\nSaturday moans and whimpers in his sleep. The noise is one of the things keeping Abbie awake. As he tosses and kicks, soaking the sheets with sweat, she\u2019s torn between stroking his long greasy hair to calm him, or grabbing him by the neck and choking the life out of him. If she dared. But she doesn\u2019t do anything. Unless watching him in the dark, desolate hours when she should be unconscious counts as something.\n<\/p>\n
\nDuring the day, he has moments when Abbie swears he\u2019s his old self: funny and energetic. The guy who engages and upsells their customers. It melts her fucking heart, despite herself, despite everything. Despite the fact that he\u2019s high. Those moments let her pretend she\u2019s still charmed by him. Still in love, even.\n<\/p>\n
\nBut as he relaxes into a semblance of normal sleep, a cold numbness settles into Abbie\u2019s chest and brain, and it doesn\u2019t seem to matter anymore how she feels about him. She can\u2019t decide if it\u2019s a relief or the saddest thing in the world. She\u2019s wide awake. Her latest notebook is on the bedside table, the one she writes her lists in. She doesn\u2019t remember when it started, but she\u2019s filled a few. She takes it, slips from their bed, picks up a hoodie from the floor that reeks of sweat, his sweat, and slides it over her head. She shuts the door behind her, taking care not to wake him. He has no idea she\u2019s going to leave him.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe pads down the hallway to her lab and stands in the dark listening to the hum of the machinery. She loves her lab. It\u2019s clean, organized, and unlike the rest of the apartment, which has gone from shabby chic to something more like genuine squalor, it makes her hopeful. But she\u2019s leaving this too.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe switches on the light and goes to the glass tanks lining the back wall from floor to ceiling. She gazes in at the delicate creatures covering most of the surfaces inside, some slowly crawling, others half-buried in moist dirt. Shimmer beetles. But these Shimmers are squat, ugly things, dark and unadorned, glorified cockroaches if not for the secretions they ooze from the tiny glands on the backs of their legs and the tops of their feet. She moves down the rows of tanks to the biggest tank with the fewest insects. The Royals. She pulls one out and places it on her notebook atop the stainless steel table.\n<\/p>\n
\nIt\u2019s still, except for the twitching of velvety antennae. It\u2019s walnut-sized, has a delicately tapered, triangular head, and a shiny black carapace covered in silvery whorls of delicate hairs, arching and spiraling in complex patterns. She bends to look closer, and the whorls stir under her breath, and lo and behold, seem to shimmer.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cHello, beautiful girl,\u201d she whispers.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe\u2019s tempted to set it on her arm or neck, to let it do its work, but truth be told, she\u2019s afraid. She\u2019s only let a Royal crawl along her arm for a few seconds at a time, and even that? Damn. It was too much for her. And she made them, working month after month splicing genes, chopping and pasting sections of DNA until they were as perfect as they could be. Saturday says it\u2019s the best work she\u2019s ever done. Abbie\u2019s not so sure. It\u2019s only a matter of time before he wants to try one out.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe picks up the Shimmer beetle, gingerly, and puts it back in its tank.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nAbbie wakes on the living room couch to Saturday shaking her arm. He\u2019s gentle but it\u2019s jarring, and she yanks her arm away and sits up, clutching her knees to her chest. Late morning sun sneaks through the gap between the two curtains, illuminating his pale, hairless chest. It\u2019s covered in tattoos, tiny ones and zeros from neck to naval. Binary code. She used to ask him what it meant but he\u2019d never say, acting cagy and mysterious. Now she suspects it doesn\u2019t mean anything.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSorry,\u201d he says. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to scare you.\u201d He frowns, and hugs his arms tight into his chest, like he\u2019s mimicking her posture. \u201cWhy are you sleeping out here?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI didn\u2019t sleep out here.\u201d Abbie knows she sounds defensive. \u201cI couldn\u2019t sleep so I went to mess around in the lab. I was going to come back to bed but I must have drifted off.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe\u2019s nodding, biting his lip. There are Shimmer tracks along his neck and arms, the older ones pale and dull, and last night\u2019s, pink and shiny. In their own way, she has to admit, they\u2019re sort of beautiful.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cOkay,\u201d he says. He shows her his palm. There\u2019s a message there, red letters shining through from the device imbedded beneath his skin. He smiles. \u201cJota wants them. A big order. Sight unseen.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJota wants what?\u201d She\u2019s still a little fuzzy, still half in the land of sleep. Then she stiffens. \u201cWait. The Royals?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah! Isn\u2019t it great?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo! I told you they aren\u2019t ready yet. I haven\u2019t even given them a full test run.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHis hands go up like she\u2019s pointing a gun. \u201cI know, I know, Abbie. But he wasn\u2019t offering much for the usual. He tried to knock off 20%, mentioned Caputo, going to see what he\u2019s got for sale. I had to do something.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cReally? Did you?\u201d She\u2019s on her feet now, glaring at him, trying not to melt down. Not again.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah, I did. Because you\u2019ve been working on those things forever, and it\u2019s taking up all your time, and all our money. Sales are slow. We need to make the Royals pay off.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe moves toward her, and she can\u2019t help herself, she backs up. He\u2019s a full head taller, all sharp angles and long, pale limbs like old tree branches, skinny but gnarled with muscle. His dark eyes are big, unblinking, and his teeth are bared in the grimace he uses to intimidate difficult clients. The look that made her quit going to drops, the look that makes her wonder if she actually knows anything about Saturday. Then he stops. He sighs and crosses his arms again, shrinking back into himself. It\u2019s a relief. And yet, she wants to reach out and pull him to her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI think we need to do this, Abbie, ready or not. Or we\u2019ll lose our biggest customer.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nI don\u2019t care, she wants to shout. I don\u2019t care anymore. I\u2019m leaving. But she stays silent.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBesides, if we need to give the Royals a test run, I can try one out this afternoon.\u201d He says this quiet and casual, but she hears his desperation. \u201cBetter me than you, right?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAbbie keeps her eyes on the ones and zeros covering his chest, on the message flashing in his palm, on the shabby couch. Anything but his face. She can\u2019t stand the look in his eyes, the burning need that has nothing to do with her.\n<\/p>\n \n List of People I Miss<\/p>\n 1. Lilah. \n<\/p>\n \nShe retreats to the lab for the rest of the morning. An infection has taken root in one of the tanks of ordinary Shimmers, spreading rapidly through the beetles. They have noxious looking green fuzz sprouting from the glands on their legs, and it makes her faintly sick to look at it. She puts one in the iso-tank on the table and watches as it lurches from side to side, staggering like a drunk. She directs the tank from her touch screen, the manipulators extending per her instructions, pinning the suffering beetle in place. A tiny scalpel slices off its head. When it stops moving, the scalpel shaves off some samples of the green fuzz for analysis. She\u2019ll have to dispose of the entire batch.\n<\/p>\n \nShe slips off her gloves, backs away from the table, and sinks into a soft chair she keeps in the corner for breaks. She starts to crunch the numbers, breaking down how much the infection is going to cost them, but stops. What does it matter now?\n<\/p>\n \nSaturday appears in the doorway, startling her yet again, looming, half in the dark hallway, half in the lab. He holds out a plate. \u201cI made you a sandwich. You must be hungry.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe\u2019s being nice, trying to make up for the morning, even though he thinks it was a minor skirmish. And it was. But there\u2019s been so many of them. So, so many. She\u2019s living like a frightened sparrow in her own home.\n<\/p>\n \nShe shrugs. \u201cI guess. How long have I been in here?\u201d She always loses track of time when she\u2019s working.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDunno. A few hours at least.\u201d He moves into the lab, which suddenly seems cramped, ill-lit, and sets the plate on the table. He peers into the iso-tank. \u201cHow are things going?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAbbie hops out of her chair. Saturday is right, she\u2019s starving all of a sudden. \u201cThere\u2019s an infection,\u201d she says, taking a bite out of the sandwich. Peanut butter. Something he slapped together. \u201cI\u2019m running analysis.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe bends to get a closer look. She chews, the peanut butter sticking to the roof of her mouth, swallowing as he frowns and furrows his brow. The wad of bread and paste crawls down her throat, sticky and uncomfortable. He turns and glares. The food settles like a rock in her gut.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat are you\u2026\u201d He stumbles over the words. \u201cThese aren\u2019t\u2026\u201d He jackknifes up and slams a fist on the steel table, causing the plate to bounce and rattle. \u201cAbbie, you need to be working on the fucking Royals! I thought I explained.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe air feels like it\u2019s been sucked out of the room. \u201cWell,\u201d she says. \u201cThis has to be dealt with; it\u2019s killing a lot of Shimmers. And you said sales are slow, we need the money.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe doesn\u2019t back away this time, not in her lab, even though she\u2019s scared. He comes home from drops sometimes, or \u201cmeetings\u201d he won\u2019t explain to her, with his hands cut up. Once or twice he\u2019s had a fat lip or a bruise under an eye, \u201cnothing to worry about\u201d his only explanation. But she can\u2019t give any more ground, not this ground.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah.\u201d He runs a hand through his hair. He paces back and forth along the table, shaking his head. \u201cYeah. Yeah.\u201d He\u2019s working his jaw.\n<\/p>\n \nShe wants to close her eyes, tries to, but can\u2019t quite. She stares through tight slits at the tattoos on his chest, the bones beneath them more prominent than they used to be.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThe thing is,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s not just the sales.\u201d He stops pacing and for a moment he shrinks a little, hunching his shoulders. \u201cWe owe Jota some money. He wants the Royals. As payment.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat? What do you mean, we? What happened, Saturday?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYes, it fucking matters.\u201d Now she feels the hot flush of anger. \u201cI built this. I\u2019m the one who grows the goddamn things, I\u2019m the one who spends every moment in here making them better, while you fuck around getting high all day. How can you owe Jota money? He\u2019s the customer!\u201d She grabs him by the shoulders intending to shake him.\n<\/p>\n \nHis hands clamp around her wrists, hard, she yelps in pain, and he\u2019s shoving her backwards through the lab. She lands on the chair, gasping for breath and he towers over her, eyes wild, mouth open, grunting like an animal. She flinches.\n<\/p>\n \nBut he moves away. He leans against the table, head down, breathing heavy. \u201cOkay. Let\u2019s\u2026\u201d He shakes his head. \u201cHe\u2019s coming tonight. He wants the Royals. That\u2019s the way it is.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThere\u2019s fear in his voice. She feels like she might throw up.\n<\/p>\n \n \nThere\u2019s nothing else to do with the Royals at this point, except try them. She scans the weathered piece of paper with all her notes on it. She thinks she has everything in place, all the lines of code in the proper order, all the chunks of DNA nestled next to each other in a way that makes sense. They\u2019re potent. She knows that.\n<\/p>\n \nThere are seventeen. They breed slow, much slower than regular Shimmers, and they require exacting, tender care. Too hot in the tank, they die. Too cold, they die. The decaying vegetable matter that makes up their diet has to be just the right mix (beet greens, radish, and kale), and at the right stage of decomposition or they\u2019ll sit there and starve rather than eat. They could never survive without her, outside the lab, even outside their tank. They shouldn\u2019t even exist. But it\u2019s entirely possible they could kill you in an hour with the acidic secretions from their glands.\n<\/p>\n \nShe doesn\u2019t have much of a plan, only to leave. Saturday, the Shimmers, the lab, her life. There are places she can go. New Reseda, a free enclave. Lilah is there, her sister, a sister she chose, not an accident of genetics. She hasn\u2019t spoken to Lilah in months (How did so much time pass?) but she knows she\u2019ll take her in. She\u2019s sent a message, but so far her palm hasn\u2019t flashed with a reply. She sees Lilah, working beside her in the dingy lab where they both cut their teeth, making next to nothing, but learning what seemed like at the time to be the most closely guarded secrets of the universe.\n<\/p>\n \nThen Lilah left to go to school, to learn more. And Abbie went with Saturday. Why had she done that?\n<\/p>\n \n List of Things That Made Me Love You<\/p>\n 1. You can cook. <\/em><\/p>\n \nAbbie has already picked out a large, healthy Royal for Saturday, her palm flashes red indicating a message. She retreats to her soft chair to read it. It has to be from Lilah. It\u2019s the only message she\u2019s had all week. It\u2019s short and to the point:<\/p>\n Hope you\u2019re ok<\/p>\n But don\u2019t think you should come here<\/p>\n L.<\/em> \nShe stares at it, her vision tunneling, her heart pounding. The vicious anxiety that usually comes at night washes over her now. How could it possibly have been 15 months? Is that right? She squeezes her eyes shut and holds fast to the chair. If she lets her grip slip even a tiny bit she\u2019ll break apart, and all her delicate pieces will blow away into the air. Lilah. She latches on to the hum of the lab equipment, always present in the background of her life, and focuses hard, hoping it will drive away the fact she has nowhere to go. That she never really did.\n<\/p>\n \n \nIt\u2019s midafternoon, and the harsh light coming through the living room window makes Abbie squint as she enters. Saturday is on the couch, knee bouncing, hair still greasy and unwashed, but at least he\u2019s dressed. The black shirt clings to his bony chest and she knows it\u2019s been lying on the bedroom floor for several days. She pulls the curtains tight and sets the box on the coffee table in front of him.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWow.\u201d He leans forward to examine it. The box is made from reclaimed redwood, a bit rough still along the edges where Saturday never finished sanding, but the grain of the wood is beautiful, and the polished brass lock and hinges make it seem sturdy and elegant at the same time. \u201cWhen did I make that?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cA few months ago. You don\u2019t remember?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah, of course I do.\u201d He shrugs and smiles, his shitty mood from earlier, the precipice where they\u2019d stood together forgotten now, because he knows what\u2019s in the box. \u201cI should finish it. I will.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe wants to scoff, to make sure he knows she\u2019s well aware he\u2019s said shit like that a thousand times and he\u2019s never going to finish the box, or any of the other little art projects he\u2019s abandoned around the apartment. But I\u2019m past that now, she thinks, glancing at her palm. Saturday is nodding, impatient to get to it. And those little art projects used to matter to him. A lot.\n<\/p>\n \nHe reaches forward and lifts the latch, and flips open the box. He stares at her. \u201cThere are two,\u201d he says.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThe Royals perch atop a small mound of damp soil, antennae twitching as they taste the air. Looking at them now, at the silver whirls decorating their backs, the delicate, precise steps they take as they move inside the box, still tasting, Abbie wonders what Lilah would think of them.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019re going to try?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe nods and sits beside him. He puts his hand on her. She doesn\u2019t flinch, but fixates on the Royals, waiting for him to stop touching her. He doesn\u2019t notice. He\u2019s too excited.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHow much time do we have?\u201d She asks.<\/p>\n \n\u201cUntil Jota? Um, he\u2019s not coming until tonight. Late. Is it enough time with these? I need to be lucid.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYeah. It should be enough.\u201d She stares past him when she says it, focusing on the drab, off-white wall.\n<\/p>\n \nThat\u2019s all Saturday needs. He picks up a beetle and she takes it from him, careful to hold it around the carapace with her thumb and index finger. Saturday beams at the other one, hand trembling as he holds it, so eager to get started. He doesn\u2019t wait for her, pulling off his shirt and placing the Royal on his neck. It nestles into his skin for a moment, as if luxuriating in the warmth, and begins to crawl.\n<\/p>\n \nIt makes its way along his prominent collar bone, and Abbie can see the glands along the legs and feet swell as Saturday sits back and closes his eyes with a soft sigh. In seconds, the secretions are oozing and a glistening trail appears behind the beetle, tracing its path as it continues onto his chest, slow and deliberate. He exhales, and underneath his breath is a shaky, guttural moan. The Royals work fast.\n<\/p>\n \nShe examines hers. It twitches its legs, as if it\u2019s as ready for this as Saturday, and she sees the glands are swelling already. I may have gone too far with these. Not the first time she\u2019s thought that. She\u2019s still afraid, but it doesn\u2019t matter. Saturday moans again. Abbie places the Royal on her upturned wrist.\n<\/p>\n \nIt doesn\u2019t move at first, apart from the inquisitive rotating of the antennae, sussing out the environment. Saturday has melted back into the couch, arms and legs slack, head lolling, eyes closed, smiling. With normal Shimmers it takes him 15 minutes to get this way, and she\u2019s shocked again by the power of what she\u2019s made in her lab. Her arm starts to burn.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Royal traces a tight circle on her wrist and slowly walks up her arm toward the crook of her elbow, leaving a delicate trail of mucous behind, which glistens as it\u2019s absorbed into her skin, leaving the faintest trace of discoloration. The burning reaches a crescendo, but just as she\u2019s about to cry out in pain, her arm goes numb. It\u2019s as if the limb is no longer attached to her body, and it\u2019s nothing like she\u2019s experienced with her regular Shimmers. Her whole body tingles.\n<\/p>\n \nIs Saturday laughing? Abbie wants to turn her head to see, but she can\u2019t manage right now. A rush of pleasure surges up her arm and into her chest, as the Royal crawls toward her shoulder, the trail of secretions growing ever thicker as it goes. She gasps as the rush surges through her stomach, between her legs, travelling all the way to her toes.\n<\/p>\n \nThere\u2019s light streaming through the window. It\u2019s shocking how beautiful it is, how it seems to reach out to her and she struggles forward to meet it, flopping on to the floor. She finds herself on her back, the Royal creeping across her neck and the warm light is in her eyes. Didn\u2019t she shut the curtains? A dim, far off pang in her stomach. She hears the hum of the machinery, pulsing and throbbing in some sort of rhythm. This soothes her. It\u2019s what she knows. Her constant. The noise reminds her of Lilah, her smile, and how it felt to be bathed in her friendship like the light flooding her face now. Again, that distant pang. But. She\u2019s not in the lab.\n<\/p>\n \nIt takes a moment of white knuckling the carpet to force some clarity into her brain. The humming. Her chest heaves, and distantly she can feel how hard it is to force it up and down. The humming. It\u2019s her breath, a ragged, rasping noise. I\u2019m drowning, she thinks.\n<\/p>\n \nThe room spins and flips and Abbie has to close her eyes to control a wave of nausea, terrible and sour, roiling her stomach. Somehow she\u2019s on her hands and knees. She opens her eyes and the Royal is inches from her face, on its back on the carpet, legs waving feebly in the air, glands swollen and leaking fluid, its mission unrealized, its purpose unfulfilled. She inhales deeply, bringing some relief as her lungs fill with air. Stretching out her arm, her hand batters the surface of the table until she finds what she\u2019s looking for. Saturday\u2019s box. She brings it down on the Royal, feels it crunch under the wood, and she vomits.\n<\/p>\n \n \nShe wakes in fetal position, her head cradled in the crook of one arm. It\u2019s pitch black and she\u2019s confused about where she is. Then she knows. She\u2019s in her bed, in the basement apartment she shares with Lilah, and Lilah is sleeping across the room in her own bed. There are no windows in the apartment and when they turn off the lights every night, Abbie is always shocked at how dark it can get when you live underground. It\u2019s a wretched place, but they know it\u2019s temporary.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe\u2019re going to look back on this,\u201d Lilah often says. \u201cAnd all we\u2019ll remember is how happy we were. We\u2019ll forget the damp, and the mold, and the dark. We\u2019ll laugh about it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nA dull, red light flashes over where Lilah is sleeping. Abbie pushes herself onto her elbows.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cLilah, you have a message.\u201d Her voice is a harsh croak, her throat dry, then she smells it, the sour reek of vomit. And she remembers where she is. She lowers her head to the floor and cries in gasping, ragged heaves. She can\u2019t help it; this time she can\u2019t help it.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen she\u2019s done, she stands on unsteady legs, makes her way to the wall and slides her palm along the light panel, just far enough to bring a dull illumination into the room. Saturday is slumped on the sofa, eyes closed, mouth open, one arm splayed awkwardly behind his back. For a moment she thinks he\u2019s dead, until she sees his pale chest rise and fall. Then again. He\u2019s breathing, slow and shallow. The message light continues to flash in his palm.\n<\/p>\n \nHis Royal, however, is long gone, perched stiff and desiccated on the arm of the sofa, glands depleted. Dead. The way Abbie designed it. There was a time when she felt a little pang at every casualty, even though she made them that way, but not now. The Royals are beautiful, amazing creatures, but she\u2019s made them too strong. They shouldn\u2019t exist.\n<\/p>\n \nShe moves close to Saturday, lets her hand hover above his lank hair, withdraws it. The fresh tracks along his neck and chest are a vibrant, angry red, deep and wide, etched into his skin by the acids helping the narcotics burn their way into the blood stream. He\u2019s got a full dose and she\u2019s sure he\u2019ll be okay because he\u2019s built up a ferocious tolerance, but there\u2019s no question in her mind if she hadn\u2019t had her lucid moment, she\u2019d be dead. Most people would be.\n<\/p>\n \nShe grasps hold of his arm, cool and clammy, moves it out from under his back, and arranges his hands in his lap. Now he looks peaceful.\n<\/p>\n \nIn the bedroom she packs a bag with a change of clothes, jewelry, some small items she can\u2019t bear to part with, and goes to the lab. The hum is there, of course, loud and steady, but she does her best to tune it out, to not let it seduce her. She peers inside the tank of Royals. They\u2019re quiet, most of them half-buried in soil, unaware they never should have existed. She doesn\u2019t want them to kill anyone. She slides a cover over the top of the tank, making sure it fits tight at the seams, and switches off the power. The tank goes dark. She thinks of them suffocating in there\u2014it won\u2019t take long, they\u2019re not hardy creatures\u2014and has to turn away.\n<\/p>\n \nShe grabs a carrying case from a jumbled pile in the corner and fills the bottom with dirt. It\u2019s nothing like the box she used for the Royals earlier, the one Saturday built special one afternoon. It\u2019s made of white corrugated cardboard, has a couple of fold up handles, and a bunch of air holes Saturday punched in the top with a screwdriver. He uses them for bulk deliveries. She slips on a pair of latex gloves and carries the box over to the regular Shimmers. By the time she\u2019s filled it, then another, the Royals look dead in their dark, cold tank. She peers inside. One is still alive. It has its front legs up against the glass of the tank and is trying to push forward, over and over again, oblivious to the fact there\u2019s a barrier in front of it, one it could never penetrate, a puzzle it will never solve.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou poor thing,\u201d Abbie whispers. For a moment she considers putting it out of its misery. But she turns and exits the lab carrying her boxes.\n<\/p>\n \nShe shuffles back to the living room, still groggy, the tracks on her arms and torso throbbing, and pauses at the entrance. Saturday hasn\u2019t moved a muscle, his hands still nestled in his lap.\n<\/p>\n \nShe pulls out her notebook, and standing in the dim light she makes a new list. It\u2019s short and only takes a moment. She rips the page from her notebook, lays it on the coffee table near Saturday\u2019s knees, and slips from the room.\n<\/p>\n \nOutside are the old beach chairs they set up by the front door. How long ago was that? She plays with a fraying nylon thread hanging from one of the arms as she sits and waits, the boxes of Shimmer beetles and her bag by her feet, the evening air cool and dry. She doesn\u2019t have to wait long.\n<\/p>\n \nJota appears almost like magic, a dark form rising from the shadow of the broken street light near their door, and floats toward her, quiet and slow. He\u2019s a big man, not as tall as Saturday, but broader, blockier, and he\u2019s flanked by two more shadows, just as imposing, even though they hang back. Abbie has met him once or twice before, in bars, when she and Saturday still used to go places together, but as he looms over her, scowling and rubbing his chin with thick fingers, she can tell he doesn\u2019t recognize her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAbbie.\u201d She gives him what she hopes is a casual wave, even though she wants to shrink herself into a protective ball beneath her chair.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cRight.\u201d His voice is low and full of gravel. \u201cYeah. Where\u2019s your man, Abbie?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nShe stands, which somehow makes her even more aware how big he is, and how flimsy the life she\u2019s built really is. \u201cSaturday is sick. So, I\u2019m here.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJota chuckles, glances back at the two bulky shapes behind him. \u201cYeah, I bet he is. Sick. But not you, Abbie, huh?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAbbie wonders if he can see the fresh Shimmer tracks on her arms and neck, which are throbbing, slow and steady. Her legs feel weak and wobbly. She shakes her head.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWell. Sick or not\u2026your man owes me. So.\u201d He folds his arms and looks down at her, his eyes calm and cold. The two men behind him move in a little closer and for a moment she allows herself to imagine she\u2019s back in New Reseda, with Lilah, anywhere but here, as she holds out a box.\n<\/p>\n \nJota takes it, nodding, opens it. He squints for a moment, frowns, and lights up his palm to get a better look. \u201cNo. This isn\u2019t what I asked for.\u201d He picks up a beetle, peers at it in the dark; it\u2019s tiny, trapped between his thumb and finger. \u201cI want the new ones.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThey\u2019re dead.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDead? No. Saturday said they were ready to go. How could they be dead?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cI put them down.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nJota stares. There\u2019s no expression on his face, just a peculiar blankness. Abbie can\u2019t imagine him having any type of emotion at all, happy or sad, loving or angry. His eyes remain cold and dead as he crushes the beetle he holds between his fingers, grinding it back and forth, and flicks the carcass. It hits her between the eyes and falls to the ground. He wipes his fingers on her shoulder, gently, but she can feel the raw strength in them.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAbbie.\u201d Her name leaves his lips soft and quiet.\n<\/p>\n \nOne of the men standing behind Jota yawns and stretches, shaking his massive head, like a dog just waking up. This is nothing to them, Abbie thinks, and she realizes she\u2019s trembling. She\u2019s afraid. But the fear is swamped by a wave of sadness as she pictures Saturday, passed out on the couch, shirtless and skinny, lost to the world.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cAbbie,\u201d Jota says again.\n<\/p>\n \nSomewhere, at this moment, Lilah is probably asleep in her bed, by herself, or maybe with someone Abbie doesn\u2019t know, someone she loves. Maybe she\u2019s holding his hand, the way she used to hold Abbie\u2019s sometimes when they were alone in the dark. She thinks of everything she\u2019s given up, and everything she\u2019s about to.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cTake the Shimmers. There\u2019s more than enough in the boxes to cover whatever debt Saturday ran up. Way more. And take this.\u201d She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper,\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d He asks, taking it from her.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s the recipe. For the Royals. Give it to Caputo, or one of your other guys. All the info they need to make them is in there. But it needs adjustments, they\u2019re too strong. You\u2019ll kill off your customers if you\u2019re not careful.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nThere\u2019s no change to Jota\u2019s grim expression. He puts the box of shimmers on the ground and unfolds the paper, nodding his huge head as he looks it over.\n<\/p>\n \nShe couldn\u2019t give him the Royals she\u2019d made with her own hands, the ones she tended to, fed and cared for. Not those.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJust take it and leave him alone. Leave him alone, now.\u201d The last part she whispers. She glances at the bag she\u2019s packed, lying by the chair.\n<\/p>\n \nJota notices. His dead eyes bore into hers. \u201cYou\u2019ve finally had enough of him, huh? Getting out before it all goes wrong? Your man,\u201d he says. \u201cHe\u2019s been going wrong for a while now. It\u2019s too bad.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe gestures. His two lackeys come closer. Each one picks up a box of Shimmers.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHe\u2019ll find his way back to me,\u201d he says. \u201cSooner or later.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nAbbie watches him melt back into the street, the two shadows closing ranks behind him, and all three disappear. She\u2019s still trembling, but she ignores it. She takes her bag, hesitates for a moment, and goes back into the apartment.\n<\/p>\n \nSaturday, of course, is still on the couch, still passed out. When she touches his cheek, he sighs and curls into himself, turning his back and burying his face in his arm. She picks up the list she left, scans it in the dim light, reading each item to herself, making sure she didn\u2019t leave anything out. She reaches into her bag for a pen, adds one more thing, and sets it back down for him to find when he wakes.\n<\/p>\n Christopher Zerby is a science fiction writer and a leading expert on imaginary robots. His stories have appeared in the Five on the Fifth, Ontario Review, Murder Park After Dark, and Revolution on Canvas. In a previous life he mixed records and drove around the U.S. and Canada in a van playing music. He regrets nothing. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Saturday moans and whimpers in his sleep. The noise is one of the things keeping Abbie awake. As he tosses and kicks, soaking the sheets with sweat, she\u2019s torn between stroking his long greasy hair to calm him, or grabbing him by the neck and choking the life out of him. If she dared. But …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107232,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20081],"tags":[20082],"class_list":["post-137961","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-37-autumn-2020","tag-the-colored-lens-37-autumn-2020","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137961","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107232"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=137961"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137961\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137962,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137961\/revisions\/137962"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=137961"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=137961"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=137961"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n
\nList of Things You Don\u2019t Do Anymore
\n
\n1. Play guitar.
\n2.
\n3. Look at me.
\n4.
\n5. Touch me.
\n6.
\n7. Notice when I walk into the room.
\n8.
\n9. Bathe every day.
\n10.
\n11. Laugh.
\n12.
\n13. Try to make me laugh.
\n14.
\n15. Leave the house.
\n16.
\n17. Build things.
\n18.
\n19. Paint things.
\n20.
\n21. Have friends.
\n22.
\n23. Fuck.
\n24.
\n25. Be kind.
\n26.
\n
\n<\/em><\/p>\n
\n
\n
\n2. <\/em><\/p>\n
\n
\n
\n
\n2.
\n3. You\u2019re not afraid.
\n4.
\n5. You can play that Bach piece by memory, the one I like.
\n6.
\n7. You listen.
\n8.
\n9. You remember the things I tell you about myself.
\n10.
\n11. You\u2019re an incredible salesman.
\n12.
\n13. You let me sleep with my head on your chest.
\n14.
\n15. You\u2019re honest with people about how you feel about them.
\n16.
\n17. You\u2019re honest with me.
\n18. <\/p>\n
\n
\n
\nHaven\u2019t heard from you in 15 mths<\/p>\n
\n<\/p>\n
\n
\n