“Look what I found, Daddy!” The kitten’s fur feels soft, like down, under my fingers. Euphemia’s face is aglow with excitement. I don’t know what breaks my heart more: that one glance tells me the kitten is dying, or that I cannot keep this precious smile on our daughter’s lips. You always told me I couldn’t help but try to save the world. It hurts every time, realising I won’t be able to.

“Where did you find it?” I ask Euphemia. Wrong question. She hesitates, just for a second. Six years old and already contemplating the benefits of a lie—she got thatfrom you. I can see the precise moment she decides risking to tell me the truth.

“The docks,” she mumbles. My frown makes her hunch her shoulders and pout—she knows she’s done something wrong, but not quite wrong enough to be punished for it. I almost yell at her anyway. The docks are overflowing with contaminants and pollution and might worsen her cough; but then, everything might worsen her cough and she will only reply that you live there and that’s the end of the discussion. I can’t forbid Euphemia from visiting her mother. I wipe my eyes to stop myself from scowling. Euphemia watches me carefully, the kitten pressed against her chest. It’s a grey, scrawny thing, all paws and huge, mucus-encrusted eyes, trembling faintly in her hands. I cannot tell if it does so out of shock or cold or a pathetic attempt at purring.

“Sweetheart.” I sigh, making my voice as soft as it will go, then go down on one knee for good measure. “The kitten is very sick. You know it’s going to die.” My tone catches Euphemia by surprise. Her face waxes like the sky, clear one moment, then full of gathering clouds. The desperation in her eyes is like a knife slicing my heart into pieces. I wish I could take the kitten away quietly, make her forget she ever found it.

“No,” Euphemia says loudly, as if saying things loudly enough will make them come true. She resembles you so thoroughly it hurts to look at her. “It can’t. You can’t let it, Daddy! It’s so small and soft and…” She runs out of arguments and her eyes start filling with tears. It’s a horrible thing, to feel so helpless. I wish I could do something, anything. I wish I could bring the kitten to a vet and spend a stupid amount of money and resources to make it live, like my parents would have. I wish a lot of things. A knock at the door saves me from answering and I’m stupidly glad about it.

It’s Agnes, my colleague, face flushed with agitation and waving her phone. “Emergency call. We got a spill.”

I throw a glance at Euphemia, who has used my distraction to retreat into a corner, as if I might start taking the kitten from her any moment. I grab my coat. “You okay on your own, sweetheart?” It’s Sunday afternoon, no school, and she’s a big girl.

Euphemia nods and pets the kitten. I close my eyes for a second before I give in.

“If you really want to keep the kitten…” Euphemia’s eyes widen with hope. “But you have to promise to take care of it. Even if it’s sick. Even if it doesn’t want to be petted.” I know this is going to end horribly, in tears and despair, but I don’t know how to avert this disaster. “Just… I don’t… Just don’t expect it to live very long.”

Euphemia nods gravely as I hurry to join Agnes. Of course, she’ll utterly ignore my advice. By the time I return home the kitten will already be sleeping on her pillow, it will have food and a blanket and a name. A very fitting name at that, grey and insubstantial like the kitten itself. She’ll call it Fog.

---

Spill is a bit of an exaggeration. What we have are two unlucky fishermen, the beaten-up engine of their dingy leaking petrol. The younger of the two, broad-shouldered, sweating in the heat and with a brutish twist to his mouth, spits in the water as we draw near. We’re not popular, in general.

“Office for environmental protection,” Agnes barks, trying to glower them into submission. I still marvel at how righteous she manages to sound, as if there’s no place in her mind for doubt. Reminds me of you, when we were younger. For Agnes everything is black or white, right or wrong. We’re the good ones, they’re the bad ones. I don’t know where she managed to scavenge ideals in this world of ours.

The coast guard boat that gave us notice stays in the background. It’s one of these sleek new vessels with nothing but a sail to manoeuvre with. Our boat is smaller, lighter, with an electric engine and a coast-guard skipper to steer it, but she, too, tries to stay as inconspicuous as possible. All the coast-guards always do. I can’t quite tell if it’s a ploy to earn the fishermen’s trust, keeping their distance from us, or if they simply dislike the OEP as well.

“We didn’t do nothing.” Brutish spits again, resulting in a disgusting blob of phlegm floating on the water. I spot smears of blood and fish guts staining the inside of their dingy, belying his words, but of course they dumped their catch at first sight of the coast guard. They kept their rods, though. Good fishing rods are hard to come by.

“You are outside of sanctioned fishing grounds.” A part of me hates myself for sounding so damn posh. Another part of me hates the fishermen for being so damn stupid. It’s not that they’re not allowed to fish here because of protected species, we’re way past that. The fish are toxic. Micro-plastic pollution, mingled with heavy metals and pesticides and the fish gobble it all up as if it was plankton. By now, the toxicity levels are bad enough to triple your risk for cancer, and probably sterilize you for good.

“Didn’t do no fishing,” the other one, grizzly and weather-beaten, replies. Sweat pools in the creases around his eyes. Stubborn. Agnes scoffs, wrinkling her nose over the obvious stench of fish guts. “Nah, you just came out here for a stroll in the park.”

“We can go wherever we damn like,” Brutish says. I don’t much like the look of him, the way he eyes Agnes as if her giving orders is a personal affront to his manliness.

I’m almost glad for the heavy weight of the gun at my side; as if I hadn’t been the one protesting loudest when the office made them mandatory. I don’t like being armed. I’m clumsy and insecure even at the shooting range, never mind a real fight. But as I said: we’re not popular. It took our society until after the world was ruined to realise that ruining the world might have been a crime. Some people still can’t accept it.

I point at the fishermen’s wrecked engine. An iridescent carpet of petrol dances over the waves, slowly stretching its tendrils in all directions. The engine looks like a DIY project, rusty and about to fall apart. I’m surprised they made it this far out.

“Grade three fuel spill. And I doubt the manufacturer can be held liable. That’s a fine and a first warning.” My words drift over the water into sullen silence. For a second, I think Brutish will cause trouble, but he’s smarter than I gave him credit for because he glances at the waiting coast-guard boat and changes his mind. His buddy merely blanches and I try, without success, not to feel sorry for him. You used to tell me I’m shit at my job—too much compassion, too many scruples—because there’s never just black and white, only infinite shades of grey. If I’m honest with myself, I know the fishermen know their catch is toxic, how could they not? But they fish anyway, because there aren’t enough jobs and not enough food and not enough hope going around. Dying later and living today, your motto stuck in my head.

“IDs, please,” I remind them. Brutish reluctantly holds out his wrist to be scanned, but the old fisherman surprises us all by producing an old-fashioned paper passport, carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. He actually looks guilty when I wave the coast-guard boat over and they start deploying the small boom and the skimmers to soak up the fuel. It’s always the old ones who feel guilty, the ones who still remember the world could have been different if enough of us had actually cared.

On our way back to harbour, we spot the first dead fish.

Bringing up the basket was arduous work, bringing calluses to the hands and aches to the back. The wheel was stiff, unyielding, and on her own Anne wouldn’t have been able to turn it–but she had her shadow to help her.

She held one handle, her shadow held the other, and together they turned, turned, turned. Slowly, slowly, out of the mist, its long thick chain creaking, came the basket.

Hopping down onto the outcropping, liking the way the mist swirled around her feet, Anne grasped the thick rim of the basket and hauled it onto land. There was raw wool in the basket for carding, and a clay pot of flour, and a still dancing fish, as well as the usuals. A good basket, Anne decided. Yesterday had been an acceptable basket. The day before had been good. Seven days ago the basket had been bad. Today it was good.

Together with her shadow she unpacked the basket before kicking and pushing it back over the edge. They turned the crank and the chain went chung chung chung chung and away it went, plunging down into the mist, out of sight. The chain wobbled, snapped, and was still.

The fish had stopped dancing. That was good. She hadn’t relished the thought of killing it.

Anne put aside the flour and the wood in the old lean to they called the old fisherman’s hut and carried the fish and other perishables down the slope to the village. Their valley was shaped like a shallow bowl; all paths led up to the cliffside, to the baskets, or down to the village, which was a light and easy walk.

She ran the last leg, bare feet slapping on the ground, ready to the show the others the fish. They all agreed it was an excellent fish, with enough meat on it to feed half the village for a night, and all agreed that Anne had the best basket of the day.

The next day, which was Tuesday, she had an ordinary basket; the day after that, which was Tuesday also, her basket contained nothing but raw wool and an empty pot; the day after that she found lots of vegetables, some of which were purple; and the day after that, she found a girl.

Well, not really a girl. She was Anne’s age. But looking at her Anne thought girl, not woman. Perhaps it was her slight figure, like Maeve and Judith, not like Anne with her big breasts and thick arms. Perhaps it was the way she was dressed, the lacy shawl draped around her. Perhaps it was the way she was curled up in the basket like a baby.

“Well,” said Anne, hands on her formidable hips. “This is a pickle.”

Her shadow nodded its dark head.

“What am I to do with her?”

They brought up odd things in their baskets sometimes, still alive things and things no one had ever seen before but agreed were very interesting and useful. No one, to Anne’s knowledge, had ever brought up a girl. But there she was, curled up quite happily on a bed of wool, oblivious to the creaking of the chain and the drop down into the mist below.

“I can’t leave her here.”

Her shadow shook its head.

Together, they lifted the girl out of the basket and set her gently upon the springy grass. Her head lolled back. Her shadow was asleep too, tucked up beneath her like something had given it a fright.

Now what? She gave the girl a shake. She could pour water on her, she supposed, but that seemed unkind. Maybe it was best to let the girl sleep.

She could go down to the village and announce to all the women there ‘I found a girl in my basket this morning,’ and see what they said, but the thought made her uneasy. She supposed she’d always known – all of them had always known – that they couldn’t be the only people in the world, but it was one thing to know something was true and another thing to be confronted with such tangible and compelling proof.

Well, she certainly couldn’t leave the girl lying by the edge, where she might roll over in her sleep and fall. Together they carried the girl to the lean-to and there laid her down.

Anne took the wool, all wadded up, down to the village, where all agreed that she’d had a very bad basket that morning. Not to worry; she’d have a better basket tomorrow. Maude, on the other hand, had had a stupendous basket and they all sat down for a happy breakfast of bread and fruit.

Still wiping her hands on her apron she went back to the fisherman’s hut and found the girl still asleep. And so she sat beside her, and waited.

It was almost the middle of the day when at last the girl’s eyes opened. She looked around herself, gazing hazily at the ramshackle hut. She looked at Anne. She looked, and she looked, looking Anne up and down in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

The question took Anne wholly off guard. She’d never in her life met anyone who didn’t know who she was, just as she’d never met another she didn’t know. “I’m Anne, of course!” she said. “Who are you?”

“What is this place?” The girl squinted up at the rough ceiling, slitted here and there with sunlight.

“This is the old fisherman’s hut,” said Anne. “Do you have an old fisherman’s hut, where you’re from?”

“Do I – what?”

“I said, do you –”

“I heard what you said. I – I don’t understand.” Shakily, the girl began to stand and as she stood Anne was sure there was something strange about her – something she couldn’t put her finger on. “Who are you? How did I get here?”

“I’m Anne,” said Anne. “You came in the basket.”

“In the – basket?”

Perhaps, Anne thought, the girl was just very stupid. “Yes. I found you in my basket.” She took a step towards the girl, meaning to say something comforting, and her shadow stepped with her, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. There it stood, clear as day, hand outstretched as Anne’s was outstretched.

The girl looked at Anne’s shadow. Her eyes went wide, like a fish. She screamed.

And she bolted.

Anne had half a mind to let her run, for where could she run to? There was only the village. But then she remembered that the girl might be stupid, perhaps stupid enough to run clean over the cliff. “Wait!” she cried, and ran after her.

The girl hadn’t gone far. She was standing on the path, looking this way and that, at the way to the village, the way to the clifftop, each way screened by low trees.

“Mind the cliffs!” cried Anne.

“What?” said the girl.

And it was then that Anne realised what was so strange about her. The girl’s shadow was lying flat on the ground, as if she was asleep even though she was wide awake. It was flat – limp – dead. The sight of it appalled her. She clapped both hands to her mouth and stared, though she knew it was rude to stare.

“What is this place?” said the girl. “What is that?” She pointed a shaking finger at Anne’s shadow.

Anne’s shadow shrank back, stepping behind her, half out of sight. “That’s my shadow.”

The girl was shaking her head. “That isn’t right,” she said. “That – that’s horrid.”

Anne was beginning to understand, and behind her her shadow was quaking. The girl wasn’t stupid – not at all. It was just that, wherever she had come from in the basket, things were profoundly different and profoundly strange. Wherever she came from, everyone’s shadow was limp and flat and lay on the ground like it was dead.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, half to the girl, half to her poor shadow.

“Where does that go?” said the girl, pointing down the hill.

“To the village?”

“Are all the people there – like you?”

“They all have shadows,” Anne said.

“What’s that way?” The girl pointed up the rise.

“The clifftop,” said Anne. “There’s no one up there.”

“Right,” said the girl, and ran up the hill.

Anne lifted her skirt and jogged up after her, just in case she did fall. She found the girl standing near the cliff edge, staring down, down at the mist. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?”

“Oh, no!” said Anne. She thought about it. “Unless you usually dream when you’re awake.”

“Of course I don’t!” snapped the girl.

“That’s where I found you.” Anne pointed at the shifting chain.

“All the way down there?” said the girl. “Underneath the clouds?”

“Clouds?”

“The fog,” said the girl.

“Well, me and my shadow hauled the basket up first,” said Ane. Her shadow nodded, proud of its contribution.

The girl was staring down at the fog-sea. It was curious; Anne had seen people gaze out like that, out at the distance peaks of other hills, but never down. Why look down, unless you were bringing up a basket? There was nothing to see.

“But where is this? How did I get here?”

“You don’t have baskets where you come from,” said Anne, tentatively certain.

“Well, of course we have baskets!” snapped the girl. “But we don’t carry people in them.”

“Oh, neither do we!” said Anne. “This has never happened before.”

“But where am I?”

“This is our mountain,” said Anne.

“And you brought me here,” said the girl, “you brought me here – in the basket.” She was gibbering like someone waking up from a nightmare.

“Well, I didn’t bring you here,” said Anne. “I just hauled you up. Don’t know how.”

“Well, you can bloody well haul me back down!”

When Anne said nothing, she went to the crank and began to push and pull on it.

“You won’t shift it on your own.” Anne bit her lip. If only the girl had a shadow that could help her – though perhaps it was just as well she didn’t.

“I – can – try,” said the girl through gritted teeth. “If this is how – I came here – then I can – go back.”

Anne looked up at the clear blue sky, wondering what to do. Things didn’t get put in baskets, only taken out again; but then, girls didn’t usually come in baskets. Maybe this was all some mistake. Maybe she should send the girl back.

Resigned, she put her hands on the other side of the crank, and heaved.

With a long, sad rattle of chain, the basket rose, clunk, clunk, clunk, into view. It was odd, seeing it come up empty, empty, empty.

The girl wiped her brow and gave Anne a curious look. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Reaching out together with her shadow, Anne pulled the basket onto the grass. “I suppose you’d better hop in.”

The girl hung back, hugging herself. “And then what happens?”

“I’ve no idea!” said Anne, astonished that the girl thought she’d know. “This has never happened before.” She looked at the wicker bottom of the basket. “I suppose you get in – and I lower you down – and then you disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Well, back to where you came from,” said Anne.

“Alright,” said the girl. “Alright.” Resting her hands on the edge of the basket, she clambered in, tumbling with an oof and a fumble onto the hard wicker weave.

“Comfy?” said Anne.

The girl put her back to the wall of the basket. “As comfy as I’m getting. Lower me.”

“Are you sure?” said Anne. What if the basket tipped – what if she fell?

“I’ll take my chances,” said the girl. “Lower me!”

Anne gave the basket an almighty shove – and went to the crank – and turned. It was hard work and all the while she thought, wistfully, of that funny girl with her dead shadow, descending steadily away from the mountaintop, out of her life.

A minute late and she wouldn’t forgive herself. Barbara hurried to the patio, teapot in one hand. Wayward leaves drifted softly from the oaks beyond the yard, adding to the shin-high blanket which had gathered over the past weeks— a fact which stoked a vexing headache. A child should take care of her mother, she thought. But she didn’t need Annie if Annie didn’t need her. When the last leaf falls, one big cleaning. Things will be right again. Her eyes turned to the sun, just over the yellow hills encircling this spoiled suburbia.

Deliberate and detailed, she made sure everyone’s plate was set. Though they never ate— and who could blame them, for when conversation is good, who can eat— it’s best to be prepared. In their usual places around the patio table were Donnie Fitzstevens in his dashing straw hat, Bearel Brownfur with his dapper golf attire, Mr. and Mrs. Hunchenbauer, stout in lederhosen and dirndl, Mrs. Pinkerton proud in her top hat and monocle, and stern old Job. If she had one more wish, it would be that things never change.

The napkins were folded, finger sandwiches set in even rows, and dairy-free creamer pots brimming. The table smelled of earl gray, fresh ham, and baked biscuits. Satisfied, Barbara took her seat with a groan and looked over her home— a slim two-story Victorian like all the others on the block. The flan-colored paint was blanched and chipping. As she watched the sun’s nightly bow, her mind turned back to the fantastic man— or creature— which had given her life again. Two years ago, she thought in disbelief. How in this very spot she——shivered in the winter winds. Alone. The funeral, the words, the tears, they felt distant but inescapable. She looked at the empty chair across from her, the last place she’d seen Jollen— beyond the coffin. The ‘C’ word… she couldn’t even think the name anymore. Her pain was like an echo down an endless cave, always coming back. It felt like just yesterday this space had been filled with flowers, children, and friends. Who’s hands are these, she thought, staring at the paper thin skin over her trembling fingers. The black outlines of bats flutter from the trees and into the night. She realized something. Jerry, Glorieta, Jollen, their only connections to this life hinged upon her decaying brain. The cold wind whispered, There was Annie, maybe grandchildren someday, but eventually her name would be swallowed by the earth and buried under leaves. The tears were too heavy to dam.

“I haven’t seen an angel cry since Calvary,” the stranger said.

Barbara gasped at the gray-suited gentleman and his extended handkerchief. She thought to scream, but something in his clean-shaven face and smooth grin brought about an otherworldly tranquility. Tall, slender, and dignified, he reminded her of someone. For a moment, her father, another, Jerry, the next, what she imagined her miscarried son would’ve looked like.

“Please,” he said, insisting with the handkerchief.

By the time she’d dried her cheeks, he was in the seat across from her. His eyes held an unearthly tenderness, as if he could see everything withering inside her and truly felt the weight.

“It’s hard getting old, Barbara,” he said.

She nodded— hardly caring that she hadn’t given her name. In all likelihood, this was death. She folded the handkerchief, just like her mom taught her, and handed it back. Manners were important. Something the youth had forgotten.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t think I got your name?” she asked.

“The pronunciation is an ordeal. Call me Jay.”

Some animal shrieked from somewhere up the street.

“A pleasure, Jay.”

He smiled earnestly. “Likewise.”

It was hard to tell how long she spent in that pleasant and hypnotic silence, watching a sea of vivid memories and futures in his dilated pupils. Eventually he said, “Barbara, I’ve made it my business over the years to help people like you. Those who’ve lost everything.”

“That’s very kind of you, Sir,” she sniffled. His gaze reflected a false yet lovely vision of her and Jerry on a Bermuda beach somewhere in their golden years.

“It’s an obligation,” he said.

“Why?”

“Everyone’s obliged to something, I figure this is the best I could do.”

What a fine man, she thought.

“Tell me, if you had one wish, what would it be?” he asked. Barbara laughed merrily, but he pressed, “I’m serious.”

Given this question most would inanely answer with money, superpowers, or immortality, but Barbara had grown past trivialities. Crushed under the surf of this budding generation, Barbara had learned the hard way the agony of fighting over things long established. Expectations, conduct, the nature of being. She didn’t see where the confusion arose. Why her daughter had chosen it over her. Why teenagers angered and terrified her.

“If I could wish for anything,” Barbara said, “It would just be to have people who understand me. Who have some common sense.”

“Your common sense?” Jay asked.

“Common sense is common.”

He laughed. “I guess so.”

Jay straightened his jacket and went around the yard collecting figurines. A scarecrow from near the fence, two ceramic gnomes by the sliding door, the top-hatted flamingo in the flowerpot, a wooden bear statue in golf attire near the barbeque, and the small tiki-faced boulder Jerry got from Annie long ago for Father’s day. He arranged them in the chairs around the table.

“They won’t go anywhere, but if you say the words, from sundown to sunup, you’ll have exactly what you want.”

A great many questions arose in her head, but the first, “What words—”

— Barbara looked to the setting sun, an ambient amber crown over rounded crests. It was time. “Flee from daylight, return in night, with this tired sun, these souls ignite.”

A strong gust tossed the leaves like white-capped waves as shimmering streaks of rainbow light danced around the figurines. In a flash, they shot down their eyes and mouths. A chorus of life-giving breaths rang out. Hands cold and shaking with excitement, Barbara filled the cups with steaming black tea. Their— and of course her— favorite.

“Hello, everyone,” Barbara said, grinning. “Welcome back to the Supper Club.”

Donnie removed his hat and shook out his loose straw hair. Through wide button eyes, he noticed the puffy winter jacket covering his overalls.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Barbara took a proud sip. “You said you were cold.”

“My dear, you’re sweeter than marmalade,” Donnie said. She knew he’d like it.

“And vat about us?” Mr. Hunchenbauer said, his gnomish eyeline— like his wife’s— just barely over the table. “Are ve just chopped currywurst? Vhere’s our jackets?”

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cup.

“Too soft,” Job said, in a slow, baritone she figured was innate to all talking boulders.

“You igneous bastard,” Donnie said. “You’re poking fun. I might be soft, but you’ll find out the hard way what follows thunder.”

“How about you show some class,” Mrs. Pinkerton said, peering through her monocle.

“You know what, I think y’all are just jealous. Y’all can’t stand the fact that I’m Barbara’s favorite!” Donnie said, slamming his fist onto his armrest with a soft pat.

The gang gasped.

“Her favorite!” Mrs. Hunchenbauer said.

“Why else would she get me such a nice coat while you all got horse doo.”

“Because you’re a baby,” Bearel said.

His cheeks didn’t need to change color for Barbara to tell he was about to lose it. “Please, everybody calm down,” Barbara said. “You’re all my favorite.”

“Favorite is one,” Job said.

“There’s only one first place,” Bearel said, pointing with his small wooden club.

“This isn’t sport. It’s friendship,” Barbara said. “Now, I didn’t put all this together to listen to nonsense. I wanted civil discussion with— who I thought were— civilized folk.”

Their faces lowered in shame. Hard as it was hurting them, the depth in which they received her words gave her strength.

Finally, Mrs. Pinkerton spoke up, “The sandwiches look sublime.”

“Oh hush, they’re the same as ever,” Barbara said, masking her smile behind the cup.

“People just don’t make them like they used to,” Mrs. Hunchenbauer said, the bell on her hat jingling as she shook her head.

“It’s not just sandwiches,” Donnie said, snorting some imaginary mucus.

“Clubs,” Bearel said.

“Cars,” Mrs. Pinkerton said.

“Kids,” Job said.

“This country went down the drain as soon as they took the lead out of gas,” Mr. Hunchenbauer said.

Mrs. Hunchenbauer said, “Remember last night? Those kids speeding down the back street, blasting music. Common decency is dead. It’s a new era of dinosaurs.”

Of course Barbara had done the same for a time, cruising in Chadwick Stepheno’s convertible, hair in the wind and living to The Beatles and all the real artists which had become myths. But it was different then. There was common sensibility, even in senselessness. People were good and the world understandable.

“I just don’t think they care about anything but themselves,” Barbara said, taking a biscuit.

Each hummed in agreement.

“It’s the parents,” Bearel said.

“Too soft,” Job thrummed, with narrowed eyes.

“Our parents voudn’t have let us get avay with an extra lick of gravy, let alone driving around with our privates out,” Mr. Hunchenbauer said, his stout arms crossed tightly. “If grandma had seen me acting like that, she’d throw me into hell herself.”

Barbara thought of her own father, a relentlessly firm individual, at times wrathful, but all class. Principles are principal, as he used to say.

“Hell’s got to be overflowing by now,” Mrs. Hunchenbauer said.

“I think the problem is that men and women were just that when we were young,” Mrs. Pinkerton said, jabbing the tip of her wing onto the table. “No confusion. No pampering. By twenty-four my father fought in World War II, graduated from Stanford, and had two children. Most twenty-four-year-olds now haven’t been to the bathroom alone.”

Laughter rolled over the table.

“Too soft,” Job said.

“Exactly! Vell put, Job, vell put!” Mr. Hunchenbauer said, slapping his stomach.

It pained Barbara to ponder the acidic effect of this new generation. Post modernists had ruined the world and the only thing which had survived were opinions. She recognized that she didn’t actually know many youths— which she was glad for— but she saw them on TV, the internet, and in the streets, protesting every little injustice they could concoct and dying their hair colors which could make a peacock blush.

“What do you think, Barbara?” Donnie asked.

They waited for her answer, but the truth was rarely comforting.

“I got you all a little something.” Barbara said. The six of them stared curiously.

“Vat?” Mrs. Hunchenbauer asked.

“A surprise,” Barbara said, with a mischievous smile.

Perplexed silence filled the space. Donnie asked, “For what?”

“Your birthdays!” Barbara said, before wincing to a sharp pain in her right shoulder.

“Is that tomorrow?” Mrs. Pinkerton asked.

Wonderful as they were, they often came up dry in terms of sense and memory. It was the same last year.

“I suppose ve didn’t think of it,” Mrs. Hunchenbauer said.

“Well, I did,” Barbara said. “Can you believe, two years? Where’s the time gone?”

The wind blew the dying steam from the cups.

“Is there anything you’d like?” Barbara asked. “Games? Balloons? Ice-cream?”

“Too soft,” Job said.

“I should’ve known,” Barbara said.

They stared with an indifference she couldn’t comprehend.

“You know, Barbara,” Donnie said. “If you have plans one of these evenings, it’s okay. We don’t want to keep you to ourselves.”

It was as if her lungs had been stabbed. “Are you suggesting I miss your birthday?” They tried to refute but she continued. “I would never! Not for the world!”

“Ve aren’t saying you have to,” Mr. Hunchenbauer said. “Just that—”

“You’ve got my heart racing now, and you know how much I hate when my heart races,” she said, feeling the beads of sweat on her forehead with the back of her hand.

Mrs. Pinkerton said, “We just feel…”

Whatever they were thinking was left there. Hot in the temples, Barbara said, “You only turn two once!”

The group’s solemn expression slowly turned into half-hearted smiles.

“Your tea’s cold,” Barbara said. “I’ll get some more.” Arthritic pain shot through her knees as she pushed to her feet and went about emptying the cups into the dirt. With each subsequent moment of silence, the burden of the next word became all the greater. Light gray clouds drifted softly through the western sky. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been annoyed by them.

“What about some music?” she asked.

The conspirators met on the shores of a black and ancient sea.

Aina raised her hood and dipped her face into the light of a low seabound moon, waves washing ashore beneath her sandals. She pulled her hood tight, and waited.

The other conspirator peeled his hood back. “The spider spins a silver strand of moonlight.”

The waves washed under Aina’s sandals again. “He spins a web of fate.”

The response still didn’t sound right coming from her mouth. Aina had first learned it at Wallerton’s Pub, where her father often took her as a child. Discussion of the problems facing the kingdom, somehow over the years discussion had turned into action, and action?

Into assassination.

“Chilly night,” Sir Eld said, pulling his hood taut. A glimpse of his face was all it would take to unravel their plans, and for the occasion he’d worn the makeup of an Initiate. Those wishing to join the Order wore makeup not of their choosing, sloppily applied like a drunk jester, to distinguish themselves from those who’d earned their place. The beach was empty this time of night, but if anyone saw, they wouldn’t see Sir Eld, the king’s First Knight who’d unseated seven riders in the last tourney. They’d see some sloppy Initiate, learning from an ordained priest.

“It’s warmer behind the walls,” Aina said, and growing up in the slums behind those walls, she knew to cherish the warm days. Defending against the heat was as simple as fanning yourself. The cold was a different matter. Against the cold there was no defense; it reached through layers, chapping your lips and cracking your skin. “The men are anxious.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Sir Eld said. He turned his head towards the sea.

Aina looked at the sea too, source of life. The first King of the Tydarian dynasty had crawled from the endless waters carrying the eversharp Sword of Sighs, slaying the abominations nesting on the beach and establishing the great Kingdom of Madri. The outer walls of the kingdom overlooked the sea, the king’s chambers at the top of the Red Tower, where he could watch land and sea, their present and their past.

Their present was tyranny, their past lies.

Aina watched the waves wash ashore in slow, rhythmic motions. The walls of the kingdom didn’t extend to the edge of the cliff. There was plenty of room to walk the wall and gaze at the endless waters.

Or see the bodies.

A breeze billowed her hood and she lets its chill settle on her cheeks. The bodies. The Kingdom hanged criminals and left their corpses for the sea hawks, on the wall facing the sea. Aina’s mother had taken her there once.

And when Aina flinched away, her mother yanked on her ears until she looked. For years Aina’s father had spoken of reform. He’d requested an audience with the king and Aina asked if that was really her father. All the condemned men were hooded and Aina’s mother told her not to be stupid, that was her father and Aina asked if they could leave, she wanted to be gone before the sea hawks came, and staring at the hood she thought it kept her father’s face hidden but provided no protection. The sea hawks would eat her father’s eyes, his nose, digging into his cheeks and yanking his gums free from his mouth in tight pink strings. Blood? How long would you bleed after death?

A wave dried short of her sandals, retreating. She said, “No one sails on this sea.”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I’d restore sailing.” She looked at Sir Eld. “There’s more out there than here.”

“Yes,” Sir Eld whispered, and looked towards the sea once more.

The waves gained strength. They washed over Aina’s feet.

Then Sir Eld said the words Aina had wanted to hear for so long. Her father’s face under the hood, the hawks chewing through the cloth to consume his face. A king, tyranny, Aina didn’t smile when she heard the words. She understood it was time.

Sir Eld said, “The strand awaits.”

I don’t remember dying. A co-worker told me that I dropped dead while doing a presentation at work. I remember packing my lunch that morning and the asshole in the white BMW that nearly sideswiped me during my morning commute. Try as I may, I can’t tell you what I packed for lunch, but I’d know that BMW if I saw it.

Maybe it was too many late nights watching old episodes of Lassie with my granddaughter, but I chose a Long-Haired Collie for my next body. If it wasn’t for the charging port under my tail and the sounds made by my micro-hydraulics and servomotors you’d never know that I wasn’t a real dog.

Two of my friends chose miniaturized dinosaurs, and my cousin on my father’s side chose a pony-sized unicorn. The technology to transfer the human mind to machines is still rather new. It has only been an option for the general population for about twenty years. In the early 2000s, only politicians had access to the technology. Apparently, it is how so many of them managed to live and stay in office until their 80s. The common person learned early not to use human forms unless they wanted to spend their time doing manual labor.

I spend most of the day on my charging pad, but even when I’m not physically active, my mind monitors our home’s security cameras. Every day at eleven-fifteen the mailman stops in front of the house in a blue van. It takes all my willpower not to charge out the door and snatch the mail out of his filthy hands. There is something about that man that makes my hackles rise. I even catch myself growling when he closes the box and drives off.

My son laughs at me when I send him video clips of the mail delivery. I don’t understand my obsession with the mailman either. Sometimes I wonder if the designers of my unit thought it’d be funny to write in some subroutine to make me act similar to an actual dog. I’ve even checked online to see if there were any lawsuits where someone who chose this model bit a mail carrier. I didn’t find any but that doesn’t mean that the cases weren’t settled out of court and buried.

An overwhelming urge to look out the front window hit me, and I knew it was time for the mail to run. I watched the mailbox as minutes slowly passed. He was late. I checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t some obscure holiday and then checked the security cameras to make sure he hadn’t slipped by early. Could he have been in an accident? My tail began to wag at the thought.

The car I saw stopping at boxes wasn’t the normal mail truck. It was a white BMW. When he stopped in front of the house, I began to bark and paw at the windowpane. He flipped me the bird and memory flooded my mind. A quick glance at the passenger’s door cinched it. There was a small dent just under the door handle. It was the asshole!

I ran for the back door and dashed through the doggie door. The fence surrounding the backyard would’ve been a problem, but my son parked the lawnmower beside it. I jumped onto the mower and leaped over the fence. I hadn’t left the house since my mind transfer, and suddenly, I felt free.

The BMW was already two houses down the road, but I wasn’t going to let him get away this time. The morning that he nearly hit me, he made eye contact with me and flipped me the bird before racing away. What a coward. I managed to cover the distance of our yard in three leaps. My feet slipped on the asphalt, and I toppled over briefly before continuing the chase.

I overrode the safety limits on my jaw and bit his back tire when he stopped at a mailbox. The tire gave a satisfying pop and deflated quickly. I stood on my back legs, and my paws scratched the door as I made eye contact with the driver. For the first time since my transfer, I wished that I had fingers. I knew that I’d have to pay for the damages to his car because every house on the block had cameras. But the fear and shock in his eyes was priceless.

I dropped to the ground and tossed grass at the BMW with my back legs as if I were covering up a fresh pile of excrement. The driver silently watched me walk back to my house. When I stretched out on the porch and rested my head on my paws, I saw that he was talking on the phone. I knew the police were coming and that I was in trouble, but I felt satisfied that a wrong had been corrected. We were even now.

I was content until I saw the neighbor’s robotic cat in the window next door.

Eddie D. Moore still lives within a few miles of the small Tennessee town where he was born, but he spends his free time exploring faraway worlds that only exist in his mind. If you desire more, I’d suggest picking up a copy of his mini-anthology Misfits & Oddities.

When “CheezyNacho420” live-streams the war-bot chopping off his leg, it’s not that he wants to necessarily shock people (though it helps) or bag a few extra subscribers (though that’s even more helpful). It’s that he wants to get ridiculous, out of control, crazy famous. And really, in this day and age, is that such a bad thing?

Meg sure thinks so. That’s why when she’s finished wiping the blood splatter off her face while Cheezy soaks his stump in the expensive-ass limb RE-GROW© gel tub he bought after he reached two hundred mill. subscribers, she’s gives him a look like she just stuck her nose in her own vomit. Cheezy wants to make a meme of it. Even takes a snapshot with his retinals. Who knows. Might make for a good thumbnail someday.

“Never do that again,” Meg says chucking the bloody rag onto the bathroom floor.

“I was thinking both legs next time,” Cheezy says as he reviews the vid’s view count in his retinals. “You know: a Part II. Maybe use lasers instead. I dunno. What do ya think?”

“I thought you hacking off your nose was gross. But your whole leg? Come ‘on, Cheezy. That’s sick.”

Cheezy smiles. “It’s sick, isn’t it. So freaking sick.”

And as Meg rolls her eyes and walks out of his bathroom (the cave-themed one complete with custom stucco stalactites and stalagmites), he closes his eyes and listens to the chimes of subscribers growing. And he grins.

He’s going to be hella famous. He’s going to the top. He’s going all the way.

---

What stops Cheezy from doing Oops, all legless! (Part II) (a working title) isn’t the ungodly expense of all the RE-GROW© gel and ketamine dermals. Or his lackadaisical entourage who are all just getting stoned in his living room. It’s that while he’s flexing the new leg, feeling the synth muscles bend, he hears the ding of an unlinked account DMing his retinals. Which is unusual. Cause Cheezy’s getting pretty famous these days as a streamer. Not as famous as he’d like, but famous enough that it’s hard to squeeze a DM through his filters.

“Some rando wants to collab,” he summarizes to the boys.

“Sick,” says Barfy from the couch. Barfy’s their techie who re-programmed the war-bot to do that hilarious Fortnite dance after chopping Cheezy’s leg.

“What kind of collab?” Poo-dog asks. “Gross out? Prank?”

Cheezy shakes his head. “Dunno.”

Cheezy plops onto the giant wrap around sectional couch that cost almost as much as that lambo he rolled into the Grand Canyon two years ago. There’s some kind of holo-movie playing in the vid-pit, but most of the boys aren’t paying attention, too stoned and too lost in their retinals’ vid-feeds. Cheezy takes a sec to dig a little. Checks the guy’s profile. His subscriber count. Very respectable. Not CheezyNacho420 respectable. But respectable. A quick compare shows there’s a distinct break between his and Cheezy’s subscribers. Only an 8% overlap, but the AI analyzer seems to think that’ll grow to 79% if they collab. Considering how many subscribers the guy’s got, that’s a terrific boost. One too hard to ignore. He reads the DM one more time.

Hey, Cheezy man! Big fan! Really digging the latest leg chopper vid! The sound when your femur cracked? Oh, man, so sick! Anyway, was reaching out cause I was thinking of doing a new live-stream that’d make for an excellent collab. I’ve got an inside scoop on this old military base out in the Rockies. Make for some excellent content. What do you say? Peace, Lil’ Drizzle.

Up till now, Cheezy has never heard of Lil’ Drizzle. But he likes the directness. And he likes the stats even more. And yeah, sure, Oh crap! I cut off BOTH my legs! (extra femur crack!) (other working title) would be a pretty sweet follow up to his last. But Cheezy’s thinking maybe it’s time to shake things up. And he’s thinking about those delicious stats. About rising up to Numero Uno, baby.