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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her shadow nodded its dark head.

“What am I to do with her?”

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

“I can’t leave her here.”

Her shadow shook its head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I – what?”

“I said, do you –”

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

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

“In the – basket?”

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

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

And she bolted.

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

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

“Mind the cliffs!” cried Anne.

“What?” said the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To the village?”

“Are all the people there – like you?”

“They all have shadows,” Anne said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clouds?”

“The fog,” said the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But where am I?”

“This is our mountain,” said Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Disappear?”

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

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

“Comfy?” said Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some animal shrieked from somewhere up the street.

“A pleasure, Jay.”

He smiled earnestly. “Likewise.”

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

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

“It’s an obligation,” he said.

“Why?”

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

What a fine man, she thought.

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

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

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

“Your common sense?” Jay asked.

“Common sense is common.”

He laughed. “I guess so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s this?” he asked.

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

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

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

She laughed so hard she nearly dropped her cup.

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

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

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

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

The gang gasped.

“Her favorite!” Mrs. Hunchenbauer said.

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

“Because you’re a baby,” Bearel said.

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

“Favorite is one,” Job said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clubs,” Bearel said.

“Cars,” Mrs. Pinkerton said.

“Kids,” Job said.

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

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

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

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

Each hummed in agreement.

“It’s the parents,” Bearel said.

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

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

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

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

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

Laughter rolled over the table.

“Too soft,” Job said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Vat?” Mrs. Hunchenbauer asked.

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

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

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

“Is that tomorrow?” Mrs. Pinkerton asked.

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

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

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

The wind blew the dying steam from the cups.

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

“Too soft,” Job said.

“I should’ve known,” Barbara said.

They stared with an indifference she couldn’t comprehend.

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Pinkerton said, “We just feel…”

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

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

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

“What about some music?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Into assassination.

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

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

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

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

Their present was tyranny, their past lies.

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

Or see the bodies.

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

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

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

“It’s too dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

Sir Eld said, “The strand awaits.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

Cheezy shakes his head. “Dunno.”

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

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

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

They redesigned fire escapes over the last few decades. I never saw a problem with the rotted scaffolding they used to use, though I doubt it would have carried the weight of all 1,237 households in my building. It must have been seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago when they tore down every ladder in the city and replaced them with the Tubes.

I’m sitting on the iridescent ledge of a Tube now, just outside my forty-seventh floor apartment. My hand hovers over an enormous yellow button while I rock back and forth on the platform, which swaddles my legs in a slight bit of goo. I’ve gotten in trouble a few times for pressing the button when there wasn’t a fire. But it’s the city’s own fault for making the Tubes so comfortable. They wrap me up in this warm, heat-proof fabric, and soon I’m drenched in slime, funneling a thousand miles a minute through the invisible chute system that hangs like honey over the skyscrapers. It’s wonderful, and it lasts for ages–like how I imagine it feels when most people sleep.

But then I get to the other end–the fire station–and I have to deal with Mr. Pliskova who always threatens legal action if I keep pulling the goopy fire alarm when I’m not supposed to.

I sigh, retract my fingers from the button and turn to the next best thing. My lighter tickles the bowl of my pipe with dainty, cygilistic sparks of electricity. Soon, yellow heat waves radiate from the drug in the glass before I suck it all up through my lips and my cheeks shiver with delight. Cold gas rakes my throat, but I keep it in for as long as I can. I feel the tingle of a cough building in my lungs and as I watch the sulfur smoke wisp from my lips, I wonder if that’s what I’ll become when I’m gone.

I shriek as something jumps onto my hand. I brush it off and scurry away. That’s the other problem with the Tubes. For some reason, they like to wrap up dead things from the ground and send them up to the ledges. It happens so often that the mayor had to give a speech. She said she had no idea what caused it and after that, everyone just kind of accepted it. I nudge the little body over the edge and lean to see it disappear into the darkness below.

My attention catches on the building across from mine. I peer about twelve stories down into Julie’s apartment. I think she leaves the window open to taunt me. I can see her and her new boyfriend fondling each other on her couch. I wonder if it still smells the same or if his scent has invaded the aroma I spent so long cultivating. They’re watching a show I watched with her first. I shake my head as they get to my favorite bit, and don’t look up from their incessant necking. She leaves the window open to taunt me.

Anyways, I’ve extracted every morsel of yellow goodness from my pipe, so I suppose it’s time to head back inside. I’m careful not to pinch my fingers on the windowsill as I crawl through unflatteringly. I don’t want to feel any pain.

“Hello, Pascal,” I say to my roommate as I pass by. Pascal’s sitting in the usual spot, meditating as Pascal does. “How’s it going tonight? Got any plans?” Pascal doesn’t respond, as usual. I don’t expect anything more, I’m not crazy.

There’s a gun on the counter. It’s old and the trigger looks like it could disintegrate at any second, but the bullets that jut out from its revolving chamber glint new. This is the weapon my grandfather kept in his waistband during the war. It’s the one with which he shot a dozen fascists, and then himself. I admire it every day. I brush the dust off with the black feather I keep beside it, check to make sure it’s still loaded, and inspect its various fiddly bits, wondering if it would work if I used it.

I look up at the two doors in my apartment. On the left, the bathroom. Do I have to use the bathroom? Not really. It’d be something to do, but I tried about an hour ago and I haven’t drunk any water. On the right, the bedroom. Could I sleep? Probably not, and it would depress me to try.

So, I suppose it’s time for my only hobby–pacing around the living room in a wide circle, waiting for the drugs to kick in.

“Hey, Pascal,” I say to Pascal as I pass by on my first revolution.

I keep my apartment sparse. I read a book on spartanism a while back, thinking it was about the cool Greek guys. You know, statues, and battles and shit, but it turned out to be a life-coaching seminar on why it’s better not to have furniture. I never really liked my furniture anyways, so I thought I’d give it a try. I sent my couch, my coffee table, and my pay-per-view holographic television to the fire station.

All that’s left is my grandfather’s paisley rug. It covers the burns in the hardwood, and I feel it ties the whole room together, so I kept it.

“What’s good, Pascal?” I say on my second pass.

This goes on for half an hour, or until I start to wonder how long it’s been. I glance to the smokey outline where my clock used to be, and once again salute Pascal. I’ve also started to see tiny yellow figures in the corners of my eyes. They’re exercising, stretching their limbs, smiling, and depending on my mood, conspiring to rob me. I know they’re going to get bigger. I know they’re going to turn into huge fractals that make me forget where I am. Soon, the drug will take over my mind and I won’t feel like this anymore.

I’m tired, so I sit in front of Pascal. “Hi, Pascal,” I say again.

Pascal is an enormous, conglomerated shrine to every deity I’ve ever come across. Pascal sits at eight feet tall, oozing with the industrial grade glue I used to piece it together. The body is composed of various religious texts, all of which have been perused, torn apart, and stuck back together like a lunatic’s victim. It has the skull of a goat, the ears of an elephant, and ten divinely positioned hands that hold crustacean shells and stolen gemstones. I painted its base to look like those Tibetan clouds, but they turned out more reminiscent of dirty rags. Pictures of spiritual leaders sprout from Pascal’s shoulders, all smiling at me, smelling of every incense I could find on top of sage, myrrh, vomit and hardening wax. Pascal is my passion project. If I’m going to end it all, I may as well hedge my bets. I don’t want any unpleasantries.

That being said, I really don’t know how to pray to it all. I feel like I should, but to who? To what? For what?

I turn around to make sure the old gun is still in its place. It always is because only Pascal and I live here. Right on the table next to—

It’s gone. I twist my head to various corners of the room, spying for dropped bits and pieces of it, but there’s no trace. Did I move it and forget? I never move it. But maybe earlier today I decided it was finally time, and took it to the bedroom. I don’t remember that, though. And as the drug whispers louder in my ear, do I really care about the old gun?

I turn back to Pascal and rock back and forth on the hardwood. My ass starts to hurt. While I can stand it, I murmur incoherencies, hoping that if something is watching me, they might understand the feeling without the words. But soon, the yellow specters have clouded my peripherals, and I need to use the bathroom.

With a groan, I push up from the ground, and rub my eyes, missing the door handle twice before I catch it between two of my weakest fingers. Immediately upon entering the cracked-tile bunker of sewage piping, I turn to the mirror, and lift my shirt. It’s not like I’m going to go to the gym, or start eating healthier, so nothing will have changed, but I still shake my head as nausea slips up my esophagus.

“Hello,” says someone in the bathtub. “We know you want to kill yourself.”

I shriek and stumble back into the door, slamming my head on the wood. I point and scream “Get out! Who are you?” There are two women standing side-by-side in the faux marble basin. They wear trench coats and patinated leather bootstraps with modern ether rifles and futuristic control panel waistcoats. Two shy beeps sound out of time, and echo a series of red lights in their breast pockets that spasm on and off.

“We’re sorry to bother you,” says the one on the left, “but we have a matter of urgent business to discuss with you. My name is Captain Fronders, and this is Leftenant Muck. We are members of a government agency called AAMTT–the Association for the Advancement of Military Time Travel. We would like to enlist your help.”

I sputter and shake my head. “Time travel? Excuse me? Is this some kind of joke? Get out of my apartment.”

They disappear. No wind, no bright lights. The two women are gone, and I can’t remember if I hallucinated them.

I squeal again as a sudden wave of memory eclipses my thoughts. I fall to my knees. My heartbeat pounds in my brain as I experience a memory over and over again like it’s always been there. But it feels entirely new.

When I look up, the women are back.

“I remember you,” I wail. “I remember it now. You were at my elementary school. During volleyball practice. How–You looked… completely different. But it was definitely you–”

“Yes,” replies the woman on the left. “We’ve just come from there.”

The one on the right interrupts seamlessly. “Would you like to participate in our study?”

“What?” is all I can manage to get out.

“We are interested in your participation in our study. Are you familiar with the grandfather paradox?” She doesn’t pause for me to respond. “What happens if one travels back in time and kills their own grandfather?”

“We have been tasked with deciphering this problem,” continues the other. “But because of recently amended manslaughter legislation, we are unable to kill others in the past, we are only authorized to use… self-destructive methods. We find the whole grandfather part of it all redundant anyways. The paradox arises in the same way with even a one minute travel to the past. That being said, no one at our agency wants to test it. No one’s willing to go back in time and kill themself.”

“But since I already want to…” I piece together.

“Precisely.” Says the one on the left. “We want you to travel back in time, and sacrifice yourself to science.”

A pause. I steady myself against the wall, and my towel falls off its hook. “I’m too high for this,” I say. My vision is almost entirely consumed by the yellow shapes.

“Come towards us,” they say. I stumble forward, hands grabbing in front of me. I feel knuckles on my shoulder, and instantly I’m silenced. I try to scream, but my mouth moves too fast. My vision begins to clear, thoughts speeding along more swiftly than I can track them. When the women release me, I slump against the ridge of the bathtub, and catch my breath.

I’m sober.

Nobody says nothin’ good about that Kimball Manor, wastin’ away on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. Nobody says nothin’ bad about it either. Really, nobody says much at all about the old mansion, but somehow everybody knows about the Fungus Man that lives in the hole where the parlor floor caved in. It’s what the adults call an “open secret.”

Now, nobody in town knows this Fungus Man, and none but a few knows what kind of fungus make him up. Eunice always said the Fungus Man’s fungi weren’t like the mushrooms they sold in the grocery store, but the natural, dangerous kinds that make your throat close up and your skin blister and char. Eunice usually knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout when it comes to earth sciences, so I was keen to believe her. But I also had a mind to see it for myself.

I told her so, one day walkin’ in the gully next to the overgrown rail line while we were headin’ back from school. That was the long way ‘round, but we took it to escape the boys who always said Eunice had a mouse face and pulled her hair. They said plenty other mean things about her too. Said she looked like a bloated pear, on account of her hips. Laughed at her fingernails, full o’ dirt, and her patchy clothes. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with makin’ good use o’ God’s blessings,” I always said. It would cheer her up some, but not a whole lot.

What would cheer her up was takin’ the forest path just before the fork in the tracks. She looked mighty cheerful in the dim light under the forest canopy. She’d stop to point out new buds on a cranefly orchid or hornbeam saplings, threadin’ the shoots through her fingers. Every so often she’d find a mushroom you could eat, pick it up, and scarf it down. Wouldn’t even wash the grime off or nothin’!

“Henry, look!” She was crouched down at the base of an old oak stump, brushin’ a round, ruffled cap with the tips of her fingers. “Hen o’ the woods. Good eatin’, these.”

“Looks like them ballerina tutus,” I said.

Eunice laughed, a loud raspy cackle. Then she tore off a piece and gulped it right down.

“Bet you’re always thinkin’ o’ ballerinas in their tutus, ain’tcha, Henry?”

I frowned. I was goin’ by Hank these days, and she knew it.

She was pushin’ my buttons. She always did after a run-in with those bully boys.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in one of them tutus, Henry?” she asked, knowin’ she wouldn’t, but knowin’ I’d agree.

“Duh,” I said, “but your tutu would be made o’ these here mushrooms.”

She tore off another piece and offered it to me. I turned my nose up at it, but she pressed, shakin’ the thing at me. And that there’s when I got to thinkin’ of the Fungus Man.

“Hey, you think there really is a man made o’ mushrooms who lives underneath that caved-in floor over in Kimball Manor?”

Eunice just stared at me, tearin’ piece after piece of that hen o’ the woods. I thought maybe she was mad, or fixin’ to set me straight or somethin’. She could, too. But I’d never mentioned the Fungus Man before. Like I said, no one ever really says nothin’ about him or the house, so how can anyone have a strong feelin’ about it?

Jesus would’ve been born, grown, died, and resurrected before Eunice did anythin’ but chew that wood-hen, unless I clicked my tongue and said, “Gimme some,” and held out my hand.

She smiled, a little bashful, and gave me a piece. I popped it in my mouth. It was soft and fluffy and tasted buttery, just like chicken.

Eunice piped up. “I heard that the man don’t just live in a hole in the ground,” she testified. “I heard there’s a big ol’ tunnel beneath that house, stretchin’ all the way down into Hell, down and down straight into Satan’s fiery torture pit.”

She crept toward me, her arms held up in front like a zombie.

“Just waitin’ for stupid boys like Henry Tattnall to fall into it and get gobbled up by the devil himself.”

I gulped. “So he’s a demon, then? The Fungus Man?”

“If he’s real,” she said, her voice quivering, “he might as well be. I’d steer clear if I’s you.”

She huffed and started walkin’ away, her arms pulled taut as a circus high-wire behind her. My head was tellin’ me she was just messin’, but my heart wanted to prove her wrong. Show her I wasn’t scared o’ no tunnel or devil or Fungus Man. And if she was really messin’, why would she herself be so scared?

So I said, “You’re too chicken to find out for yourself, ain’t ya, Eunice Bailey?”

She whipped ‘round again. “Ain’t scared. Just got no interest in dyin’.”

“Well, I’ll protect you if you promise to come with.”

“Scrawny boy like you? Protect me?”

Now, it’s true that I’m on the scrawny side. Just haven’t filled out yet. All the Tattnall boys do, eventually. So it did seem funny that scrawny little Hank Tattnall could ever protect Eunice Bailey, who was just as tall and nearly twice my size.

We’d climbed trees and arm-wrestled and all that plenty o’ times, and she always won. But she was only strong when she could find her nerve, and she sure couldn’t find it when those bully boys had a mind to beat down her confidence. And who could blame her? They set upon their target like huntin’ dogs. Not lettin’ up until they was satisfied with the kill.

So I stood back, hands on my hips, lookin’ at the forest refuge around us and called, “Done it before, ain’t I?” Takin’ credit for walkin’ her home the long way, not being scared of the forest like them bullies.

Boy, she really got mad then. Her face turned red as a hot stove and she said, “I’ll show you, Henry Tattnall. You wanna face the worst fear you ever known? Well, be my guest.”

And she stomped off toward old Kimball Manor on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. I shoulda known right then that Eunice Bailey knew more than I did–about that house, about the Fungus Man, but also just about everything.

The Guide stared toward the sunrise over a sea of smog just four hundred feet below his homestead. He scuffed at the ground with his boot and watched dust skitter across the clearing. Long shadows punctuated every pebble.

They were late. Why were the damned pilgrims always late? They needed an early start to reach the summit and return before dark. And there was Zoola to face at the top. It wasn’t wise to keep a dragon waiting.

He brushed hair out of his eyes—when had it gone so grey?— and shoved his hands into his pockets. He’d been guiding the annual pilgrims for thirty years now, almost half his life. Sixty pilgrims up, thirty pilgrims down. It was a nasty business, but if he didn’t do it—

The crunch of tires on gravel announced Jim’s electric pickup finally arriving. Zoola didn’t allow internal combustion on the mountain. Hard to believe people down-below still pumped that poison into the soup they tried to breathe.

The truck rolled to a stop right in front of him, and his friend waved from the driver’s seat.

Friend. That was a stretch for someone he saw one day a year for drop-off and pick-up. But he did like the man. He didn’t ask questions or express many opinions.

“Hey, Old Man. Sorry I’m late,” Jim said.

Again, he thought, but he waved it away as his friend got out. “Glad to see you’re still on the job.”

He took Jim’s offered hand and held onto it, savoring the pressure of palm against palm, the warmth of the flesh, and of the gesture.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jim said. “Sunshine and clean air one day a year. But, I envy your position, Old Man. When you gonna retire and give someone else a chance?”

“Not gonna happen.” And you’d thank me for that if you knew. He dropped the handshake and looked toward Jim’s passengers.

“So, who are our lottery winners this year?”

The pair were already out of the truck and gaping at the sky. Jim held out the dossiers, but the young woman…. His throat clenched. She was practically the image of— No, he wasn’t going there.

She wore grey homespun shirt, pants, and jacket and a wide grin. A single braid, black as the dragon’s heart, hung nearly to her waist. Dark eyes were crinkled with smile lines. So like—

“Old Man?”

“Sorry, Jim.” He took the documents.

The young woman was Nadie Charlie from Polson. Twenty-five. A scholar of the collapse and the rise of the dragons. He hadn’t realized there was still a settlement up on the big lake. Or scholars anywhere.

The man was Frederick Vider, a fifty-one-year-old merchant from Missoula who apparently owned a good portion of the city. He looked just as he imagined one of Missoula’s wealthy jerk-offs would. Baked on frown, thinning brown hair, stout but reasonably fit. His clothing appeared manufactured. Probably had it imported from Kansas City or some such outlandish place. Probably ate imported real food, too. And lived in a climate-controlled home while his neighbors struggled to keep air scrubbers working and choked down vat-grown algae.

He already knew who he was rooting for. But he also knew Zoola’s preferences. This was going to be a hard one.

“Odd pair,” he said. “But that’s the lottery. I get why folks would enter for the chance of a day in the sun. But why anyone would want to upload into that bastard of a dragon is beyond me.”

“You don’t live in the down-below,” Jim said. “It’s bad and worse every year. If I didn’t get my annual dose of fresh air, I might enter myself.”

“Are you about done, Gentlemen?” Vider said. “I’m here to see a dragon. Shouldn’t we be getting on with it?”

He knew he wouldn’t like this guy. “Hold your horses, Buddy. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“That’s Mr. Vider to you.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the truck.

“Right,” the Guide said. “Come on, Jim. Let’s get you unloaded. We don’t want to keep Mr. Vider waiting.”

Jim dropped the truck’s tailgate and flipped off the tarp. There, behind the uninspiring crates of compressed algae, was the Guide’s yearly splurge. A keg of Missoula’s best beer.

He grew much of his own food in his greenhouse, but the algae packs would round out his needs. Most folk down-below, the algae was all they got.

Jim hefted a crate and carried it to the storeroom. Before the Guide could grab the next one, the young woman was beside him, pulling it out.

“That’s not necessary, Ms. Charlie.”

“Let me help. And please call me Nadie.”

He let her take it and watched her walk away.

“A bit young for you, isn’t she?” Vider said.

The Guide shot him a look, then lifted the next crate. Jim took the next and Nadie the next, and they had the algae unloaded and stowed in a few minutes. Vider watched, like a man used to watching others work, as Jim and the Guide wrestled the keg into the spring house. The Guide ran a hand over the cool metal. Tonight.

Back at the truck, he shook Jim’s hand again. “See you later for pickup.”

“If you’re still alive, Old Man.”

Jim waved out the window as he turned a circle in the clearing, then headed back down the road.

“Hey, Old Man. Let’s get going,” Vider said.

“That’s Guide to you, Mr. Vider.”

“Whatever. Just do your job.” He already had his City-of-Missoula-issued pack on his back.

But Nadie…She stood in the center of the clearing, smile gone, pack dangling from one hand. She faced the trail, but her focus was miles beyond.

“Nadie?”

She shook her head and turned toward him, her smile back in place. “It’s so beautiful here. I mean, I knew it would be, but…It makes me feel hollowed out. And present, as if I’ve just stepped out of a dream.”

Vider snorted, and the Guide ignored him. He supposed he’d be doing a lot of that today. He scanned his homestead one last time, then shouldered his pack. “All right—”

A shadow swept the clearing.

All three looked up as a sixty-foot-long silhouette circled back. The dragon soared on motionless wings, neck outstretched, and serpentine tail trailing. They banked and rose, turned a higher circle, then flew off to the south.

Vider had backed up under a big pine. Nadie stood with her head tilted skyward, her mouth open in a silent oh.

“All right, Pilgrims. Let’s head out.”

“About damn time,” Vider said and took off up the trail.

Nadie followed, adjusting her pack straps, and the Guide brought up the rear. It was best to keep an eye on the pilgrims, keep them moving and on the trail.

The grade eased after a short, steep stretch, and Nadie fell back to walk beside him. “Is that chittering sound off in the woods a bird?”

“Squirrel.”

“Oh. I’ve seen pictures. Do you think we’ll see one up close?”

“Likely, we will.”

“I’ve never been above the smog before. It must be wonderful, living up here under the sun.”

He glanced at her. “There are trade-offs, but yes, it’s pretty nice.”

“Trade-offs?”

She was a chatty one. This was going to be a long day.