In the pocket of her pants, Molly carried a book of matches. They weren’t necessary, but a little showmanship tended to open the already loose hands on the boardwalk a little wider.

Picking a patron was an art. Younger men worked better than older ones, and a younger man who had only just begun flirting with a girl – or, even better, more than one – worked the best.

Selecting her prize, she sidled up, greeting the women first before turning to the man, saying “Light your cigarette for you, sir?” She held up a match, and before anyone could say a word, she tossed it away, snapped her fingers, and the tip of her ring finger erupted into flame. There was a jump of surprise and a little titter from the women. Then, they reached forward to examine her finger, gripping her by the wrist and passing their own hands over the fire. Molly let them do as they pleased, holding perfectly still until they were satisfied, and the man leaned forward to light his cigarette.

“A penny is customary for a tip,” she said. She always asked with eyes lowered, half-bent at the waist. Before, when she wasn’t as skilled at picking patrons, she had been kicked and laughed at by men too ungentlemanly to honor a contract, even if they hadn’t known they were entering one.

This man laughed but stuck a nickel into her outstretched hand. She straightened, grinned, and tipped her cap. As a final flourish – a gift for generosity – she opened her palm and lit a flame, extinguishing it by pulling in one finger after another.

As she dashed back into the crowd, she cried, “Come visit the Blue Sky theater for more.”

Her next few patrons only tipped pennies, but the final one gave her a dime, so it wasn’t bad for a couple hours work.

She returned to the shabby boarding house on the farthest edge of the shabby side of the island. It had burned down once and was rebuilt worse than before. The windows either wouldn’t open or wouldn’t shut and little puddles of water gathered on the uneven floors in the top rooms when it rained. The food was lousy but plentiful, and the rent was cheaper than anywhere else.

Alice and Annie were on the stairs as she dashed up them.

“Good day, Molly?” Alice asked.

“Yep,” she replied, grinning. “Don’t wait for me. I’ve got to collect Edward.”

Annie turned, but she couldn’t quite hide the look of distaste on her face. Molly did not let this bother her. She never did.

Edward was still in his room when she knocked.

“Ready?” she asked.

He put down the book he was reading. “I suppose,” he said, rising languidly to his feet.

She repositioned the cap on her head, her hair curling around its edges. It badly needed cutting again.

Years ago, she had determined that looking like an interesting boy was better than being an ugly girl and accordingly, purloined Edward’s castoffs, the pants and shirts he outgrew as he gained six inches on her.

She remained small and dark and slight, someone to forget unless she happened to be aflame. He grew tall and golden, which was highly fitting. In their world of cheap parlor tricks, he could do something wondrous.

As the older one, she had figured out her talent first, crying out “watch me” to anyone who would look and, eager and unafraid, set herself on fire. It had taken Edward longer, his talent undiscovered until after they had been plucked from the orphanage and sent to live in the country. When Edward had been unable to sleep, Molly would stroke his hair and tell him the tales she remembered from their father. Then, she got sick, and, to comfort her, he retold these stories, and they came alive, the little characters performing on a private stage meant only for her and Edward. But his gift was inconsistent and, for a long while, only worked in her presence. Once they started on the circuit, she would stand, silent and unseen, in the wings of theaters in his line of sight so that he could perform.

She didn’t have to stand in the wings anymore, but she still did.

He didn’t watch her perform at all.

The Blue Sky theater was a shade of blue so bright it hurt to look at, but despite this impairment, still boasted the best shows on the boardwalk though the owner paid only slightly more than the other theaters offering acts of lesser quality. The Blue Sky had been there longer than the amusement park that sat behind it, but it did well by siphoning off the park crowd.

Inside the theater, Molly left Edward backstage sitting with his eyes closed, head bent forward, hands clasped tightly around his knees. Molly crouched at the stage’s edge and watched Andres, the manager of their troupe, who created sculptures out of ice, Annie who levitated objects and her partner Alice who could disappear but only for around a minute, and Henri who grew plants from nothing.

They trotted out their wares and received their applause, and then Molly stepped on stage. She waited for all the lights to dim before going to work.

It started with the tip of one finger. She held the flame close to her face, before extinguishing it, sinking the room into darkness. She opened her palm and a flame rose from its center. This she tossed to her other hand before allowing it to spread up her bare arms. Eventually, all the flames slid back down and erupted from the ends of her fingers. She extinguished again and then, lighting one finger, began to write glowing messages in the dark. The audience laughed and applauded where they were intended to and, in some places, where they weren’t. By this time, the oil lamps had been set out, so she carefully lit each one, the stage glowing with their soft light, so much better than any of the new electric ones and a far better atmosphere for what came next.

Her applause arrived and went, and Edward stepped on stage. Whether the audience knew it or not, this was what they were waiting for. He smiled, that warm one that he only used for strangers, and said, “Please, will you come closer? The children can sit on the stage, but mind the lamps.”

When everyone was situated, he said, “I’d like to tell you a story. But what story will we have today?” He looked thoughtful and then said, “Let’s have a new one, yes? But what about?” He knelt on the stage beside a flock of children. “Does anyone have any ideas?”

There were always ideas, and today’s were a lion, named Harold, and a bear, named Bear, and a trip under the sea.

“Right,” Edward said. “Let’s begin.”

He spoke, voice honey-warm and sweet, and as he did, a tableau formed itself before him. There they were – the old, scraggly bear and the young, spirited lion and their ship with its many masts and crew of animals, bustling around, their movements as purposeful as Edward’s words. Soon, they dove beneath the waves and encountered wonders that would have been difficult to imagine, but there they were, shimmering in colors that seemed too bright to be real.

It was so still it seemed that the audience had been frozen, hardly moving to breathe as Edward created something fragile but tangible, something better than the gaudy ephemerality found next door at the amusement park.

Once the story was completed, the little ship with its bear captain and sword-wielding lion still remained on the stage, laying inert on the floor. From experience, Molly knew that, when held, this object would hum with the remembrance of the story.

Edward smiled and knelt down in front of a little girl whose mouth was still agape. “Here,” he said. “A souvenir for you.”

The child reached out slowly for it and, once she had it in her possession, cradled it against her stomach. Then, Edward stood, bowed, and left the stage. The applause was, as always, delayed, but when it came it was thunderous. Edward never came out for a second bow which Molly thought he should.

The audience scattered, and the stage was set for the next show. Molly removed each of the lamps with Alice and Annie while Andres and Henri swept the stage.

“I think,” Andres said to Molly, “that we should talk again about the double act.”

Henri shook his head. “He’s never going to let it go.”

“Just think of the spectacle,” Andres said. “Fire and ice.”

“Think of the mess,” Alice said. “Or would you be cleaning up the puddles of water between acts?”

“I was thinking it would be our close,” Andres said.

“Edward always closes,” Molly said.

“Well, he doesn’t have to,” Andres said which was a lie, for no one wanted to go on after Edward.

“I’ll think about it,” Molly said.

Andres nodded, knowing she wouldn’t.

Andres had never liked Edward. Not when they first joined the troupe, not when they started on the circuit, not when Edward became their headliner, and not now. Andres wanted to believe the worst of him. But he didn’t truly know Edward, the boy that she had cared for, who she promised never to abandon, and who had promised to never abandon her.

Edward always slipped outside between shows. He stood on the steps that led into the theater’s backdoor, his arms folded over the railing and his shoulders hunched forward.

Molly fell in beside him. “Light your cigarette for you, sir?” she asked.

“Molly,” he said. He didn’t smoke, and he wouldn’t let her near him with a fire.

“It went well I think,” she said, knowing that he needed the praise and eager to give it to him.

“Do you?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “They were dazzled like they always are.”

“They’re easy to dazzle,” he said.

“What’s wrong with that?” she asked.

He shrugged. “You should go back in.”

She patted him on the shoulder and reached for the door. “Don’t be too long.” She let the door slam behind her.

As she knew he would be, Edward was late coming back in for the second show.

“Molly, your brother,” Andres said.

“Yes,” she said and headed outside.

Edward had moved down to the alley’s mouth where he was speaking to a handsomely-dressed man, much too handsomely-dressed to be on this side of the island. This had happened before. Wealthy men came and offered Edward what they believed would be attractive to him, and he always listened politely, and then Molly, seeing them for the exploiters that they were, turned them away. This, however, was the first time he had spoken to one of them without her.

Edward was the type to be taken in. When he was younger, he would spend what little money she was able to give him on cheap novels about virtuous boys who were plucked from the margins and gutters where they resided by well-meaning and kindly patrons who would make them respectable. He still believed, she was sure, in this fantasy.

“Edward,” she called, advancing toward him. “Who are you talking to?”

He turned to look at her and said, “I’ll only be a moment.”

“He has a show now,” Molly said to the other man. “You’re welcome to buy a ticket if you like”

“Thank you, but I’ve already seen it,” he said. He held out his hand for Edward to shake. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

“What did this one want?” Molly asked once the man had gone.

“Nothing of note,” Edward said, slipping in the stage door behind her.

She left him sitting in the dark of the wings, far from the light of the stage.

I shifted, and a thought slammed into my mind: I’m in half a body. The arms burned with the cold pain of adrenaline. The heart hammered like a piston, an echo of the previous occupant’s panic. The head rested against a soft, dependable surface, but something scratched and clogged the nose. The neck and shoulders were stiff, but they had strength in them. Below the chest I felt nothing. No stomach, no crotch, no legs, no feet. Praying that the body would at least be an American’s, I forced the eyes open.

A hospital room, bathed in pale neon light. Wherever this was, at least the place still had power. I was lying in a bed, the torso propped up to a 45 degree angle. Visual inspection confirmed that there was, in fact, a lower body as well. The bedsheet outlined the shape of stomach, hips, and legs, but I couldn’t feel them.

A paraplegic. No wonder the previous occupant had panicked. There was, however, no way in hell I would let their useless terror become my own.

I ate the air in deep, measured lungfuls. The heart slowed, and little by little the acid sting subsided from the arms. I lifted them into view. They were a man’s, pale-skinned and muscular, but heavy with hunger. The past few hours had taught me to tune out a thousand pains and discomforts, and it cost me zero effort to suppress the body’s craving for food.

But in the hunger’s wake an itch crept in, a dirty feeling that the body’s skin was a cancer that enveloped me, seeping into me and twisting my shape. I wanted to vomit, and even more so to be vomited out. It was an ugly claustrophobia, a panic that constricted around me, and if I let it swallow me up, I would shift again for sure.

But the past few hours had taught me that this feeling, too, could be tuned out, if at a considerably higher effort. Again I forced myself to think about Jane, about the car wreck crushing her body like a monstrous steel maw, and old, raw grief inflated inside me until there was room for nothing else.

My head was clear, and I scanned my surroundings.

A rain-streaked window framed a cloudy night sky. A tall wheeled table stood next to the bed, but the tabletop was empty. On the floor below lay a still-life of flowers, water puddles, and the fragments of a smashed glass vase. Some pills down there, too, spilled from a tiny plastic cup. It was all irrelevant. Medical machines in a corner. Irrelevant. A television set craning out from a wall mount, its screen black and irrelevant. And on a chair near the opposite end of the room: a pile of clothes and a gym bag.

Highly relevant.

I grabbed the bed’s siderails and pushed. Without the aid of abs, the maneuver was hell on the pecs and triceps. But the muscles were honed and athletic, and I pushed through until the torso was upright. Then I let the body thump to the floor, medical tubes snapping and rickety IV racks clattering. The fall hurt, but it broke no bones that I would have use for. Glass shards cut the skin as I rolled onto the stomach, but I ignored it. I crawled across the linoleum floor, the legs dragging uselessly behind me. A sudden fear: What if someone came though the door and saw me like this? The face warmed as anger smoldered in the chest.

I locked the eyes on the chair, on the clothes and the bag upon it. Unlike the emasculating hospital gown, these were clearly the patient’s property: sneakers, jeans, a hoodie. And the bag, bulging with personal effects and the promise of a phone.

I didn’t have the strength to pull the body upright, so I yanked the gym bag down onto the floor, unzipped it, and rummaged through. Underwear and T-shirts, an empty plastic water bottle, a wallet, keys, and sunglasses in a case. But no phone. What in the goddamn hell. The body was young, in its early twenties. Why was there no goddamn phone? The sunglasses reflected a scared, white, pretty-boy face, spoiled and still unhurt by life. The face stared at me, its nasal tube like some ridiculous plastic mustache. I smashed the glasses against the floor.

“Where is your goddamn phone?” I shouted.

The shrillness of the voice was the body’s, but its imminent hysteria was my own. A useless feeling, and if I wasn’t careful, it would open the door to the claustrophobic panic that would boot me out of this body and into the next. I closed the eyes and counted deep breaths.

It’s okay. It’s okay, because it has to be okay.

Little by little, I calmed down enough to think. To read the situation.

A young man, an athlete of some sort, handsome and blessed with money to pay for care like this. Of course there was a phone. Kid like this could never live without it. Especially not here, paralyzed and trapped in a hospital bed . . .

It would have to be within reach of the bed. On the table right next to it. The table that one of the body’s former occupants had swiped a panicked hand across, spilling everything to the floor. I openened the eyes, twisted the head back around, and scanned the linoleum.

And there, past the flowers and the shards of the broken vase, nestled against a hospital bed wheel, lay the flat, black shape of a phone.

Crawling back toward it felt like basic training, the burn of the shoulders driving me on. I grabbed the phone, and its screen lit up to reveal a photo of its owner dribbling a soccer ball. The local time, apparently, was 5:07 AM. This should have given me a hint as to where I was, but it didn’t. I had no idea how much time had passed since everything fell apart. Less than a day for sure, but the chaos of the shifts had left me too confused to keep track of hours and time zones. But the upper left hand corner identified the cellphone carrier as a UK one. That was something. At least the language wouldn’t get in the way.

I swiped up, hoping that the phone’s owner had activated facial recognition. He had, but the phone’s tiny lock symbol shook like a nervous head, denying access and prompting me to enter a six-digit passcode I had no way of knowing. Some treacherous part of my mind shat out a split-second memory of Jeffrey Poirier’s mousy, meddlesome face.

“Goddamn it!” I shouted, then caught myself and counted breaths.

Could the phone belong to someone else? A nurse, or—No, obviously not. The boy in the lock screen pic was clearly the same person I had seen reflected in the sunglasses.

Except for . . .

I ripped out the nasal tube and swiped up. Neat, colorful app icons fell into formation as the phone’s home screen opened.

All right. I finally had a phone, but for how long? The battery stood at seventeen percent, so video was out of the question. I tapped the green telephone app and entered the only number that I still knew by heart. I turned on the speaker and rolled the body onto its back, then lay there trying not to count the pulses of the ringing tone.

From this angle I could see an old, framed poster on the wall above the head of the bed. It was peppered with tiny drawings of animals, insects, plants, and sea creatures, all connected by a curving line that fractalled from the bottom of the design to its top. Bacteria and jellyfish, a dinosaur, a scorpion, and a soaring eagle, and there, clustered among the mammals, a human head in profile. The poster’s copy read “Tree of Life”. I felt weirdly relieved that the artist had left out one particular animal from the representation.

A sudden memory: Bare feet on a cold concrete floor. My little sister Sharon peeking between a pen’s steel bars, pointing at a piglet suckling a sow’s teat, its rump stained by a vague red birthmark, and Sharon whispering: “See, Clancy, that one’s called Rose cause it’s got a rose on its butt!” And her laughter and my laughter, both cut short as Dad—

The voice from the phone snapped me back to reality. I hadn’t caught its words, but the familiarity of its timbre shook me.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” I said, with all the authority that the body’s vocal chords could muster.

The voice on the other end—a voice I knew more intimately than any other—answered in a rollercoaster of strange, bouncy syllables punctuated by long vowels, bleating and accusatory.

“Do you speak English?” I thundered, cutting off the endless string of Chinese or whatever.

A short pause, and the assault of foreign words resumed. Blood rushed to the face as rage rolled in, and I slammed the floor. Shit! I was so goddamned close! But the heart rate was increasing, and again I counted breaths, forced myself to calm down. I rolled back onto the stomach so I could see the phone. The battery stood at fifteen percent.

No other option. I tapped the video chat icon.

Seconds dragged by, then a trill of electronic notes signalled that the connection was made. A face filled the screen. It seemed uglier than usual, partly because of the weary, frightened expression it wore, partly because it had its rights and its lefts mixed up. This was not really the case, of course. I was just used to seeing the face in a mirror.

I watched my own eyes stare back at me through the screen, not quite meeting my gaze. I watched my own lips form words in a language I didn’t speak. It was a violation, not just of my body, but of the uniform it wore and all that the uniform stood for. Again I wanted to vomit, and clouds of shame blurred my vision. Or was it just the dizzying sense of disorientation? Yes, I decided. Just the disorientation. The moment called for absolute confidence and authority.

I placed the paraplegic’s finger against the pale lips and shushed my own body’s occupant. It worked.

“You,” I said, pointing at the screen, “listen.” I pointed at the paraplegic’s ear.

My face stared back through the phone, fearful and confused.

“I,” I said, pointing at the paraplegic’s chest, “am Clancy Truman.” I traced the finger across the spot that corresponded to where my own body wore my nametag.

My face stared back, uncomprehending, still not meeting my gaze.

I repeated the gestures and the words, desperate for a sign that my body’s occupant understood.

I saw my lip quiver for a second or two, then break back into its torrent of incomprehensible babble. A note of panic rose in my voice, chasing it from its well-practiced baritone into an ever shriller register.

This was hopeless. I saw my eyes darting wildly as my body’s occupant twisted my head from side to side, screaming its garbage language and shaking my phone like some primitive shaman’s rattle. I caught a swooping, disjointed view around the large plexiglass cage at the heart of Anvil Base, with its industrial LED lights and racks of cameras, sensors and computer equipment. My body was apparently still alone inside the cage. If you didn’t count the Angelhammer, of course. Which I sure as hell didn’t. The on-screen image flickered into a scramble of pixels as the foreigner kept shaking the phone and screaming in panic. I closed the eyes.

We were fucked. We were all fucked. I was fucked. Sharon, wherever she might be, was fucked. Anvil Base was fucked, and all the men and women under my command. America was fu—

Quiet.

The phone had gone quiet.

It takes me longer to find her this time. But once I do, I never stray far. She’s where I knew she’d be. In her garden. Surrounded by all that she holds precious. Mustn’t let myself get distracted by them; their scent is enough to draw me away.

I approach her cautiously, trying to be casual about it, as if I weren’t there simply to bask in her glow. I miss her. I don’t know how long it’s been since I last dropped in on her. She looks the same. No new grey hairs, as far as I can tell.

I of course look different. Unrecognizable, you might say. But I like to think that if she really tried, she could see me as I used to be. Young. Healthy. Hers.

I touch her arm gently, too gently, and she flinches, only slightly distracted from her work. I retreat, waiting for the right time to try again. She doesn’t like to be interrupted when she nurtures the life under her domain, the plants and flowers she cultivates. I must wait till she is finished.

I can see images—not quite complete memories—of when she started this garden. It was so small then, nothing like it is today. I seem to recall her difficulty in keeping what little there was there alive. She’s come a long way, picking up tricks and tips, all the little secrets of how to make things thrive in her care. . .

I miss her. Did I say that already? I miss holding her in my arms, taking her places, doing things with her. . . Now I just watch her.

And when I try to get close to her, she usually brushes me off, not wanting me around. I try not to take it personally.

The sun is higher in the sky now. Her morning duties should be coming to an end. I will try again and hope she will not reject me.

I touch the back of her neck. She doesn’t move. Her skin is warm from the sun, and I revel in its texture. Perhaps I can kiss it, taste the saltiness of the sweat caused by the heat of the day. I try.

Her hand is swift. She smacks the back of her neck, and I come away in her hand. She sees this, looking down at my crumpled form, and she is instantly saddened.

“Oh,” she says, regretting her rash action against me. “It was a butterfly.”

I had tried to appeal to her this time. To come back in a form she would find pleasing. I don’t always have that opportunity. I don’t know how long till I may have it again.

But still it was nice to be next to her again. To feel the touch of her skin. To see her happy. And not in mourning. It took a while for her to return to her garden. To care about life, or giving life to other things. But finally she moved past losing me. And was able to smile again.

I wish I got to see her smile at me. That was why I came back as a butterfly this time. I must learn from this life how better to approach her next time. I will wait again, as long as I have to, so that it is a butterfly again that returns to her garden. Instead of touching her, I’ll put myself in her line of sight. Let her see my colors, my pattern.

I think it’ll make her smile.

A Finalist in 2020’s J. F. Powers Prize for Short Fiction and the L. Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Contest, Anthony Regolino has had his fiction and poetry included in various anthologies devoted to fantasy, horror, science fiction, crime, and comedy. He worked as an editor in the book publishing field for over a dozen years, has been a ghostwriter and contributing writer, and composed blogs professionally for major companies’ websites.

I pulled into the strip mall parking lot, and my implant disengaged, bringing me out of autopilot. Probably for the best that my conscious mind hadn’t made the forty-minute drive. As I reengaged, so did the adrenaline, as if the surprising, alarming phone had just ended.

The awning over the door was green, faded to yellow. West Allis Conscious Shelter. The kind of place I had always ignored, as if that could save me from ending up here someday.

Deep breaths. When I heard Theo was in there, I knew I had to come. Even if I hadn’t heard from him in years.

Verne, the woman who called me, met me at the door and led me inside. The cinder-block corridor of plexiglass-fronted cells was unnervingly quiet, but each cell was occupied. In one, the patient walked repeatedly into a wall. In another, their fingers writhed in the air, typing at a keyboard perhaps. Another seemed to stir a pot that wasn’t there.

Maybe on a subconscious level, I thought coming to Theo’s aid this time would be like busting him out of jail after the protest, or holding his hand at the clinic. As if I could swoop in and make everything right. This series of tableaus dispelled that. I didn’t want to see him like this, but it was too late to back out now. If Verne had called me, it had to mean she hadn’t reached anyone else.

Theo was in the last cell on the right. He had a bowl cut, like I remembered. His facial hair had finally grown in. He wore a stained, scuffed suit that hung off bony shoulders.

“Holy…no…” I muttered under my breath at the sight.

“They were probably on autopilot for a few days before anyone found them,” Verne said.

“Him,” I said. “As of seven years ago, anyway.”

“I got some food and water into him, and a fuel pill for his implant.”

As we watched him through the plexiglass, Theo kept moving around the cell, in some elaborate pattern. Like a bee guiding its hive to a flower.

“He must be exhausted,” I said.

“I’ll give him a little sedative too. Just wanted you to get a good look first. The only way he gets out of this loop is if he can finish doing what he told his implant to do,” Verne said. “I take it you weren’t there when it happened?”

“No, I haven’t seen him in years.”

“But he had your number in his wallet.”

I blinked, surprised. “I guess so.”

“Alright then, tell me what he was into back then.” There was a glint in her eye. A drive.

“We used to hang out a lot in college,” I said.

“Uh huh,” Verne said, smirking. I blushed. How I felt was so obvious to her; had it been obvious to Theo? I’d always wondered.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “I met him before he was openly trans, and I had just parted ways with my Bible study group. We were both figuring out who we were going to be. I remember watching direct-to-video action movies, listening to Italian folk music, drinking soju together…” The memories were surprisingly hard to distill. “I don’t know what he’d be doing now. Certainly not this.”

“People often use autopilot to get through something they don’t exactly want to do,” Verne said. She laid a hand on my arm. “Keep pulling on that thread. I’ll be right back.”

She ducked into a supply closet, and I heard a clatter as she pulled boxes off the shelves. She brought out exercise equipment, video game floor pads, an oversized piano mat. One by one, we tried sliding these under Theo’s feet as he moved around the cell. Nothing fit; the props only made him stumble.

I could feel the pressure of exhaustion and frustration behind my eyes, and noticed the time, well past midnight already.

“No luck yet, but we’ll figure it out, you wait and see,” she said, but it sounded rehearsed, unsmiling.

On my way out, I walked back down the corridor of dimly lit cells, past all the other patients, and I tried not to take those words as an impossible promise.