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Old Baltazar came ‘round every Wednesday evening.

Didn’t matter what time of year it was, or whether it was sunny or raining or snowing. Come Wednesday, there he’d sit, fourth stool from the end of the right side of the bar—bartender’s right, that is—holding court. Can’t say as many folks listened to him most of the time. Can’t say as he even listened to himself. But that didn’t stop him from talking.

Of course, you spend time that close to a man who talks like old Baltazar, week after week, year after year, well, you pick up a few things. Ideas, like. Bits and bobs. Facts, maybe—some of ‘em anyway, but lore, too, and hard to say if it’s an art or a science in telling the difference. Maybe there isn’t any difference. Maybe it’s all the same.

You might say that was the point of the whole thing, The Alchemy Club. Started as a high-minded affair, rich old men telling other rich old men why they were right about this and that, and why everyone ought to listen to ‘em. Not many left as can remember those meetings first-hand, but those as do say they were all bluster. Only substance in those meetings is the same one that’s served at the Club today, and that’s a whole lot of alcohol.

It’s just a tavern now, really. Sure, the old Alchemy Club sign hangs out front and there’s a good bit of dusty paraphernalia cluttering up the shelves in between the bottles and glasses, these cucurbits and alembics and lutes and the like. But no more meetings, not even an official chapter. Not here, maybe not anywhere—not anymore. Still, the place tends to draw a certain type of folk, and old Baltazar, he was exactly that type of folk.

That’s not to say it’s all old men nowadays. Far from it. Lots of different folks—not just young and old, but men and women and people from all different places and backgrounds. The one thing that brings ‘em together, that binds ‘em all as sure as a round of whiskies after midnight, is that they all traffic in what they call “the arts.”

Science, most know it as now. A few old timers still call it magic. Whatever they call it, they use a lot of fancy words, the kind that are meant to make a man feel like he doesn’t belong if he doesn’t grok to it, you know? But underneath all those syllables, it’s not so complicated. They’re just trying to understand the world around them. Trying to explain why things happen, and maybe figure out how to make them happen. Same as any of us. Rest of us just don’t smell so much like brimstone, and thank all the gods that ever were or might be for that.

Every so often, some young gun, just out of school and high on the smell of vellum, comes around packing a bag of hoary old chestnuts. “Really, isn’t magic just science we don’t understand yet?” they’ll say as though they just up and invented the notion and it’s the freshest thing going. Old Baltazar, though, he has none of it. Never does.

“Bullshit!” he’ll yell. “Don’t be an idiot!” That knocks the young ones down a peg or two, especially the ones as are used to only being told how smart they are.

Sure, they try to save face. Get that smug little smile. I’ll just humor the senile old man, you can practically hear them thinking. “Then what is magic?” they’ll ask, every single one of ‘em, every time. Not looking for an answer, mind you—asking the question just to prove that they were right in the first place.

But old Baltazar, he gives ‘em an answer all right, and it’s just about as plain and blunt as the nose on his face. “Magic is magic,” he says, “and science is science.” He’ll give ‘em a good look up and down. “Any idiot with a book can do science. Even you, probably.” They’ll spit and sputter, but he doesn’t let ‘em get going. “Magic, though…that’s something different altogether. Not everyone can do magic. Sure as hell you can’t. You wouldn’t even know what it looks like.”

Of course, these young ones, they’re in it now, up to their fool necks and no way out but to grab hold of something, anything, and try to hold on tight. Flailing about, tossing out words like darts and hoping one of ‘em finds the board. The boldest ones, both the smartest and the stupidest, get to the same place right quick, and that’s to say, “Then show me some.”

And old Baltazar—that’ll set him to cackling, all right. Right on the edge of sanity, that laugh, and never in your life have you heard a sound so confident, or so tired. “Stand back,” he’ll mutter, climbing off his stool, pushing his drink aside, and rolling up the sleeves of his robe so his arms, all skin and bones and liver spots, can move freely.

What he does next—and I’ve seen it a hundred times if I’ve seen it once—it’s tough to put into words. Presses his palms together, interlaces his fingers, pulls his hands in against his chest, closes his eyes. Mumbles something down into that scraggly gray beard of his, bits of food stuck in it, and extends his hands out away from his body, fingers still locked together. And then…

Something happens.

I stared at the tiny, shiny, silver spoon in the well-wrapped solstice box wishing we’d just gone to the semi-annual Solstice Ball at Castle Ever After instead of exchanging gifts first.

“I did not want to give you love,” he said to me. “So I gave you a spoon!”

He smiled like this made sense. Like the spoon was an appropriate substitution for love.

“Um.” I didn’t know what to say. I tore my eyes from the offending trinket.

“I know love was on your wish list and a spoon wasn’t. But love’s so messy! Just, you know,” his hands sprang into the air and swirled around, “everywhere. And then if things don’t go right, just messy.”

I blinked, my mind still blank. What response did he expect?

“A spoon,” he went on, “is so useful.”

“But it’s so tiny,” I protested. This spoon would not hold cereal or peas. Maybe one or two peas. Definitely not three. Even flower-fairies would struggle to implement this utensil.

“Love starts out small, too. Then grows.”

He was right.

“Does the spoon grow?” I asked, my mind filling with a spoon that gets ever larger until it was a shovel, or maybe it transformed.

He shrugged. “It’s just a spoon. It isn’t magic or anything.”

“Well, thank you,” I said for politeness sake, and I set the gift aside.

He waited expectantly, his brown eyes big, a near-smile on his lips.

He really should have given me anything on my list. I requested more than love. Perhaps, peace and hope had been too vague. A spoon was not near as useful as he thought. Imagine if he’d given me a magic spoon. A magic spoon, yes, that was useful. And why had he specifically mentioned the spoon in lieu of love?

I had a back-up in case the gift exchange disappointed. Oh, how it had gone awry! Initially I wanted to give him joy. But, alas, all he was going to get was this possibly magic bean.

Adria Bailton (she/they) imagines entire worlds and universes to share while spending her days studying atoms, the smallest unit of matter. More of her stories where she strives to create characters that reflect her own bisexuality, neurodiversity, and disability appear in ZNB Presents, Constelción Magazine, and Worlds of Possibility. Originally from the Midwest, she creates from the US PNW, on the traditional territory of several Indigenous nations, including the Stillaguamish, Suquamish, and Duwamish. Find her at www.adriabailton.com

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.

Contrary to popular belief, killing people was not part of Death’s job description. In truth, he was more of a glorified chauffeur: a guide for the spirits of the dead on their journey to the next world. Once a soul became lost, whether sidetracked due to past regrets or a terrible sense of direction, Death would find them, armed with empty promises and a point in the right direction.

But every few years there would be a soul—a terribly stubborn soul—who’d refuse any suggestion to pass on. And not a single one of those souls had been half so frustrating as the Border collie from Boston.

It was the third time this month Death had come to the city to ferry the Border collie’s soul. His boss was beginning to lose patience. The big man Upstairs was strict and had no sympathy for late deliveries. Death was aware of how expendable he was, despite his many years of service. Should he do anything prove himself incapable, he’d be replaced as quick as his soul could be sent back to limbo. The very thought made him nauseous.

No. He was too good at his job to be sent back to that awful wasteland. He refused to be bested by some volatile canine.

The sun was blazing in the afternoon sky. It shone upon the gold-spotted leaves of autumn trees, which lined car-clustered roads. Death glared at the blue sky. With the sun came people, dawdling about and getting in his way. A sunny afternoon in Boston wasn’t an ideal setting for a forced capture, but Death would persevere.

He moved with the sharp efficiency that came with centuries of experience. Weaving through crowded sidewalks, he dodged sudden bouts of arm waving and fist shaking until he arrived at the glass doors of Dan’s Pizza Place.

The pizzeria must have been operating for decades, now. Its once bright red brick walls had browned through the years, and its sign above the entrance was chipped on the corners. The whole building itself looked tired and rundown compared to the rest of the street. Yet there must have been some hidden charm about the old pizzeria, because it was was the only place Death could find the Border collie.

The dog’s spirit was there again, and Death crept behind it along the shadows. By now, the dog had sensed something was following it. Good. Death would use its fear to his advantage. The dog quickened its pace and skittered behind the pizzeria.

Several school children ambled across the sidewalk, giggling and effectively blocking the entrance to the alley. Death swept behind the children to stand in their collective pool of shadows. He dissipated into nothingness. Then, in the safety of the alley and its darkness, his form emerged as if from dust.

A whine whistled in the air. Death turned his gaze to the Border collie, who dolefully scratched its paws against a chain-link fence, ears downturned. Death grinned. No fence or wall could trap a dead spirit, but if the dog didn’t realize it, all the better for him.

He lunged. The dog keeled back, freezing in alarm as Death wrapped his fingers into the scruff of its neck.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Death flinched. He turned to the small voice before he could stop himself. In that brief second, the dog pulled itself out of its shock. It tugged free from Death’s hold, jumping up and over his shoulders, and Death fell face first into the pavement.

He pushed himself up from the ground just in time to see the dog sprinting out of the alley.

“No!” he shouted, stumbling to his feet. “For the love of—stop running!”

But the dog had already disappeared.

Death growled and whipped his head towards the voice. Beside a dumpster stood a young boy, whose large, dark eyes seemed at odds with his small face.

Death sighed. A large cloud moved across the sun, and the warmth that had once bathed the streets in autumn light vanished at once—a sure sign of the boss’s displeasure. As if the failed ferrying was really Death’s fault to begin with.

Rubbing his wrists, he ignored the kid’s stare as he left the alley, making a wide turn to avoid contact. The boy’s attention wasn’t completely unusual. Those who were nearing the end of their days could often see Death, and since he looked like a normal, mundane human being, there was usually no interaction and therefore no problem.

He pulled his schedule book from inside his jacket. Flipping it open, he looked through his upcoming appointments to squeeze in one more appointment with the blasted Border collie. While he penciled the adjustment, he realized the child’s footsteps were trailing him.

Nervousness bled into his gut. No mortal had ever tried to communicate with him, not since he had been hired. Then the overcast rolled past the sun, eliminating the shadows near Death, and everything became worse.

He was powerless.

“What are you doing?” the boy asked again, coming closer.

“Uh…” Death began, unused to conversing with humans. “I was…I was trying to catch a dog.”

The boy smiled. He was missing two bottom teeth. “Is it yours?”

“…No.”

“Oh. Are you a dog catcher or something?”

“No,” Death answered promptly. “I am not a dog catcher.”

Death stepped to the side and made to retreat into the shadows, but the boy stuck close to him like a toxic paste. It was too dangerous to try to dissipate with the boy so near.

“So if you’re not a dog catcher, why are you trying to catch a dog?” the boy continued, thumbs stuffed under the straps of his backpack.

Death sped up his steps, anxiously glancing between buildings for a chance to escape. Were humans always so chatty? “Because it is my job.” he replied.

“So you are a dog catcher.”

“No,” he repeated with frustration. “I am not a dog catcher.”

“Well then, what are you?”

Death thought for a moment. “I find lost things and…return them to where they belong.”

“Woah, that’s pretty cool. Do you have to go to a special school for that or something?”

“No,” he said, because what did that even mean? Death had to get out of there.

He glanced down at his watch. There was an old woman’s spirit roaming in Bangladesh that he needed to ferry in just twenty minutes.

Death faced the child square on. “I have an appointment.”

“Okay.”

Death thought that was a clear indication of their parting, but the boy was still standing there, smiling. “So now I must leave.”

“Aw, you gotta go now?”

Progress, at last. “Yes.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later then. You have to come back for the dog, right? Because you didn’t catch it yet.”

“I do.”

“When?”

“Thursday. 5 o’clock, EST.” Why was he still talking?

“I think that’s after school, so I can come help!” The boy grinned again.

Death started feeling nauseous again, but it had nothing to do with limbo.

“Oh, and I’m Colin. What’s your name?” the boy named Colin asked.

“That’s, uh, kind of private…” Death’s eyes shifted quickly, trying to find a suitable mortal name for a human male in Boston. “Martin…?” he murmured, reading off a nearby street sign.

“Your name’s Martin?” Colin inquired.

“Uh…yes, Martin it is, then.”

Martin. It didn’t have the same sweet ring to it as “Death”, but he supposed it was a suitable substitute. Death looked down at the strangely talkative boy and gave him a stiff nod before he sped off in search of the nearest shadow.

“Okay, bye Martin!” Colin shouted at his back.

Death didn’t know how to respond. Around the corner, he dove into the shadow of an ice cream stand.

On the other side of the train station just west of the city, the love of her life was buying a bouquet of flowers. She had never seen him before, but she knew that he was the love of her life. She knew it like she knew the sun rose in the East.

The love of her life finished the transaction at the florist and began walking to a platform, bouquet in hand. It struck her then that they were not going to be on the same train: he was going away from the city, and she was going to it. She walked towards him, first, and then ran, touching him on the shoulder as she caught up to him. He turned. His eyes were the darkest brown she had ever seen.

“You’re the love of my life,” she told him. His eyebrows raised, then lowered. She watched her statement click into place somewhere, and he smiled. It was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Then you must be mine,” he said. He looked at the bouquet in his hands, and held it out towards her. “I knew I bought these for a reason.”

She took the flowers. They were pink roses.

“I got a discount on them because I work there. Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Isn’t it strange to have a flower shop in a train station?” she said.

“Not at all.”

She looked at him. What a wonderful thing it was, she thought, to disagree, to love, to hold discount pink roses from the train station flower shop in her hands. In the distance, a train whistle sounded.

“You’re going away from the city,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Give me your number, so I can call you.”

And he wrote down his number on a scrap of paper in a thin and tilting hand. The train pulled in as he handed the paper to her, and she folded it and put it in her pocket so it would not blow away.

“Goodbye,” she called as he got on the train.

“Goodbye,” he called to her from the window. As the train pulled away he leaned out so he could see her, the love of his life, and his tie whipped in the wind.

She went back to the city on a train of her own. She did not have to walk far after exiting the train— her apartment was right next to the stop. From her top-floor window she could see the whole city lit up beneath her, and the golden dome of the station with the dark bodies of trains rushing in and out. When she got home the first thing she did was fill a vase with water and arrange the roses in it. The second thing she did was call the number in her pocket from a yellow corded phone hung on the wall. She sat at her little card table near the phone and stared at the roses as the phone rang.

“The number you dialed does not exist,” said a recording of voice after one aborted ring. She dialed again. Again: “The number you dialed does not exist.”

She hung up and left the room, returning a moment later with a copy of the yellow pages. She cracked open the book, ran her fingers down a page, and dialed again.

“Hello,” she said. “Is this the florist’s shop in the train station outside the city?”

“It is,” a man said.

“I was wondering if you had any information about an employee who works there Tuesdays and Thursdays. He has dark brown eyes and he bought roses from your shop just a few hours ago.”

She listened. She reached for the notepad and pen she kept on the table and wrote down a number.

“Thank you,” she said, and hung up. She dialed the number from the notepad.

“Hello,” she said. “Is this the train station outside the city?”

“Yes!” chirped a voice.

“I was given your number from an employee at the florist’s shop inside the station. I was wondering if you had any information about a specific passenger who got on the train leaving the city this afternoon.”

The voice receded into itself. “I don’t think we’re supposed to give out information on specific passengers.”

She waited. The voice spoke again, even meeker this time.

“If you were from the police we maybe could give you a list of names of the passengers.”

A pause, a moment too long.

“Are you? From the police?”

“No,” she said, realizing that even if she was, she had never asked his name and therefore the list would be of no use. “But he is the love of my life, if that counts for anything.”

She could hear papers shuffling on the other end, the stutter of a keyboard.

“The love— well, if— let me see if I can— I’m sorry, you said he worked at the flower shop? In the station?” she said.

“Yes.”

The typing sounds paused. There was the tap tap tap tap tap of someone deleting something, and then the typing started up again. Another pause.

“Do you remember the name of the flower shop?”

She told her. Another cycle of typing.

“Um. I think, um, we have no record of this flower shop in the station. Or any other flower shop in the station.”

“But he was buying flowers from it. Just earlier today. Are you sure it’s not just closed?”

She could practically hear the girl’s hands wringing. “Yes. I am pretty sure. To be closed it would need to— it would need to exist.”

She reached out and thumbed one of the rose petals. It was as cool and soft as skin.

“Well. Thank you for your time.”

She hung up without waiting for a response, and heaved the yellow pages to the U section. Dialed again. A man picked up on the other end before the first ring had finished.

“This is the railway union.”

“Hello. I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the conductor on the train to the city that left this afternoon. I want to know if he’s seen somebody.”

“Left from where?”

She told him the name of the town.

“No station in that town,” he said, like he was glad of it.

“I was just there earlier this afternoon. I took a train into the city from it.”

“Where’d you get off?”

She told him the name of the city.

“Only lines that go there are the North and East lines.”

“Then where did I meet the love of my life?”

“Never liked riddles,” he said, and hung up.

She leafed through the yellow pages. Then she picked up the phone and dialed. She stood and walked towards her window, leaning a shoulder against the frame as the phone rang. The golden dome of the train station was gone. In its place was a dark circle of empty space, like the hole where a tooth has fallen out. A long strip of land, clotted with dirt and wildflowers, had replaced the train tracks. She heard the phone pick up and spoke before the person on the other end had a chance.

“Is this the governor of the city?”

“You have the governor’s assistant,” a young man’s voice said. The pride he felt in his role— the governor’s assistant!— was audible.

“Well,” she said, staring at the empty strip of earth feeding deep into the sparkling city, “I was going to call to tell you that the railroad union missed a station. But that doesn’t appear to be an issue anymore. Thank you for your time.”

“Wait,” the governor’s assistant said. “Railroad union? I thought we ended— I thought that one dissolved decades ago. Is this a new development? Is there anything else you can tell us about it?”

“I don’t think so, I’m afraid,” she said absently. She looked out the window and wondered where the love of her life was at that very moment, whether he was making dinner or reading or even staring eastward out a window of his own, wondering the same thing as her. She realized that the governor’s assistant was still speaking, something about reelection and campaign promises and the profound value of small donations from citizens like you. She hung up, returned to her yellow pages, and dialed again. The phone rang seven times before somebody picked up.

June 1, 2025

I’m supposed to be on watch, vigilant against the metallic beasts that have murdered so many.

Instead, I’m looking at the flowers. The spindly tree across the street is an explosion of pink. Tulips, daisies, and what I’ve decided to call hydrangeas blossom in the tiny gardens along walks, against foundations, or in window boxes. My station in the corner of what was once my favorite coffee shop offers quite the view of the neighborhood. There’s an entrance to the highway three blocks away, around the corner. The town council’s convinced that if the machines come, it’ll be from that direction.

The most threatening thing I’ve seen in the last two weeks is an angry goose that’s decided he’s king of the nearby intersection. Anyone who’s dared come close has been run off with a honking, flapping, pecking tirade. We’ve all decided the throne is his until he dies of natural causes or chooses to abdicate.

Behind me, Martin snores in the coffee shop’s famous red leather couch. Before, I wrote so much good stuff in that thing. He’s taken his boots off and curled into its soft cushions, his face buried in the corner. Where’d he leave his gun? Ah, over by the window. Further away than it probably should be. Supposedly Martin served two tours in Afghanistan, but you’d never know it just by talking to the lazy bastard.

My rifle’s in my lap. I’ve used it to murder plenty of tin cans, but nothing more. It was this or farm duty. “In these trying times, we all must all band together and work for the common good of the town!” the mayor’s voice reminds me in my head. He’s right, but he doesn’t have to be such a dork about it.

If Martin can sleep, I can write. Hello, new journal. I’m Esme. Nice to meet you here at the end of the world.

---

June 3, 2025

We’re not sure where the machines came from. Maybe some poor soul out there on what’s left of the east coast knows, but that information didn’t reach California before the bastards hacked the power grid.

There are theories, of course, diverse and often batshit. The Marstons are convinced the machines are extraterrestrials here to wipe humanity off the planet and take our resources. Mary Kruger thinks they’re a DARPA project gone wrong. Martin bet me five dollars they’re the first wave of a Chinese invasion. Kelly blames Nancy Pelosi. Old Rod Wrentham’s been telling everyone the machines crawled out of the basement of a pizza parlor in a murderous quest to prove the superiority of their creator’s meatball subs, but I can tell from the glint in his eye and the way his theory keeps expanding that he’s just having fun with it.

Bill’s idea seems the most plausible to me. “Remember that asshole tech billionaire who proclaimed on Twitter that he was going to build an AI that would save humanity from itself?” he said in between puffs of our last joint one night. “I think he tried and he fucked it up.”

Before the machines cut the power, they flooded the internet with pictures and videos of their attacks on our cities and towns back east. Bill told me it was pure carnage. Like they didn’t think we, as humans, mattered one bit. I’m glad I never saw it.

I look to my right, at the goose guarding his intersection, and I wonder if the machines are just looking for a place to call their own. In their own murderous way.