Two towns over in Carlsbad, deer ticks and wood ticks freckled the white beaches, but that wasn’t why Cahill and Afet left. It was as if the ticks had declared war on beachgoers, squadrons marching across boardwalks, spies creeping up palm trees like little brown stars. But it wasn’t a war. The ticks invaded because there were too many deer, because there were too few predators, because there were warmer winters, because of everything.

Here in their new town, Cahill is grumpy but does his best to hide it. His niece Afet seems even grumpier – because they’re leaving this place too. She made friends here, a teenage gang that spends every free moment digging a pit by a shuttered junkbone house. Cahill isn’t sure he likes those kids, but the water runs clean and the neighbors are peaceful. They pile in the truck and rumble away.

Two towns over in Carlsbad, ticks big as guitar picks made blades of grass twang in front lawns. Thirsty milk duds wobbled up white socks. Lyme disease ran through families like the common cold, but that wasn’t why Cahill and Afet left. Cahill and Afet drove away during an aerial spray and watched a wet blue blanket unfurl from planes. The truck wiped insecticide back and forth across the windshield. Cahill swerved around dead frogs in the road.

As they leave their new town, Afet faces away from him with arms crossed and legs folded up on the seat, her dark hair contributing to the sulk. “So why are we picking up grandpa exactly? Can we go back to Carlsbad? Can we see my mom?”

“We can’t go back into the city yet. We should get farther away from those chemicals if anything. Grandpa needs help taking care of himself. He’s going to be living with us in the truck.”

This is why Cahill is grumpy. He hasn’t seen his father in over a decade. Is a beehive excited to see a bear? When they roll up to Senior’s ivory stucco house, the old man teeters out in sunglasses and a trim narrow suitcase. Senior still has a voluminous flourish of white hair and a bulldoggish face. He makes it to the backseat and hauls himself inside.

“Well,” he says. He keeps his sunglasses on. “Been a few years, Junior. Hello to you too, darling. Where to?”

Better shut your hole, Cahill hears. Better sit still and not cry. Better not show your teacher or you know what’ll happen.

“Just a bit farther,” Afet says in a faux-baritone. “Just a bit farther from the beach. To escape the chemicals. One more town away. Just one more. Isn’t that right, Uncle Cahill?”

Cahill doesn’t reply, concedes silently that Afet’s gotten better at impressions. They scream down the highway. The truck is electric, and Cahill installed solar panels along the sides on hinges. He also backfilled the flatbed with compost and highly productive plants. He’ll give Afet everything. Afet’s mom, Cahill’s sister Dilara, keeps two jobs in Carlsbad all for her daughter.

The sun winks off salt deposits gummed onto the green hood. Cahill used to watch the news in a green recliner. He saw what happened to a dry Phoenix, refugees surging out, others sinking into vacant cavities left behind. So he drained his bank and sold his house. He nailed snares to the bumpers, drilled aluminum frames for the panels, trussed chains on the tires and stocked the backseat with bug-out bags.

He expected drought and sea rise. He didn’t expect guests.

Afet glances over to apologize without losing any surly credibility. Senior snores in the back. Cahill squints at the rearview, where his corn bends in the wind. Another pickup, a bigger red one, has followed their every turn for an hour. Barbed wire bounces on its hood. Dilara would give everything to save the child. They should put three towns between themselves and Carlsbad this time. He glides off-road, tunneling through brambles, leaving familiarity behind for bright new country.

---

Three towns over in Carlsbad, the insecticide settled into the soil, washed into the bay, and caused a fish kill. Silver bodies turned the water to chain mail, but that wasn’t why Cahill and Afet left. There was a storm coming. In the frenzy to buy milk and gasoline, someone T-boned Dilara while she idled at a red light. She called Cahill afterwards and asked him to take Afet out of the city.

Here in their new town, Cahill parks alongside rows of trailers. It’s a harsh land filled with gullies and nettle and wild hogs. Men come to study the truck as it charges. They eye the thick black coils inverting the solar array’s DC current to the AC power of the truck battery. Cahill doesn’t answer questions, tries to communicate in yeps and grunts without seeming rude. There’s an intimacy in his truck and he won’t share its secrets with just anyone. Senior grins at all the attention in his gleaming tints.

“Hey, kid,” Cahill says to Afet, sliding fishing rods out from under the front seat. “Ready to earn your keep? There’s a pond in the quarry.”

“Later,” Afet says, already waving at a moppy blonde boy wearing jorts. Copper dust has stained his arms and legs orange. She flicks her trim mullet back behind her ears and bounds away, elsewhere in her eyes.

Cahill watches her go, feeling like a magnet turned the wrong way, repellant. Senior drags along two folding chairs. “Stuck with the river monster,” he chortles. “Careful around that kid. She’ll turn on you quick as a snake tapped on the tail.”

Better not cry, Cahill hears. Better catch a fish or you ain’t coming back. Better figure it out yourself. Better know this is the last time I let you use my worms.

Sighing loudly, he follows Senior down to the pond. They sit, cast, wait, reel, and repeat. Sapphire birds wing over the water. “You saw that truck tailing us?” Senior asks, bracing his jowls. When Cahill nods, the old man spits. “They show again; we leave. They may be interested in the girl.”

Cahill glares. “Don’t pretend you care,” he says. “It won’t make me forgive you.”

Senior frowns but doesn’t push it. A big bluegill bites, their third catch of the day, and Senior reels him in, smooths the spines down almost fondly. “Not much, but something to nibble,” he says happily. “What the earth offers, you accept as a gift.”

Cahill checks the truck behind them. Afet sits cross-legged with the boy, already grubby, engaged in a thumb-war. She won’t notice. Cahill peers at his fishbowl reflection in Senior’s aviators. “Show me,” he says.

With unsteady hands, Senior slides the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. The left eye has been sewn shut with purple stitches, the tie-offs same as Senior’s fishing line. The captive eye underneath rolls as if it senses a visitor. “If it wasn’t dried out it was weeping. Had to keep it closed somehow.”

“That’s what they say to do,” Cahill agreed. “Bells palsy?”

“Yessir. Lyme disease turned rottener. Didn’t want to scare the girl.”

Cahill flicks his eyes up the hill again. “Don’t speak to her,” he whispers. “Stick to yourself, keep the secret and we might just get along.”

Senior sneezes.

Better forget about mommy, Cahill hears. Better grow up fast. Better get ready for mommy issues; I can’t do a thing about that.

“In fact,” Cahill growls in his most threatening voice. “Better not tell Afet, or I’ll throw your evil one-eyed ass in this pond and give the bluegills a chance to dig the worms out of your brain.”

“No one says bless you when I sneeze,” Senior complains.

Here in their new town, they settle in. They pick meat from the toothpick bones of small fish and pluck cherry tomatoes from the flatbed. Afet spends her days with the lichen-dusted boy. Senior keeps his sunglasses on and beams at everyone. Afet doodles poorly in a journal. Her turtles look like flying saucers, a vulnerable detail that inspires in Cahill a strange awe and affection. At night, the shrieks of foxes reach into their dreams. They twist in their sleeping bags until the night takes them again.

A place starts to feel like home when the animals recognize you. The biggest catfish in the pond teases Cahill and Senior, a slash of shadow, whiskering and nuzzling but never biting. Jackrabbits hop up on the wheels to gnaw the squash greens. Cahill looks for Afet but settles for Senior when recruiting help to set the wire traps hanging from his bumper. But a red raccoon plucks the peanut butter from the traps each night by reaching through the bars, rendering them ineffective.

That’s the week the big red truck with a slinky of concertina-wire around its hood heaves itself over the pitted road into camp.

Senior holds still when it does, sucking the thighbone of a hare. The vehicle slows. A thick pink tongue dangling over a black jaw hangs out the window. Not many people keep dogs on the road, and this must be the biggest hound Cahill’s ever seen. Hiding in its eye is dumb joy and hunger. After pausing, the vehicle sidles down a goat path out of sight from the other campers. Cahill looks at his father. “Tonight,” he says. They begin dressing last night’s snared squirrel for salting. Cahill laces a trap with fish to lure the red raccoon.

Senior and Afet snore softly in their bags when a crack in the brambles wakes Cahill. In the dim, he watches Afet’s silhouette breathe in perfect thrusts like an animatronic doll. The feeling is not guilt, not love, not pity; it’s a single thing made whole by all those. It makes him do something he wouldn’t normally dare. He slithers out of his sleeping bag like a molting fly and snips two bars off a snare cage with shears. Creeping along the tree line, he follows the goat path until he sees the spoked loops of wire on the truck. The dog is going to bark. The dog is going to bark. The dog is going to bark, he knows it.

But the quiet holds. Cahill digs, careful as an archaeologist, until both steel spines are stuffed neck deep in a tire. They will bleed air slowly. Songbirds carol their first songs of the day as he shimmies back to camp, and it’s good they do, because it covers up his gasp when he spots the arch of the great hound trotting away from his family, coloring in the gaps between the trees.

Cahill finds a note tucked in the wipers. It is titled THE DEAL. Senior and Afet sleep soundly. He crumples it into his breast pocket without reading. The wily red raccoon, trapped at last by fish, uses the gap made by Cahill’s wire cutting to pry itself free and haul away into the thickets. He watches the tawny ribbon of it part the bushes. If the earth didn’t offer it up, back it goes. “Let’s go,” he says to everyone. He lays down as if he too just woke up.

Cara sat cross-legged on the gritty floor of her domed chamber, imagining the warm cluster of candles behind her was the sun. She slid her hand under her long shadow and tugged it, feeling the rubbery texture. Not sunlight quality, but it would do. She winched the shadow, slowly folded it over her hands, and began weaving it into a shawl.

With every stitch, she imagined the World Above, where time was defined not by the chime of the bell towers, but by a celestial ball of fire in the sky. What would it be like to live in that world? To taste a ray of sunlight on her tongue? To weave shadows without having to hide from her mother?

As she finished the thirtieth stitch, a crackle came from above. A great concrete lump bulged from the ceiling, slithering along its length. Cara turned, threw the shadow sheet on the candles, and it evaporated like salt crystals in water. The wall-swelling continued its descent along the wall, down, down, down. As if some burrowing animal crawled beneath it.

The lump rested at face-height with Cara. Contours formed along its surface and pop. The rock split, revealing a woman’s face—skin like cracked cement, wispy hair, and a fine chocolate-ink line for lips.

“Hi Mum,” Cara said, lowering her head.

“Playing with fire again, Cara Ludia?”

Cara pursed her lips. “Just some candles.”

Her mother walked out the wall, rock cracking and mending itself behind her. A poncho of shadows draped over her, frilled with loose dark threads that fluttered in the light of the candles. For all her mother talked down on shadoweavers, she loved nothing more than to dress herself in the garments of their craft.

She brought a cold stiff hand to caress Cara’s cheek—nails like burned paper, flakes of gray skin drifting off. “Never mind that,” she said. “The Velwarders made their decision. Your graduation passage is to begin today.”

A shiver ran down Cara’s spine. “So soon? I haven’t had time to practice glasscrawling.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You’re a master at all forms of crawling already. The faster you’re done with the initiation, the faster you’ll be assigned to a lucrative post at the Veilgates.”

And the faster you’ll be able to gloat about having a Velwarder daughter, won’t you, mother? Yes, my little Cara Ludia is the youngest crawler throughout Rhondo to ever guard a Veilgate.

A warm lump formed inside Cara’s throat. The voice of her best friend Fenster echoed in her mind: “Just tell her you want to work in the Shadow Refinery. You don’t have to mention the sun or the World Above. She’s wearing shadows herself, isn’t she?”

Her mother rubbed her temples, eyes narrow and weak. She was tired again. She was always tired. The words twisted in Cara’s throat. What came out instead was,

“I won’t let you down, Mum.”

---

Cara stood at one end of Rhondo Stadium, waiting for her trial to begin. The stadium was a long expanse of glass, showered by green lights, checkered here and there with tiles of wood, metal, and obsidian. The seated crowd produced a loud din that wrenched Cara’s stomach. She noticed her mother among them—eyes tired and filled with flickering hope.

A low hum came from all around, and the crowd fell silent. The walls around the stadium bulged like velvet sheets in the breeze. Slits formed on the far wall and opened to reveal big yellow eyes that stared right at her. The Velwarders.

She knew they could be everywhere at once when they merge with their surroundings, but she’d never seen it up close. Was this what she had to become?

She shuddered, suddenly more aware of the night’s chill. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to ten. She imagined bubbles encapsulating the disturbing images of the Velwarders. She imagined the bubbles drifting up to a sunlit sky and popping to nothing. Until her mind was as clear as the eternal night.

Cara stretched down, squeezed her fingers between her toes, arched her back and imagined a wave of light passing from her shoulders down the soles of her feet. She imagined that wave taking everything from inside her, gathering it all into a ball that could fit into the crook of her elbow. Until she felt light as a feather.

A bell echoed. A bass voice followed, reverberating from all around her.

“Initiate. Begin!”

Cara pressed her finger into the glass panel beneath. It dipped inside, forming ripples. Sharp cold penetrated through her muscles to the marrow of her bones. The arm was in. She exhaled and slid inside the panel. Sand pushed against her nostrils.

I am lightning flashing through the frozen sand. I am the sound of thunder, quaking the windows of a massive temple.

The next tile was wood. She made contact. Clack-clack the splinters crackled around her as she slid into it, merged with it. Twigs scratched her stomach from within.

I am water flowing through the pith. I am the blood in the vessels of a great tree.

She moved to steel. She smelled bitter smoke and tasted metal. A great weight pushed against her heart. Iron dust suffused her lungs.

I am heat burning through a tempered sword. I am fire swallowing the railings of a bridge.

Glass came again, thinner this time. Then wood. Steel. Glass. Earth. Ice.

Cara slid through everything and slipped out on the other side. Bones encased her marrow, flesh encased bones, skin wrapped tightly around flesh, hair prickled like a million tiny needles. She took an airful of the cold night into her lungs.

“Cara Ludia,” a voice quaked the stadium. “You pass!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd. On the stands, Cara saw her mother clapping and smiling a bright chocolate smile. Then Cara’s gaze drifted to the stadium wall, where a toothed crescent stretched like bulging graffiti.

It was the smile of a Velwarder.

The man with a tree growing out of his head wanted to buy a pair of pruning shears, but the assistant at the hardware store wouldn’t sell them to him. We have several models in stock, she explained. But they’re not for personal use.

Personal use? he asked, and his foliage shook in a manner which he knew some people found threatening. His voice, too, could have this effect. How else is someone to use pruning shears, if not by handling them directly?

The assistant became flustered, began to say something which the man with a tree growing out of his head assumed was going to be just more of the same as he’d heard from the arborist, from the doctors, from those he considered friends on whom he’d thought he could rely for help.

He interrupted the assistant. My eyes are down here, he said.

I’m sorry, she said. Your leaves, I was just admiring—

And all I want is to buy a pair of pruning shears. Short handle, comfortable grip, good quality. I’m sure you’d have something like that.

I’m sorry, she said again, and this time she actually sounded it. I can’t process that sale. You’ll have to excuse me, my lunch break.

Can you at least tell me— he began, but she was gone, hurrying down an aisle, then shutting behind her a frosted-glass door at the back of the store. A bell jingled.

He was left at the age-worn wooden sales counter to ponder his next step. What to do? This was the only hardware in town, he could no longer drive, they’d barred him from public transport, and too much walking made his neck sore. But they were all, the doctors, the arborist, the barber and now the hardware salesperson, afraid of the liability which would accompany the act of snipping the young tree’s still slender branches.

The man with a tree growing out of his head cared nothing for the liability. He just wanted the growth brought under control while there was still an opportunity to do so. He’d ruled out fire, he’d decided against herbicide, pruning shears were the way to go.

There were no other staff visible. He supposed he could explore the store’s shelves until he found the pruning shears—the display of items didn’t seem to follow any logical system which he could intuit—and could simply abscond with them. Shoplift. But he hadn’t done any such thing in half a century and he was damned if he’d start now.

Besides, even if they didn’t have CCTV, he would be fairly readily identifiable.

The man with a tree growing out of his head looked around once more, at the cluttered shelves of the empty store, and sighed and shrugged his shoulders and went back out, taking care to stoop a little as he went through the doorway. The sunshine was uncomfortably bright, the traffic was noisy. He turned and went back in, past the still unattended counter, towards the door at the back. He’d knock, as loud as it took; they couldn’t have all gone to lunch. He needed to make them understand. They were a store, they were supposed to sell these things, and his need was genuine. It was getting worse, he really would have to do something soon.

Simon Petrie is a New Zealand born writer now living in Australia. He is a three-time winner of the Sir Julius Vogel award.

Rhys adjusted the scope of his rifle and wriggled back into place between the turret’s brick walls.

“Okay, I’ve got another one for you.”

Milo groaned.

“Dude, please, I’m begging you. I can’t afford to lose that many brain cells.”

Rhys pressed his eye to the scope. The narrow stream remained empty, its barbed wire border intact and shining in the moonlight.

“Why did the Ferrans cross the road?”

Milo sighed. “So that dumbasses like you could kill their friends with terrible jokes?”

“Because they’re all chickens.”

“Wow. Think of that one yourself, did you?”

Rhys made a quick sweep of the tall grass on either side of the stream.

“No, Eddie told it to me.”

“That’s a relief. I thought maybe all that staring at Zara finally rotted your brain.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Sorry, I meant ogling.”

“Shut up. I wasn’t staring or ogling. I just.” He shifted back to the stream, scanned from the horizon all the way back to the tower. “She’s really smart and pretty.”

“And stupid strong and better at hand-to-hand than you’ll ever be. She’s outta your league, dude.”

Rhys found Milo’s leg sprawled a few inches from his and kicked it.

“Shows what you know. Steen says she likes quiet, sensitive guys.”

Milo kicked him back.

“Steen only told you that because she thought it would be nicer than telling you that you had a better chance of defeating the entire Ferran national army than getting a date with Zara.”

“Hey, I’m sensitive.”

Milo snorted. “If you’re talking about that pimply stuff covering your face, then sure. The rest of you is as dense as your boots and twice as loud.”

He kicked Milo again and did another check of the barbed wire.

“At least I’ve got a sense of humor. That joke was funny even if you have a stick shoved too far up your ass to notice.”

“Better a stick up my ass than pebbles in my head. Wasn’t your family Ferran?”

Rhys’s stomach twinged.

“Only on my dad’s side. And I haven’t seen him since I was, like, two. I’ve signed all the pledges and loyalty contracts.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rhys, who do you think I am? Trenton with his little notebook? I just meant, you know, doesn’t it bother you when people say stuff like that?”

He frowned. He’d known Milo since before he could tie his shoes. They’d gone through training together, been the second at each other’s allegiance test. Had shared a bunk until they’d literally gotten too big to fit. And they’d always made fun of Trenton and his endless quests to catch someone using a non-company toenail clipper.

But Milo was Optimum, his family line going all the way back to when they were still an online wholesaler.

“No,” Rhys said.

“Not at all?”

Movement in the grass pulled his attention north.

Wobble, wobble, wobble.

He relaxed his grip on the trigger. It was just one of those little brown birds.

“Ferran values are all fucked up,” he said. “I mean, they go on and on about the importance of hard work, but don’t let people have any possessions. No homes, no beds. Even their clothes belong to ‘the group.’ And they have to be connected to that weird hub all the time. Like, do you really want everyone to know when you take a shit?”

“Or jerk off while imagining Zara in her underwear?”

Rhys kicked him with the hard toe of his boot.

“But, really, is what we do any better? All those algorithms and trackers are a pain in the ass. Because yeah, sure, the size twenty-eight black skinnys I’ve gotten for the last two years fit me great and everything, but what if I want to try something different, like those wild red shreds Captain Phelps has? Or that sick motorcycle jacket with the bleach stains? Man, I would kill for something like that.”

This time Rhys’s stomach twisted with a full-blown cramp. Sure, they were alone. And, yeah, they were wearing scramblers because they were on duty. But you didn’t say shit like that. Milo had the scars all over his back to prove it – and he had gotten off easy since he’d been eight and his uncle hadn’t lost his seat on the security council yet.

“Of course it’s better,” he said. “The system takes care of us. Tells us what we need, what we should do. It understands what’s best for us better than we ever could.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just.” Milo sighed. “Maybe if I looked like that people wouldn’t treat me like a wannabe bag boy.”

It was easy to fall in love in the V. Everyone was gorgeous, their bodies crafted to be in peak physical condition. There was no body odor, no hunger, no bathroom breaks, no death. Every moment belonged to you and the people you chose to share it with.

I saw him on the first day of one of my weekly years. An hour in here was a minute out there so entire lifetimes could be lived in just a few weeks Six hours per six days was the maximum a brain could handle, however. People who stayed longer without unplugging tended to end up drooling and immobile. I had too many responsibilities back in the Real for that.

Six hours at home with your head plugged in was a nice 360 days in the V, more than long enough to develop real feelings.

He smoked a cigarette across the bar from me. I liked the way the smoke hung in the air as he watched me, creating a fog through which I could barely see his hazel eyes. He said something to the bartender, our eyes never breaking the stare. A moment later a drink appeared before me. I raised my eyebrows in a thank you and watched him watch me take a sip. Like all the drinks here, it was the best Old Fashioned I ever tasted.

When I looked at the red doors that led to the auditorium where we would be part of the 1956 Academy Awards audience, he came to stand beside me. He wore a white tuxedo and fedora, a perfect match to my tight black dress.

“You seen this movie before?” he asked.

“Which? Lots of nominees.”

“The one that’s going to win. Marty.”

I nodded and took another sip of the drink. “It’s one of my favorites. About two ugly people who find love with each other. It’s very sweet.”

He took my free hand and held it for a second. “Based on a true story?”

“Not in this world.”

I watched his full lips return to the rim of the martini and felt a quiver in my own mouth.

We skipped the show and went straight to my hotel room. The V was designed for pleasure, and I had had my share of affairs, but none felt quite like this. When his hands were not on me my body yearned for his touch like a stump crying out for a missing limb.

360 days, 360 hours, 360 minutes. Time lost all meaning with him, replaced with a million wonderful moments. We ate sushi carved from fish plucked directly from the sea and served to us on silver platters on a cruise in the Sea of Japan. We skied naked from the top of Jade Dragon. We jumped off the Burj Khalifa and soared over Dubai.

There were plenty of people who would rightfully point out that it is easy to fall in with someone when all you do is have a good time. And to them I say, so? It felt good to catch feelings for someone while narrowly avoiding getting chomped to bits by wolves in the middle of a national park or during a shootout at the Long Branch Saloon. Even simulated near-death experiences had a way of sorting the chemicals in our body so that the heart, brain, and loins all fired up in the same way as in the Real.

This was different, though, and we both knew it. There was a primal nature to our feelings. I desired him with every fiber of my being like a person stabbed and bleeding out desired the sweet release of death: overwhelming, all-powerful, inescapable. Our souls were one, tethered through time and brought together by Fate to the V. The settings were fantastic, the bodies imaginary, but the feelings authentic.

“I’ve had good times with people I met in the V before, but never like this,” he told me toward the end of that year. We sat across from each other in a bathtub filled with pink champagne, our legs intertwined, our arms stretched around along the rim so the edges of our fingers touched. “It’s amazing, actually.”

“What is?” There was an unfamiliar sparkle in his eye. I had stared into those eyes for countless hours in the V and was stunned something about them could still surprise me.

He leaned forward as if to kiss me but paused when inches away. “Every time I look at you, you’re better looking at than the last time I looked at you.”

Another perfect line. “Optical illusion in the V,” I responded with a smirk. He laughed. I grabbed his face and kissed him as I felt the familiar burst of warmth in my chest. Life had become the Before and the After. Before Him I was little more than an animal wandering the world, surviving on whatever scraps I could scavenge. After Him I had discovered fire and was now fully a human being, fully a woman.

When our lips parted, I could not help but utter the words, “I wish-,”

He cut me off. “Come on now, you know this is this and that is that.”

It was an unspoken yet firm rule. Out there was to remain out there and in here, in here. The V was the pure, safe, sacred place. The Real was the dirty, unsafe land of obligations and responsibilities. The V was beautiful, the Real was ugly. To try to combine them would irreparably tarnish both. “When the timer’s up, we are strangers again.”

“But what if we didn’t have to be.”

He looked away from me and stood up, his chiseled nude body shiny with droplets of bubbly. He stepped out of the tub. “No.” His demeanor chilled. He walked to the bedroom of our suite in Rio. I could hear people outside celebrating Carnival. I reached over the edge of the tub and grabbed my champagne flute. I scooped a full glass from the tub and threw it back. The bubbles tickled my throat.

I got up to apologize. He was right. This is this and that is that. Nothing in the V was really real, no matter how it felt. “Hey, look, I’m sorry-,” I dropped the glass on the carpet. The cold liquid splashed my feet.

He was gone.

I clapped three times and said my password aloud.

---

The worst part of returning to the Real was the diaper.

As soon as I removed the V-Hat, a black motorcycle helmet with no visor, I felt the wetness and smelled the remnants of meals past. While my mind was fully plugged into the V, I was able to ignore my physical body. No matter where my brain went, my bodily functions continued while central command was distracted. Sometimes a one-hour session left me clean but a five hour one like what I just finished left a terrible mess.

I recalled the way his muscled chest felt against mine and thought, Worth it, as the rank stink of digested pizza and salad attacked my face.

“How was it?” my husband, Fred, asked. A lumpy man in with a too-thin mustache, he looked like he was just getting back from taking the kids to a park: tan shorts and red polo with dark sweat stains around the crotch and pits, respectively. Unlike me, he was the outdoorsy type in the Real and shunned the V. “I just don’t trust it,” he told me once. “It’s putting all this information and stimulus in your brain, but at what cost? What is it taking out?”

My ability to deal with your crap, I thought when I remembered that question. Allegedly they took nothing, but tech companies had lied for generations about what they did with user data and information. This could not be any different.

Take what you want. The V was worth any price.

He was worth any price.

“Mommy!” my five-year-old, Sherise, exclaimed while squeezing my legs. With a head that reached my waist, she was in the perfect position to catch a whiff. “What’s that smell?” She pinched her nose and leaned her face away from my body.

“That’s just Mommy’s peepee and poopoo from helmet vacation,” my seven-year-old, Sharonda, said.

“Ew, Mommy. You need a shower.”

“Indeed, I do,” I said. My husband gave me a knowing wink, as if he had any idea of what went on during my time away. I wondered sometimes what he would do if he knew the truth about what I was up to in the V.

Probably tell me he was happy I was having fun.

In the shower I thought of him. He had told me his name was Derrick, an alias (mine was “Bernadette”) for the V, but I heard someone call him Joseph in Egypt, at the bar at the foot of the Sphinx. His face changed and he rushed off to talk to the guy whom I never met. He came back with a wide-eyed, twitchy smile. “Who was that?” I asked him.

“Just an old friend from out there. We went to high school together.”

“Why don’t you ask him to join us?”

“Because I don’t want him to join us.”

A new round of drinks appeared and that was that. It was early on in our time together, easier to let things slip.

Joseph in the Real, Derrick in the V, where are you? My hands slid down under my belly as I pondered the question while memories of his face and body rushed at me like the rain from the showerhead.

Last Christmas a mermaid died in the school swimming pool. It was only a small pool, built up at the sides with wooden panels, more like a tank for training children in. That meant it froze over very easily, but a mermaid couldn’t know that. It stood in a courtyard in the shadow of the school, and the sun reached it only at rare intervals.

Behind it lurked a stone and sulking outhouse, pebbledash walls lashed together with a corrugated plastic roof. In its damp darkness the children undressed, and tripped, and snapped tight, powdered rubber caps over their skulls. Under its benches something black grew wetly out towards them. It was the hut that Freya hated most of all.

Miss Wallace had caught Archie Dorrick from Upper Third belting down the corridor but she hadn’t told him off, not properly, just asked him why he needed to be rushing so quick. He said there was a mermaid dead in the pool, that it must have happened in the holidays, and Miss Wallace was so interested that she didn’t ask Archie why he had been down there on his own, which was definitely cigarettes.

Miss Wallace was young and pretty and was allowed to wear any jumper she liked, unlike Freya, who was a pupil and had to wear a plain grey one like everybody else. Miss Wallace also had colourful bracelets on her arms and hair that rose up above her head and fanned out like branches. When she moved they swayed about her; the bracelets and the hair both. In the older years they had a teacher for English and a teacher for history and a teacher for comparative mythography, but Freya was only nine so Miss Wallace was her everything teacher, and she needed no other.

Freya’s last teacher had been Mr Heagerty, who had folded himself into a corner of the classroom, spiderlike, and spoke to them only in riddles. His interest in the outside world was oblique at best, and he’d never once worn a bracelet or even a colourful tie. For Miss Wallace, the outside world was the whole point, it was something to push both your hands into and wiggle about. That was why Class 7C were allowed to follow her, symmetrical grey cygnets, through the hall and out the fire escape and down the iron stairway that led to the pool with the mermaid in it.

The ice was frozen over most of it, a thin sheet, breakable. One arm punctured the surface, a long, grey-brown javelin that reached up and out and seized around the metal rung of the ladder in a tight fist. Frost followed up it and caught on the trail of fine hairs that sloped along its back. Freya couldn’t see down below the ice, Miss Wallace had them at a distance, she had first dibs on exploration. Freya jostled her way to the front of the group. She knew she had to be as close as was allowed.

Miss Wallace stared down at the mermaid, and her hair quivered, and her breath came out in clouds. Below her the arm was stiff, and quiet, and altogether too close to her throat. In the end it was Juno Clarke who asked the question that held them all close with a ferocious anxiety. Juno asked if Miss Wallace was sure it was really dead, and Miss Wallace said yes, and everyone turned to Juno and sneered at her stupidity.

Then Miss Wallace said “I can prove it,” which was something she said a lot, and she felt around inside her pockets and pulled out her fountain pen. Freya had long watched and desired that pen, it shone bronze and under Miss Wallace’s direction bled blue, looping calligraphy that far outranked Freya’s lumpen hieroglyphs. Miss Wallace took off the lid, and lifted the pen high, and then stuck it deep, deep into the mermaid’s arm.

Later, when Miss Wallace encouraged them to come close, to huddle around and stroke the arm for themselves, to learn what they could from this rare chance, Freya’s finger found the hole the pen had made. Without really meaning to, she dipped it inside, into the cold and sleepy meat. It resisted her, but she felt deeper, she wriggled her finger down to the end of the incision and scratched at the bone. Freya thought to herself that she might be the first person in history to reach inside a mermaid’s arm and scrape their nail across the bone, and in that thought there was no horror, but a realisation that for the first time, in her life of classmates and brothers and older cousins, she had experienced something truly private, something that could not be shared and that belonged to her alone. And Freya understood that there was and would be nothing else she desired as she desired the mermaid, and she knew what she had to do next.

First, before the science lesson had begun, Miss Wallace came back across the courtyard and told 7C that she had an important question. Her face was suddenly very serious, and she went round in turn and asked if any of them had put the mermaid there, and Freya said no and Tim said no and Fergus said no even though if anybody had put it there, it would definitely have been him. Marybeth asked Miss Wallace how the mermaid had got into the pool, since it hadn’t been any of them, and although the class glowered at her automatically, Freya felt it was a Good Question. Miss Wallace said that if it hadn’t been anybody in another class, then maybe it had crawled out of an estuary and dragged itself inland. Mermaids could manage that, for short distances. Maybe it had seen the pool and thought in its animal mind to refresh itself. It would have heaved its long body up, over the wooden side, and only when it hit the water would it have realised its mistake.

There were a lot of questions now; the pack had grown both curious and tolerant. Jason wanted to know if it was a boy mermaid or a girl mermaid. Miss Wallace said she couldn’t tell because of the ice, but that if the tail was big and squashy that might mean it was full of babies. Joanna Fitch asked if it was saltwater or freshwater, and Miss Wallace reminded her that mermaids were freshwater, that if it had been saltwater then it would have been a dead selkie instead. Juno Clarke, hungry for redemption, asked what it was that had made it dead, and Miss Wallace looked a little sad and said it was the chlorine, that would have poisoned it long before the cold snap made the water freeze over. The chlorine would have filtered its way inside very fast, she told them, in a voice that tried to make it sound less painful than Freya was sure it was.

When the questions were over, 7C clustered around the body in the pool. The head was quite visible, from this angle: smooth, with black orb eyes, wide-set on a yowling face. Its nose was otter-like, a black pad of a snout that protruded enough to disrupt the human geometry of the skull. There were sprays of thick white whiskers on either side and the teeth below were small and sharp. The lower body was more obscured, but Freya saw a long torso, studded with dark nipples, curving into one great sinuous limb coiled beneath it. It was a dumb animal, and dead, but in that it was entirely beautiful.

It was nearly time to go back inside. 7C had had their fill of the mermaid’s dead hand, some of them were getting bored and were stamping their feet. Freya took her chance when Miss Wallace was distracted by Jason, who had found a pine cone and was proud of it: an ill trophy compared to what Freya had in mind. She ran her fingers over the back of the mermaid’s hand one last time, over its thick knuckles and into the folds of frost-crackled webbing. She found her target and she closed her fingers over it and pulled down hard.

It broke under the skin first. She was compelled to swivel it around the joint until the skin was torn all around, and even then it was difficult, it nearly sent her flying to do it. There wasn’t time to inspect her prize, just to thrust it down into the quiet black of her trouser pocket. She could feel it, small and cold and curled like a monkey nut. She squeezed her fist around it and the tiny spark of selfishness that had jumped inside her blazed, she was an inferno, she would collapse, if only something separated her from this fragment, this fossil of a perfect moment and a beautiful thing now dead.

As they trooped back up the stairway and into the honey warmth of the school, Joanna said it was funny, she had expected it to look more like a person. The others scoffed, but Miss Wallace heard her and said that it just went to show there was a world of difference between bipedal and human, and then Owen said Miss, how can it be a biped, it didn’t have any feet at all. Miss Wallace said that was a good point but in a voice that made it sound like she wished it was Owen there dead under the ice and trying to scratch his way out. She said that a mermaid physiologically speaking was an honorary biped, it was a biped in every way that mattered except the feet, and for homework she set them all the project of making up a word for things with two arms that humans and mermaids and gorillas could all be part of together, but not kangaroos or meerkats. Which seemed simple enough to Freya, as she caressed the gobbet of mermaid flesh in her pocket. Really, all it came down to was thumbs.

“Ten to one he holds like an ox,” I say.

What I meant was, I sure as shit hope he hangs on to her. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust my friend, but I’m betting with coin I don’t have. I’m not saying I’m not good for it, because I am. Just, you know, my pockets are empty today.

So I sit and watch between the legs of elves and hope he keeps her off the tavern floor.

I nod at the barman for another drink and slide him some coin while the good bard Pussywillow balances the poor girl on his shoulders, his knees vibrating like lute strings.

“Nay, Milo,” Bertrand says. “Make it twenty to one,” and he’s got his hand held out to make our simple gentleman’s agreement into a done deal—a slit-your-throat-if-you-don’t-pay-up sort of bet. It’s not the sort of bet I want to make, yet I’m shaking Bertrand’s hand, allowing the ale ravaging both my innards and inhibitions to make the decision for me.

I can see it in Pussywillow’s dour face. He knows he’s going to drop her dumb.

I slap Bertrand on the back, pleasantly surprised by the absence of his usual musky odor, and hand him my last coin.

“Next round is on me,” I say, and slip out the door, noting the unmistakable thud causing the crowd to crow is not from the door slamming behind me, but the poor girl falling—and perhaps my luck.

---

“You asshole,” I say.

Pussywillow lounges in his chair.

“What?” he says. “You’re the one who bet in favor of me in matters regarding a feat of strength. I’d say that makes you the asshole.”

“Because I believed in a friend?”

“A foolish asshole.”

“Bertrand isn’t going to let it go this time,” I say. “How much coin do you have, by the way?”

Pussywillow leans forward, his brunette coiffure still flattened from the tavern fiasco.

“What—why?” he asks. “I’m not bailing you out.”

“Well,” I say, making sure I’ve given myself room to dodge whatever he’ll throw at me once I tell him. “Because you’re…well. Sort of roped into this too.”

He grabs an apple from the table.

“How? Explain to me how I am responsible for your financial misgivings?”

“I mean, you dropped her,” I say, and I’m flat on the ground while the apple zips past my head. Better than the last time. I still have a scar from the cat.

Pussywillow chases me around the room while I create obstacles for him from chairs and end tables and various decorative baubles.

“How much?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I said ten to one…”

He’s slowing down, giving up.

“But then he raised it twenty to one,” I say. “But I don’t remember the initial wager. Honestly, I’m not sure how gambling works. I’ve never been much of a betting man.”

I pick the apple off the floor and take a bite.

“Oh no,” Pussywillow says. “There’s that look.”

I’m more of a thinking man.

“I have an idea,” I say.

The mud flats twinkled with the light of a million stars above us in the darkest sky I’d ever seen. Emma knelt beside a salty tributary. It ran in a sandy rut from shore to sea, or at least to the deeper and murkier water waiting to rush back over the sand when the tide came in. A trapped fish—a tiny pollock, from its silver scales—wriggled furiously, its world suddenly narrowed to a salty but barely wet gully.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Emma said. Already the nights had turned colder—it was just September, but her purple skullcap was pulled down tight over her ears. Despite the chill, she insisted on going barefoot, as if encased in slick seal skin instead of human fragility. Her feet were pale, nearly blue. Asking her if she wanted to put her shoes back on would be met with amusement, so I let her be. If she wanted to warm up, she would. She didn’t need my anxiety heaped over her—not when we had other things to worry about.

I wasn’t used to the abrupt turn of weather or the frozen low tides. My blood ran warm, and hers—apparently—ran icy. I was wrapped in wool and denim and fleece, head to toe, and none of it helped.

“I’d like you to stay, Jeannie,” she said. “Can’t you stay?”

I was a shivering, chattering mess, and her request made it worse.

“Tourist season is over.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking. “My aunt’s lease is up at the shop, and the landlord won’t let us stay any longer.”

“It’s the ice.” Emma popped up and twirled along the seabed, hands upraised to the dark sky and toes ripping through the small stands of sea water. It was new moon, but the stars were bright enough to spotlight her dancing and dipping. The flame of her red hair bushing out of her hat made it look like a fireball tumbled along the sand.

“What about the ice?” I watched her, stuffing down a well of longing. It would do me no good to want what I couldn’t have.

“Homer Spit is so narrow,” she said, as though that explained everything. When I didn’t answer, she added, “The winds blow pretty fierce over the road and up the shoreline—and with the waves coming so high, and the weather so cold from here on out, it doesn’t take much to freeze the pipes and ice everything up. No one in town is willing to risk coming out this way. Well, no one except the fishermen—that’s why the bar at the end of the spit stays open year-round. They’ll endure anything for a beer.”

The sound of my laugh echoed off the stands of long, flat rocks. They were usually hidden underwater. The surfaces were still slick, algae clinging to the corners, refusing to let go, even for a second. I could understand the compulsion.

Emma plucked something out of the sand and slid it into her pocket. “I’ll admit, there’s not much to do in the off-season—you’d be bored. Still, we’d make our own fun. Shake things up a little.” She paused. “It the night to set your intentions, you know.”

The way she said it—intentions—it was like I’d never heard the word before. “It is?”

“It’s the new moon.” Her voice was firm. She sounded so far away. “A night for manifesting our desires.”

“You sound like those people who go to bore tide parties and the full moon festivals. My aunt says things are tourist schlock.”

The smile in Emma’s voice was clear when she said, “Some of it is. But intention-setting and manifesting are just the same as wishing or saying a prayer. And I wish for so much right now.”

“So…like going to church? Church on the beach?”

“Sure, we can think of it like that.” Her bare feet struck wet sand and puddles, and suddenly she stood tall in front of me. “I’ve learned some things—it’s not quite like church, but it’s not…I don’t know. It’s not like other things.”

I would miss this when my aunt and I left—the way Emma talked in circles and didn’t quite answer questions, yet still made me curious enough to want to know more. The way her hair looked in starlight. The way her words were so pretty in the night air. I’d be back on the east coast in a week or so, far from Alaska, and there would be no one like her.

“So what is it like then?” I asked, just to hear her speak again.

“We live with nature. We live with the sea and the salmon and the moose and the kittiwakes. The bald eagles and the otters. The whales. Or, I should say, we are allowed to live with nature. It’s different here.”

“Here as in Homer? Or here as in Alaska as a whole?”

“Homer, I think. But intention-setting came long before there were gods to worship. It’s just putting what you want out into the world and hoping it comes true. Manifesting our deepest desires.”

I smiled. “It’s a nice idea. If only prayers and wishes worked.”

Emma flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Maybe yours haven’t, but others’ wishes have come to pass. Last summer I wished for you, right here on this beach, and here you are. Maybe this is just a lucky spot. I don’t know.”

I wrinkled my nose and touched her hand. She was sweet, so sweet. “Do I have to remind you that there are tsunami warnings all up and down the spit. I know Homer has earthquakes. People die from silly accidents. That doesn’t exactly strike me as lucky.”

“Luck is what you make it. Perhaps you simply have to make the right offerings to the universe.”

“Offerings. What, like animal sacrifice?” I laughed.

Emma smiled, but she was dead serious when she said, “I’ve seen intentions specified with bird feathers—some with animals caught or hunted. It depends on what you wish for, I guess. The strength of the wish you’re manifesting.” She dipped her toe into the pool where the pollock still frantically squirmed. “This fish, for instance. We’ve been talking about wanting you to stay in Homer, and this fish has been witness. It would make a strong inclusion in our spellwork.”

“Spellwork? Isn’t that witchcraft?”

“Semantics. Spellwork is the same as prayer. It’s the same as yearning. It’s intention work.”

“You can keep saying intention this and intention that, but I doubt that fish intends on dying. Look how hard he’s working to get back to the ocean.” The pollock surged forward, eager to find its way to a larger pool of water.

Emma’s eyes sparkled. “I just don’t want you to go, Jeannie. I know I keep saying that, and so do you…that’s what I want. I want you to stay.”

The magician’s dog is a small terrier thing with coarse wiry hair. The magician calls him Rowan because of the reddish tint to his brown coat. He might weigh as much as twenty pounds soaking wet. Maybe. There’s a bald patch on his left shoulder from a bout with mange a few years back and one of his ears has a notch missing from a scrap with a tomcat.

The dog is the kind of ratty little thing that most people would overlook. The dog doesn’t mind being overlooked, because he has a secret. Not even the magician knows the secret, but that’s not saying much. Lyndon, the magician, is pretty shit at magic.

A better magician would notice the way Rowan’s aura is out of sync with his shape, suggesting some kind of transformation has occurred. Most good magicians would get curious about that and use their skills to discover that Rowan’s true form is human. A lucky one might even recognize that Rowan is none other than the missing-and-presumed-dead King Artis. However, there were only about two or three magicians in the whole world talented enough to reverse Rowan’s curse after they learned his true identity. Lydon, obviously, is not one of them.

He’s good at botany, though. That’s the one thing that reliably pays his rent, and today he’s walking back into town with a basket full of herbs, flowers, and tubers from his hike to the lake. Rowan trots along behind him, tongue lolling.

It was a marvelous walk. Rowan ate some grass, chased five rabbits, almost caught one of them before it disappeared into its little hidey hole, and pissed on too many things to count. His nose and his brain are still full of the smells of the plants and animals between here and there. It’s enough to fill his little doggie dreams for days to come. On days like today, Rowan hardly misses being a man. Men have no idea of all the sensory pleasures they’re missing out on.

“What do you say to an ale?” Lyndon asks the little dog. Rowan heads to the house of Mrs. Malster because his nose tells him that she’s got a fresh batch of ale ready to sell to her neighbors. Lyndon buys them a mug and pours a little of it out into a dish for Rowan. The dog used to have a different name, years ago, but he doesn’t mind Rowan. He’s been called a lot of things, many of them vile. As the dog laps up his drink, his little doggie beard gets coated with foam. This afternoon is just about as good a day as he’s ever had, and that’s saying something considering the hedonism of his former life.

“What’s going, Lydon?” Mrs. Malster asks as he drinks her ale.

“I’m about to do some fresh ointments. I’ve got a little pot of hand cream with your name on it if you’ve got any dinner to go along with this drink.”

“I’ve hardly enough for myself and my lads,” she says, none too pleased at the prospect of making it stretch for one more mouth. Two, if you count Rowan, but she doesn’t. Lyndon’s happy to share his portion with the dog.

Lyndon holds up a big handful of borage and some wild garlic. “You can have these to add to the stew, if that sweetens the deal.”

She grabs them and huffs off inside her little house to add them to the stew pot. As she goes, she mutters about the new taxes and how these days even a good alewife like herself can only afford a bit of bacon once a week. People mutter about taxes a lot these days. Or, maybe it’s just that Rowan never noticed before he got cursed. He’s noticed a lot of new things since that mad witch turned him into a dog.

A bit later, as Lyndon and Rowan share their meal, Rowan can taste a hint of bacon in the porridge. There are no actual chunks of bacon in the stew, but stews like this get refreshed and recycled day after day and he thinks that maybe two days ago there was real bacon in it. There’s still just a tiny bit of grease cooked into the oats. It’s a good meal. It fills his belly up. Just as he’s thinking that a nap in the late afternoon sunshine would be the ideal thing to do next, a man walks up to them.

“Hey, you’re the magician, right?” The man says to Lyndon. The man’s clothes are a little nicer than Lyndon’s and Mrs. Malster’s. They’ve probably only been handed down three times, and the patches are only one or two layers deep mostly. His body is well-muscled from hard work, but his boots are in good condition. The smell of coal and metal from his body fills Rowan’s nostrils. Blacksmith. Good, skilled work. The man certainly has more money than the other two humans have.

“I am,” Lyndon replies. At the same moment, Mrs. Malster makes a kind of “huh” sound deep in her throat like she’s almost, but not quite, ready to argue that title. She remembers the sleeping spell she asked him for to cure a bout of insomnia. She ended up sleeping for a week and almost got buried alive, because her family thought she had died. She stops herself from sharing that story, because Lyndon’s hand cream is the only thing that keeps her chapped hands from bleeding in the winter. So she doesn’t want to outright insult him.

“Good,” the man says. “I need a spell.” He looks at Mrs. Malster and hesitates. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

Once they’re inside of Lyndon’s little shop, Rowan goes behind the curtain that separates the work area from the sleep area of the small room. He burrows into the blankets to sleep off the full belly and ale, but before he nods off, he hears the blacksmith talking to Lyndon about how he needs a love spell.

The next day, as Lyndon works on the spell, Rowan remembers his wife. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, of course. His father’s idea to seal an alliance with the neighboring kingdom of Pencombe. Pencombe and Gateswic, united in matrimony. Oh glorious day! The wedding had been expensive, the bride haughty, and Rowan itchy. His most treasured memory of his wedding night was getting out of the heavily brocaded cloth-of-gold garments and plopping naked on his bed. Alone.

Things only got worse from there. His new wife, Bruga, was needy and demanding, always wanting him to dine with her, to talk about matters of state, to try and impregnate her. It was all a massive bore. He avoided her every chance he got, running off to go on a hunt or to see one of his mistresses. Of course none of those mistresses truly cared about him. If they had, a visit to one of them would have fixed his curse years ago. No, he realized that all they ever wanted him for was his money, the weasels.

Smoke poofs up from a bowl in front of Lyndon. The smell of singed eyebrows fills the room. “Hmm…” he says. He pokes at the mixture he’s created. Then he says, “I think that was right.”

Rowan does not share his optimism. But, what does he know about magic? Even less than Lyndon, and that’s saying something.

That night, after the two of them share their dinner, Lyndon opens a book a local apothecary loaned him. He thumbs through the index, then turns to the section about herbal remedies. Rowan jumps up on Lydon’s bench and plops down beside the magician, so his side is pressed against the man’s leg. Lyndon reaches down to pet the dog as he begins to read out loud. “A preparation of pomegranates for the treatment of loose bowels and stomach worms…”

Lyndon often reads to his dog. He doesn’t have any expectation that Rowan understands, but Rowan has learned a few things. For starters, he’s learned that most of the people who write these books have a fascination with bowels. As Lydon reads, he scratches Rowan gently along his back bone. He uses the perfect amount of pressure. Wedged between the arm of the chair and the magician, Rowan is warm and comfortable. He’d rather be here than in his old drafty castle.

I pull my little red wagon along behind me. Its lumpy wheels, as ancient as I am, bump over cracks in the decaying concrete ramp that leads to the below-grade train station that’s become home, unconcerned that precious bits I’ve gathered from Above might spill out despite the bungeed tarp covering. I pass curtained tents lit from within by rush lights that send up dirty smoke, painting the ceiling black. Every so often, hanging between the hovels, there’s a grimy, unlit light fixture patiently waiting for its electrical circuit to open again. They sway gently in the breeze blowing in through the cracks of Columbia Station’s patched over roof.

When I reach the end of the block, I turn left and head for my workshop, past carefully angled mirrors that amplify and direct light down to the subterranean grow spaces. I pass huddled figures of beggar children, orphans of people dead of disease or squabble. Their eyes, too big in gaunt faces, track my movement as unerringly as the cats that keep the rats at bay.

“What d’ya do wid all dat, Grandma?” A face appears at my elbow, gaze curious on my haul.

“Make stuff,” I grumble. Maybe it’ll take the hint.

No such luck. The kid, maybe twelve years old, follows me, poking at the wagon’s tarp.

“Don’t touch that.” Last thing I need is some urchin buggering off with the alternator I’ve spent days searching for, diligently ignoring the armed escort Zelwicki had insisted I take with me. There’s only so far the boss is willing to go to indulge my foibles, and risking her only engineer isn’t on her map.

The kid turns big black eyes on me, matted and scraggly black hair hiding much of its features.

“What d’ya make, Grandma?”

“Stuff.” Clearly the kid didn’t get the memo. But then, the kid has no idea what a memo is. Hell, even I barely remember what they look like. No one wastes paper for reading or writing anymore, not when it’s the best way to turn a spark into a cook fire.

“Beforetimes things? Can I see?” the kid asks, still on my heels when I get to my shop door.

“No, you can’t. Go on with ya, I’ve got work to do. Stop bothering me.” I make shooing motions at the kid. I don’t want it shedding head lice in my space.

I open the door. A rustle in the racking over my workbench warns me I’ve got four-legged company. Hopefully, it’s the grey tabby tom that’s taken a shine to me, rather than the rats he’s meant to hunt.

Filthy creatures, rats. Almost as dirty as the kid gawping at the pegboard above my bench. Every tool gleams, each hanging below precisely lettered labels. I swing the magnifying glass away from the bench’s wall, working the articulated arm until it’s aimed at the wagon. I flick on its florescent light.

“I mean it, kid. Git. I have work to do.”

“I want to help,” it says, wide eyes fixated on the lamp.

“Help? Know anything about turbines?” I fix the kid with a beady glare.

“I could learn.”

“Ha,” I say with a snort. “You can’t even read.” I take a single, menacing step in the kid’s direction. “GIT!”

The only heads up I get is the rattle of loose parts colliding. By the time I look, it’s already too late. The cat leaps from overhead, a bin of junk motors tumbling down in his wake. I would’ve forgiven him for everything but the one sound that makes my throat seize up: the crash of steel on glass. The lamp light blinks out.

I stare at the carnage, motionless.

“Is that bad?” the kid asks from my elbow, making me jump out of my skin.

I’m too aghast to protest the kid’s encroachment into my space. “Yeah.” I reach for the lamp’s head, hoping against hope that all I need do is wiggle the circular bulb a bit. “I can’t see to solder circuit boards without the light.” Not all the wiggling in the world brings the light back on. At least the thick glass weathered the impact without damage.

“Could I help? Hold a candle for you, maybe?”

Impotent anger boils up. “I already told you to git gone,” I say through clenched teeth. “You didn’t listen and now lookit. If you don’t scram this minute, I’m gonna beat you into next week. You hear?”

There’s a quiet slap of bare feet on concrete, then I’m alone. I ease my old bones onto the stool, slumping in defeat. Now what?