t get to what I wanted because suddenly there was something sharp slipped under my chin, there so fast that I felt the trickle of blood before I realized I had been cut.

“If you put a hole in his head, em yêu, all the jokes will fall out, and I’ll never laugh again.”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh, I think you do. I think you are very afraid right now, and that’s all right. So put that ridiculous thing down, and we can talk about Allison Road, all right?”

I might not have. I had been awake for two days, I hadn’t eaten for three, and some town boys beat me up the night before. My hands holding the Colt shook, and my thoughts were broken. I might have shot him just to see the jokes run out like grain from a torn bag, but then the light went out as if I had closed my eyes, so fast and sudden that I shouted.

It was an enveloping kind of dark, so absolute I couldn’t see Jack or Lai or the car we rode in. Instead, there were my hands numb on the gun, the trickle of blood that hit the collar of my dress and soaked in, the touch of the knife at my throat.

“Put it down,” Lai said, and as the moon came out and silvered the naked trees beyond the glass, I lowered my gun, and she put down her knife.

III.

The police had shot out the back window, and the gust of cold, wet, autumn air convinced me better than anything that we had left April behind us. It was a heavy, clinging kind of cold, one that decided it lived in your bones and then wouldn’t leave until spring, if it left at all. I shivered convulsively in my thin dress, scraped myself up worse from the glass shards that clung like frost to the velour seats.

Driving one-handed, Jack skimmed out of his jacket and passed it back to me. I wrapped his jacket thick around my arm and knocked out the shards of glass from the frame, pushing them out onto the road behind us where they glittered briefly before they were lost to the darkness.

“Sweep the glass off the seat so you have a place to sit,” Lai directed. “When we stop, you can clear out the rest.”

“Oh, can I?” I retorted, and she turned to rest her chin on the seat, giving me a wrinkle-nosed smile that wanted very much to worm its way into my heart.

“I’d like it if you did. Don’t you want to do what I like?”

“Lai, turn up ahead. And stop bothering with the little brat, we’re dropping her as soon as we hit the state line.”

“Turn right. And maybe.”

Nervously, I fingered the Colt in my lap. It was an ugly lump of metal, surplus from the Great War like the man I’d stolen it from, like so much of Meade.

“Where are we?” I asked, and Jack, never taking his eyes from the road, was the one who answered.

“We’re running,” he said shortly. “We’re trying not to get caught or wrecked or gunned down or brought in and hanged.”

We came out of the night more slowly than we had gone in. The moon set, it got cold enough that I could breathe steam like a dragon, but then the sky got, not lighter, but less dark, less absolutely black. It started so slowly I could barely be sure if it started at all, and then it came on all in a rush, deepest violet to frailest blue, and through the trees, the sky in front of us lit up.

“We’re driving east,” I said suddenly.

Lai was sleeping slumped against the door; it was Jack who answered.

“We are.”

“You were making for the river. I know you were.”

He snorted, not unkindly.

“Kid, what you know is worth fuckall out here.” He yawned, adding, “Me too. She’s the only one who knows these roads, and she’s cracked like a plate.”

“We were going to cross the Wabash,” I insisted, because I knew the Wabash. My parents had come down to Meade by ferry on the Wabash before I was born. It would have been faster to take the train, but of course they weren’t allowed. Until they bought the store when I turned eight, we’d lived in a falling-down shack on the shores of the Wabash River, and I knew its swampy banks and green fireflies and lantern ghosts as well as I knew the alphabet. Like I knew P came before Q, I knew we had been making for the Wabash to cross west into Illinois. I knew the Wabash, and I knew that the sun should have been behind us if it was rising.

Dawn cracked the sky like an egg, and then with a hard bump that made me grunt, we were rolling along a wide wooden bridge, sharing it with a six-ox team and a wagoner who gave us a baleful look as we rumbled by.

I looked beyond the bridge’s low rail to see the expanse of water below us, a silty amber-brown shading to bright white where it stretched north and south. The Wabash was big enough to flood and ruin lives when it had a mind to, but this river would see the bottomlands and the lives that clung to it as its rightful property, never thinking twice about reaching for what it was owed.

“That look like the Wabash to you?” Jack asked, and I shook my head.

“No. What river is it?”

“That’s the Mississippi. Up near St. Paul, maybe. We’ll find out when we stop.”

He sounded tired, and with Lai sleeping like the dead and uninterested in telling us more about where we had come to, I touched the Colt again, staring at the back of Jack’s head. Lai’s hair was sleek and straight like mink, but Jack’s hair was more like mine, inclined to wave with a curl at his nape. I imagined the barrel of the gun nestled there, asking my questions more sensibly this time.

Instead, I curled up against the back door in the cleanest corner of the back seat, my face inches away from the glass to watch the Mississippi roll away beneath us.

IV.

We passed by two gas stations, running the needle perilously close to E before we found one with a Black man at the meter, and Jack went to pay him while I dutifully swept out the seat like Lai had told me I would. For her part, she came out to perch on the hood of the car, a lit cigarette dangling from her fingers as she gazed off into the middle distance, her eyes half lidded.

As strange a trio as we made, the attendant studiously kept his eyes on his work. Jack and Lai looked like they had just stepped out of some fancy knees-up in Chicago for all that it was a day’s ride away, and they might have picked me up somewhere along the way to wipe up their spills. Still, Jack paid for the gas and then slipped the man three bills from his wallet with a certain tilt of his head.

“You never saw us.”

The man snorted, hanging up the nozzle from the pump.

“Never looked up to see your damn faces.”

He hadn’t, either, and I realized much later that we were close to the North Woods, the warren of caves and thickets where downstate outlaws went when Cook County turned up the heat. The cops came through sometimes, collecting the eyes of gas-station attendants and diner waitresses, and the best way to get your eye back, Jack told me later, was to empty it straight out into the dirt, show them that it was just tires and shoes and asphalt, maybe a few tit pics to distract them.

“The law says they can only take one, but it don’t say how good your eye needs to work when they give it back,” he said, handing me his cigarette.

“You still got two good eyes,” I said, and he grinned at me, showing off the chipped front tooth that gave him such a nasty sharp bite.

“Yeah? Next ask me if they’re both mine,” he said, and up close I could see now that one wasn’t as dark as the other, whiskey-brown to coffee-black.

That was still a month down the road, however, and when the attendant went back into the station, Jack turned to me.

“So this is where you step off,” he said. “You can probably hitch a ride, or—”

“No,” I said, reaching for the Colt, but he held it up, stone-faced. I hadn’t felt him take it off me, and I went red with humiliation and rage.

“No,” I said again, but he shook his head.

“End of the line, kid, and—”

“What’s Allison Road?”

Jack groaned.

“Fuck, Lai—”

“Shut up. I’m not talking to you.”

She turned on the hood of the car, her legs in her sheer black stockings crossed at the ankle as if she was in church. She gave me a look up and down, and it was strange how she did it, as if she had already made up her mind about me, but still wanted to know if she was right.

“So what’s on Allison Road?” she asked again, and I glared at her.

“It’s my parents’ store in Meade,” I said, my hands fisting by my sides. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jack sighting along the barrel of the Colt and making a face as he did so. “The bank took it, and then you robbed the bank.”

“Did we?” she asked, interested, as if I was telling her about something that someone else did.

I went into the back seat where I had left the gunnysack carrying everything I owned except for the gun. I came up with a crumpled sheet of newsprint, and I threw it down in front of her. Jack sighed and went to pick it up, and smoothed it out to read the headline that I had memorized:

“Chinese Jack and Tonkin Jill Take Meade First Trust!”

Below in smaller letters, the Daily Sentinel reported it was their sixth robbery since February, and beside the lines of text there were their pictures. Jack’s was obviously a mugshot, hair messed and right eye swollen, scowling at the camera like he wanted to break it. Jill, whose name they didn’t know was Lai, looked like she’d been clipped out of the society pages, nothing but big eyes and cloche hat, the rest obscured by the white fur she wore.

“Ooh, I’m cute,” Lai cooed.

“I remember that one,” Jack said suddenly. “Bullshit score, it was like forty dollars and a bunch of dirt farm deeds.”

“It was the deed for my parents’ store, and I want it back,” I snarled, and I might have lunged for Jack just for looking so skeptical when Lai clapped her hands in realization.

“Oh, I remember,” she exclaimed. “27 Allison Road, it’s a little place, right? Green awning, oil paper over the glass in the door.”

Someone had pitched a rock through the glass the week before the bank came. My hopes lifted.

“Yeah, that! Give it to me.”

“Earn it.”

“What?”

That was me and Jack at once, giving each other suspicious looks before Lai spoke again.

“We’ve left money salted away all over the prairie. It’s going to take a while before we work our way back to that cache, and there are no straight lines when you run the fox roads.”

It was the first time I’d heard the term, and something about it made me shiver. I shook it off angrily as she continued.

“So come with us. Make yourself helpful. Run some errands, entertain me when Jack is having a bad day. That’s not such a bad deal, is it? You can be agreeable for just a tiny little while, can’t you?”

She poked my cheek with a playful finger, and I was so startled by the touch, I let her. No one in Meade, including my own parents, would have called me in the least agreeable. I almost argued with her, demanding my parents’ property again, but Jack groaned.

“Oh, fuck all of this. You’re not serious. We can’t bring along some damn hick girl when we’re working.”

“I think it’s a fantastic time to bring along some damn hick girl. I think it’s the best time. Anyway, I want her.”

That was it, that was the line that hit Jack like a sledgehammer between the eyes, always did, and he snarled, turning on his heel to get back in the car. Lai hopped down off the hood, and came to cup my cheek in her hand. I jerked away, but slower than I would have even a few hours ago. She was good at taming wild animals.

“Come on. A few weeks, a month at most, and you’ll have what you want, and so will I.” Then, more softly, “Come run away with us, baby.”

I could have grabbed her, hit her, beat her up until she gave me what I wanted. Instead, I climbed in behind Jack, meeting his eyes briefly in the rearview mirror.

“So what now?” I asked, just to see what he would say, but it was Lai who answered.

“Now we’re going to get you some clothes. I’m not robbing banks with any little bag of rags.”

V.

Lai took me shopping in Chicago, dragging me by my arm through the biggest Chinatown I had ever seen. I was dazzled and half afraid of the faces that looked so much like mine and at once were so alien to me. I’d grown up in Meade, a species of three with my mother and my father, and as the one who spoke the best English, I got to write the rules on what that meant. Here, I could see that there were rules I was expected to follow because of how I looked rather than how I didn’t.

Sharp-eyed Lai probably guessed how I felt, but she also didn’t care, pulling me into one shop after another, shouting cheerfully for the clerk, shoving me in front as if I were a leg of lamb to be dressed. It took me two or three shops to realize that we weren’t speaking English for the sake of my baby Cantonese. It was for her, because whatever she spoke, it wasn’t what the people in Chinatown did.

“Oh, whatever, we’re in America, we should speak American now, anyway,” she said dismissively, handing me a silk shift through the curtain at the back of the shop. “Here, brassiere, garters, and then this on over before you try the dresses.”

She dressed me from the skin out, shoes and underthings before I could even touch the dresses in blue ditty, pink dotted Swiss, a half dozen different florals and calicos. It was shocking at first, exhilarating after that, and then just exhausting by the time I limped back to the hotel room in my new shoes with my arms full of parcels.

“Are you going to make me turn tricks? Was that the kind of work you had in mind?” I asked, falling face-first onto the chaise. I was so tired, I might not have cared.

Jack prodded me in my side and stuck a mug of hot, harsh coffee in my hand.

“Nah, we’d have to gin you up in a cheongsam and give you an opium pipe if we wanted to make any real cash. We’re dressing you for a bank robbery.”

Bank robbers dressed up like bank presidents when they went to work. For guys like Dillinger and Floyd, before their faces got so famous, it gave them a spare few minutes while the onlookers had to figure out if this was someone they needed to be nice to, and sometimes it got them all the way to the vault before the cops were called in.

Of course Jack and Lai didn’t have anything like that. There was no reason for them to be in a white bank. It wasn’t like they were allowed to open accounts, and even if they were doing deliveries, they’d be expected to wait outside for someone to meet them. Instead they went in shouting and shooting, Jack holding people off with guns, Lai grabbing what she could from the tellers and sometimes the rear office.

No one was ever going to mistake them for anything but exactly what they were, so why the pretty dresses and the sharp-cut suits?

“Because fuck ’em, that’s why,” said Jack, pulling up to the Holmsford Savings and Trust in Oklahoma.

“Because we’re prettier than they are, and we want them to see that when we take their money,” said Lai, reaching back to blot some lipstick from the corner of my mouth. “Now hop in front.”

I got behind the wheel as Jack and Lai entered the bank. Jack had been teaching me all week along the country roads bridging Illinois and Missouri. He was, surprisingly enough, a good teacher, patient when I flooded the engine or made it kick. I was eager to put my skills to good use, and the car purred underneath my hand like a big happy cat as I waited for them to come back out.

Time took on a slow, syrupy quality, as if the sun beating down had turned to honey. I was almost painfully aware of everything on the street, the two spotted dogs sleeping in the dirt in front of the general store, the old woman on a gray mare coming up the street. The door to the Holmsford Savings and Trust stood out like it was edged in black ink, and I counted my breaths, one in and two out, waiting for life to restart.

They exploded out the door like shells from a cannon, Lai laughing, Jack swearing, and they leaped into the car . . . which sat absolutely still in its spot, still on. Lai laughed harder, Jack kicked the seat behind me.

“Start the damn car!” he roared as I slapped the parking brake, turned the key, pumped the spark lever like I thought it’d spit beer. If I thought time had slowed to a stop before, it made up for it now, speeding up until it seemed like a beating from the cops, jail, and a long stint the federal pen was practically on top of me.

I was shouting, Jack had grabbed me by the shoulders to try to drag me into the back seat and take my place at the same time, and finally, just as the police car appeared at the head of the street, Lai stifled her giggles enough to point:

“Gear shift! Gear shift!”

Realizing, I yanked it out of neutral, and the car roared forward into the street with the cops hot on our heels. I jerked the wheel to get around the old lady on the horse, spun it just as fast the other way to avoid a parked car, and then we roared out of town, making for Salt Fork River and the state line.

The gunfire started up, but this time, Jack was able to fire back with the rifle stashed under the seat. If I’d known it was there when I first hitched a ride, things might have come out very differently, but now I was just grateful for Jack returning fire with the modified Winchester, booming thunder to get the cops off our tail.

“Right,” Lai said suddenly, and there was a dirt road that I hadn’t expected, so close that I barely made the turning. The shooting kept up, and I drove on, white-knuckled, for what felt like forever until Lai told me right again.

It wasn’t my job to ask questions, it was my job to drive, and I did as the shots chasing us spaced out, one every two seconds, one every five. I would have asked what cops shot like that, but the answer presented itself too easily—it wasn’t the cops chasing us anymore.

Jack swore almost meditatively as he returned fire, but except for a brief glance forward and a reminder to stay on top of the spark lever, he let me drive, and beside me on the bench seat, Lai slid over close, draping her arm over my shoulders. We hadn’t practiced the fox roads because we couldn’t. You needed to be running to find them, and we hadn’t been before.

It felt like forever, the only sounds the periodic shots from a pursuer I couldn’t see in the window, Jack’s swearing, Lai’s murmured left or right. Something buzzed in my chest like the drone of a great hornet, and I let it sink into my bones.

“All right, darling. Right one more time.”

I was so sunk down in my head that I did it without looking, and my heart slammed sideways against my ribs as I realized that the only thing to our right was a deep ravine, the sides sheer stone and grown over with pine saplings that wouldn’t stop us for more than a second on our long drop down.

I yelled, and I would have tried to spin the wheel to save us from going over if Lai hadn’t put her hand over mine, her fingers clamping down with iron strength and no visible effort as she kept me pointed straight down the slope.

Horrified, I felt the car drop out from under us, the pine branches whipping at the windshield, the front wheels spinning on nothing as they reared over the edge—

—and then with a hard bump, we had all four wheels on the asphalt again, rolling along under a perfect October moon. I took a deep, scouring breath of cold air, tears on my cheeks, and I looked over at Lai, whose hand still rested on mine.

She was looking forward to the road, and I saw her in profile, her hat tilted back on her head to reveal the nearly flat plane of her face, the high round forehead that reminded me so much of a perfect eggshell, the way her red mouth was slightly parted as if she was starving for the moonlight and meant to eat it up. The sight of her punched the breath out of my chest, and then she tapped her fingers on my knuckles, settling back on her side of the seat.

“Not bad at all for your first time,” she said with satisfaction. “You’re good at running.”

Jack stashed the Winchester under the seat and leaned forward. I thought he was going to smack me for the gear shift, but instead he slapped my shoulder with a broad grin.

“Nice work. First time Lai steered us into a gully, I couldn’t do it, and it half tore out our engine.”

Rules again, but these rules had enough tooth to tear out the engine on a Model A, and they had nothing to do with how I looked or how I didn’t.

I smiled in the darkness, driving deeper into October and coming out somewhere close to Bowling Green.

VI.

The papers figured out pretty quickly that we were now three instead of two, and they decided I was Chinese Jack’s little sister rescued from a disorderly house in San Diego and brought east.

“Why am I your little sister?” I asked, skimming the headlines and sitting next to Lai on the running board as Jack made eggs and bacon over an open fire.

“Probably because otherwise they’d have to start thinking about you two taking turns with me,” Jack replied absently, and Lai snorted.

“Like anyone would have you two!” she exclaimed, standing up and stalking into the woods.

The roads had dumped us out near Gatlinburg in Tennessee that time. Jack liked the mountains, said they reminded him of the stories his dad told about Dinghu Mountain near Zhaoqing, but something about them made Lai uneasy and mean.

I looked after her, a little brokenhearted, and Jack shook his head.

“She gets like that sometimes. Leave her alone, and she’ll come back.”

“She’s not gonna leave us out here to get shot and eaten by coyotes?” I asked, only half joking.

“Hasn’t yet.”

He was right. After her fits of temper, never all that common, Lai would come back to run between us, petting us, kissing us, telling us she was sorry, sorry, sorry, could we ever forgive her, she would make it up to us the minute we got back to a proper city with proper clothes and proper room service.

Jack was used to it, taking her kisses where he could get them, philosophical when he couldn’t, but I soaked up her repentance like a sponge, hanging on to her and demanding that she buy me food and dresses and pretty gold jewelry to say sorry. She liked spoiling me, and I liked being spoiled, but even then I could feel the cracks underneath it all, a creaking like lake ice that would hold your weight right up until it wouldn’t.

It helped that the rest was fun, nothing but fun, after I remembered that the gear shift needed to be out of neutral for the car to run. Jack and I split driving duties getting to the jobs, but I was always the getaway driver, perched in the front seat, waiting for them to come out, and when they did it was like fireworks going off. We shot down the road, faster than anything until the day came that we wouldn’t be, but that day was a thousand years away as we careened down one country road or another, shooting it out with the cops until Lai told me left or right.

I learned to trust Lai’s words even when they took us off a cliff, and the reward for that was driving under the silver light of an October moon, knowing that nothing in the world could touch us. Once, while Jack snored in the back seat, I asked her what they were. Why did they let us on, why did they care whether we lived or died?

“Oh, they don’t care, even a little bit,” she replied, her head leaned against my shoulder. “They probably wouldn’t mind if we got out and offered up our bloods and our skulls to their mother the moon right now.”

I shivered at the image, three mutilated bodies leaking black blood onto the moon-silvered roads, and she kissed my cheek comfortingly.

“It’s fine, it’s fine, em yêu. They let us ride because I know how to ask and you know how to drive. We know the rules, and they’ll get their meal somewhere else.”

I thought I understood at least some part of it. I had been hungry all my life before I joined up with Jack and Lai, both the hungers for food and money that were easy to understand, and the other ones that weren’t.

A few days out of Gatlinburg, we found one of the caches that Lai mentioned. From absolute darkness, we eased onto a stretch of road somewhere in southern Illinois, the twilight just beginning to soften the edges of the high summer heat.

“Oh, hey, left up ahead,” said Jack from the back seat, and this time he was the one who guided me through the half-grown corn to the tiny town of Slip. We stopped long enough to get supplies, paying the staff extravagantly to forget all about us, and we turned off the main road, and then we turned off the dirt track, driving until we got to a falling-down house just before full dark.

It had once been something special, full timber and stone in an area short on both, but now one side slumped over as if it was exhausted, and there was a hole punched from the roof clear through to the loft. Still there was a healthy supply of good firewood tucked under a tarp, and in short order, Jack got the woodstove going while Lai went after the floorboards with a pry bar and a wide grin.

“Come here. Come here and look at this.”

It was more money than I had seen in my life, stacks of bills bound together with ribbons, with string, in one case with the inner tube from a bike tire. She lifted the bundles of cash out one after the other to build a little wall between us, and then she reached deeper into the hole to pull out two dusty bottles.

“The fox roads want us to have a party,” she sang, and we did.

It was the kind of night that you only have a handful of times, but your mind insists that of course there were more. Of course there were more nights where you drank ridiculously good wine with people you loved. Of course someone fed you perfectly fried sausage under a real summer moon more than five times. Of course when you laughed, they kissed you, passing you back and forth between them like a present they wanted to share. It hurts too much to think of only having a night like that one just a few times in your lifetime, so you take the memory and stretch it out and make it last.

I woke up wearing Jack’s clothes, and when Jack reached for them, I shrank away without thinking, unwilling to give up the trousers or the shirt or the braces or the tie. I backed up right into Lai’s arms, which wrapped me up snug and sound.

“Well, that means I get to take you shopping again,” she said with enormous satisfaction.

I tried to explain it to them, but they didn’t need it, and after a few days in my smart new clothes and with my hair cut properly, I didn’t need the explanation either, not with them and not to myself.

VII.

The thing that people who live on the coasts don’t quite understand about the plains states is that they go on forever. Winter lasts forever, the prairies last forever, and between Chicago and St. Louis there’s a countless number of small towns on a single stretch of road, sitting like pyrite beads stitched on twisting black ribbon.

There were plenty of small towns with banks for us to hit, and it was a good thing, because we never grabbed more than two thousand dollars at any single one. Sometimes we were lucky to walk away with a couple hundred, enough to keep gas in the car, bullets in the guns, and food in our bellies.

Still, it was more money than I had ever seen. I thought we were rich, though Jack begged to differ. He was the one who priced out our expenses, knew to the penny how far two hundred dollars wouldn’t take us. He knew who would take a bribe to look the other way and who wanted enough cash we were better off just dodging them. Once in a while, he talked wistfully about the big scores in places like Chicago and St. Louis and Little Rock. Lai said we were welcome to try, but we would do them without her because it was too much, too much heat, too much press, too many trains cutting our access to the real getaway roads, never mind the fox roads.

Still, it added up, and whenever we ended up in a town big enough for us to be anonymous, we blew in with money to burn. In Chicago again, Jack went to find a boxing club that would stand him a few rounds, mostly ones on the South Side, and Lai took me by the arm and said that I needed a new suit.

There was a tailor she liked in Chinatown, where she had bought me my first suit the month before, but when we crossed over to the little store next to the dim sum place, we found it locked up tight. A small sign in the window said that the two brothers who operated it had gone home to Fuzhou for the month, and I felt a little ill, thinking of how long it had been since I had seen my parents, how little I had thought about it until this moment. Maybe she knew what I was thinking, maybe she only thought I was disappointed, but Lai squeezed my arm.

“Oh, we’ll catch them when next we’re in Chicago. In the meantime, let’s get you something small to tide you over, all right?”

We’d never be in Chicago together again, but I didn’t know that. Instead, I followed her back onto the streetcar, taking my place next to the aisle to keep her from bumps and gropes. There were plenty of other tailors in Chinatown, even ones who wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at what a queer pair we were, but for some reason, she took us all the way to State Street, wide and noisy with what felt like the whole world on the thoroughfare.

It was a hot summer Saturday, and people had turned out in their best. Everyone was there to spend money or make it, and the roving vendors, selling everything from pickles to shirts to shoes that would let you dance all night, moved through the crowds like a flock of darting birds to avoid the city police.

Lai grabbed a pair of red shoes from a woman packing up, slipping a dollar into her pocket as she hurried away. The shoes were leather with a smart ankle strap fastened a brass button, and she leaned on me with one hand while using the other to put them on. Her old shoes, black patent leather and the same ones she’d been wearing when I met her, she dropped carelessly on the street before taking a few fast dance steps.

“Oh, these are nice,” she exclaimed. “I could dance back to the moon with these.”

To my surprise, she led me straight to the brass and frosted-glass doors of Beecham’s Department Store, one of the biggest in the city, certainly one of the nicest. The wide display windows featured dresses and suits spelled up to dance with each other behind the glass, diamond necklaces and gold watches wrapped around invisible necks and wrists, and that was nothing compared to the Christmas displays, which unbottled rare vintages of Warsaw winters to set their spectacles.

The doorman gave us a significant look, but Lai moved so fast and with such surety that he would actually have to bar the door against her to keep us out. It wasn’t worth his time to do so—he couldn’t even do it legally like they could in other states—but still the only faces among the customers and behind the counters were white.

“Lai, let’s just go, they’re not going to sell us anything here.”

“What a good thing it is we’re not here to buy anything.”

Before I could stop her, she plucked a violet box from the display on an oak table, small enough to hide entirely under her hand. In a move identical to the one pushing money into the vendor’s pocket, she slid it into the watch pocket of my vest before turning on her toe and whirling away.

She didn’t run. I know that for sure, because when Lai ran, really ran, there was nothing in the world that could keep up with her. Instead she simply moved away from me so quickly that I didn’t know I was being left for a moment, only the red heels of her new shoes catching my eye as she whisked around a rack of wool jackets. I stared after her for a wild moment as someone shouted “Hey, stop!” and then I went after her, following her through the men’s department into jewelry.

Running, the protective civility we had had evaporated, and suddenly and irreversibly, we were visible, and we were targets. The cry went up, “Stop thief!” and I heard footsteps pounding behind me. Most of the shoppers lurched away from me, a few who were too slow clipped my shoulders as I went by, and one or two, assholes, tried to grab me. If they tried to grab Lai, I never saw it, and desperately, I focused on her red heels, running hard to catch up with her, because it was Lai, she couldn’t leave me, wouldn’t leave me, and all I had to do was catch her, catch up with her.

I ran so hard I was surprised I didn’t chip the marble floors, and when Lai splashed gleefully through the Lady Liberty fountain, I went right in after her. She stooped in the water for a brief moment, coming up with a handful of pennies that turned into quarters as she flung them into the crowd. The sudden mad scramble for silver stalled me up, nearly made me trip over a girl grabbing for money on her knees, but I won myself free just in time for Lai to dart into the café area.

I thought I had her cornered briefly—the tables were set close, and every table was packed, but she surprised me and that poor couple trying to eat their charlotte cake. One foot on the man’s knee, one just shy of the strawberry topping, and she was up and over, leaving me to blunder half into the lap of the poor woman who just wanted her dessert. I couldn’t go over the table like she could, so instead I slammed my hip hard against the corner, spun it, spun myself, and barely managed to gain my feet to chase after her.

I couldn’t see anything but her flashing red heels, I couldn’t hear anything but the roar of my blood in my ears, I couldn’t think anything but Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t leave me.

The security guard wasn’t even chasing me. I rounded the corner, certain that I was closing the gap between us, and I found the guard instead. His hand came up in surprise, and more by instinct than anything else, he grabbed me by the scruff of my jacket as I started to turn. I looked around desperately, but no red, no Lai, and I sagged, shocked and empty in his grasp.

It was only when he tried to pull me away, probably toward some back room to wait for the cops or something worse, that a more sensible fear took over. I went limp for a split second, making him pause, and at the same time, I tore out the buttons of my jacket, letting me slip it entirely as I darted away.

By some miracle, I was by the doors, and I blew through them, leaving a department store full of angry shouts and chaos behind me. When I got onto the street, I didn’t stop running, even though I could hear Jack cautioning me that running’s the way you get chased. Maybe he would like to take his chances with his fists, but I wouldn’t, and I ran.

Chicago doesn’t go on forever, quite, but it was drawn in sharp lines, and with a few stumbling steps, you went from luxury to poverty, from houses to railroad tracks.

I ran, and for some reason I couldn’t stop running, and the farther I went, the faster I went as well. I ran through smoking yards where garbage was burned to sidewalks slick with blood where you prayed it was only cows and sheep getting slaughtered behind the high fences, and I cut behind the yard where a gardener trimmed the rosebushes only to emerge into one hosting a dogfight.

I moved faster, the transitions got harder and stranger. It felt a little like running through a rain of knives, but it was good, so good to know that no one in the world was going to catch me.

A room where a pair of Chinese sisters set each other’s hair, getting ready for a night on the town.

Rats trotting along the river, so many and packed so solid that they moved like one animal, one mind.

A vaulted space full of people and the roar of arriving trains, the air thick with the promise of getting away.

A bunk on a rocking ship, a young sailor staring dreamily at something in a muscle magazine. He looked up, shouting even as he jammed the magazine under his pillow, and the sense of recognition was so intense that I missed a step. I swore, crashing headfirst over a steel footlocker, throwing my hands up because I was going to hit the floor, and it was going to hurt.

Instead of hitting the wooden planks, I hit a brick wall, which was hardly less painful. The scrape of the raw brick took some skin off my upper lip and my cheek, and when it didn’t yield, I ended up on the cement, curling up into myself as bolts of pain shot through my body, bright as lightning and gradually growing dimmer.

I focused on breathing, because it felt as if that was no longer guaranteed, and just when I thought it might be sort of fun to stand up again, a door opened farther down the alleyway, spilling out boisterous shouts. Suddenly some familiar swearing rose up out of the cheerful calls and Jack was there, crouching down in front of me and demanding to know what the hell had happened.

I tried to tell him she left me, but nothing came out but a sob, and, growling, he got an arm around me and helped me up.

I had ended up close to Chinatown, close enough, anyway, that he got me to a restaurant nearby. We settled in the booth at the very back, and they brought us garlic chicken on top of fat white noodles, topped with stinging green onion. I realized I was starving, and I wolfed down my portion eagerly, but Jack only picked at his, watching the door, absently rubbing his ribs where they had taped him up after.

I finished the dumplings he’d meant to for us to share, and I had started on his dish when Lai came in, smiling and calling to the girl behind the counter as if they were cousins. I almost started crying again, but she came to sit beside me, snuggling me under her arm with such a conspiratorial smile that I didn’t care how hurt I was.

“You’re so good, anh yêu, you’re so, so good.”

She leaned in to give me a little kiss on the cheek and to take back the little box she’d stuck in my pocket before straightening up to call for fish ball soup and more dumplings.

Beyond her, Jack gave us both a long, long look, his mouth curved down like the ends of a drawn bow.

VIII.

Something changed after that, which is too easy to say. Things are always changing, whether you see it or not, and I didn’t.

Jack got quieter, Lai got meaner, and every day I meant to ask them about the cache where they’d hidden the deed to 27 Allison Road, but every day I didn’t. If I asked, they’d give it to me, and in my suit, drinking whiskey as I drove down the moonlit fox roads with two people who knew my right name, I never wanted anything less than to go home.

So we kept on through August, from Cherryvale to Green Bay to Waterloo to Carbondale, east to Zanesville, and west to Storm Lake, and if I drove fast enough, nothing would change.

The day we drove into Wilder, Illinois, the sky was low, swagged with clouds, and a wind stirred uneasily along the ground, blowing scraps of paper along the street and tugging at the hem of Lai’s skirt like a kid begging for candy.

I slid into the front seat, my hat pulled down low over my eyes, and I watched them go in, Lai first because no one could take their eyes off of her, and Jack following, gun in hand. Driving getaway meant that I had to keep my eye on the street for anything that wanted to block us in or get in our way, but for just a second, I looked after them with a strange pain in my heart, something that ached right under my breastbone and kept me from drawing a full breath.

Then I went back to looking out for trouble, like I was meant to do, and they burst back out onto the street like fireworks, a rain of bullets following them. In mid-stride, Jack spun almost completely around, blood darkening his shoulder, the force of the bullet almost putting him on the ground. He kept his feet, and I shoved the car door open for him, let him grab on to it and pull himself in heavily.

Lai never got in at all, and I turned to see her at the driver’s window, hopping up on the running board to lean in and kiss me, digging her nails into my chest hard before pushing herself out and running back toward the bank.

I screamed her name, or I thought I did, and then she met the two armed guards at the front. They saw her coming like a storm of red, right up in their faces before they could remember that she was dangerous. That was all the time she needed, and two fast swipes with her hooked fingers left them bleeding from their faces as she turned and ran down the street.

Jack started to lurch back out the car to go after her, and before I could think, I gunned the engine, wheeling out of the spot as if it had caught fire. He got the door closed with his good arm, swearing the air blue, and we swung down the road after Lai.

I have one crystal-clear picture of her running, her red shoes gone, her hat flown off her head, her hair blowing around her face. Then it’s a blur as I realized she was pacing the car and then outrunning it entirely, her body lengthening, her face tugging out like a muzzle, her red dress sweeping to hair and her fingers blackening as she pulled the yards and miles underneath her.

Lai outpaced the car, and then with the echo of a laugh in my head, she was gone, and the gunfire started.

For a second, the Ford actually slowed because I didn’t know what to do next, not with Jack leaking blood onto the bench seat and unable to return fire, not without Lai laughing in my ear.

Then I realized, of course I did.

The Ford leaped forward like a fox itself, and I hit the highway doing at least sixty an hour and gaining. There had been talk recently, better guns for the cops, better cars, cooperation between feds that could hang you in Tennessee for a bank you hit in Wisconsin, but that was all slow, too slow to ever catch us. A laugh bubbled up in my throat as I yanked the wheel hard left into what looked like a live oak tree and found a little cow-path road that was never there. Right, and left, and right again, and I could feel the wheel tugging against my grasp. The Ford knew that it wasn’t Lai guiding it but me, and while I was fine on the long stretches of the freeways between St. Louis and Chicago, the fox roads were something else.

Up in Wisconsin, north of Black River Falls and Rhinelander, the lumberjacks drag their logs from the pineries to the river to float them downstate. The drag marks become these broad ruts just barely wide enough to drive on, and bank robbers and bootleggers call them the cat roads. It’s more than just lumber that the loggers drag away, when the land belongs to the Ojibwe and Menominee, and the crooks who run the cat roads meet some fearsome trouble if they step one foot wrong and sometimes if they don’t.

The fox roads were something else, I realized, as the light drained away and the moon rose in the sky. You only hit the fox roads if you’re running from something, and I remembered my mad dash in Chicago, how fear had sent me somewhere else, saved me. Was saving us now.

Left. Another left.

Jack had stripped his jacket off and half his shirt as well. They were bloody rags, and the car smelled of whiskey as he applied it inside and out, as the old saying went.

“How are you?” I asked, and he nodded tersely.

“I’ll live. How long has Lai been teaching you?”

I started to tell him about Beecham’s, but then I thought about how she had looked at me that morning in Hooper, just for an instant, how she had held a knife to my throat and told me she thought I was afraid and that that was all right.

“Probably since the first day I met you.”

We drove in silence for a while. Jack fell asleep, snoring heavily enough I never had to worry if he had died leaking blood onto the leather seat. The fox road rolled out in front of me like a ribbon—all I had to do was grab it and pull it underneath me to get to where I was going, wherever that was.

Before I could think too hard about what I was doing, I eased the car over to the side of the road. I knew right away that this was something I wasn’t supposed to do, but if Lai wanted to tell me off, she could damn well come back to do it.

I figured it out, mostly, when I’d seen her muzzle, her neat black feet, the streak of russet red that was all that was left of her red dress. It’s a hard thing to stay in a form that’s not your own, even when you love the people who know you in it. It feels like flying when you can be what you really are, even if you love pretty dresses and golden jewelry. I still had some of mine stashed somewhere in Milwaukee, even if I probably didn’t want to wear them anymore.

I sat on the running board, facing the cornfield. The moon cast everything in shades of silver with shadows so dark anything could be hidden within them. I knew that there were things in those shadows that wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of me or Jack, were probably thinking about it right now, but I could have one goddamn minute.

“Just because you went doesn’t mean you can’t come back,” I said.

I listened for a response. Maybe I heard a high shrill laugh from the dark woods beyond the fields.

I breathed out to see the plumes of steam, and I reached into my jacket for a cigarette. Pulling out the pack I’d picked up in Waukegan (Flessner Bank, twelve hundred dollars flat), my fingers brushed against something hard and square. It was of course the little box she’d swiped in Chicago, and, the unlit cigarette dangling from my lip, I opened it.

It was a pair of cuff links, round and set in copper. I couldn’t see the color in the dark, but I thought that when we emerged into summer again, they would flash a foxy amber. As well, there was a sheet of paper, folded so many times it was a square lump as hard as the box. When I pulled it open, I could read the word printed across the top clearly in the moonlight: DEED. Underneath it in smaller print, 27 Allison Road.

My parents had built that store out of nothing, or rather, they had built it out of ten years washing clothes at the Grandee Hotel in Reno, another eight years on the farms around Meade. They had bought the store with the two rooms in the back to sleep in because they were ready to build a better life for me, and the fact that it was a life I hated didn’t matter at all.

I stroked the deed with my fingertips, and the memories of the polished counter, the acrylic cash register buttons under my fingertips, and the bare plank floors rose up unbidden and unwelcome. My mother kept an enormous glass jar of pickles on the counter that no one ever wanted, even if they were free. My parents were right when they thought that Meade would deal with them as the only store in town. They were wrong when they thought that Meade would get used to them.

When the bank had taken the store, it had left a gap like a lost tooth on Allison Road, a bare dusty lot where it had been. My mother screamed after them, cursing in a language she refused to teach me, and my father just sat in the dirt, staring stoically back at the people who had come to stare at him. I sat next to my father in the same dust-gray dress that I had been wearing when I met Jack and Lai, and under the fear and the grief and the stomach-turning fury, I was ferociously, ungratefully, stupidly happy to see it go. Now here it was again, lock, stock, and every barrel, and they could put it down where it had been or take it elsewhere, find another town, other people. They could take this deed, unfold it and set it down on waiting earth, and let it roll out the same barrels and dry goods and pickles for people who might like them better.

I could go back with it, I realized, pack myself up with the bolts of fabric and the sacks of flour. They’d take me back, and never speak of it. It’d be like I never left.

I put the deed away again, sticking it back in the box and sliding the box back into my vest. In a surprisingly short amount of time, I had gotten used to myself, and I realized I was in no hurry to give it up. Maybe I would someday, go back and take my place beside the pickles, but I didn’t think so. I’d deliver the deed back to them, say sorry, and then it would be back on the road for me and Jack. Maybe we’d keep on as we were, or maybe we’d try our luck at something else. We’d met bootleggers running whiskey between Chicago and Montreal. The fox roads probably ran to Canada. With the cash we’d stolen, we could buy into some of the clubs out west, the ones that featured only Chinese performers. Hell, maybe we’d get real jobs.

I climbed back into the car, the still-sleeping Jack on my right, the hunter’s moon on my left.

I started to drive.

“On the Fox Roads” copyright © 2023 by Nghi Vo
Art copyright © 2023 by Alyssa Winans

Nghi Vo’s Hugo Award-winning Singing Hills Cycle returns in May 2024 with The Brides of High Hill, a standalone gothic mystery that unfolds in the empire of Ahn. Pre-order it now!

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This story is set in the same future as The Lost Cause, Cory Doctorow’s new novel, available everywhere on November 14, 2023.

Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.

—Fred Rogers (1986)

It’s a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi Mud.

—Bing Crosby (1927)

I arrived in Oxford with the first wave of Blue Helmets, choppered in along with our gear, touching down on a hospital roof, both so that our doctors and nurses could get straight to work, and because it was one of the few buildings left with a helipad and backup generators and its own water filtration.

Humping my bag down the stairs to the waterlogged ground levels was a nightmare, even by Calgary standards. People lay on the stairs, sick and injured, and navigating them without stepping on them was like an endless nightmare of near-falls and weak moans from people too weak to curse me. I met a nurse halfway down and she took my bag from me and set it down on the landing and gave me a warm hug. “Welcome,” she said, and looked deep into my eyes. We were both young and both women but she was Black and American and I was white and Canadian. I came from a country where, for the first time in a hundred years, there was a generation that wasn’t terrified of the future. She came from a country where everybody knew they had no future.

I hugged her back and she told me my lips were cracked and ordered me to drink water and watched me do it. “This lady’s with the Canadians. They came to help,” she said to her patients on the stairs. Some of them smiled and murmured at me. Others just stared at the backs of their eyelids, reliving their traumas or tracing the contours of their pain.

“I’m Alisha,” I said.

“Elnora,” she said. She was taller than me and had to bend a little to whisper in my ear. “You take care of yourself, okay? You go out there trying to help everyone who needs it, you’re going to need help, too. I’ve seen it.”

“I’ve seen it, too,” I said. “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind if I give you the same advice.”

She made a comical angry face and then smiled. She looked exhausted. “That’s all right, I probably need to hear it.”

My fellow Blue Helmets had been squeezing past us, trudging down the staircase with their own bags. I shouldered mine and joined them. Elnora waved at me as I left, then bent to her next patient.

I stepped out into the wet, heavy air of the Mississippi afternoon, the languid breeze scented with sewage, rot, and smoke. My clothes were immediately saturated with water sucked out of the ambient humidity, and I could feel myself pitting out. Squinting, fumbling for my sunglasses, it took me a moment to spot the group of angry men standing by the hospital entrance. Red hats, open-carry AR-15s. It was the local Maga Club. On closer inspection, a few of them were women, and while they skewed older, there was a smattering of young adults, and, heartbreakingly, a good number of small kids, holding signs demanding foreign agitators out of mississippi!

Bekka, a Cree woman from Saskatchewan who’d been my seat buddy on the helicopter ride, leaned in. “Straight outta central casting.”

At first, I thought she was right. Weather-beaten, white, unhealthy in that way poor Americans are, lacking access to basic preventative care. They looked so angry. Plus, the guns. But there was something else there, and I couldn’t put my finger on it until I spotted a sign being held aloft by a heavyset, middle-aged guy with wraparound shades and a sweat-sheened face: our lives matter too.

I knew he meant it in a gross way, but I couldn’t argue with it.

I had plenty of flood experience, thanks to my year in Calgary. I could fill sandbags, site and service pumps, work the levees, install reverse-osmosis filters, dig WHO-standard latrines, and efficiently store and track emergency rations. I was good at comforting survivors, especially other women, who had often lost children. I’d never had children and I kept telling people I never would, but it turned out that there was something about the experience of a lost child that I could relate to.

I had also pulled bodies out of the water, almost all dead, but two living ones. One of those two was still alive, but the last time I’d video-conferenced with her, she’d clutched her soft toy and cried for her parents the whole time. No one ever found her parents, not even their bodies. That happened to a lot of people, even with the DNA stuff from the last quarantine lockdown. I was better at consoling parents with dead kids than kids with dead parents.

Mississippi was the same but different. Calgarians were traumatized but determined. They knew there was a better future ahead of them, and only sorrowed that it hadn’t arrived fast enough. The new Calgary—on higher ground, out of the floodplain, fed by wind power, dense and vertical to preserve natural habitats that sprawl had been ceaselessly devouring—was springing into existence now, thanks to that furious energy. They wanted their future and they weren’t waiting for it. They were taking it.

Mississippi was . . . beaten. The university had been starved of funds for so long, becoming more and more dependent on the whims of individual donors, dilettantes with pet theories they expected to see taught. Ole Miss became such a joke that a group of grads had sued the regents unsuccessfully for lowering the value of their degrees. They lost early without a chance to make any substantive arguments, thanks to the binding arbitration clauses they’d signed on enrollment.

The music scene went next, with Ticketmaster/LiveNation buying and then shuttering the Lyric, then working its way through the college clubs, squeezing them for every dime and dropping them. Even the barbecue joints had been scooped up by a private equity fund, merged into a single corporate unit, and then turned into self-parody.

And at every step, the city and the state had either failed to stop Oxford’s dismantling, or worse, had participated in it. No one believed help would come. There was such helplessness, a sense that everyone knew what had to be done and that no one would ever do it.

At least they had the elections to distract them. Everyone had election fever. The eight state lawmakers who’d died when their motorcade was caught in a mudslide had all been lifers, five-termers, eight-termers, a twelve-termer. Also: all climate deniers. The Blue Helmets whispered jokes about science progressing eight funerals at a time, and I was appalled, but then they told me they’d first heard ’em from locals while out on pet rescue, scooping up skinny, shivering cats and dogs the drones had picked out. It was a good detail. Pets were grateful to be rescued and drones were good at distinguishing them from flood slurry and rubble. Something to do with all the cat and dog videos on social media providing endless training data.

The Blue Helmets always worked with local partners. That was our hard-and-fast rule: if there weren’t locals onsite, we couldn’t be onsite, either. We wanted to help, but that help had to be with locals, not for locals. If they didn’t buy in, we couldn’t be effective, and if we went ahead and did the work anyway, we’d burn the credibility we needed to do our jobs effectively.

So the snap elections were . . . a challenge. The Republican-controlled state house had made a calculation that if they held the elections during the chaos, poor people would be too distracted and traumatized to vote, letting them fill those eight seats again. They didn’t want a repeat of Texas.

But Texas sure did. The same national organization of Dealers who’d organized the largest voter turnout and the biggest political upset in a century were committed to flipping Mississippi next.

The national volunteers and their Texas vanguard who descended on Mississippi to mix voter registration with relief efforts muddied our mission, and we muddied theirs. Maga Clubs never cared about truthfulness and nuance under the best of circumstances, and in the chaos of the flood relief, it was easy for them to conflate “foreign aid workers” and “outside political organizers” and come up with “foreign interference in a US election.” These were the six scariest words in the American phrasebook, words to conjure up a bipartisan QAnon/BlueAnon horde.

This made it extra hard for us to do our jobs. We couldn’t deploy unless we were matched with a Mississippi team. The Maga-aligned teams wouldn’t work with us, and the other teams kept disappearing into election-campaigning outings that we stayed the hell away from. There were days when we felt like tools that had been forgotten at the back of the shed.

“Remember,” Bekka told me, after she’d skunked me at Set for the eighth time, “we’re here to be part of their thing, not to do our thing. If you’re here for the egoboo, you’re gonna be disappointed.”

I looked down at the final seven unmatchable Set cards and my pathetic pile of sets and sighed. “I know.”

“I know you know, but it doesn’t hurt to remind you.” Bekka had a scar just to the left of her mouth, where something bad had happened. She never talked about it, but she touched it when she was drinking, sometimes, and got an angry look. When she smiled, like now, it was like an extra-special dimple.

“Let’s go get a drink,” she said.

We were stationed outside of Oxford, in an exurb that had been starved when the state cut its transit links to the city, where the only local employer was a gig warehouse that served as a regional distribution center for a bunch of second-tier e-commerce platforms that couldn’t afford Amazon robots, not with Mississippi work going as cheap as it did.

The warehouse had been hit hard by the flood, and since the railroad tracks were still impassable, no one’s apps were sending them hours. A few trucks came in or drove out with goods, but almost everything had shut down.

We set out on our bikes—fat-tired things with heavy locks and big mud guards over the chains and tires—and pedaled down what was left of the main street, looking for something to do. We heard the party before we saw it, that EDM-meets-Delta-blues that was the sound of the summer everywhere in Mississippi

We homed in on the beats and before we knew it, we were outside a low-slung goods warehouse on a rail spur, with a huge crowd outside of it, barbecuing on kettle grills and making blender drinks at a bar next to a noisy generator that was also pumping out the tunes.

I recognized Elnora a second before she recognized me and she broke off her conversation, snatched a red party cup out of the hand of a bartender who’d just filled it up, and jogged over to me, a million-dollar smile on her face.

“Hey, Canadian girl!”

“It’s Alisha,” I said. “And this is Bekka.” Bekka dismounted and shook Elnora’s hand, then Elnora handed me the cup. It was cold and filled with some kind of boozy frozen slurry.

“It’s a Mississippi Mudslide,” she said. “That reefer car there’s run out of battery and the freezers in the warehouse have been out all week, so that ice cream’s gotta get eaten up.”

I took a sip. I preferred my booze on the dry side, but the mix of chocolate ice cream and bourbon was certainly refreshing. I didn’t offer Bekka a sip—we’d had all our sharing habits beaten out of us years before, in Calgary, during the bad Beaver Fever outbreak—but Elnora’s bartender had already set one up for her. The party cup—one of the cornstarch ones that had a tendency to disintegrate if you didn’t gulp your drink fast enough—was already beading with condensation.

“I can’t believe we’re drinking Mississippi Mudslides,” Bekka said.

Elnora’s grin was tiny and tight. “We gotta get our bright moments where we can. Bartender over there was warehouse security until last week. They forgot to revoke his lock credentials. Life gives you SARS, you make sarsaparilla.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Bekka said, and drank so much she gave herself brain-freeze.

“How are things at the hospital?” I had been out there the day before, working on the generators and then on the pumps and then the water purifier, in one of those days when everything I fixed revealed something else that was broken.

“Oh, it’s your basic waking nightmare,” Elnora said. That small smile again, and a tight voice. “Been sleeping there, pulling double shifts all week. This is my first day off since—” She did some math in her head. “God, ten days.” I realized she was swaying.

“Remember the advice you gave me when we arrived? That goes for you, too. You can’t be a good nurse if you haven’t had any sleep or a decent meal.”

She slumped. “You’re right. But all the time I’m on shift, all I can think about is what’s going on outside. Soon as I get outside, all I can think about is what’s going on in the hospital. It doesn’t help that every minute I’m inside my screen is blowing up with messages about the election, and soon as I get to one of these things, it’s nonstop messages about the patients.” She made a cross-eyed funny face, but I could see she was really in pain.

“I know that feeling. We get it, too. Plus we get all the craziness of not being able to get out and help because everyone’s out doing election stuff.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “That shit’s so stupid. Who cares if Canadians are pulling your car out the mud without an American chaperone. It’s not like you’re programming the voting machines.”

“I agree, but it’s above my pay grade.”

“Mine, too.” She looked over at the bar where there was another Mississippi Mudslide waiting for her in the hand of a handsome, smooth bartender with a shaved head and a neat little mustache and a million-dollar smile. She took it from him and gulped some. “Damn. Okay, you convinced me. One—maybe two—more drinks and I’ll go home. Keep me company here until I go?”

I looked at Bekka, who’d been bemusedly following our conversation. She looked around dramatically at the dancing people, the amazing music, the frosty drinks. “I don’t know, Alisha,” she said. “We got a lot of Netflix to catch up on back in the tent.” But smiling when she said it.

So we danced. We drank. We drank more than two. The sun was down and the ice cream was gone before we stopped. Elnora leaned against the side of the reefer truck, looking tired and exhilarated at the same time.

“Okay, now will you go home and get some sleep?” I said.

She smiled. “I will, but not straight home. We’re canvassing now.”

I should have put it together before that, but I just hadn’t been paying attention. It wasn’t unusual to see people with Dealer pins or hats, after all, and you couldn’t move in Mississippi for hitting an election sign, but as I looked around slowly I realized they were all wearing the pins and the signs were everywhere.

I found Bekka. “This is an election-campaign party,” I hissed.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Just figured that out, did you?”

I felt a horrible, sinking feeling, all that ice cream and bourbon congealing in my guts. “Bekka, shit—”

“It’s okay,” she said. “We’re just hanging out—we’re not painting signs or going door-to-door or—”

“Bekka!” Now the ice cream was burning its way back up my gorge. This was our one, die-hard rule. No politics. Ever. Ever.

“I gotta go.” I heard Bekka making excuses to Elnora as I unlocked my bike and mounted up. She caught up with me on the washboard road a few minutes later, pedaling hard, her headlight sending my shadow shooting out ahead of me as she came up behind me.

“Alisha, you need to calm down, girl.”