“It was a love potion, not cyanide.”

“You were going to poison me.”

“Well?” Kanon cocks her head. “Are you poisoned?”

“Hibiscus petals, aluminium. Where’d you get the tears?”

“Naturally sourced, of course.”

“Of course, of course,” James laughs.”So what? What did you think of, when you were crying into the cauldron?”

Kanon smiles. “How much better it would be when you were finally incapable of argument. How I could spend my nights. The desperate look on your face when I wouldn’t let you sleep in our bed— but you wouldn’t protest, because you loved me more than you loved yourself. So I’d keep you on the carpet, like a dog. And you’d wag your doggy tail, and when I said stay. You. Would. Stay.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. I’d feed you the scraps at dinner. The burnt steak. Spoiled milk. You wouldn’t care. You’d say thank you, Kanon, more please, Kanon.”

James kisses her and she bites his lip until she tastes blood. When he pulls away, she licks her lips, hums. James tilts his head, mouth bloody and eyes dark. “Baby,” he coos, “this isn’t enough for you? This isn’t love, to you?””

Kanon laughs. “You wouldn’t know love if it shot you.”

It is always the eyes.

She stares, and continues to stare.

“Are you ready for bed, Miss Graham?” I ask.

“It’s too bad,” Miss Graham murmurs, eyes sliding shut with dissatisfaction. “Too bad, too bad, too bad.” She begins to rock. Self-soothing. Praying. I place a palm over her clammy forehead till she falls into a reluctant sleep.

Miss Graham is my eldest patient, and I alone am mourning her.

She is not dead.

Arthritis seized has her hands. Alzheimer’s is eating at her brain. She is not dead. I’ve never understood it. How the human body can sustain such injuries and endure. All for the sake of the soul, trapped between bone and muscle and skin.

My little sister was the closest thing to perfection. She was born on the ninth of January, fresh off the start of a new year. It was eight minutes past eleven when she arrived. Nine minutes past eleven, when she was delivered to my mother’s waiting arms. Ten past eleven, when her dewy eyes parted. Eleven, eleven, when she died.

My mother cried, and cried. With bittersweet joy. There was not a grander blessing than what had been given. The surgeons took pictures, the nurses wept with her, teary smiles and well wishes. They stroked my sister’s bald head tenderly. A headline was already in formation:

[Newborn’s life complete after seeing mother– every parent’s dream come true!]

On our mantle, there is a golden framed photograph of my dead sister, held to my mother’s bosom as though she were merely sleeping. Lining this photograph, are a dozen or more celebratory cards.

I was six, the day my sister came and went. That night I went to bed and clasped my hands together, and wished dearly, too, for completion. I have lived all I needed to live, seen all I’ve needed to seen, I dutifully recited the prayer we were taught in school. I have lived all I needed to live, seen all I’ve needed to see, let my soul come together, nice and clean. It was a stupid rhyme. I was a stupid child. I remember crying when I woke up the next morning.

My best friend from ages seven to ten, departed on a Spring afternoon, after we had chased each other around a daisy littered park. Neena Abarca. I would tease that her last name sounded like a wizard’s spell. I believe that in retribution, she made her first and only magic trick, a disappearing act. Neena was It and I was catching up, because I had always been the faster one, but not faster than a dog. A beautiful Golden Retriever that chased a pale ball its owner had thrown. Out of bounds, that ball. It was a fault. The dog should not have chased it, and Neena should not have looked back. But she did, and that dog jumped straight into her arms as though they had been practising the embrace for years. Neena held the dog the way my mother held my sister. And then her eyes rolled back, and she crumpled to the grass. Strings undone. I screamed, I remember, and shook her like a doll. It was all useless: the screaming and the pleading and the wondering. Neena was dead, and that dog laid next to her, still and unmoving, too. They had completed each other.

“It’s all in the eyes,” my mother told me, a week before her own completion. Holding me to her chest, and thinking only of my sister. “That’s how you know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re not lost anymore.”

I was lost.

I have lived all I needed to live, seen all I’ve needed to see, let my soul come together, nice and clean, we sang in assembly, rocking back and forth, almost shouting, not very nice or clean because we were the fragmented children. Our souls had not come together.

“Let me get a look at you.”

Miss Graham has woken up for her medicine. She won’t let me inject her until I kneel by the cot. Her lukewarm fingers cradle my face. She looks into my eyes.

She is wishing I could complete her. I am wishing it, too.

“Too bad, too bad, too bad.”

Three young adults walk into Whole Foods Food Court. They are all wearing Spider-Man costumes. One of them spoons a generous helping of mac and cheese onto their tray. This is PICKLE. One of them stuffs five mustard packets into the groin of their costume. This is WINSTON. The last one stands in front of the meat selection, hand to chin. This is RAGE.

RAGE:

Salami or turkey bacon?

WINSTON:

All of it. Just. Take all of it.

PICKLE:

Excuse me. Hey, ma’am, excuse me. Can you—I have a question.

RAGE:

Here we go…

PICKLE:

Does this contain dairy? (pointing to the mac and cheese) Because I have a real bad intolerance.

WINSTON:

It’s mac and cheese, Pick.

PICKLE:

Now hang on, let the nice lady speak. Veganism is on the rise, you know? My local cafe lets me have oat milk.

WINSTON:

Yeah, for your goddamn coffee, not a midwestern delicacy. You know, you’ve been pissing me off all day and this is just—this is the last straw, you got that, Pick? Mac and cheese will never be vegan. That’s—it’s wrong. It’s not right to do that. Unnatural.

RAGE:

Wait, wait. Turkey bacon or smoked salmon?

WINSTON:

What part of all of it do you not get, Rags?

RAGE:

I have a right to choose—

PICKLE:

So, dairy? What cheese was this made with?

WINSTON:

You don’t hav’ta choose! That’s the whole point! That’s why we got the trolley! Load the shit up so we can get the hell out of here.

RAGE:

I’m not gonna load up on stuff I don’t even like, Wince! What’s the point in that? Y’know I hate wasting stuff! You know I hate leaving food about just ‘cause I don’t like the taste of it! You know how my momma used to—

WINSTON:

Oh here we go.

PICKLE:

I have a slight intolerance to soy, but a little bit of diarrhea never hurt no one. I can do skimmed, actually. But why would anyone wanna drink skimmed? It’s like cow piss.

RAGE:

—and it’s not right that you’re tryna manipulate me when all I’m tryna do is decide between salami and smoked salmon! I have feelings, Wince! You know I told my therapist about what you said last week—

WINSTON:

Oh brother.

A siren sounds.

PICKLE:

Damn it! Dairy or not lady, seriously?!

WINSTON crams more sauce packets into his costume. RAGE takes the salami, the turkey bacon and the smoked salmon. PICKLE shovels spoonful after spoonful of mac and cheese into his mouth.

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

It does contain dairy, sir.

PICKLE:

(muffled)

FUCK!

RAGE:

Next time we’re going somewhere with less options. I don’t like the stress, Wince. You know I don’t like the stress.

WINSTON:

Whatever. Let’s get the hell outta here. Rags, you’re driving.

RAGE:

I hate being the driver!

WINSTON:

Pick is gonna shit his pants.

RAGE:

Fine!

WINSTON pulls out a gun, wiping the muzzle on his arm.

WINSTON:

After this, I’m gonna reform.

RAGE:

What? Where are the keys?

WINSTON:

Trolley. I think all this killin’ is ruinin’ my zen, Rags. Sometimes when I sleep I toss and turn. That psychic tarot lady from the circus said it’s all the ghosts tryna roll me off the bed.

RAGE:

She was crazy!

WINSTON:

I dunno. Sometimes. (turning safety off of gun) Gonna get a little vulnerable, bare with me. Sometimes, I get this weird feelin’ in my chest. Like I ate bad curry. But instead of an’ upset stomach, it’s an’ upset heart. Or somethin.

RAGE:

Sounds like heartburn.

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

It might be guilt, sir.

WINSTON:

Guilt?

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

Yes. Guilt.

WINSTON:

(scratching his head with the gun)

For what though?

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

Murdering innocent people?

WINSTON:

Huh… Not all of ‘em were innocent. I’ll tell ya that. But you know… you might be onto somethin’. I’mma keep you alive.

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

Thank you, sir.

RAGE:

We gotta go.

WINSTON:

(to WHOLE FOODS LADY)

I’m just gonna kill one. No, two pigs. Tha’s it. Then I’m reformed. That okay?

WHOLE FOODS LADY:

Um.

PICKLE:

Eurgh.

COP:

Hands in the air!

WINSTON:

Just one.

The train will bring the morning prayers along in an hour’s time. For now, she creates three lines of smooth rock. The rocks are picked specifically for their oblong shape and grey exterior. Too dark or too light and they are thrown back into the water. She sweeps the ugly looking dirt between the lines away with a dustpan and brush. Then she stamps down on that clean dirt with her heel until it is packed tightly and unlikely to be moved by the wind.

Once Shadique has finished the morning preparations, she takes a bath. Handfuls of pink blossom petals float in the bathwater and a waft of rosemary and lavender fills the room. Shadique bathes for twenty-one minutes.

As she towels her body dry, she hears the first offering. Behind the wooden shutters of her bedroom wall and before three lines of rock, a woman kneels onto the clean dirt and presses her forehead against smooth rocks.

‘Easy God of the East, please if you would be so kind: I would like my next child to be a son who can look after my daughters when I am gone.’

Shadique rubs the towel behind her ears.

‘You are devoted to me?’ She questions.

‘Extremely devoted, my Lord.’

‘Your son is with you,” Shadique says. “I see his essence within you. You are with child.’

‘Oh thank you, my Lord! Thank you!’

So it goes:

‘Check your pockets, you are overflowing with wealth.’

‘our crops have begun to flourish, I can see it now.’

‘Your daughter will marry by the next full moon.’

On and on it goes:

‘Thank you, my Lord!’

‘Praise you, my Lord!’

‘Take these, my Lord!’

When the sun starts to turn, Shadique retires from the bedroom and descends into the yard. She walks in between the lines of rock, patting down with her heel. She collects bread and wine and trinkets. Coins of gold and silver. Vials of pure mountain water. Knitted wool.

Then she has her second bath. Then she goes to the bedroom. Then she goes to the yard.

The rocks have moved. The dirt is ugly. The first train will arrive in an hour’s time.

Behind the wooden shutters of her bedroom wall and before three lines of rock, a man kneels onto the clean dirt and rests his forehead against smooth rock.

‘I would like to become a God like you, my Lord,’ he says. ‘A very good God like you.’

Shadique rubs her towel beneath her breasts.

‘You are devoted to me?’ She questions.

‘Extremely devoted, my Lord.’

‘Then you are with Godhood,’ Shadique says.

‘Come inside,’ Shadique says, drawing the bedroom shutters open.

Sadiq lays down the first stones beneath the early morning sun.

The train will bring the morning prayers along in an hour’s time. For now, he creates ten lines of smooth rock. The rocks are picked specifically for their large size and shining complexion. Too small or too dull and they are thrown back into the water. He sweeps the dirt between the lines away with a broom. Then he stamps down on that dirt with his heel until it is packed tightly and not to be moved by the wind.

Once Sadiq has finished the morning preparation, he takes his meal. Thick slices of meat are mixed with steaming rice, rich gravy fills the great hall. Sadiq eats for thirty-one minutes.

As he shovels a spoonful of rice into his mouth, he hears the first offering. Behind the golden shutters of the great wall and before ten lines of rock and the metal fence that divides the land in two, a woman kneels onto the dirt and presses her forehead against the rocks.

‘Working God of the East, West, North and South, please if you would be so kind: I would like my next child to be a son who can look after my daughters when I am gone.’

TOMI: then say that. holy fucking shit, jane.

TOMI throws her head up to the sky.

TOMI: you’re so—

REI: guys.

JANE: no, go on.

TOMI: rei, come on. why are we here? honestly, why are we here? you know how she gets. let’s just go.

JANE: sure. bye.

REI: tomi, stop. just—calm down. we’re not leaving anyone in the middle of the goddamn night. are we insane?

TOMI: she—

REI: let’s get water. i need water.

TOMI: i’m sober.

REI: ok? i still want water.

JANE: i’m just gonna get the bus.

REI: jane. no. jane!

JANE keeps walking. REI chases after her.

REI: what bus? there’s no bus.

JANE: i’ll wait.

REI: what? until six am? just, come on. let’s get some water and then we’ll split an uber or something.

JANE: i’m skint.

REI: we’ll cover you.

TOMI: i’m not—

REI: oh my god. (hands dragging down face) are you for real right now? yes, jane, we’ll cover the uber. we’re not going to leave you here. what the fuck, tomi.

JANE: (slurring) i’m gonna sleep here.

REI: no, no. up, jane. no sitting. up. up!

JANE: wurhhhhh

REI: tomi, help. tomi, no don’t—

TOMI: sits down.

REI: guys!

JANE: get off of me!

TOMI: you get off!

JANE: why’s your hair wet?

TOMI: spit.

JANE: eurghhhh.

REI: ok, we’re getting an uber right now.

Levi came back three weeks after disappearing.

She turned up at my door when I was shaving my legs. I thought it was my Amazon parcel so I took the stairs two at a time and answered the door in my dressing gown.

Levi was dripping wet. It had been raining all morning. A torrential downpour that marked the end of our drought. Her hair sagged with water, dark and shining from the sun’s white sky. She smiled with her entire face, stomach heaving with breath the same way that young children’s did—as though she had run a race and just made it past the finish line.

‘Levi,’ I said.

‘Maul,’ she gasped, still smiling. ‘It’s raining.’

Well, I took her inside, of course. She dripped down my hallway, body lilting side to side like she couldn’t make up her mind which foot to lead with. She hummed some soft tune, too low for words. I squeezed the rain out of her hair and disinfected her bleeding feet. She seemed to feel no pain and let go of discomfort as easily as it arose. Ow, she sighed then laughed. Oh! Wow! Lot of blood, isn’t it? Tilting her head. She wouldn’t let me put socks on her. Feet darting all over the place, up and down and around like we were playing a game of tag.

‘Maul,’ she said while the kettle boiled. ‘How have you been?’

What could I say? What could I do?

‘Need to finish shaving my legs.’ I lifted my half-shaved leg, one long strip of smooth skin down the shin.

‘No need for that,’ Levi waved me off. ‘No need for anything, really.’

‘Would you like tea?’ I questioned. I had started the process without asking.

‘Well of course.’ Levi nodded. ‘That’s why you’re making some.’

‘Levi, where were you?’

Levi hummed.

‘You’re a missing person, you know? We need to call the station, once you’ve warmed up.’

‘No need, Maul. No need.’

I stirred honey into a mug, leaning against the counter. ‘You’ve changed.’

‘No,’ Levi said, firm. ‘Not at all.’

‘You have. You—where were you? I was worried, you know? It’s not good to disappear like that. It’s really,’ I dithered. ‘It’s cruel.’

‘Were you thinking of me?’

‘Sometimes,’ I lied.

‘Maul, I want to explain this to you, I really do. But you have to be honest. I can’t talk to you if you’re not honest.’

That burned me badly. ‘Who are you to—to make demands like that?’ I wanted to throw the tea down the drain but held the mug steady in my shaking hand. ‘You leave and you come back like—like this. Now you’re telling me to be honest. You don’t want me to be honest, Levi. You won’t like it.’

‘Stay open, Maul. You’re closing up,’ Levi said.

I set the mug down and slapped her across the face. Her skin was too brown to pinken, but I knew the blood was rising all the same. My palm stung and I focused in on it, the way heat vibrated off of me. I wanted to slap her again but her face was to the side. It would be a bad angle. The contact would be too weak.

‘Where were you!’ I screamed.

Levi looked up at me with her big cow eyes. ‘I saw something,’ she whispered.

I took a seat at the table, gripping the corner. ‘There are posters of you in the mall. And the bus station. Outside Nisa too.’

‘Thank you,’ Levi said. ‘I saw a fire.’

‘Your mum’s gone mad.’

‘It was a little fire. The drought wouldn’t let it die.’

‘You’ve been fired from Co-op.’

‘Aw. The fire talked to me.’

‘I slept in your bed.’

‘It told me everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘All of it.’

‘What?’

‘Maul, we don’t need anything.’

‘Did someone take you?’

‘The fire existed before the drought.’

‘Were you drugged? Raped? Was it blackmail? How did you escape? Why were you barefoot in the rain?’

‘Maul, I can’t talk to you like this. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘What does that mean?’

Levi wouldn’t reply.

‘What does that mean!’

I couldn’t get anything out of her. That night tormented me. I finished shaving my legs and nicked my ankle twice. We curled up in Levi’s bed together in furious silence. I was infuriated. She was silent. I would have stayed up all night staring at her, wishing I hadn’t slapped her, wishing I had hurt her more, wishing we could go back. Sleep took me violently, I fought it till it beat me blue.

YIN: yeah. why’s this thing so heavy?

LACE: fire door. mind your feet.

YIN: should we just call a guy?

LACE: yin, we don’t need a guy. just. hold it still.

YIN: do you know what you’re doing?

LACE: yes. i watched a video.

YIN: so you’ve never done this before.

LACE: why do you have so little faith in me? we don’t need a guy. we have never needed a guy.

YIN: ok.

LACE: what?

YIN: nothing. i just. i see what this is about now, that’s all.

LACE: yin, don’t. piss off.

YIN: not everything can be about him, lace.

LACE: i don’t know what you’re talking about.

YIN: right.

LACE: we don’t need a guy!

YIN: lace.

LACE: ugh. i hate how male-centered you are. can we not exist without him? is that not a thing? can it not just be about us? us alone!

YIN: i’m not the one—

LACE: i’m sick of you doubting us!

YIN: i’m not doubting anything, i’m just—

LACE: why can’t it just be us, huh? why can’t we just make it work like this?

YIN: (quietly) we can. but—

LACE: but what!!

YIN: why do we have to do it alone? i know we can, but why?

LACE: …we don’t need him, yin. we never did.

YIN: he’s our dad.

LACE: so what?

YIN: i dunno. doesn’t that mean something?

LACE: we can fix doors alone.

YIN: you don’t even know how—

LACE: i watched a video!

YIN: what if it gets stuck and doesn’t open? it’s too heavy to break, lace.

LACE: it won’t get stuck.

YIN: the hinge is all weird.

LACE: it’s fine. it’ll open just fine.

YIN: i dunno.

LACE: you know what?

YIN: what?

LACE: we don’t even need a door. let’s just. yeah. no door.

YIN: no door…

LACE: yeah. we’ll just. it’s only us. what do we need doors for, anyway? it’s only you. it’s only me.

YIN: that’s true. that’s true.

“You’re not meant to do that,” Maleek says.

“Hmm?”

Instead of answering, Maleek slaps Evan’s hand away from her face. Maleek is staring at Evan’s spotted cheeks like it offends her, nose wrinkling. Evan stares back evenly.

“If you keep doing that it’ll scar up,” Maleek says, annoyed.

Evan shrugs. “It’s satisfying,” she murmurs in lieu of a proper response.

“Satisfying enough to look ugly?”

Evan snorts. “You care too much. It’s not your face.”

“I have to look at it.”

Evan gives the girl a big shove and she falls straight off the bed. Maleek whines about landing square on her tailbone, voice pitching up and up and bouncing off the walls. Evan ignores her and starts to pick at another spot near the bridge of her nose. The cold weather makes her acne flare up like routine every winter - her lone Christmas present. Winter is a terrible season. Her toes are frozen between the sheets, and she wonders if this is the first stage of hypothermia.

Heat is a rare thing in December, but rarer still in a tinny cubicle of a room like this. The bare walls remind Evan of a museum and she holds her breath in hopes of turning into a statue. She used to be able to sink to the bottom of the pool and stay there for at least eight minutes. Now she’s out of breath before she even reaches two.

There’s a pond outside big enough to fit a skiff, but it has been frozen over since the beginning of November. Evan wants to take a rock to it and smash the icy barrier to pieces. There has to be fish trapped under there, who have only seen the light of day through a mosaic. They would be glad to see the sun again.

Maleek climbs back up onto the bed, knees knocking into Evan’s hips as she tries to smother her. Maleek’s hands wind uncomfortably beneath Evan’s back and she presses her nose to her neck, cold skin against cold skin. Maleek is clingy. Evan doesn’t hug back.

“Let’s go skydiving.”

Evan sighs deeply.

“We could jump off right above the Atlantic Ocean. Wouldn’t that be nice? Let’s go in July, when the sun is hot.”

The sun is always hot, Evan doesn’t say.

“How are we getting there?” She bites. It’s easier to give in.

“Hmm. Private jet.”

“You can afford it?”

“Course.”

Evan smiles, just a little.

“Course,” she echoes.

Slowly, her stomach is warming; Maleek has become a thing of heat. Evan brings her cold fingers up to the girl’s neck and feels her shiver. It feels a bit like water. Stepping into a cold pool and waiting until it welcomes you back with lukewarm arms.

“There’s another way,” Evan finds herself murmuring, quiet and low.

“Yeah?”

She shouldn’t say it. It’s a cold winter, but aren’t they always? She will thaw by February. She shouldn’t say it.

“We could swim there,” Evan says.

“We’re landlocked,” Maleek says. That’s a polite way to put it.

Evan’s fingers tap lightly against Maleek’s neck in a one, two, three, one, two, three. “The pond.”

“Oh,” Maleek breathes out, something awed. She tilts her head up to lock eyes with Evan, face earnest and intense. “Yes. Yes, let’s– did you pack a swimming costume? You can borrow one of mine, I bought four. One for May, and June, and July and August. July is my favourite, so you can wear August. I’ll braid your hair, too. So it doesn’t get wet.”

“Okay,” Evan says.

Maleek’s hands are gentle. Practiced. Evan never learnt anything meaningful about hair. Her afro has grown brittle and stiff but it bends under Maleek’s hands as though it has been waiting for tenderness. Two neat little braids that curl just below her ears. Evan tugs on them, twiddling at the split ends she’d created after taking kitchen scissors to the curls. It was a messy chop. The back of her neck had bled for a lack of care.

“Will you do mine?” Maleek asks.

Maleek’s curls fall apart like waves crashing into shore, tumbling flat and limp at the ends– there’s a silky quality to it. When Evan leans forward she can faintly smell coconut and she closes her eyes for a second to remember sandy beaches and cocktail glasses of pina coladas. Maleek’s braids are a messy imitation of her own but like this they could be mistaken for sisters. Maleek must see it too, smiling with her chin tucked to her chest.

August is a sunburnt thing. Pale orange. It is tight over Evan’s shoulders, but she doesn’t complain. July is bright blue. Too refreshing for this plain room but it fits perfectly on Maleek. It’s already cold enough for Evan to wrap her arms around herself and tremble.

“Ready?” She questions.

Maleek nods fervently, opening the bedroom door with all the enthusiasm of a great adventurer. They walk barefoot in the garden. Evan chooses the frosted grass where daffodils lie over the slippery pavement. The sky is dark but quickly shifting as it always does when morning approaches.

Evan was born on a day like this.

Her mother named her Evangeline. Good news. She was meant to be the bearer of good news. Oh, Evangeline, she would croon like a prayer. Evangeline, my darling. She would twirl her across the living room like a ballroom dancer, socks sliding against hardwood.

The ice doesn’t break easily. Evan grabs one of the larger rocks that litter the pond’s edge. It’s heavy in her palm and when she cracks it down hard against the barrier the jagged corners dig into the soft of her fingers, breaking skin. She hits the ice again, then once more, until it finally yields.

It falls away like a plate shattering. Shards scattering to reveal the deep, murky water. It’s not a crystalline blue like Evan had hoped.

“Come on,” she urges.

For all Maleek’s eagerness, it seems that the girl is having second thoughts. Evan grabs her hand with bloody fingers, sliding them together until they’re knuckle to knuckle.

“We won’t make it to the Atlantic if we wait too long,” a nonsensical thing to say but Maleek is nonsensical at her best. It works.

They both take a deep breath before slipping in. It’s freezing from the minute her toes touch the water’s surface and Evan yanks them both down until they’re neck deep. She spares a glance upwards and gasps, chest fluttering. The sun blinks back at her from between the clouds, bright and violent and kind.

“Let’s swim,” Evan pleads, squeezing Maleek’s hand. Maleek nods, honest and brave. They sink under. The cold that reaches her ears is deafening. It’s dark. So dark. Skinny little fish flit around them. How long have they been waiting for that ice to cave in?

Good news. She will bring the fish good news. Come to the surface, the sun has risen just for you. Careful. Slowly. You’ve forgotten how bright it can be. A tadpole hovers over her palm, tiny and vulnerable, she brushes it along with numb fingers.

Maleek holds her hand steady, shivering and frost-bitten and tight. They swim back up to the surface and inhale dramatically, lungs heaving. Oh they have been so disobedient to winter. They should be sleeping. This is a winter they’ve never seen: biting and sharp against their cheeks, circling their earlobes in icicles. Stay out of the cold, it warns them.

The tadpole swims frantically around Evan’s fingers before it stills to nothing. Not dead. Watching. It must be watching with awe, too.

This is what it must have felt like - the day she was born. This must be the same sky her mother saw, through the hospital curtains. Perhaps the good news had been her, bundled in a flannel blanket and crying out with a pink tongue.

“Do you still want to swim to the Atlantic?” Evan asks with shuddering teeth, ready to dip her head back beneath.

“We’ve reached it. We’ve reached it,” Maleek repeats, over and over. “We’ve reached it.”

“Okay,” Evan says. They scramble upon the surface like dying fish, gasping for breath and floppy against the rocks. Evan stares up at the sky.

It’s a horrible walk back. The swimsuit clings. They stumble like fawns. The lukewarm of their shower only makes them shiver worse.

The pond ices over within a weekend.

Evan remembers the tadpole who had stared up at the sun with pebble-dot eyes. It will be pleased when spring arrives and that ice finally thaws completely. Perhaps it will be older, but still it will be pleased.

NED: what? why? keep going.

DAVID: nah, man. it’s not working.

NED: what’s wrong with it?

DAVID: it kinda. it kinda sounds like shit?

NED: i mean.

DAVID: i’m just not feeling it today, i dunno. does it sound like shit to you?

NED: oh yeah, for sure.

DAVID: dude.

NED: bro, you can’t sing.

DAVID: (sighs) yeah.

NED: but i still wanna hear it?

DAVID: why?

NED: its like. you know how you look at a kid’s drawing and you’re like. wow. that’s so crap. like so crap.

DAVID: i guess.

NED: and then you’re like, dude, dogs don’t have four eyes and the kid is like what? and then you draw your own dog and it’s like, actually good. compared to the kid’s four-eyed dog.

DAVID: um

NED: listening to your music makes me a better artist. it like. fuels me.

DAVID: uhm. what?

NED: the world needs bad art! otherwise we’d all just live up each other’s asses. we need you to keep making songs without melody. i need you.

DAVID: is this conversation actually happening?

NED: i really liked the bit where you fell out of tune so badly that you kind of. invented a new tune. it was like watching. listening? watching a phoenix rise from its ashes. if its ashes were made of shit. and it was like, a shit phoenix. a phoenix made of shit.

DAVID: i’m like. so tired right now. like i want to beat your ass. but i’m just. so tired.

NED: it’s ok, man. save your energy. can i listen to this demo?

DAVID: no it’s—

NED: oh wow.

DAVID: it’s super experimental. i was trying something, ok?

NED: no yeah. it’s like a newborn on the keyboard. like, you know, before any muscles have formed in its fingers. just mushy skin. skin on a keyboard.

DAVID: thanks, man.

phone rings.

NED: oh, that must be candace.

DAVID: hold on. is that my song?

NED: huh? dude, i told you, you’re like, my muse, man.

DAVID: what the fuck.

NED: i need to be reminded everyday that there are people like you in the music industry. trying. everyday. and still making bullshit. nothing motivates me like this song, i’m telling you. thank you, david.

DAVID: i’m gonna kill you.

Firstly, I’ll drink it like regular soup.

Secondly, I’ll put it on my bacne.

Thirdly, I’ll use the skins to make a bikini.

Lastly, I’ll boil the rest and chuck it at my ex.

We don’t do enough with what we do. We cook chicken nuggets in the airfryer and don’t even do anything with the oil they release, or the skin bits, or the weird bits of cartilage that taste like rubber. We are like, super wasteful and stuff, you know? Climate change is, like, a real thing. I need to do my part.

So, yeah. Tomato soup.

The blue thing is sort of bumming me out though, because I need to be incognito when I break into my ex’s apartment and boil him alive. I can’t do that with bright blue skin. He’ll see me.

I googled ‘why is my skin blue?’ on Google, even though Google is like, evil, because it gives the fastest responses. Cyanosis, apparently. Low oxygen. Impaired circulation.

Ugh, that’s so inconvenient.

I do some breathing exercises while peeling the tomato skins. I’m gonna dry them in the sunlight because I love sun-dried tomatoes, and then I’m gonna staple them together into triangles to make a really cute bikini. I’ll post the tutorial on TikTok and if it blows up I might start a little business.

My dad calls when I’m pureeing the tomatoes. I put him on speaker phone.

‘Hey.’

‘What’s this I’m hearing? You broke up with him?’

‘A little bit, yeah.’

‘How can you break up with someone a little bit?’

‘Well,’ I say, dipping a finger into the puree. ‘I’m not finished yet, so we’re a little bit broken up.’

‘You two had a good thing. A good thing. I just can’t understand the things you do sometimes. You’re a sabotager. Just like your mother.’

‘Well,’ I say. ‘How would you treat blue skin?’

My dad hangs up on me.

Reddit it says some stuff about Megamind, and hypothermia, and blue paint that won’t come off. It’s mostly useless but I get an idea. There’s some beige paint in the storage cupboard meant for the kitchen tiles. It says Industrial. Heavy duty. Sounds serious. I’m not sure about that type of commitment but I don’t have a lot of options.

The first layer drags like honey.

Beige doesn’t feel like much. Kind of crumbly. A little bit stiff. I have to turn my body with my head to avoid a neck crack. It’ll do.

I listen to an ear training YouTube quiz while I boil the soup. I’m getting better at recognising a C, but my G’s and E’s are terrible. Nevermind when we switch an octave. For a long time I thought I had perfect pitch just because I could remember the lyrics to a song. I sang ‘Let It Go’ all the time. My mum sang with me and we kind of harmonised, I think. I dunno.

My dad calls me again but I let it go to voicemail.

I have to wrap the pot of tomato soup in clingfilm to keep it from spilling in my car. I put its seatbelt on and pat its hot stomach. The radio is playing Ed Sheeran again. The soup and I sing ‘Thinking Out Loud’.

‘Baby, we found love right where we are.’ I tap the steering wheel with my beige fingers. There are road works. The temporary traffic lights take ten minutes to change colour. I turn the heater on to keep my soup from cooling.

It is kind of difficult to sneak in through a window with a pot of boiling soup. Don’t spill, don’t spill, don’t spill. My ex’s apartment is dark. He must be sleeping. My paint is starting to crumble. I have to move fast.

When I reach his bedroom he is already awake, sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark. Beige flakes fall off of me.

‘Hey,’ I say.

‘Hey,’ he says, looking tired.

‘I brought soup.’ I lift the soup. I should have taken the clingfilm off in the car. I’m shaking for some reason.

‘You’re blue,’ he says.

‘What?’ I laugh. ‘No, no. Not blue. Beige, actually. Let me give you some soup.’

He stands and walks past me to turn on the light. It flickers once, twice, before bathing us in white. Now I can see where all the paint is peeling. I’m bluer than ever. The soup is starting to hurt my arms. I tighten my grip on the pot and get ready to throw.

‘Oh,’ I say, staring.

He is blue too.

TATE: woah.

QUINN: yeah.

TATE: dare you to touch it.

QUINN: ha.

TATE: double dog dare you to touch it.

QUINN: you touch it.

TATE: you first.

QUINN: i don’t want to touch it.

TATE: boring.

QUINN: whatever. let’s go.

they walk.

TATE: this day is gonna kill me.

QUINN: hm?

TATE: no, this world—this life is gonna kill me.

QUINN: eventually, yeah.

TATE: i’m serious. i can’t take another moment like this.

QUINN: well. hm.

TATE: i swear i wake up starving, man. everyday i’m starving and i’m looking around like a—like an alien, or i don’t know, something less cool than an alien. i’m not cool enough to be an alien.

QUINN slows to a pause.

QUINN: tate stop it.

TATE: i’m serious.

QUINN: i’ll touch the dead squirrel, just stop complaining.

TATE: it’s not even about the dead squirrel.

QUINN: i’ll touch it. move, i’m touching it.

TATE: quinn, don’t.

QUINN: you want me to touch it, i’m gonna touch it.

TATE: that’s disgusting. it’s got like flies and shit.

QUINN: then why did you double dog dare me?

TATE: because i’m bored! shit! i’m fucking bored, quinn! so bored that’d i’d shoot my brains out but that’d probably be anticlimactic too.

QUINN: i don’t know—

TATE: i don’t need you to know anything. i just wanna complain. shit!

QUINN: your complaining pisses me off.

TATE: sorry.

QUINN: it’s cool. it’s fine.

TATE sits down on the concrete.

TATE: i wanna get hit. or like, stoned to death with ice. i want something bright cold, quinn. something that hurts, or just wakes me up. i wanna crash a car and i want it to explode for days. i wanna break up with a girl and write fifteen songs about it. i wanna set my kitchen on fire. i wanna slap a stranger. i want them to slap me back.

QUINN: tate.

TATE: i wanna be here.

QUINN: you are here.

TATE: no i’m not.

QUINN: then who am i talking to?

TATE: i dunno. some ghost. you might have schizophrenia or something. i’m like, a mirage.

QUINN smacks him on the head.

QUINN: feel pretty real to me.

TATE: that’s part of the illusion. it’s like 4D cinema.

QUINN: oh, of course.

TATE: (sighs) should i just do drugs?

QUINN: don’t even think about it.

TATE: i feel like coke would heal me.

QUINN: tate, you’re not doing drugs. i won’t let you.

TATE: (quiet) not the boss of me.

QUINN: excuse me?

TATE: (sighs) whatever. i don’t actually want to die, you know.

QUINN: yeah?

TATE: yeah. i just want. i dunno. i just want. there’s like this. this. i’m so hungry. all the time. but i can’t feed it. i don’t know how to feed it. its. i’m starving, quinn. i’m all bones.

QUINN: can’t be comfortable.

TATE: no. it’s not. you don’t feel like that?

QUINN: not really.

TATE: must be nice.

QUINN: yeah.

TATE: you think i’ll ever make it out of here?

QUINN: …

TATE: i wanna make it out of here. i don’t wanna see any more dead squirrels.

QUINN: do you want a slushy?

TATE considers this.

TATE: brain freeze?

QUINN: brain freeze.

I told my clock to stop ticking the way that it does. Every second. Who wants a clock that ticks every second? I need quarter-seconds, obviously. I need to ration my time and I can’t do that without the proper measurements. I’m late to everything now. My boss joked that he’ll cut off my legs if I’m late again. I said that was counterproductive, how would I get to work like that? He said I’d just never clock out. Ha. The clock maker told me that that’s just the make of the clock. It’s an every second clock, not a quarter-second clock. Nothing more to do about it. Okay, well, I have bigger issues than that anyway.

I told my phone to filter my spam messages, but I keep getting voicemails like:

‘Hey baby, did you get my text? Our reservation is at six, so I’ll pick you up at five-thirty. Call me when you get this.’

And

‘Is your phone off? I’m on my way, call me when you get this.’

And

‘Liv, where are you?’

That’s not a good filtering system. I talked to this guy at Apple and he said that that’s just the way it works, maybe try blocking the number, there’s nothing more to do about it. Fine. Sure. That’s nothing, anyway, compared to the other issue I have.

My biggest issue is my birth certificate. The woman at the office says it can’t be edited.

What? Of course it can be edited, I say. Just give me a pen.

You want to change your name? You need to file for that, she says.

I don’t want to change my name, I say. I want to change my life.

That’s not a thing, she says.

She is really starting to piss me off, honestly.

I want to swap with Zendaya, I say. When was she born again?

You’re havin’ a laugh aren’t you?

Seriously, this is my biggest issue at the moment. What is Zendaya’s maiden name again?

I’m going to have to call security.

Look, I’ll level with you. My clock is fucked. My mirror won’t make a difference face and I’m getting spam calls, like, everyday. I just want a do over.

A do over.

Yes! You know, like, Bitlife. Let’s just… restart the whole thing. Scrap it all. Zap. Swip. Spoosh. Clean break. I’ll start investing early this time. Buy a house before sixth form. Do gymnastics, figure skating, modelling. I’ve got a plan.

Ok, ma’am. This is Jonanthan, and he’s going to take care of you alright? Do you have an emergency contact? Someone we can call for you?

They’re pulling me away.

I just want a do-over! I shout. Just let me try again!

rio: yeah, listen i actually can’t stay.

shane: what?

rio: i’ve got. a thing.

shane: a thing.

rio: yeah.

shane: ok (laughs) so you’re not helping me—

rio: no, i am. i just have to go soon. not like, right now, just yeah. in a bit. let me take that one.

shane: s’it a work thing?

rio: uhm. in a way. yeah.

shane: in a way.

rio: yeah. its. kinda hard to explain but i might be getting a raise? maybe. i dunno. its. yeah. (laughs) i don’t fucking know man. wait, don’t lift it like that.

shane: shit. ow.

rio: yeah, you gotta–just give it to me. lift with your knees. with your knees. jesus, why doesn’t this place have a lift?

shane: so what? you going to sleep with your boss, or something?

rio: what! (laughs) no, it’s like a meeting.

shane: oh. s’just the way you said—you make everything sound so shady man!

rio: what!! (laughs more) what’re you talking about?

shane: you’re all–evasive and shit.

rio: i’m nervous!

shane: about the meeting?

rio: yes! i’m seeing some guy who owns like the whole thing and remember how i lied about—

shane: everything?

rio: no, yeah but no. my lie about being a project manager.

shane: oh shit. is he gonna, like, test you and shit?

rio: no, i don’t know. maybe! what even is a project manager?

shane: the manager of the project, jesus.

rio: and what does that mean?

shane: its. you know. you manage stuff!

rio: manage what!

shane: the project!

rio: i swear to—

shane: just ask Chat.

rio: shut the fuck up.

shane: Chat knows everything!

rio: you’re messed up, like seriously.

shane: get off your high fuckin’ horse, you’re not better than me just because–don’t drop that one! fragile, man. FRAGILE. JESUS CHRIST I SAID–

rio: eurgh.

shane: if you broke–

rio: i think my toe is broken.

shane: i don’t care about your toe!! i have a glass Michael Jackson figure—

rio: what

shane: worth two thousand and if there’s a fucking scratch, dude, i’ll—

rio: i’m in so much pain right now. ohmygod, get it off my foot! fucking. take it. shane, i swear—

shane: his hand. his gloved hand. michael.

rio: i think my foot is actually broken.

shane: you better get that raise, man.

rio: i can’t even walk right now.

shane: two thousand.

rio: you didn’t even—how was i supposed to know glass michael jackson was in there?

shane: it says fragile.

rio: where!

shane: there!

rio: dude, your hand writing is hot ass. how was i meant to see that?

shane: what the hell are you talkin’ about? there’s nothin’ wrong with my writing.

rio: you’re supposed to put tape around it, you know. like fragile tape.

shane: fragile tape.

rio: yeah, fragile tape. you know, the tape with fragile all over it.

shane: that’s not real.

rio: (laughs) yes the fuck it is.

shane: that’s cartoon shit. like mouse traps with cheese on ‘em.

rio: dude, i’m gonna kill you.

Yonnova has got a feeling running through her.

Where are those happy days/they seem so hard to find/I tried to reach for you/but you have your mind closed/whatever happened to our love/I wish I understood/it used to be so nice/it used to be so good. The slushy is red and blue up her vest. Yonnova ain’t got a word in her that makes sense. Not a word. She’s got a song in her. Oh, ABBA. The Walkman’s still playing. She needs to pause it. Needs to pause it right here. You made me feel alive/but something died I fear. Yeah. Something’s dying alright.

Yonnova has never felt like this. She has colours in her, she swears. Honest to God, on her mother’s life, colours in her. Colours she’s never seen. Someone missed the toilet. There’s piss on the tiles pooling like they gave up on the bowl completely. Who actually uses the toilet to piss these days? Toilets are for shits and cigs and feet up on the rim to ditch fifth period. Yonnova is dying in a piss stained stall. So, when you’re near me/darling, can’t you hear me?/S.O.S. God, someone turn it off. This isn’t her death song. Yonnova hasn’t picked her death song yet. It’s gotta be MJ or Billy Joel. Maybe some Chaka Khan, even though she reminds her of her dad.

The bell rings. Or it doesn’t. Is Yonnova even in her body at this point? Better yet, is she still on earth? She’s spitting air. She’s drowning. She’s floating. There’s blood in her blood and that’s… that’s fine. There should be blood in her blood. Except this blood hurts. Oh God, she’s hurting. Yonnova can’t hear a thing. Is the Walkman still playing? Did it ever exist? What’s her name—nevermind. Nevermind things like names and music and skin. She hits her head against the toilet seat by accident. She hits it again. Again. S.O.S. That’s it. She has to rock this thing out. If she smashes her skull open, she can set it on her lap and then pluck it all out. All of it. God, get out.

Leave, leave, leaveleaveleaveleaveleaveleaveleaveleave—

Yonnova wakes up. There’s piss by her ear and her Walkman crushed under her hip. Yonnova sits up, flings an arm over her knee. Her jeans have unrolled. She spends a few pegging them back up. Her head aches. The bell rings. Yonnova unlocks the stall and makes her way to sixth period.

Coach O’Hara is a hardass. A real brick of a woman. She ushers Yonnova over with the back of her hand. When Yonnova is close enough, she seizes her by the shoulder.

“Two laps.”

“Yes, Coach.”

Yonnova runs. She starts sweating halfway through the first lap and by the beginning of the second becomes aware that she is going to puke her guts out. Yonnova stops, kneels down and pretends to tie her laces.

“Brown!”

“Tying my laces, Coach!” Yonnova makes a knot and then pulls it loose, then does it again. Too tight. Too slack. She tastes blood in her mouth, like she’s brushed too hard.

“Need help, Brown?” Yawa Asare shouts across the field. The rest of the class laughs. O’Hara tells them to shut the hell up.

“Run barefoot for all I care,” O’Hara grunts. “Just finish the lap. We’ve got a match to start.”

Yonnova stands. Mock her all they want, they can’t start without her. Well, they could. They’d just be shit. She’s their captain for a damn reason. Without her, they’re a bunch of headless chickens running up and down the pitch looking for a quarter of a brain cell. Yonnova has lost feeling in her legs. She raises an arm.

“Coach,” Yonnova shouts. “I’m going to ralph!”

Then, because she is true to her word, she ralphs.

Asare slings an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll take her, Coach.”

O’Hara raises an eyebrow. “No loitering.”

Asare salutes. “I’ll drop her off and come right back, I swear.”

O’Hara nods, though she does not look convinced. “Go.” Then she blows her whistle. “Drills now!”

When they make it out into the hallway, Yonnova shoves Asare off. Her t-shirt is soaked through. Yonnova tries her best to ring out the neckline before realising she’s squeezing out vomit. She wipes her hand down her front. Asare doesn’t mind the smell. She sidles back up against Yonnova, nudging her shoulder.

“You good, babe?”

Yonnova makes a vague sound. She’s not trying to be rude, but Asare is annoying. Like, real annoying. “Fine, look, just go back inside.”

“You don’t look good, you look wasted, girl. Come on,” Asare steps in front. “Tell me, what you got? S’ pot isn’t it? Bad trip? No, hungover?”

Yonnova steps around her. “I don’t do that stuff.”

“Right,” Asare says.

“Seriously, I don’t.”

“Right.”

Yonnova takes a deep breath, pausing. “I’ve got it from here, thanks… for the help.” Then she starts walking again, much faster.

Asare is a goddamn dog. “Hey, if you trip and die, Coach will blame me. Seriously!”

Yonnova doesn’t look back. Waves her off. “Good thing I’m fine then.”

Yonnova doesn’t go to the nurse’s office. It’s a waste of time. Last period of the day and she’s going to spend it on a plastic-sheeted bed? Yeah, sure. Sure, sure, sure. She accidentally snaps the chain when unlocking her bike. Damn. She throws the broken chain to the pavement and rides.

It’s not a good idea to ride after ralphing. But it’s either ride or sit through whatever the hell has got her. Yonnova is going to ride. She doesn’t even sit, just keeps her hips high and her legs moving. It’s on the downhill slope that her brain tries to fall out of her mouth. She chokes on air and swerves into green. Yonnova doesn’t roll far, just up and off and down to the bushes. The back wheel is still spinning. Thankfully the red paint hasn’t been scratched off, from what she can see anyway. Yonnova pukes. Except, no. No puke. Just blood. Just a mouthful of blood. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. What’s her death song, anyway? Beat it? That’d be ironic, if not widely inappropriate.

She needs to pick up her sister. Yonnova gets up, gets back on the bike and rides.

Billie runs when she sees her. She’s always got a run in her. Like one of those wind-ups, you can just keep cranking the handle over and over and she’ll keep starting up. Dad says she’s a track star. Her hair is a mess; her dress strap is falling off one shoulder.

“I hope they look worse,” she says, one finger picking up her nose.

Yonnova places her My Little Pony backpack on the handlebars. It takes a moment before her words catch up to her. “What?”

“The girls you were fighting. Do they look worse than you?”

“I didn’t get into a fight.”

“Looks like you got into a fight.”

“Looks like you got into a fight. The hell happened to your hair?”

“I won. Did you win?”

“I didn’t fight anyone. And you shouldn’t either. Get on.” She straddles the bike to keep it steady while she gets her feet on the pegs.

“Then why’d you look like that?”

“I don’t look like anything. I’m fine.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.”

“Good. Now hold on.”

They ride. There’s Micheal Jackson in the wind that whips through her wheels. They’re out to get you, better leave while you can/don’t wanna be a boy, you wanna be a man/you wanna stay alive, better do what you can/so beat it, just beat it. She spits blood into the road and grits her teeth.

Mum is having a fit. Did she feel sick this morning? If so, why didn’t she stay home? Why did no one ring her? The nurse should have rung her. Yonnova slides past her into the kitchen. She’s craving OJ desperate. “S’not like that in high school, Mum.” She catches herself with the carton halfway to her mouth and gets a glass from the cabinet.

“Yonnova, you look like death warmed over! Just wait until your dad sees you.”

Yonnova gulps down the orange juice. “I’m cool. Just a bad… day. Just a bad day, serious. I’m gonna shower.”

“Yonnova—”

She’s already walking out the door. “I need a shower, Mum.”

She throws up in the shower. Just what the hell is this? The water on her back is too cold despite her twisting the knob to its highest. Yonnova sits on the shower floor with her hands between her knees, watching bile slip down the drain.

“Get out,” She says.

She fingers her chest, digs into her sternum looking for the bullet. There’s got to be a bullet, a rock, something. There has to be. She scratches. “Get out.” It’s lodged. Where’s the exit wound? It’s stuck. Get it out. She takes the shower hose off the wall because it feels like shit so far away. Places it right against her heart. Still not hot enough. “Get. Out.” She’s shot in the eye. Yonnova sputters. There’s water everywhere. It’s in her eyes, her nose, her mouth. She lets the hose go. Stands up and shivers. Twists the knob and steps out.

“I think I broke the shower,” Yonnova tells her mum, dripping with a towel around her waist. Then she throws up again.

She prescribes her sleep. Real sleep, Yonnova. No music, no Game Boy, no comics. And vegetables. Blitzed vegetables.

“I’m not drinking this.”

Her mum pushes the glass back into her hand. “You’re drinking all of it. You’re nutrient deficient, Yonnova! Look how skinny your legs are. I keep telling you to eat properly and you never listen and now look at you!”

Billie’s in the doorway making faces. Yonnova makes one back.

“I want this thing finished, I’m serious. Billie, bring me the first aid kit.”

When Billie scampers back in with the green box, Yonnova hasn’t touched the glass. Billie jumps on her bed. “You gonna throw up again?”

“Go away,” Yonnova says.

“What’s it feel like? Throwing up?”

“Mum,” Yonnova complains but her mum sticks the thermometer in her mouth. There’s no fever. She’s a little cold, actually. Mum frowns and presses the glass to her mouth.

“Drink it.”

Yonnova drinks it and Billie watches, eyes wide. When she finishes Billie whoops, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Give her another one, Mummy.”

Yonnova kicks her.

Their mum ushers Billie out and places a bin by the bed. She tells Yonnova to go to sleep. She strokes a finger across her forehead. She keeps the door open and looks back at her twice before leaving.

Yonnova sleeps.

She’s by a window. It’s got its curtains drawn shut. These thick purple drapes. Tap. Tap. Tap. There’s a knocking at the window. The radio plays, I was dreaming but I should’ve been with you instead. Yonnova holds the curtain.

Yonnova is fine. Food poisoning or some other. Dad says it’s got to be the cafeteria. The food at New Dalter High goes against the FSA, he mutters over the rim of a ‘Donut interrupt me’ Simpsons mug and then gets that foggy-eyed stare that means he’s thinking about high school in the seventies.

“That mean I can buy lunch at Jim’s?”

Her dad points a finger at her. “No.”

Yonnova throws her hands up. “You just said the cafeteria is crap!”

“I didn’t say crap. I had to go through it. You have to go through it.”

Yonnova rolls her eyes. It’s always like this. “That means Billie has to go through it as well, right? When she goes to Dalter High?”

“Your sister is not going to that school. We’re moving.”

“Right, right.” Yonnova shrugs on her backpack. “Sorry, is that the move that happened last year? Or no, wait, the year before? Wait, wait, the move of two-thousand?”

“Stop arguing with your father.” Her mum pulls on her ear. “William, give her some money. She can’t keep eating that school nonsense.”

Her dad counts out five bills slowly. “The move is happening.”

“Sure.” Yonnova pockets the money. “Billie, are you even ready?”

Billie bullies her way past, backpack open. “How comes she gets money and I don’t?”

His dad hands her a dollar. Yonnova rolls her eyes again.

“Out now, both of you.” Her mum ushers them out. She takes Yonnova’s hand before she can leave. “The moment you feel—”

“I’ll call you, I swear.”

Her mum squeezes her hand. “Okay.”

Dalter is a sad sack of a town, it’s already raining as they leave the house. When Yonnova drops Billie off at the elementary school, she is told not to lose any more fights. Then Billie runs off. Yonnova cups her hands over her mouth and shouts, “I never lose!” But Billie doesn’t turn back, just keeps on running. All the kids and their parents look at her. Yonnova shrugs, a what can you do? And gets back on her bike.

Asare corners her in the hallway. “O’Hara went crazy on us, man. So glad you’re back.”

Yonnova ignores her. Asare keeps talking, sidles up next to her on the way to first period. “You look better. Good for the game on Saturday? The team sucks ass without you. Daniels kept taking defense and it was messing us up bad, I told her ‘you’re not a defender, dude— just kick the ball or quit it’, but y’know how that girl is. Always a try-hard. Anyways, she won’t play up now that you’re back.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“Jackson and Rachel were tryna’ figure out what got you, but I didn’t say a word. Swear. Your business is your business, man. I told them whatever you’re taking ain’t got nothing to do with us—”

Yonnova stops. “You told them I’m taking?”

Asare laughs. “Don’t worry. I told them to—”

Yonnova shoves her by the shoulder, hard. Asare hits the lockers. “Do you ever stop running your damn mouth? Now what? You’ve got the team thinking I’m on some shit—”

“Everyone’s on some shit, babe,” Asare laughs again, eyes darting around. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Yonnova twists her fingers into Asare’s stupid polo. “My dad’s a deputy. If he hears the crap you’re spewing I’m—” Yonnova closes her eyes. “I’m not your friend, Asare,” She reminds her. “Don’t talk about me again.”

She gives Asare an extra shove before letting her go.

Kelsie Rodney whistles loudly, wrapping an arm around Yonnova’s shoulders.

“What’s got your panties all up your ass, Brown? ”

“Nothing. I’m cool,” Yonnova insists. “Did we have homework?”

Yonnova lets Kelsie lead her away. She’s chipper this morning. Keeps humming some commercial tune under her breath and winking at anyone that looks her way. “I don’t even remember, man. Mr Walker won’t care. You know we had a thing in year twelve?”

“Gross, dude.” Yonnova doesn’t believe a word. Kelsie lies about her cereal. Her hair gel. Her body count. Everyone knows it too, but Kelsie is hot shit. She’s a trust fund baby born with gills. O’Hara says she could go pro with swimming. That means something. O’Hara never says anyone can do anything.

“He’s easy.” Kelsie grins. “If you wanna...”

“I’m not having sex with a teacher.”

“You’re missing out, babe.”

“How’d the game go?”

“On Saturday? What a shitshow, Yon.” Kelsie shakes her head. “O’Hara will die before she admits it, but we need you, Brown.” Kelsie taps her blonde head against Yonnova’s softly. “We ain’t got no clue without our captain. Teams’ always saying bullshit about you being black but who cares? They’re a bunch of pussies if they can’t take an order from a girl who knows what she’s doing.”

Yonnova laughs. “Doesn’t bother me, man. They listen when it counts.”

“Captain, my captain,” Kelsie sings and rocks them back and forth.

Mrs Walker gives them a warning when they walk in late. Kelsie snickers and makes a crude gesture at Yonnova when she turns back to the board. Yonnova snorts.

“I’m going Jim’s,” Yonnova says as everyone heads toward the cafeteria.

“Come on then,” Kelsie nods, turning on her heel. Where Yonnova goes, Kelsie goes. Where Kelsie goes, the team goes. That unfortunately includes Asare.

Jim hates it when they come in. He tosses a dirty rag over his shoulder and doesn’t bother with a pen. “What can I get you ladies?”

Asare buys. She holds out a credit card and tells the table it’s on her. The team cheers. Yonnova rolls her eyes but saves a fiver Three baskets of fries, a burger each. It’s sweet. Kelsie’s not the type to pay because she’s not ‘their daddy’. Yawa wants to be everyone’s ‘daddy’.

“Brown, where were you Saturday?” Jane Daniels points a fry at her.

“Yeah, man. What you bailing for?”

“You know O’Hara gets on our asses when you miss.”

Yonnova chews. “Got food poisoning.”

“Right,” Daniels nods. “Food poisoning. Hey, who you buy from?”

Asare sinks lower into the booth when Yonnova shoots her a glare. “No one. I don’t buy.”

Edwina Winston laughs. “Is it that emo bitch, the one with the blue hair? Her stuff ain’t bad.”

“I just said I don’t buy.”

“Brown, take the stick out, alright? No one’s gonna snitch. Hell, I just wanna know if we have the same guy,” Daniels buts back in.

“Wait, is it Raiki?”

“Who?”

“That freaky n—” Winston coughs, grins. “That girl with the chains and shit. The one that looks like a satanist? You seen her hair?”

“Oh you mean Ada Raika, Raka or whatever.” Daniels laughs. “I actually heard that freakshow has quality stuff, y’know?”

“You’re shitting me.” Winston swigs her Pepsi. “No way I’m chancing that. She’ll sell my soul to the devil or something.”

“You scared, Eddie?” Daniels pinches Winston.

“Hey! My mum says not to even look at people like her.” Then to Yonnova. “No offence, babe.”

“None taken,” Yonnova says. “Raiki is a freak.”

Winston nods. “A real freak. So if it’s not her, then who?”

“Seriously,” Yonnova groans.

“Leave it, Eddie,” Asare says.

“What? S’just a question. Brown, you can never take a joke.”

“She just said she didn’t buy, so—”

Winston points to Asare. “You were the one who saying she must be taking some strong shit–-”

“I was just messing around—”

“—So I don’t get why you’re acting all high and mighty—”

“It’s not our business—”

“—There’s no reason for her to be such a pussy about it—”

Asare slams her hands down.

“I said leave it!”

Kelsie sits forward. Yonnova freezes, halfway through dipping a fry and lets it drop.

“Watch it, Yawa,” Kelsie says.

Asare leans back. “Sorry.”

Yonnova resists a sigh. This is where Asare always gets it wrong. There are no apologies. There is no forgiveness. It just is, and Asare never gets that. She never fucking gets it.

Winston laughs, recovering. “It’s chill. Didn’t know you were Brown’s bitch but whatever. You finger each other in the showers after gym or what?”

Kelsie reaches over and grabs Winston by the ponytail. Her whole ponytail in the wide palm of Kelsie Rodney. “Say that again.”

Winston laughs. “A joke! S’ a joke!”

Kelsie lets her go. Winston lets her head bounce off of the booth, giggling. Kelsie whistles through her teeth. “I want a slushy.”

“I could go for a slushy,” Yonnova agrees.

They get slushies.

They’re at the arcade when her stomach starts to hurt. Yonnova shuts herself in a stall and breathes. In. Out. In. Out. In. Nope, nope. Out, out, out. She throws up. Hands on her knees, she shudders. She doesn’t want to get on the ground because it’s worse than the school toilets in here. She breathes. There’s blood in her mouth. She spits it into the bowl. Opens the stall and spits again into the sink. Shoves her head underneath the tap and gargles. Spits again. Looks in the mirror.

The door swings open.

“I’m really sorry, girl, about the whole… At the diner. I didn’t know they’d get on you like that, I swear. They’ll forget about it soon enough. Daniels is annoying but— hey, are you okay?”

Yonnova drags a palm down her face. “Asare.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop talking.”

“Oh, sure, sorry. You just looked like—”

“No. Just stop talking. You’re so—” Yonnova pauses. Takes her hands off her eyes and stands up straight. Looks at Asare.

“Know what your problem is?” Yonnova asks and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Your problem is that you don’t know when to shut the hell up. You don’t know that everyone on this team fucking hates you. No joke. You pay for our shit and we let you sit with us. That’s it. So stop this whole—” Yonnova takes a step closer, gestures to the space between them. “Whatever you’re trying— just stop it.”

Asare stares at her. She smoothes a hand down her stupid, stiff hair and shifts from one foot to another. Yonnova waits. Yawa lets her hair go. Nods. “Got it.”

“Good,” Yonnova mutters and shoulder-checks her on the way out.

Mrs Khan stops Yonnova by the door. asks if she’s alright. Mrs Khan is Yonnova’s favourite teacher. She’s the smartest woman in the school, possibly the whole of Dalter. She’s the one who advocated for Yonnova to be on the gifted program for sciences (GPS). She’s the reason Yonnova is going to a good university and booking it the hell out of this sad sack of a town.

“Nothing much today— just a few old grad papers I found,” Mrs Khan hands her a stack. “Take your time. Come back to me when you get stuck.”

“You mean if I get stuck.”

“Trust me, Brown. You’re going to get stuck. These equations were a pain in my ass.”

Yonnova laughs, nods. Lifts the stack and waves with it. “Thank you, miss.”

The bell rings.

“That’s the second bell,” Mrs Khan says, leaning against the doorway. “I better not keep you. What you got next?”

“PE.”

“With Michelle?” Mrs Khan screws up her face, but she’s smiling. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, miss.”

PE is easy. Asare keeps a nice space between them at all times. Kelsie cheers when Yonnova scores. Daniels and Winston keep their mouths shut and their legs moving. O’Hara only shouts a maximum of five times. It’s all pretty damn good but something’s wrong with the gym showers. Yonnova tries three. Kelsie catches her twisting the knobs.

“What’s up with you? Looking for the golden stall? They’ve all got the same shit pressure.”

“Man, feel this.” Yonnova frowns. Kelsie puts her hand under the spray and hisses, flicking out her fingers.

“Shit. If you want a sauna— there’s one down Willow’s Lake.”

Yonnova puts her hand back under the spray. “What? Dude, this isn’t even warm.”

Kelsie laughs like she’s told a joke. “Right. You still sick or something?”

Yonnova’s frown deepens. Then her expression clears. She laughs too. “Nah, I’m messing.” Kelsie frowns at her but moves on easily enough, turns back to her own stall. Yonnova steps into the stall closest and lets cold water run over her face.

Billie’s in after school. Gymnastics or some other. Mum will pick her up after her shift at the hospital. It means that Yonnova can ride till her legs get tired. Kelsie laughs at her, watching with a cigarette between her teeth as Yonnova unchains her bike — a new chain, after the last one broke. Kelsie asks if she’s sure she doesn’t want a lift home. Yonnova says she’s sure. Kelsie tilts her head, pats the top of her shiny Ford.

“I got her a new engine. You should hear the way she purrs, Brown.”

“Some other time, man.” Yonnova straddles her bike.

“When’s your cop of a dad gonna get you a car?”

Yonnova shrugs, “I dunno.” It’s true, she doesn’t. Her dad says she ain’t ready for a four wheeler— something about responsibility and recklessness and needing to earn it. Yonnova doesn’t give two. Nothing’s wrong with her bike and she’ll ride it for the rest of her damn life if she has to. The team can laugh all they want.

Kelsie shrugs as well, chucks her cigarette to the gravel and crushes it beneath her heel. “Suit yourself, tender ‘eart.”

Yonnova flips her the bird. “See you tomorrow.”

Kelsie waves. And then it’s just Yonnova and her Walkman and the wind.

She rides past Yawa, sitting in her Cadillac with the windows down and the radio blasting — always looking for attention. She rides past the elementary. Past Jim’s. Keeps going till she’s en route to Dalter’s Mall. It’s starting to get colder these days. Her windbreaker just ain’t doing it anymore. Micheal’s in her ear, telling her: you got to be startin’ somethin’/I said you wanna be startin’ somethin’.

Behind the Mall there’s a clearing. Empty space that keeps going like it’d been plowed through and then left to rot. The grass is all yellowed out. Thin. It crunches beneath Yonnova’s Nikes. She lowers her bike to the ground and walks down. It’s a lot of field, yeah. But there’s a massive drop near the edge. Cliffside with no water. Yonnova swings her legs over it and sits. Below there’s just more grass and trees and land, but this cliff stops anyone from going further.

Yonnova sits there for some time. Then she unzips her backpack, takes out her red bound book and flips through the pages. Sky after sky. Sunset after sunrise. The clouds again and again. Stops on the first blank page. Gets to drawing.

It’s when she’s criss-crossing a couple of blackbirds, that she hears it.

Someone in the clearing. Yonnova turns.

It has her on her back. It’s digging into her shoulders. Yonnova sucks in a breath — chokes on blood. She kicks. Thrashes. Tries to bite. Tries to buck up. Tries to smash her head into it. Tries everything. It keeps her down. It’s holding too tight. Her bones are creaking. Crack. Yonnova gasps. Something has broken. Something has broken. Her chest. Her ribs. Her arms. Something has broken. Where has it broken? Yonnova can’t see. Yonnova can’t breathe. It won’t speak. It won’t tell Yonnova what it has broken. She can only feel. She’s going to die.

It’s too high to get over /too low to get under /you’re stuck in the middle/and the pain is thunder.

Yonnova screams.

Yonnova is on her feet. Yonnova can see. Yonnova has too much blood in her mouth — it’s overflowing. She’s heaving. Chest going up up up. Then down. Up up up. Down. The thing is watching her. The thing has no face. The thing moves toward her. Yonnova throws out a hand. Stay away, Yonnova tries to say but can’t get her mouth to open wide enough. Don’t get closer.

It takes another step and Yonnova thinks nonononogetawaygetawaygetaway

The thing makes a sound. A shriek. A wail. It doesn’t come closer.

Yonnova spits blood. She’s shaking.

“Leave,” She chokes on the monosyllable.

It stays. It moves and Yonnova throws out both hands, thinking gogogogogo

It curls in on itself. Distorts itself. It’s dripping and sweating and frantic. There’s a pulsing in Yonnova’ palms like a heartbeat.

“Leave!” Yonnova yells.

It runs.

Yonnova drops her arms. Sways. Thinks, what the hell. Then meets her lunch a second time.

CHAPTER ONE

‘The Crane’

‘April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain’.

–T.S. Eliot

The kettle whistles.

“Tell it to me again.”

“I just told you — it attacked me, it didn’t have a face, it got scared and ran off.”

“Sugar, hun?” Charlene, the receptionist, interrupts.

Yonnova stops fidgeting to nod. “Uh, yes please.”

“What did it look like?”

“It didn’t have a face.”

“What about its body?”

Yonnova frowns. “I dunno, it was… I can’t remember.”

“You can’t remember? What colour was it? Did it walk on fours? Something, kid. Give me something.”

Yonnova’ frown deepens. “I don’t know, okay? It’s all… I just know that it didn’t have a face. No eyes. No… mouth. But it screamed.”

“It screamed?”

“Yeah, real bad.”

“Liv, you’re not actually buying this crap are you?” The Chief — Stevens — rubs a hand down his face.

“Here you are, sweetie,” Charlene sets down a mug. Yonnova mumbles a thanks. She likes Charlene.

“It’s not crap,” Yonnova insists. “I know what I saw.”

Stevens raises an eyebrow. “Right. So this ‘thing’ without a face wandering behind the Mall, you got its national insurance number?”

The rest of the officers in the building laugh. Officer Ophelia’s expression tightens. Ignoring Stevens, she hones in on Yonnova.

“Its scream. What did it sound like?”

Desperate. Scared. Angry. “Like it was in pain,” Yonnova settles on.

Officer Ophelia’s expression turns pensive, she nods. “And it ran. Why did it run?”

Yonnova wraps her hands around the mug. “I dunno,” she says. It feels like a lie.

Ophelia presses. “There must have been a reason. Was there a noise that might have frightened it? Did you say something? Hit it?”

“No. No — I,” Yonnova stops. She’s shaking. “I really don’t know.”

Ophelia sighs, frustrated.

“Give it a rest, Liv. The kid got in a fight, end of. Brown, who were you scrapping with, huh? You football girls—I swear—” Stevens looks down on her.

“I didn’t get into a fight, I was attacked,” Yonnova snarls.

Stevens’ jaw ticks. “Then who attacked you?”

“I don’t know!” Yonnova shouts.

“Watch your tone.” Then to someone behind a cubicle. “Leave the report. No use if the kid’s gonna lie about it. Will’ll deal with her.”

Yonnova hunkers down in the stupid plastic chair and drinks her tea. She pictures herself flipping Stevens two birds. Charlene gives her a look like she can see into her mind, and pulls her ear.

Dad doesn’t believe her.

“Liv found her by the cliffs,” Stevens tells him, which, yeah great. That’s exactly the kind of thing they need to tell her dad.

“What were you doing by the cliffs?”Her dad doesn’t ask, but demands.

Yonnova slumps. “I was just.” She looks at her dad, really looks. Gives up. “Just walking.”

“Wait till your mother hears about this.”

Officer Ophelia stops her on the way out. Her eyes are intense, searching. Her voice is low. “If you see anything else — anything — come to me first.”

Yonnova hopes she won’t have to. She nods anyway.

“Yonnova, get in the car!”

She goes. It’s a long ride home.

Grounded. She’s grounded like she’s twelve years old. What the hell ever. Go to school and come straight home, Yonnova Brown. No detours. No pit stops. No walking. Eat her shorts, dad, seriously.

Daniels laughs and laughs at lunch. Thinks it’s the funniest thing since Cheers.

Kelsie pats her on the back. “You still at Saturday’s game?”

“My dad’s an asshole,” Yonnova says. “Not insane.”

“That mean you can’t come to the party on Friday?” Winston asks, stupidly.

“What do you think ‘grounded’ means, Winston?” Yonnova asks. Truth be told, she’s a little relieved. Winston’s place is near the Mall. Yonnova… yeah, she doesn’t want to go back there.

She hasn’t told anyone about what happened at the clearing. Other than Officer Ophelia, Stevens and her dad. Not that it did any good.

“This one’s gonna be different. The hot tub’s fixed, I told you right?” Winston has a fake ID called Tess Tickles. Yonnova thinks that’s the stupidest shit ever. The woman at Joey’s — Dalter’s knock off 7-Eleven — is blind in one eye and couldn’t care less about year thirteens buying cigarettes, so it doesn’t even matter anyway.

“Brown, you coming or what?”

“Or what,” Yonnova says. “I’m not there, man. I told you. Grounded.”

“Fuck off with that. Everyone’s gonna be there. Kelsie, you game?”

Kelsie’s getting M&M’s thrown into her mouth by Daniels. She gets three in a row before replying. “Brown, you there?”

“I’m not there.”

“Well shit.” Kelsie hums. “I dunno, babe, if Brown ain’t there…”

Winston starts swearing. Kelsie laughs. She’s joking, obviously.

“Buy the vodka I like and I’ll think about it, Tess.”

Kelsie’s going to go anyway. If there’s a party, Kelsie will be there.

Yonnova hopes they have fun.

(RECORDING #1 20/08/2X):

Does it hurt?

P1: Hurt? (.) no no it’s fine my eyes are (.) my eyes

Are you okay?

P1: Yes yes I’m okay I’m okay I think (.) no there’s nothing wrong there’s (.) nothing

(RECORDING #2 20/08/2X):

What can you see?

P2: Well (laughs) you. What else is there to see? White walls? The table? (.) the light’s a little bright (.) can’t you turn it off?

(RECORDING #8 21/08/2X):

P7: It would knock you inside out

What would?

P7: No no no no no no no no no no

P7 turned catatonic, unable to proceed with the interview.

(RECORDING #23 01/09/2X):

Please just tell me something (.) anything (.) I (REDACTED) there will be (REDACTED) why won’t any of you just (REDACTED) I need to know what you’re seeing (.) please it’s (REDACTED)

(RECORDING #25 15/09/2X):

P2: Try the cliffs

What?

P2: That’s where you’ll find it

Find what you’re seeing?

P2: I’m not seeing anything

What cliffs?

P2: Any will do (.) you have to climb down (.) don’t fall

Okay okay the cliffs (.) climb down the cliffs

P2: Don’t let it take your ears

What about my ears?

P2: Hold them

LOG ENTRY #331:

i’m going to the cliffs there’s not much more to say than that and i won’t be thinking about it any more than this

i’m going to the cliffs

Martha says there’s no such thing as ‘women’s fashion’. But what else should I call it? The flowing skirts, silk blouses, kitten heels. That’s what he’s into now. I asked Martha if he’s got a wig but she looked at me like I was crazy.

No, the balding old man doesn’t need a wig to go with his chiffon dress and burgundy lipstick. That’s absurd, Cath.

Cath is me. Although I was born Catherine and axed it in half on my sixteenth birthday. Martha was Margaret. The old man was married once. Now Cath is Cath, Martha is Martha, and the old man is wearing a tube dress to dance in his living room.

Martha tells me I’m obsessed with the wrong things. It’s not about who gets the clothes and what they do with it. It’s about how it retailed at £49.99 and Martha bargained it down to £40.00 and then she sold it to the old man for a fiver.

I’m going to crash the economy, Martha swears, one neighbour at a time.

We live in a suburb that goes round and round in one medium-sized circle and Martha doesn’t know how to drive. So she can crash this economy, maybe, but what’ll that do?

It’s not always about what things do Cath, you’re worrying about the wrong stuff again. It’s about the reward.

Martha says there is reward in seeing that old man out on his porch, taking a smoke with his knees parted wide enough that we can see his striped boxers beneath a tennis skirt.

That is glorious! Martha shrieks from the kitchen.

The sunlight has fallen on all of us.

We’re being flashed, I say. He’s flashing us.

He’s a vessel, Cath. It’s not about the flashing, it’s about the movement.

Martha tells me that this universe depends on movement. She stabs her yolk with her finger and licks up spillage.

You’ve gotta keep moving, Cath. Or you’ll get stuck in the middle of nowhere.

I look out the kitchen window pointedly.

The city is no better! Martha protests, already on a tirade. The capitalism, the patriarchy, the hierarchy within hierarchies! You want to be a part of that?

I want to be a part of something, I admit.

Ok, well. Martha places her hands on her hips.

Then she starts to strip. First her cotton vest, then her bralette; her knee length skirt and the linen shorts beneath; her flowered underwear. Polka-dotted socks. She walks across the kitchen naked to the under sink and picks out one of the many Tesco bags. Then she holds out the bag of clothing to me. Her nipples are perking, there are goosebumps along her forearms.

I’ll give it all to you for a tenner, deal or no deal?

“You’re havin’ a laugh.”

“I’m telling you,” Sil insists, flipping over the paper on her clipboard to a blank checklist.

“She’s hardly a Level Six.”

“Wendy saw her moving—”

“The doors. Yes. You said. Wendy said. Everyone in the tenth division has bloody said and I should cut out your tongues for the cheek. The General doesn’t care for—”

“Speech acts. Yes. We know. But Ronnie, listen. She’s not a Level Ten. Not even close.”

Ronnie tilts her head, observing the gamma with a squint. “Level Five, maybe.”

“Level Three, minimum.”

Ronnie barks a laugh, shoving Sil by the shoulder. “You’re takin’ the piss now. Just finish the report so we can go back to the dorms already. Fuck, I hate patrol days.”

Sil scratches at the paper with her pen, ticking off the boxes quickly and carelessly. She pauses on the last checkbox, pen hovering. “I was thinking,” she starts.

“Atoms,” Ronnie mutters. “That’s never good.”

“Ron.” Sil stares at her, dry lips thinning. “We could get out of here.”

Ronnie pushes off of the wall, back going straight. “Finish the report, Sil. The Neutrons—”

“Aren’t listening,” Sil promises. “They don’t care about anyone above Level Five. They’re not listening, Ron. They’re never listening.”

“If this is another one of your ‘ideas’ that puts us in the Arca for a week—”

Sil holds up a key. A gleaming purple key.

Ronnie almost bites her tongue clean off.

“Where in the radiation did you get that?”

Sil throws the clipboard to the side with a dull clamour and backs Ronnie up against the wall, the little bit of height on her becoming taller. She holds the key in the space between their noses and lips.

“That Level Two Alpha with the scar under her eye. The one that guards the Arca. Did you know she’s blind on that side? Deaf too. I slipped in a fake when she was distracted.”

“Sil,” Ronnie moans like a curse, head thumping against the wall.

“We’ve got maybe an hour before she notices.”

A loud familiar beeping sounds.

“Attention all Radiation. There has been a breach. A Level One Particle Key is missing. Report to stations immediately. Attention all Radiation. There has been a breach—”

Sil doesn’t have the humility to look remorseful.

“Okay, two minutes then,” Sil amends, stepping back. “I thought we’d have more time but this is fine, we just need to move quick. Hold the kid still.”

“Sil—What—you can’t be serious. We can’t—this is treason. It won’t be the Arca, not for something like this. Not for gammas like us.”

Sil is unmoved. Sil kneels down onto the play mat and smoothes the fine white hairs off of the little gamma’s forehead, brushing her thumb over the narrow keyhole.

“Ron, I know I’ve been stupid, alright? I know you get shit for hanging around me. Protecting me and my stupid ideas. But I’ve had it. Enough is enough. I’m not letting us decay here. I’m not.”

Sil looks up at Ronnie who still hasn’t moved, who is frozen with insubordination. Sil’s eyes are dark purple and they glisten like the key with unshed tears.

“It’s—it’s not right, Ron. What they do to us. What they’ve been doing to us for years. What they’re going to do to her. You can’t tell me it’s right. You can’t.”

Sil’s fingers are trembling where they rest on the gamma’s translucent skin.

Ronnie swallows.

Report to stations immediately. There has been a breach. Report to stations immediately. There has been—

Ronnie’s shoulders slump. Fuck patrol days. Seriously.

“Unlock her then,” Ronnie surrenders.

Sil turns the key.

Not because of the grime between the tiles, or the ants on the pavement, or the chunks of sick sticking to the carpet. It is because she has to look up. She’s been slightly cross-eyed since she was a child. She had stared up at her brother once, when they still lived in the same house, and he had screamed and then he had laughed because she looked weird, staring up at him like that: like you’re looking two ways at once. She stopped looking up after that.

“What was the point in that?”

She is too busy squeezing the last drops of bile out of her throat to answer. It burns, acidic like she’d sucked a lemon. This is not a question she wants to answer. She hopes he takes the hint and leaves her here, so she can finally look up and see what kind of shower head this bathroom has.

“Open the window,” she croaks. It was warm when they left and she hooked her coat over the passenger seat because it was too much to bring in, her hands were full of Heinkens and her personal can opener; last time they had to pry the cans open with the handles of metal spoons and she’d broken a fingernail like that, tearing into those cans, and it had hurt for a week in the way that broken fingernails do; it had only torn half way and she’d had to do the rest herself, tugging that nail off so it could grow back proper. The worst kind of pain is when you have to do it yourself.

He does not open the window. He probably didn’t even spare it a glance.

He says her name like it is a sentence. The way her mother did. She said it like that. She said her name that exact way. Like her name was a doing word. Like she was an action that could be completed; a thing that could be suggested; argued. She is sticky right down between her breasts, as though her mouth were a fountain that had turned on and spilt straight down. That is the thing about throwing up: you hold it as long as you can, bite your tongue, maybe, and swallow that bile back down when it rises but it always rises again and when it does you’re out of control and then it’s projectile and then it’s everywhere, maybe someone’s shoes, maybe a family heirloom, it doesn’t discriminate and you can’t stop it.

He says her name again.

“Window,” she answers.

“You’re unbelievable.”

That is far-fetched. Everything about this is believable, right down to her healing fingernail. She would need an open window, probably. White skin. Maybe a penis. The ability to look up. That’s the kind of foundation needed.

She doesn’t want to say please. She would rather sit here until tomorrow than say please because that’s pointing out the obvious. The word is hers and she won’t lend it to anyone. He would never give it back and she wouldn’t even have the privilege of watching him take it because her eyes are stuck to the floor.

“Were you trying to kill yourself?”

She laughs. “It was blackcurrant squash.”

Fruit juice and water can’t kill you. It’s fruit juice and water. It might hurt you, if the taste takes you somewhere. If it was less of fruit juice and water, and more of a vehicle. If it had wheels and parked you in a crowded parking lot, and took you by the neck and dragged you into a courtroom. That could hurt. If you found that jug of fruit juice and water on the solicitors desk, and he poured you a glass, and you finished the whole thing, even though blackcurrant is your least favourite, because you did not want to talk. If you asked for another glass instead of answering the question and you couldn’t look up because you knew your eyes would go two ways and that would be your answer. That might have killed you.

“The whole bottle. The whole fucking bottle, you crazy girl.”

He calls her girl when he’s angry. She hopes it is cold outside. Cold like the middle of winter instead of March. The sick would freeze on her and she could scrape it off like a windshield wiper, brand new. Maybe she could scrape him off too.

“What was even going through your stupid–”

She fakes a gag. He stops. It is strange but men don’t like hurt women.

Peter is under a car. The colour of the car doesn’t matter, nor the make. It just has to have five seats. One for Lily, one for him, one for Marie and one for the baby on the way. Paul will sit in-between the two baby car seats and pretend to hate it.

Peter says, “hand me the wrench.”

Paul says, “come out of there for a second, there’s something I want to say.”

Peter slides out easily and props himself up on one knee. He tilts his head and regards Paul.

Paul says nothing at first. He struggles for words. He stands there staring at his brother for an hour. Peter waits the whole hour, sat on the concrete.

It’s when the sun is starting to dip that Paul finds the courage. “I’ve been in love with your wife for half my life.”

Peter ducks his head low. “What are you going to do about it?”

Paul hands his brother the wrench and says nothing.

Peter smiles. “You’re a good kid.”

No, Peter would never say that.

“When you were born,” Nerine says, fiddling with her coat pocket. “We could fit you in a fruit bowl. You were so small. Tiny hands, tiny feet. Except for your eyes. They were big. Round like marbles. Mum said you would grow into them, and when you did, you’d be the prettiest girl alive.”

Wisteria turns to her, “And? Have I grown into them?”

“I think you’ve overshot.”

Wisteria laughs and then her face falls flat. “I kept searching for it.”

“It?”

Wisteria makes a humming sound, body tilting towards the grass as though it has her words. It’s the same noise she would make before crying as a child. Nerine wants to hit her. To materialise a pillow from this cold air and whack her till it feathers.

“Someone who looked like mum. My mortarboard. A sweet, cold peach. Anything.”

Nerine considers this. “The world is ending.”

Falter.

“It is,” Wisteria agrees without inflection. “Are you scared?”

Nerine takes a seat beside her on the grass. Nerine wants to say, you are my sister. She wants to say, I have known you, before you have known you. She wants to say, look at that bird struggling in the sky, you’ve ruined its flight with this melancholy. Wisteria is already looking up, she is already watching the bird.

Glide.

“I’m not sure I understand it,” Nerine says instead. “This… black hole. I don’t see it.”

“You don’t see black holes.”

“Then how do we know they exist?”

“Look around.”

Nerine doesn’t want to look, but the bird has fallen at last. It is dead at their feet, buried in wilting daisies. The wind begins to pick up. It blows Nerine’s hair left and right, the buttons of her coat coming undone, tears climbing up the sides of her face. Strangely, the trees in front of them are still. The field is still. Wisteria is still. Her blue dress is flapping all about her, but she is still. Her eyes.

“I tried to be good,” Wisteria stands up, barefoot and listless. “All my life, I tried to be good. Don’t pick the flowers, leave them in the soil. Fill the tip jar. Wear my hat and scarf because mum will worry. Eat the brussels sprouts. Smile. Be sad. Wear it like a badge, wear it like a gift. It’s okay to be sad, just— just don’t be so sad that it destroys you. Don’t be so sad that it leaks into everything else. Then the trees stopped looking like trees, and the sky ran out of that blue that I like. Water started tasting like nothing, and I know, I know, that water is supposed to taste like nothing. But it tasted like nothing!”

Nerine stares at the dead bird.

“I found it outside my window,” Wisteria stretches her arms out toward the grey sky, palms opening up to cup air. “No one else could see it. But I could. I could see it. It was small and quiet, but I knew what it would do. So I kept it. First in a glass jar. Then the fish tank. My wardrobe. It grew… Eventually, I had nowhere to put it. So I swallowed it whole.”

Nerine inhales sharply, scrambling to her feet. “Wisteria— why? Why would you—”

“Because I was tired, Nerine! Tired of everything. And that thing, that ball of nothing I found on my windowsill— it could absorb it all. No more looks of pity. No more shopping lists. Funerals. Weddings. No more being left in the dark corners of every room! I matter now! Everyone is looking for me now.”

Somewhere behind them, a branch snaps. Or perhaps it is another fallen bird. The wind is starting to sting Nerine’s eyes. Her sister is a black hole.

Nerine runs a hand over her face, laughing. “The end of the world because you were sad? That’s what you’re saying, right? That all of this? The earthquakes, the snow, the fire— all of it, because you were sad!”

Wisteria does not reply. She is still. It doesn’t matter, Nerine isn’t finished.

“Ha! That’s it, isn’t it? You were fine. You were mum’s favourite. What more did you want? To win the lottery? Cure cancer? Find gold? I don’t get it, Wisteria!”

“The world is ending because of you. We’re all going to die because you couldn’t be satisfied— because you had to eat a black hole. If you wanted to disappear so badly,” Nerine grinds her molars. “You should’ve found a place to die alone!”

They stare at each other. Wisteria’s expression is unreadable. Nerine’s coat is completely undone, lapels flapping like wings but there is nowhere to fly.

Wisteria kneels down and presses a finger to the dead bird, jostling its limp feathers. Her eyes are large and round and dark. Childlike. She caresses the bird’s neck, strokes its beak. “Even now, you’re struggling to say what you really mean,” Wisteria murmurs, eyes on the bird.

“What?”

“You’re not angry that the world is ending.”

Nerine laughs, incredulous. “Oh yeah, I’m thrilled—”

“You’re angry,” Wisteria pauses, looking up to stare straight at her. “Because you have to kill me.”

“That’s it, right?” Wisteria continues when Nerine doesn’t reply. “That’s why you’re here. It’s why you came searching for me after five years of radio silence. Little Wisteria getting into trouble again, got to set her straight. Right? I’ve gotten into a lot of trouble this time. A real fucking mess. You gonna clean it up, Nerr?”

Nerine closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. Her sister is a black hole.

“Well? Are you?”

Nerine takes a step forward. Then another. One step. Two steps. She kneels down. Her sister is a black hole.

“You have to,” Wisteria pleads.

Nerine reaches into her coat pocket, trembling. She holds Wisteria by the neck, gently. Carefully. They stare at each other. Nerine hesitates. Wisteria’s eyes are large and round and glassy.

“I’ll clean it up,” Nerine whispers, hoarse. Her sister is…

A bird. Struggling.

Falter.