Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Includes excerpts
of 11 exciting
young adult novels!
includes excerpts of novels by
Beth Fantaskey
Charles Benoit
Rebecca Hahn
Chris Crowe
Makiia Lucier
Conrad Wesselhoeft
Gard Skinner
Gina Damico
Laura L. Sullivan
Saundra Mitchell
A. J. Betts
Buzz Kill
Copyright © 2014 by Beth Fantaskey
Cold Calls
Copyright © 2014 by Charles Benoit
A Creature of Moonlight
Copyright © 2014 by Rebecca Hahn
A Death-Struck Year
Copyright © 2014 by Makiia Lucier
Game Slaves
Copyright © 2014 by Gard Skinner
Hellhole
Copyright © 2014 by Gina Damico
Mistwalker
Copyright © 2014 by Saundra Mitchell
www.hmhco.com
www.SingularReads.com
eISBN 978-0-544-46492-6
v1.0614
C o n t e n t s
SingularReads.com 380
beth fantaskey
and glaring at Mr. Killdare like she hoped for a fight. One that
would result in the coach getting his butt kicked to the grass.
I also caught a glimpse of my French teacher, Mademoiselle
Lois Beamish, who was pressing her hands to her also large,
but somehow not as attractive, chest, as though she was ter-
rified for Chase, her prize student. And I once again thought,
Ugh. She has a crush on him!
Then I returned my attention to Chase, who was saying
something to Coach Killdare — although so quietly that I
couldn’t hear a word. But whatever he uttered . . . It made
Mr. Killdare’s face fade from crimson to pink, and his hands
fall to his sides.
I stared at Chase — a mysterious, reportedly uber-rich kid
who’d transferred from some pricey “academy” that nobody
seemed quite able to pinpoint — wondering, What are you? A
crazy-coach whisperer?
Honestly, it seemed possible, because the next thing I knew,
Hollerin’ Hank pulled free of Chase and addressed Mike in a
brusque, but civilized, tone. “Price — you’re benched.” Then,
as Mike sat down to sulk, Mr. Killdare and my dad exchanged
some gruff coaching-type words and the game got underway
again, as if nothing had happened.
Retrieving my stuff from the ground — and brushing a
footprint off my notebook — I climbed into the bleachers, try-
ing to pay more attention, so I’d at least have something for the
Honeywell High Gazette. But my mind kept wandering, and as
the fourth quarter drew to a close, I found myself doodling
a picture of the heavyset, universally despised coach with a
knife in his chest and x’s for eyes, next to the word “Inevi-
BUZZ KILL
SERIOUSLY — WHO IS CHASE?
I’d made the previous year, when I’d been bored at a foot-
ball game. A roll call of people who might actually want to
kill the coach, and not just by failing to resuscitate him. If I
remembered correctly, I’d been able to think of at least six —
or possibly sixty — individuals, including my own dad, who’d
probably like to stick a knife into Hollerin’ Hank’s overtaxed
heart.
Then that weird thought was interrupted by the sound
of a ball being dribbled, and I realized somebody had finally
started using the equipment.
Laughing, I nudged Laura. “Hey, Chase is up and full of
energy. Why don’t you ask him to check the locker room?”
I believed Laura was genuinely concerned about Mr. Kill-
dare — but obviously not enough to approach a guy she’d
worshiped from afar, ever since his transfer to Honeywell.
“No, that’s okay!” she sort of cried, her face getting red.
“Oh, come on,” I teased, grabbing her arm, like I was
going to drag her over to where Chase Albright was alone,
shooting hoops. He was a one-man team, sinking a shot, re-
trieving it, and going in for a lay-up — all with the lazy, I-don’t-
give-a-damn-who’s-watching, but-don’t-ask-to-join-me vibe
that he always managed to give off. Chase was, I thought, the
embodiment of aloof. Which apparently didn’t bother Laura
or a lot of other girls, who seemed perversely drawn to his
inaccessibility — and, I supposed, the way he looked in his T-
shirt and shorts. Even I — who had nada for Chase — couldn’t
deny that he filled out a gym uniform pretty well. And his
face, with those blue eyes that gave away nothing . . . There
wasn’t much to criticize there, either.
BETH FANTASKEY
“And then you won that Peacemaker thing last year . . . That
was probably the last straw.”
She was talking about the National Pacemaker Awards,
which were the equivalent of Pulitzer Prizes for student
journalists. And she was right about Viv having a conniption
when I’d won for feature writing, for a sappy story about
our school’s blind crossing guard. I hadn’t even technically
entered — the Gazette’s eager new advisor, Mr. Sokowski, had
filled out the paperwork — but I’d come home with the hon-
ors.
“That did tick her off pretty badly,” I agreed. “She didn’t
even get honorable mention for her piece on bulimic cheer-
leaders.” I shrugged. “Too clichéd, I think.”
“And she’s obviously still mad about your father beating
hers for mayor, too,” Laura noted as we walked toward the
equipment storage closet. “She’s got it in for you and your
dad.”
“Well . . .” I tossed my mat into a bin. “In less than a year,
Viv and I will part ways forever. I’d say the odds of my acci-
dentally shining again at her expense are pretty slim.”
I looked once more at Chase. Good thing I really don’t have
designs on him. Viv would destroy me if I ever “stole” a guy she
liked!
Laura was also watching the mysterious Mr. Albright — of
course. But she didn’t think I should keep my distance. On
the contrary, she suggested, “Hey, maybe you could do an
exposé on Chase and win another one of those Peacemakers.
He is a total — gorgeous — puzzle.”
BETH FANTASKEY
I reached for the door to the locker room. “I’m pretty sure
what I’d uncover would earn the headline ‘Self-Absorbed
Rich Kid Too Snooty for Small Town.’ Which is not exactly
a man-bites-dog story.” I kind of snorted. “Let’s face it. No-
body from Honeywell, Pennsylvania, will ever win the inves-
tigative reporting prize. What the heck would you look into?”
Laura and I both laughed, then, because nothing signifi-
cant — not counting football championships — ever happened
in our sleepy town.
It never occurred to either one of us that a question on
our class’s collective mind, that morning, might actually turn
out to be a huge story. No, it wasn’t until we’d had a substitute
phys ed teacher for over a week, and my dad had slid into the
role of de facto head coach of the Stingers, that I, at least,
realized somebody might want to make a sincere effort to
answer . . .
What the heck really happened to Coach Killdare?
Chapter 3
His absence just seemed odd. “Like, has he called to say where
he’s at?”
“No. But Principal Woolsey seems to vaguely recall Hank
saying something about taking time off.” I could tell Dad —
like pretty much everybody else — considered Mr. Woolsey
completely incompetent when he confided, “Frankly, I think
he’s afraid he dropped the ball and should know where his
head coach has vanished to during the height of football sea-
son.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Mr. Woolsey,” I agreed. “But would
Coach Killdare really blow off the season?”
“Emergencies arise, Millicent.” Dad rammed the car into
“park.” “Some of which trump football, even.”
I opened my mouth to mention my sixth birthday party,
which my father had missed because of a game, then let it go.
In retrospect, there had been a lot of squealing, and Laura’d
peed her pants after drinking too much lemonade. Who
could blame a grown man for trying to avoid that scene? But
I couldn’t imagine anything that would keep Hollerin’ Hank
from football.
“Jeez, maybe Laura’s right,” I mumbled. “Maybe some-
thing really happened to Mr. Killdare!”
My dad didn’t share my concern. He gestured to the book
on my lap. “I don’t want you reading while you work the con-
cession stand tonight, Millie. That’s like stealing from your
employer.”
How had I sprung from a father who was ambitious,
followed rules, and — I studied my dad’s face — was olive-
BETH FANTASKEY
Isabel about when and where you read. You seem to actually
listen to her.”
I had one foot on the pavement, but I stopped short, sur-
prised that Dad had just called “my” librarian, Isabel Parkins,
by her first name. I consulted with Ms. Parkins on at least
a biweekly basis — she was both a book recommender and
something of a confidante — but I rarely mentioned her to
Dad. And I certainly never used her first name.
Then again, Ms. Parkins was head of Honeywell’s public
library, a key part of Mayor Jack Ostermeyer’s fiefdom.
“Millie, will you get out of the car?” Dad suggested, add-
ing, with a rare hint of laughter in his voice, “I think your
date for the evening is waiting for you!”
I slammed the door, not sure what the heck he was talking
about because I hadn’t had a date since . . . well, never. But
when I looked across the parking lot, I spotted . . .
Oh, good grief.
Chapter 4
suspicion that the story wasn’t even worth covering, and re-
luctantly took down his quote about the cost.
“Hank Killdare was the first to notice ’em and make a
fuss,” Big Pete added. “Said he didn’t want the whole stadium
collapsin’ during a game. Threatened to go to the real press
. . .” He obviously realized he’d insulted me and gave me a
sheepish look. “Sorry . . . Anyhow, Killdare said fix ’em — or
else.”
“So these cracks . . . Are they really serious?”
“Eh.” Big Pete shrugged. “Probably just cosmetic, to be
honest. But when Hank Killdare gets a bee in his bonnet . . .”
Grinning at his own — clearly inadvertent — pun, he jabbed a
thick finger at my notebook. “Hey, write that down! Stingers
coach has a bee in his bonnet!”
I wasn’t laughing — or writing. I was looking at my father,
who by then was surrounded by players, including Ryan, who
waved to me; Mike Price, who was, as usual, doing his own
lower-primate impersonation; and the always attention-grab-
bing Chase Albright, who stood with his arms crossed and a
look of concentration on his gorgeous high-and-mighty face,
now and then nodding at something my dad said.
Is this school really a “boondoggle”? Have my dad and Hollerin’
Hank clashed about fixing the stadium, as well as coaching strate-
gies?
The cheerleaders had arrived for practice, too, and I found
Viv at the head of the pack, her lips frozen in what everyone
else accepted as a smile, but which I always thought looked
like a wolfish snarl, complete with wrinkled snout and sharp
incisors.
BETH FANTASKEY
And did Viv know how much fixing the cracks will cost? Did she
know I’ll have to write a story that really will make Dad look bad?
Because he gets blamed for everything that goes wrong at Honeywell
High.
How sick to use me against my own father . . .
“I guess you’ll wanna see the storage space, huh?”
“What?” I turned around to see Big Pete heading toward a
door I’d never noticed before, in the cinder-block wall under
the bleachers. I also saw a bunch of fine, jagged fissures in
that wall, which often bore the weight of hundreds of peo-
ple, because Honeywell’s nationally known football program
packed in the crowds. “What did you say?” I asked again,
catching up to my guide.
“I guess you’ll wanna see the storage space,” he repeated,
jamming a key in the lock before I could tell him that, no, I
didn’t really need to see a bunch of old javelins or tackling
dummies or whatever they kept under bleachers. Especially
since, as I drew closer, I started to smell something coming
from behind that portal.
Stepping reluctantly beside Pete, I fought the urge to cover
my nose, thinking, Jeez, what’s really in there? Mascot Buzz’s
unwashed, sweaty bee costume? The eviscerated organs of our van-
quished sports foes?
“Look, I really don’t think I need . . .”
I was just about to insist that we keep that door closed
when Pete, looking confused himself, hauled it open. The
stench got even worse, and we both looked at each other,
like, What the heck?
Looking back, I’d never be sure what, exactly, compelled
BUZZ KILL
the scene: Vivienne Fitch, who was arguing with Big Pete,
as if she’d waited her whole life to see a homicide victim and
would not be denied the chance to take a photograph of it
with her cell phone; Mike Price, for once not glued to Viv’s
hip, but rather standing on the margins; and, of course, Jack
Ostermeyer, who by then was at the entrance to the stor-
age space, not taking charge, as I’d expected, but staring into
that stinky crypt with a very strange look on his face. One I
couldn’t quite read in the dimming daylight.
And as police cars and ambulances began to drive up to the
stadium, tearing across the grassy field, I also saw that Chase
hadn’t run off to change his shoes, like I thought he should
do before semiliquefied Chef Boyardee seeped through his
laces. He still lingered at the very back of the milling, excited
throng, far enough away from the other kids to qualify as
alone.
And the look on his face . . . It struck me as even more
curious than the expression on my father’s. I almost could’ve
sworn that Chase Albright, whom I’d previously thought in-
capable of anything but an icy, unyielding, smug superiority,
looked . . . sad.
Then I jumped about a mile when somebody clapped a
firm hand on my shoulder and told me, in a weasely, sort-of-
familiar voice, “Don’t go anywhere, Millicent Ostermeyer. I’ll
need to talk to you.”
charles benoit
The fifth time the buzz sounded, he hit the snooze on his
alarm. Then the buzz sounded again, and he realized it
was his phone.
One eye open, he lifted his head enough to see the red
2:47 on the clock. He reached for the phone, knocking it
off the desk. It fell onto the carpet and under the bed. He
listened through his pillow as it buzzed seven more times.
It stopped and he waited, picturing the call going to voice
mail, then the hang-up and the redial.
It started again, and on the ninth buzz he leaned over
the side and fumbled until he found it. The blue light from
the screen lit up the dark room, the swoosh of the static
roaring in the silence. He was squinting to see the keypad,
trying to remember what buttons to push to activate call
blocking, when the voice said, “Check your inbox.” Then
the line went dead and the blue light faded down to a soft
glow.
Eric dropped the phone back on the floor and rolled
over, wrapping the pillow around his head. He lay like that
for fifteen, twenty minutes, not moving, telling himself
he was just about to fall asleep, when he gave in, sat up,
and tapped on his iPad.
He had opened a Gmail account a couple of years back
but never used it. Everybody was on Facebook or they just
sent a text. He needed an email address to put on college
applications, and he checked it now and then, but all he
got were generic ads and personalized invitations from the
army and marines.
It took him three tries to get the password right.
He had a dozen unopened messages — the first several
were weeks old, the last one had come in at midnight.
There was nothing in the subject line, and the return
email address was a bunch of question marks from an
EarthLink account. He clicked it open, and when it loaded,
a pasted-in picture filled the screen.
A black rectangle at the top, a rough white area in the
middle, a dark brown bar along the bottom.
No people, no words, nothing else in the shot.
Eric rubbed his eyes and leaned in to the screen.
It was obviously a zoomed-in part of a bigger picture,
with the squared-off edges and boxy patches of computer
pixels. But a picture of what?
The brown part could be leather or wood or paint or
dirt.
The black part looked shiny, so maybe it was metal.
But then, it could’ve been the way the camera flashed.
The white space was too rough to be paper and too
smooth to be concrete, and not white like milk — more
like vanilla ice cream.
Whatever it was, the voice had assumed he would rec-
ognize it and would know what it meant.
But he didn’t.
Eric studied it until his eyes went heavy, then turned
off the screen and crawled back into bed.
L L S U M M E R L O N G the vil-
lagers have been talking of the woods.
lag
Even those living many hills
away can see it: their crops are disap-
aw
pearing; their land is shrinking by the day. We hear story after
story. One evening a well will be standing untouched, a good
twenty feet from the shade, and when the farmer’s daughter goes
to draw water in the morning, there will be nothing left but a
pile of stones and a new tree or three growing out of the rubble.
And all along beside it, the woods stretch on and on, where no
woods were the night before.
In years gone past, this happened now and again: a goat-
herd would complain of his flock’s favorite hill being eaten by
shadows and trunks, or a shed alongside the trees would rust
overnight and be crawling with vines in the morning. But just as
often, an old fence was uncovered by the woods as they retreated,
or a long-lost watering hole suddenly appeared again, where it
hadn’t been for near fifty years. The woods come and they go,
like the sun, like the wind, like the seasons. It isn’t something to
fret about, not in a fearful way. The farmers have always com-
plained of it, but they’ve never talked of it as they are talking
now of this advance.
This year, the trees do not go; they only come, on and on,
and rumors from all over our land say the same. They are folding
in around us.
It terrifies the villagers something fierce. When they come
to bring our supplies or to buy some flowers, they mutter about
it with my Gramps. I see them shaking their heads, twisting their
caps in their hands. Gramps tells them it’s nothing to worry
about, that the trees will take themselves back again, just as they
always do.
They listen to him. When he talks, it’s as if they forget the
state of his legs and see only the calm on his face, hear only the
slow, measured way he has with words. They leave more peaceful
than they were when they came. They leave less worried about
the creeping trees.
When they’ve gone, though, I see my Gramps sigh. I see
him look sideways at me where I’m leaning against the porch rail,
as if I won’t notice that way. As if I don’t already know he frets
more than he’d ever let on. There’s no one like my Gramps for
fretting. Any sickness going around, any rumor of bandits — I
see those eyebrows drawing in tight. He’ll not talk about it,
maybe, but he worries, more and more the less he can do.
Well, and this time, could be there’s something to it. Since
I was small, since we lived here and made ourselves the flower
people to keep from getting our heads chopped off, Gramps
has warned me not to wander into the trees that push up right
against our place — out back, beyond the flowers and paths and
bushes, over the low stone wall that rings around our garden. But
out here, living so close, it would be near impossible not to fol-
low my curiosity over that wall, and I’ve had years to be curious.
My Gramps doesn’t realize — I only go when he’s not looking —
how well I’ve always known our woods.
There’s not much Gramps could do to stop me, stuck as
he is in his chair, needing me for every little thing. Oh, he could
yell, and if I didn’t come running, he could get himself up with
his cane and wobble out the back, and if I wasn’t there, he could
tear me down something wretched when he saw me returning.
But I don’t go so far that I can’t hear my Gramps’s voice. Not just
because I’m avoiding trouble. Not just because I don’t want to
scare him, neither, though those are both good reasons. What if
something were to happen to Gramps and I wasn’t there to pick
him off the floor or run for help? Or what if the king decided
that today was the day he’d stop tolerating those flower people,
and he sent some men and horses down, and I wasn’t there to
scream and scratch until they killed me for my Gramps?
So Gramps doesn’t know how often I go to the woods.
There are all the things you would think of living there:
rabbits and squirrels and hedgehogs and, late in the evening,
bats. The trees are spaced out like they must want to be. Nobody
comes to chop them down. Nobody stops them from spread-
ing apart or smothering each other or dropping their needles
just as they please, in patterns and swirls and such. I wouldn’t
half mind being one of those trees. I reckon it’s a peaceful life,
with nothing but the birds, the wind, and the sun for your com-
pany.
It’s peaceful visiting them, wandering this way and that
through their silent trunks, humming and thinking my own
thoughts.
There are other things there too, things you wouldn’t
expect.
There’s a laugh behind a tree when nobody’s around to
make it. A flash of red from branch to branch, like a spark from
a fire, but nothing’s burning. A woman dressed in green, sitting
alone on a log and knitting something out of nothing, out of
leaves and grass and berries, out of sunshine. She looks up, and
she has no eyes. Where her eyes should be there are lights like
tiny suns, and she’s smiling, but I don’t know how, because she
doesn’t have a mouth like anyone else’s, not that I can see. There’s
just a mist all around her head, and those burning eyes looking
right at me.
I don’t stop to talk to things like that. I used to, once, be-
fore I knew any better. Back then I used to play with the little
people hidden under the bushes and make my own crafts next to
the lady on the log as she knit and sang to me, and I’d fly away
sometimes, though never very far, with great winged things that
held me in their arms. I was always wary of straying too far from
Gramps, even when I was small.
It was only gradually that I grew frightened of the woods
folk. The laugh turned, bit by bit, from cheerful to menacing;
the spark changed from beautiful to dangerous. I’d see the little
ones eyeing me with something other than playfulness. I’d see the
lady’s clever fingers tensing as we knit, and I’d wonder just when
she’d decide to grab my wrist, to take me away with her.
So I stopped listening, and I stopped looking. It’s been
many years now since I followed whenever the voices called from
the woods. I no longer talk back to birds with people’s faces, or
watch as misty creatures dart through the brooks.
But when I slip out into the trees this summer, I hear the
voices singing more, and I see the lights flickering here and there,
yellow and blue and green, always just at the corners of my eyes,
tempting me away.
I dare not go out when the sun is low in the sky. Then I’m
like to forget, almost, who I am, and that I ever had a Gramps,
and that the little people tugging at my skirt hem are not my
people, and are not to be trusted, even though they bear the
sweetest, most innocent faces in the world.
Yet I don’t stop going completely, neither. When Gramps
is sleeping the sun away, or when I’ve worked so hard at digging
out weeds and pruning back bushes and hauling water to and
from the well that I can’t stand one minute more, or when I get
to thinking on things just so, I hop over our garden wall and
go walking out there, breathing in the pine and the damp, dark
places of the forest.
It’s a dangerous pastime, I know, but I can’t help myself.
There’s a thing that draws me to the woods, even more than the
peacefulness I find there. It’s a humming deep at the bottom of
my mind. It’s a thrill that tingles, even when I’m only taking one
step and then another, even when the woods folk are nowhere to
be seen.
The villagers will tell you it’s not just the creatures of the
woods that require wariness. It’s not just the obvious: the lights
and the voices and the speaking owls, the faces in the branches.
It’s the trees themselves.
There’s something there, they’ll say, whispering through
the leaves, sleeping in the trunks. There’s something that seeps
through the spongy ground but never shows itself in any way
you would recognize. If you walk enough in these woods, they
say, you’ll start to understand its language. The wind through
the trees will murmur secret things to you, and you’ll be pulled
by them, step by step by step, out of the human realm. You’ll
be drawn to the shadows, toward the soft flashes of moonlight
through the branches, into the hidden holes and tricky marshes.
The villagers won’t let their children go into the woods, not
even to the very closest edge, not even when the wind is silent
and the sun shines full through the trees. It’s an insidious thing,
they say, the soul of these woods. It will rock you and soothe you
until you’ve nothing left but trust and belief and naivety. It will
fold itself into you, and you will never know it’s there, not until
you’re ten nights out and there’s not a thing that can bring you
back again.
It’s the girls that the woods take most often. Girls about my age,
in fact, near grown but not yet settling themselves down to a
husband and a family. There were one or two from round about
our place when I was growing who walked from their homes one
day and never came back.
The latest was a girl with dark curls, just old enough to be
catching the eyes of the boys, and she was the closest thing to a
friend I ever had.
That was just this spring, when she disappeared. She was
my age, and she wasn’t shy none. She’d talk up my Gramps; he
used to smile more when she was about the place. She’d talk up
the village boys, too, the ones she used to play chase with but
now were chasing her, and eyeing her as if she wasn’t the same
girl they’d spent their summers playing pranks with, as if she
wasn’t as close to them as their own sisters.
It’s not the easiest thing to keep friends when you live a
good thirty-minute walk from the nearest village — nor when
you’re as close as we are to the woods. But Annel didn’t care
none about those things. The other village girls stayed close to
home, but even young as a sprout, Annel would run across the
fields and come stamping up to our front door, bursting in as we
ate our breakfast maybe, or swinging right around to the garden,
where I’d be at work. She didn’t look like a farmer’s daughter —
she looked like a lady from the court, with that figure and that
face — but she wore her skirts hitched up as often as not, and
she threw herself down in the dirt alongside me as I pruned and
planted.
Not that her parents approved, quite, but Annel had five
brothers also running wild, and for one stray daughter to be off
visiting the flower girl and her grandfather — who still spoke
soft and sweet like the castle folk — there were worse things in
the world.
When Annel came by our place, it was as if the sun had
come down to visit. She’d go running with me out in the mead-
ows, picking wildflowers, imagining shapes in the clouds in the
sky. We’d talk things over, too: what it’d be like to fly up high
with the birds; where we’d like to go when we grew up — across
the mountains to the northern sea, or so far south, the winter
would never come. Annel was always full of places she’d like to
go. I think that was why she so loved our place — it was the clos-
est she could get to another country, my Gramps and my world.
Well, and I reckon I listened better than most of the village girls.
How could I not? She’d paint such pictures with her words, of
endless hills of sand, of bitter plains of snow.
Annel was good at that — making you see things with her
words. Often as not, she’d stay clear through dinner, until the
dark was creeping into the corners of the hut, and she’d curl
up on our old wool rug next to me, her face all shining in the
firelight. We’d have taken in a chair from the porch for Gramps.
He’d sit straight as always, but with a softness in his face, as if
he’d forgotten for the moment the pain in his legs, his fretful
thoughts. And Annel would tell us stories, Gramps and me, and
he would listen quietly, scarce moving, and I would eat them up
like a river eats stones, rushing, gobbling every passing word,
slipping on from tale to tale to tale.
Sometimes the stories she’d tell would get to be too much
for my Gramps. A woman who got herself lost and never came
back. A child without a mother, wandering far and wide, scream-
ing so insistently that the earth opened up and swallowed it
whole just to give it some rest. Then we would hear the chair
scraping and the cane jolting against the floor, and Annel would
stop talking until he’d gone out to the porch and sat down on the
steps. She’d continue softer after that and stop her story soon as
she could.
But she always kept on until the end. She knew, as I knew,
that you don’t stop a story half done. You keep on going, through
heartbreak and pain and fear, and times there is a happy ending,
and times there isn’t. Don’t matter. You don’t cut a flower half
through and then wait and watch as it slowly shrivels to death.
And you don’t stop a story before you reach the end.
Came a time as Annel got older that her parents stopped for-
getting her. Came a time she only visited us once a week, and
then once a month, and then not for months and months, and
then we heard she’d gotten herself engaged to a wheelwright and
would be married the next spring.
She visited me once that fall, just last year, and she watched
as I turned the dirt over in our garden, readying the ground for
the winter. I was listening to the flower bulbs settling into the
earth, tucking themselves in for a long sleep. I was humming
them a tune of warm dreams, dark waterfalls, green, hidden
things. I’ve always been good with the flowers, just as I’ve always
been good at listening to the trees and seeing the creatures that
lurk in the secret spaces between their trunks.
For a bit, I let Annel stand there silent, unmoving as I
worked. If she wanted to speak to me, she would. Could be I
was angry with her some without realizing it. Even knowing it
was not her fault, could be I blamed her for the lonely taste of
those months.
“Funny,” she said finally, when I’d reached the end of a row
and she was still back in the middle of the garden, watching my
shovel with a twisted puzzle on her face. “Funny, isn’t it, how
things can go and change all about you, and you can grow up
tall and fill out your dress, and still there’s something won’t ever
change inside unless you take it up by the roots and hurl it away
as hard as you can? I imagine it’s not this way for everyone. Is it,
Marni?”
The crickets had silenced themselves for the summer; the
frogs were sleeping deep in their lakes. A whippoorwill whistled
close by in the woods, the only one speaking, the only one still
awake. “No, I don’t reckon it is that way for everyone,” I said.
I didn’t know completely what she meant, but nothing was for
Annel as it was for everyone.
“No,” she said softly, but the breeze flipped it round and
brought it my way. “No, some don’t care about the tearing. Some
replant whatever’s going to work in the new soil. You do that
with your flowers, don’t you? Whatever works, whatever’s going
to survive, that’s what you plant.”
“I guess that’s true,” I said. “Whatever’s suited for the
amount of sun and shade we get back here.”
“Not everything’s suited, though.”
“No.”
“What if — what if, Marni, you’re so in love with a flower
you can’t bear to rip it up? What if you couldn’t smile if you
didn’t see it growing in your garden?”
“There’s no such flower,” I said. “Or there’s only the dragon
flower, which won’t go no matter how many times I try to chase
it out. And that’s the one I hate, the one I wish would disappear.”
“The dragon flower,” said Annel, “which won’t go no matter
how you try to kill it.”
“Can’t make my garden without that flower.”
She nodded. The dusk was growing now. “Was a time,” she
said, “I didn’t think of nothing but running down from home to
here, and back again when I felt the urge.”
“When you’re married,” I said, “you come get a flower for
your table every day.”
“Can I, Marni?” She laughed a bit. “Can I have a dragon
flower?”
“Every day,” I promised her.
Then she moved, finally, coming down the row, and she
hugged me, dirt and sweat and all. The whippoorwill had
stopped. Only the wind through the woods rushed out toward
us, flicked leaf bits in our hair. “Thanks, Marni,” she said. “I’ll
remember.” She pulled back, still holding my arms. “My mother
sent me down to tell you about the wedding, but I guess you
know all there is by this point. I’m to invite you — you and your
Gramps.”
“We’ll come,” I said.
“Well, then.” She smiled at me, though it wasn’t much more
than a flash of gray in the draining light. “Well, then, I’ll see you
again for the wedding in the spring.”
Only there was no wedding. As soon as the pale green tips of the
dragon flower stems were poking out of the rich brown earth,
even before the springtime thunderstorms had rolled off to the
south, my friend took herself to the woods. They searched for
her round about the villages, thinking she might have run off
with this or that farmer boy. They came to our hut, even, stood
with their caps in their hands, but you could feel the suspicion
dripping from them, those men. You could see them remember-
ing how often their Annel had come running down the path
to us, and it wasn’t any other girl who felt the need to do that,
and it wasn’t any other girl — well, not for a few years past any-
way — but it was hardly anyone else who disappeared like this.
And there I was, as clear as could be, my mother’s daughter, tell-
ing them I hadn’t seen Annel since winter fell, but still, they all
knew, you could see. They knew that those visits with me had
something to do with this.
They didn’t say it straight out, though, or dare to threaten
me or any such, not with Gramps sitting right next to me. They
glared, and asked their questions, and went away after I’d an-
swered them. I stayed clear of the woods for weeks after that,
as my Gramps never left me out of his sight. After a time they
stopped looking, and Annel became just another story, another
girl who had grown up to be swallowed by the woods. And just
like all those other girls, she hasn’t ever come back.
There’s a story Annel used to tell about this girl, near grown,
who was out in a meadow or somewhere, picking flowers. She
was singing to herself, happy I guess, and as she reached down
to pluck this red tulip, up comes a big brown horse with a man
on its back.
Except it wasn’t just a man, it was a sorcerer, and he didn’t
just happen to ride up right then. He had been watching the
girl with his magic, and there was something about the way she
picked the flowers, something about the way she leaned over with
her hair all long and flowing and her lips spread wide in song,
that made him love her. Or at least that’s what he told the girl
when he had gotten off his big brown horse and was standing
there in front of her, and her mouth was wide with surprise now,
and the tulip was still in her hand.
He wanted to take her with him back to his big old sor-
cerer’s house, and he said she’d have jewels and dresses and any-
thing she could want. Only thing was, if she came with him, she
wouldn’t ever go back home.
Well, the girl cried for a bit, thinking on the choice she had
to make, but it turned out she already had a sweetheart back in
her village. So she said no to the sorcerer, and he got angry and
threatened her with his magic, and she stuck out her tongue at
him — either brave or real stupid — and she ran back home and
didn’t tell anyone about it.
Except it didn’t matter whether she told them or not, be-
cause two days later the sorcerer came around and killed them
all. Killed her whole village: her parents, her brothers, the old
teacher at the schoolhouse — everyone the girl had ever known.
He left only her alive, and when she was sitting by the grave
of her sweetheart, crying herself a lake, he came by on his big
brown horse again and got off and stood by her.
He said he was sorry, that he didn’t want to hurt her, but
she could see, couldn’t she, that there really was nothing to do
but come with him. There was no reason anymore not to come.
But that girl didn’t stand up and get on the horse and ride
away with him. She sat there crying and crying, and while he
watched, she stopped being a girl at all. She bent down toward
her sweetheart’s grave, and she trickled out of herself until she
went and sprouted roots. And then there was nothing left of the
girl the sorcerer said he loved, and all that was there was a red
tulip, wet with dew, bending in the breeze.
The sorcerer could have plucked her up and carried her
away with him, I guess, but he didn’t. He let her be. He climbed
back onto his horse and went home to his big old house. The
girl stayed there like she wanted, though I suppose she hadn’t
planned on being a flower, and when the winter came, she shriv-
eled up and died.
When I see those lords staring with their dark and hungry
eyes, when I see the village lads shooting their looks at me, I
think about this story, and I imagine a sorcerer riding up to our
front porch or around to the back of the hut while I’m out pick-
ing flowers. I imagine him reaching out a hand to me, telling me
I can come with him or I can stay at home, and I look up at him,
and I don’t cry or stick out my tongue.
I leap from the porch or get up out of the dirt. I jump on
his horse before he has the chance to change his mind. I leave
with him at once, and I don’t ever turn myself around to look
behind.
That’s what I imagine, anyway. And then I look across the porch
and see Gramps there with his legs all twisted, and I know if it
came down to it, I couldn’t really leave. Not for a sorcerer, not
for anyone.
Not if the dragon himself came down from his mountain
and told me he would kill everyone who’d put us here, and all I
had to do was leave my Gramps behind.
See, Gramps never left me behind. Not when his own son
wanted me dead, not when the world thought I was nothing,
no one, as wicked as anything. He picked me up and carried me
here, even when he couldn’t walk. He spent his life becoming no
one too, so he could live with me, so they would let me live.
chris crowe
I’m dedicating
one syllable to each soul
as I record my
me angry at him —
and at Mom, too. Why couldn’t
they just get along?
at the U of A
he quit football because he
got my mom pregnant.
I recognized the
strength and grace in that picture,
and I knew he’d been
special, talented,
and I made up my mind to
be like him one day.
knocked up a girl, he
married her to make it right.
It doesn’t happen
By getting married,
Mom and Dad did the right thing,
and they have been good
parents to me, and
I’m grateful to them both for
putting up with each
Mr. Ruby, my
U.S. history teacher,
wrote a number on
attending rallies
at ASU. She’s not a
hippie or some kind
rallies in Phoenix
or over at ASU.
Most nights she was gone,
to navigate the
no man’s land between them, but
then for some reason
to keep a shaky
truce for so many years. But
it was difficult.
ASU as soon
as I finished high school. “The
student deferment
I knew I’d go to
college to avoid the war,
not prepare for it.
Everybody was
talking about the new team
coming to Phoenix.
in the desert?” He
shook his head. “It’ll be a
huge waste of money.
Besides, basketball’s
a black man’s game, and we don’t
need to go out of
our way to attract
more of them to the valley.
It’s already bad
a starving kind of
lonely. I knew she meant that
America and
It wasn’t a stock
picture of atrocities:
no naked corpses
A Vietnamese
police chief stood with his back
to the camera;
his right arm was raised,
holding a pistol inches
from a skinny kid’s
a Vietnamese
soldier looked on, smiling. The
looks of anguish, joy,
Mom. I crept to my
door, listening and waiting.
And then Dad’s roaring
on the patio
reading a book. It took a
little while to get
knit us into a
tight group hug, but Dad leaned right
and Mom leaned left, and
So I grew up in
divided territory,
a home with clearly
defined boundaries
that my parents rarely crossed.
Most of the time we
In the coming weeks, I would wish that I had done things dif-
ferently. Thrown my arms around my brother, perhaps, and
said, I love you, Jack. Words I hadn’t spoken in years. Or held on
a little tighter to Lucy and said, Thank you. Thank you for watching
over me, when my own mother could not. But the distance between
hindsight and foresight is as vast as the Pacific. And on my
family’s last evening in the city, my attention was fixed not on
gratitude, certainly, but on myself. My sad, sorry, unambitious
self.
Famous American Women: Vignettes from the Past and Present. Curled
up on the settee, I read the book from first page to last, hoping
inspiration would strike and put an end to my misery. This! This is
who you were meant to be, Cleo Berry. Go now and live your life.
So far no luck.
I reviewed. Abigail Burgess Grant, lighthouse keeper at Ma-
tinicus Rock, Maine. I tried to picture it: the windswept coast, the
salty air, the nearest neighbor miles away. No, I thought. Too lonely.
I turned the page. Isabella Marie Boyd, wartime spy. Too dangerous.
Geraldine Farrar, opera singer. Not nearly enough talent. I lingered
over the entry for Eleanor Dumont, first female blackjack player,
otherwise known as Madame Mustache. My spirits lifted a little as
I imagined my brother’s expression.
Lucy sat across from me, dressed for dinner and muttering
over her itinerary. Jack stood near the parlor’s window, pouring
whiskey into a glass. His tie had been pulled loose, a navy suit
jacket tossed onto the piano bench. We both favored our father,
Jack and I, with gray eyes, hair black as pitch, and, to my sibling’s
everlasting embarrassment, dimples deep enough to launch a boat
in. He glanced over, caught my eye, and tipped his glass in my
direction. A friendly offer. Sixteen years my senior, my brother
practiced an unorthodox form of guardianship: tolerant in some
ways, overbearing in others. Whiskey was allowed. Young men
were not.
I shook my head, then asked, “What does an ornithologist
do?”
Jack placed the stopper into the decanter. “An ornithologist?
Someone who studies birds, I believe.”
Disappointed, I looked down. Florence Augusta Merriam Bai-
ley, ornithologist. No, too boring. This was impossible.
“Do drink that behind a curtain, Jackson,” Lucy said, looking
out the window to where Mrs. Pike could be seen entering her
home across the street. Mrs. Pike, the only neighbor we knew who
took the Oregon Prohibition laws seriously. “That woman would
have us sent to Australia if she could. Cleo as well.”
“I don’t think they ship criminals to Australia anymore, dar-
lin’.” But Jack obliged, moving out of sight.
Lucy frowned at me. “Are you sure you’ll be all right while
we’re away?” She paused, careful not to look at her husband. “You
do know you can always come with us.”
Jack cleared his throat, not even attempting to mask a pained
expression, and I couldn’t help but smile. Tomorrow he and Lucy
would be on a train to San Francisco to celebrate their thirteenth
wedding anniversary. It was to be an extended vacation, with
some business thrown in on Jack’s part. They would be gone for
six weeks.
“No one wants their sister around on an anniversary trip,” I
said. “It’s the opposite of romantic.”
“Thank you, Cleo,” Jack said. Lucy looked ready to argue.
“I’ll be fine. Truly,” I added, knowing the real reason she wor-
ried. “We’re too far west for the influenza. Everyone has said so.”
I had heard of the Spanish influenza. Who had not? A par-
ticularly fierce strain of flu, it had made its way down the eastern
seaboard, sending entire families to the hospitals, crippling the
military training bases. The newspapers were filled with gruesome
tales from Boston, Philadelphia, and New York. Cities so far away,
they could have been part of another country. But that was the
extent of it. We were safe here in Oregon. In Portland. The Span-
ish flu had no interest in the northwestern states.
“Very well,” Lucy said, defeated. “But here, this is for you.”
She handed me her itinerary. I looked it over. It contained their
train arrival and departure information, as well as the names of
friends located the entire length of the Pacific coast whom I could
call on for assistance should I need it. Also, a reminder that they
would be returning on November third, a Sunday, and would stop
directly at St. Helen’s Hall to bring me home.
The same old complaint lodged on the tip of my tongue, and I
bit down, hard. I didn’t want to spoil their last evening by showing
how unhappy I was. They knew already. But inside, I wanted to
kick something.
Many of my schoolmates had homes outside the city, traveling
in from towns such as Coos Bay, Eugene, Bend, and Sisters. Oth-
ers hailed from farther out: Juneau, Coeur d’Alene, Walla Walla,
even Honolulu. Some lived in the student dormitories during the
week and spent weekends with their families. Others traveled
home only during the holidays.
I was a day student. Jack drove me to school each morning on
the way to his office, and I walked home in the afternoon. Or rode
the streetcar. But while Jack and Lucy were away, the house was
to be closed up. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Foster, given leave. She
would also be traveling tomorrow, by steamboat, to visit her son
in Hood River.
I had begged to be allowed to remain at home on my own, not
liking one bit the thought of six weeks in the dormitories — away
from my comfortable bedroom, away from any hope of privacy.
My brother was unsympathetic. He had boarded throughout his
own school years. He said it built character. And that I shouldn’t
grumble, because no matter how awful a girls’ dormitory might
be, a boys’ residence was a thousand times worse.
I skimmed the rest of Lucy’s notes. I was to telephone the
Fairmont San Francisco once a week, each Saturday, to confirm I
remained in the land of the living. Good grief, I thought.
“Good Lord,” Jack said at the same time, peering over my
shoulder. “Lucy, she’s seventeen, not seven.”
Lucy gave him a look, then proceeded to guide me through
every part of their schedule. I resisted the urge to close my eyes.
The smell of roasting potatoes drifted from the kitchen, and I
remembered Mrs. Foster was preparing a salmon for our last sup-
per. Beyond Lucy, the luggage was piled high in the front hall,
enough trunks and suitcases and hatboxes to send six people off
in style.
Trying to be discreet, I lifted a corner of the itinerary and
peeked at my book. Maria Mitchell, first American woman
astronomer, director of the observatory at Vassar College. Kate
Furbish, botanical artist. Harriet Boyd Hawes, pioneering archae-
ologist. My head fell back against the cushions, and I sighed, long
and tortured.
“Who has let in the bear?” Lucy exclaimed.
I straightened. While I’d been woolgathering, Jack had settled
beside Lucy, his glass cradled in one hand, his other arm flung
across the back of the settee. Two pairs of eyes regarded me with
amused exasperation.
“All this heavy breathing,” Lucy continued. “What is troubling
you, Cleo?”
Well, what harm could come from telling them? They might be
able to help.
“It’s only September,” Lucy said, after I explained my dilemma.
“There are nine months left of school.”
“You can’t be the only one trying to figure things out,” Jack
added. “I wouldn’t feel like a chump just yet.”
“But I do. I do feel like a chump.” I counted my friends on my
hand. “Louisa is getting married in July.” I ticked off one finger.
“Her fiancé is almost thirty and has already lost most of his hair.
But he’s very rich, and her papa thinks he’s very handsome.”
Jack snorted. Lucy laughed, smoothing the skirt of her
sapphire-blue dress. My sister-in-law was small and fair-haired
and pretty, with eyes more amber than brown. No one was ever
surprised to learn she had been born in Paris. She looked French
and carried herself in a way that made me feel like a baby giraffe in
comparison. Tall and gangling, with Mrs. Foster constantly having
to let out my skirt hems.
A second finger ticked off. “Fanny is moving to New York to
study poetry. She plans to become a bohemian and smoke ciga-
rettes.” Recalling this bit of information, I felt a twinge of envy.
New York City. Tea at the Plaza. All those museums. How glam-
orous it sounded.
Jack interrupted my thoughts. “What kind of unorthodox in-
stitution are those women running?”
I dropped my hand. “Rebecca already has her early acceptance
letter from Barnard. Myra is sending in her application to the Uni-
versity of Washington. Charlotte, Emmaline, and Grace are all
going to the University of Oregon.” I set the book and the itiner-
ary on the table, beside a well-thumbed copy of American Architect.
“And Margaret will wait for Harris. Then there’s me. I do know
I want to attend university. Maybe study art. But I don’t really
care to paint portraits. Or landscapes.” I bit my lip, considering.
“Maybe I can study French. But what does one do after studying
French?”
“Marry,” Jack said. Lucy smacked his knee lightly, but she
smiled.
I looked into the fire, feeling gloomy. My schoolmates at least
had an inkling of a plan. I had nothing. No plan. No dream. No
calling. The uncertainty bothered me, like a speck in the eye that
refused to budge.
“I am utterly without ambition,” I said.
At this, Jack leaned forward, pointing his glass at me. “Now
you’re just being melodramatic. Not everyone leaves school know-
ing their life’s purpose, Cleo. And those who do often change
their minds ten times over.” He waved a hand toward the window.
“Sometimes you need to go out in the world and live a little first.”
Lucy reached over, gathered the itinerary, and tapped it against
the table until the edges lined up. “Go to university,” she said,
sympathetic. “See what interests you. Young ladies today have the
freedom to do what they like.”
“Except become a bohemian,” Jack said with a warning glance.
He tossed back the rest of his drink and stood. “There are enough
sapphists in this city as it is.”
Chapter Two
Greta lay sprawled and lifeless with her head against my skirt.
The rag doll was four feet tall, the same height as its owner,
with red yarn hair. Her blue gingham dress looked as if it had
been pulled through a dirt field. She was missing both eyes.
Baffled, I studied the doll, then looked at the six-year-old play-
ing at my feet. “What happened, Emily?” I asked. “Did you pluck
her eyes out?”
“Anna did it,” Emily said. “She told me Greta’s button eyes
gave her the willies. She pulled them out while I was having my
bath.”
“Lord,” I said under my breath.
Emily’s brown eyes were big and anxious. “You’ll fix her, won’t
you, Cleo?”
“I’ll fix her. Don’t worry.”
We were in the stairway that led from the dormitories to the
main floor. I perched on a step halfway down. Just below, on
the small landing, Emily played with an elaborate set of paper
dolls. Murky oil landscapes lined the walls above us, each painting
framed in blackened wood. It was just after four in the afternoon,
and most of the other girls were off finishing their schoolwork or
outside. Emily and I had the stairway to ourselves.
“Does Greta give you the willies?” Emily asked.
She certainly did. Emily dragged her everywhere she could,
and it always felt like the doll’s black button eyes watched my
every move. Poor Anna. I would be tempted to yank Greta’s eyes
out too, if I had to share a room with her.
“Greta’s a perfectly lovely doll,” I said. “I’ll talk to Anna and
make sure she takes more care with your toys.”
Cheered, Emily returned her attention to the paper dolls. Her
brown hair was set in two braids that looped the sides of her head
like earmuffs. Emily’s roommate, Anna, was also six. The girls
were among the school’s youngest boarders. Anna’s family lived in
Tigard, just outside Portland. She spent weekends at home. Em-
ily’s family was from Honolulu. She sailed back to the island once
a year, in the summer.
I rifled through my school satchel for a small sewing kit, then
set one of Greta’s button eyes back in place. The grime had been
rinsed off, and the black button, two inches round, was nice and
shiny.
“Cleo?”
“Hmm?” I hunched over Greta. The light in the stairway was
poor, and I wondered if I should fix the doll back in my room
near a window. I dismissed the thought. Fanny was there, more
snappish than usual. All things considered, I preferred the dim
staircase. When there was no response from Emily, I glanced up.
The child looked back at me, uncertain.
“Did Anna do something else?” I asked, pulling the needle
taut.
Emily shook her head. “No, but I forgot Greta in the library
this morning. I went back for her, and I heard Mr. Brownmiller
and Miss Abernathy talking . . .”
I paused. “What did you hear?”
“Well, Mr. Brownmiller said that people in Phil . . . Phila . . .”
“Philadelphia,” I prompted.
“He said that people in Philadelphia were dropping like flies.
Because of the Spanish influenza. He said they’re running out of
coffins. Is that true, Cleo? And what about us? Are we going to
drop dead too?” Emily’s voice quivered.
I bit back a sigh. Mr. Brownmiller had been the school librar-
ian for as long as I could remember. Miss Abernathy taught upper
school history. I thought they should know better than to say such
things in a school full of girls. Most of us had light feet. We lurked
in every corner, just waiting to hear something we shouldn’t. Like
the time Margaret overheard Miss Elliot say that Miss Kovich,
our nurse, had been let go because she’d had an affair with a mar-
ried man and was in a family way. Or the time Fanny heard Miss
Bishop sobbing all over Mrs. Brody in the kitchen because her
sweetheart had married someone else. There were no secrets at
St. Helen’s Hall. Not one.
I set Greta aside — the needle poking out of her eye — and
wondered what to say. For I’d heard the same shocking stories
about Philadelphia and the rest of the East Coast. And then some.
Fanny’s sister had told her about a fine young family man in
Boston who had fallen ill and become delirious. A nurse was sent
to his home. But when she left his room, just for a moment, he
pulled a revolver from the bureau drawer and shot himself dead.
Emmaline’s cousin had read about a man in New York who
went to help his neighbor, the undertaker, transport bodies to a
warehouse once the morgue grew overcrowded. He saw the body
of a friend, with whom he had chatted the day before. He also
stumbled across the girl who helped his wife around the house.
There was a shortage of coffins in Philadelphia. They were
burying people in mass graves with only the clothes on their
backs. Louisa’s sister had heard of a family who lost a seven-year-
old boy. They were so desperate to have him buried in something,
anything, that they placed him in a twenty-pound macaroni box. A
little boy. Buried in a pasta box.
I thought about these stories. Dreadful stories. And for the
thousandth time, I was grateful that the entire width of the coun-
try lay between such awfulness and my home.
“The Spanish influenza is very bad in Philadelphia,” I finally
said. “But do you know what?”
“What?”
“Philadelphia is thousands of miles away. Which means the
influenza is thousands of miles away. I can show you.”
Emily cocked her head. “How?”
“On a map. I’ll finish with Greta, and we’ll go down to the li-
brary. Then you can see that the flu is too far away to hurt anyone
here. How does that sound?”
Emily was quiet for a minute. Then her expression cleared and
she agreed, returning her attention to the paper dolls. She danced
them around on the landing and sang:
MS + ME = success
. . . with success being getting to school before the 7:29 a.m. bell.
I have exactly two minutes and twenty-seven seconds to piss,
slap water on my face, get dressed, and eat breakfast.
But first I’ve got to deal with this tool.
“It’s an honor to speak with a world champion,” the man says.
I rub sleep off my face. “Hey, who is this again?”
“Nice job yesterday on Drone Pilot,” he says. “You finally beat
him.”
“Beat who?”
“SergeiTashkent, of course.’ ”
Now he has my attention.
“What are you,” I ask, “the CIA or something?”
The jail door laughs. “No, Arlo. Merely the United States Air
Force.”
“Listen, dude . . . Major . . . whoever you are . . .” I roll out of
bed and whip a T-shirt off the floor. “I’m running late for school.”
“Sure, I’ll get to the point. We want you to fly with us.”
“No thanks. I’m only seventeen. Call me in a year.”
El Guapo leaps onto the bed and thrusts his shaggy hips at me.
Hump and grin, hump and grin — only God knows the mind of
a high desert poodle.
“Arlo, we’ve been following you on the leaderboards for some
time,” the man says. “Last night, we watched you knock Sergei
out of the number one position on Drone Pilot. Sergei’s a superb
UAV pilot, technically the best we’ve ever seen. And you beat him.
That was extremely smart flying.”
I clamp my hand on El Guapo’s snout. He freezes mid-hump.
“Look,” I say, glancing around for my jeans. “I don’t want to
join the air force.”
“Arlo, I’m not a recruiter.”
“Well, who are you, man?”
“I’d like to invite you to join us for war games this Saturday at
White Sands.”
“War games?”
I glance at the clock — 6:57 a.m. Damn!
“You’ll get to test your skills against real pilots — some of our
very best.”
“Hold up! If you mean fly real planes, uh-uh, no way. I have no
idea how to fly a plane.”
“Not a plane, Arlo, a drone. You definitely know how to fly one
of those. We know that very well. It’s just like your game Drone
Pilot. The difference is, we make it real.”
“Dude,” I say, “this is way too much information. And I’m late
for school.”
“Sure, Arlo, I’ll check in later. Start thinking about Saturday.”
Click!
“Yeah,” I say, tossing my phone. “Peace to you too.”
Then it hits me — it’s Lobo’s Uncle Sal again — our local joker
and genius entrepreneur. Owner of the best coffee shop in town,
and my sky-diving instructor for the past three years.
Uncle Sal has a gift for faking voices. For some reason, I’m one
of his favorite targets. Last time, he wanted me to enter a Rocky
Mountain oyster eating contest sponsored by the Daughters of
the American Revolution.
Lobo would’ve told him about my win yesterday. About se-
riously kicking SergeiTashkent’s butt, knocking him to number
two on the Drone Pilot leaderboard, which I’ve been trying to do
all year.
I am now the number one drone combat pilot in the world —
the virtual world, that is — until somebody kicks my butt.
In video games, when you reach number one, your butt is out
there, cheeks flapping in the wind, for anybody to kick — Sergei-
Tashkent, ToshiOshi, IpanemaGirl, anybody.
There are seven billion anybodies in the world.
Just the thought of Uncle Sal . . . I start to laugh. In fact, I laugh
so hard I trip putting on my jeans. Damn, I’m late.
Dad walks in, all frayed, scratching, and barely employed. He
taps his watch.
“Ass in gear, Arlo.”
“Can I have five bucks for lunch?”
He winces, opens his wallet — puffy with poverty — and holds
out three faded ones. Says his daily mantra: “Spend it wisely.”
“Always do,” I say, and snatch the money.
“Don’t forget,” he says. “Snack Shack tomorrow night.”
Dad runs the concession stand at Rio Loco Field. It’s a huge
comedown after running a newspaper, but, hey, it pays a few bills.
“Who we playing?” I ask.
“Jeopardy,” he says.
“Yeah!” I say, and smack a fist into my palm.
Jeopardy is one of the highlights of the football season. The
halftime show is ten times better than the game itself.
I dig two unmatched socks from under my bed and sniff them.
It’s been five months since I’ve found clean, folded, matching
socks in my top drawer. That’s one little difference in not having
a mom anymore.
There are many — many! — little differences.
“And I want to get up to Burro Mesa again,” Dad says.
“Not me,” I say. “You know where I stand on that, philosophi-
cally and spiritually and all.”
“Overruled,” Dad says.
I jam on my Old Gringos. Stomp ’em in place. Great boots, like
great art, get better with time.
“She wouldn’t’ve wanted a damn tombstone anyway.”
“Not a tombstone, Arlo. A monument. Get your nomenclature
right.”
Five months ago — on May fifteenth, at two-fifty in the after-
noon — Mom walked into the EZ Stop on South Main to buy a
bottle of grape Gatorade and never walked out.
Siouxsie, waiting in the car, heard the shots and saw the holdup
guy run.
Siouxsie’s thirst for grape Gatorade — and Mom’s swinging
through that door to buy a bottle — changed day to night.
No sunset, twilight, or dusk in between.
Just — whomp! — night.
Dad and I have a standing disagreement over whether to build
a “monument” to Mom on Burro Mesa. He’s already sketched it
out, bought the sand. Ordered a chunk of Bandelier stone “yay
high by yay wide.” Written the epitaph, or inscription, or what-
ever you call it, a hundred times.
It gets longer and longer.
Then shorter and shorter.
He’s never satisfied.
Dad was a journalist for eighteen years, but he can’t seem to
write that damn epitaph. It’s beyond all his powers of creation.
How can he ever expect to finish a novel if he can’t write a frickin’
epitaph?
Me? I believe the sky is Mom’s monument, and the grass and
wind her epitaph. Burro Mesa is perfect the way it is, untouched
by manmade shit. To the north, you can see deep into Colorado,
all the way to Pike’s Peak. Look south, and you can see halfway
to Mexico. Up there, it’s all space, space, space. Green, blue, and
forever. The air just shines.
Last summer, we spread Mom’s ashes along the rim rocks,
mixed them in with the lilies, Indian paintbrush, and shooting
stars. I ride up there sometimes with El Guapo. Watch him run
amok and hump the herd while I sit and ponder. A monument
would desecrate everything — like building a McDonald’s at the
bottom of the Grand Canyon.
Kenya Man raps out of my phone.
« « « » » »
Afghanistan
Iran
Iraq
Libya
Pakistan
I fire up my engines. Count down. Blast off. Pull into the blue.
The soundtrack soars along with me. Subdued yet symphonic.
Layered with a slow Hawaiian steel guitar to introduce all that
death. It’s both frightening and beautiful.
I’m up, up — gone.
I’m cruising at three thousand feet, homing on the Swat, when
three enemy aircraft pop up at eleven o’clock — a sweet pod of
death.
These craft are some duck-brained designer’s idea of terrify-
ing. They’ve got the wings of an F-22 Raptor and the aft fuse-
lage of the Millennial Falcon — in other words, wide-assed but
extremely fast.
One banks, dives, and blasts away. Red tracers carve up the
sky.
Here’s the problem: I can fly high and evasively or swoop and
lose him in the canyons, but that’ll cost fuel.
Since I don’t have the fuel to mess with, I turn on the enemy
plane and become the attacker.
In air combat, this is the moment of “shift.”
When you shift, and defense becomes offense, you confuse the
enemy, if only for a moment — and that’s all it takes. Confusion
is opportunity.
I fire a burst of shells. At least three hit the belly of the plane.
One penetrates the fuel tank. Smoke pours out. At first, it’s just
a thin stream. Then he catches fire. The plane explodes, disinte-
grating into raining fireballs.
Rafe is freaking out in my ear: “Dude-dude-dude! Way to go!”
I block him out.
The two other planes come at me like rottweilers. I can’t aim
at one without showing my ass to the other, so I swoop low, flush
against the ground.
Even little changes in land surface — a knoll, a boulder, a mes-
quite shrub — will end it all. So I slide into the trough of a dry
riverbed pissed smooth by time.
When you’re flying at the speed of blur, everything is surreal.
You’re never more than a millisecond from obliteration. It’s pure,
adrenalized, instinct flying — and it’s the gateway to the Drone
Zone.
One of these dogs can’t handle my low-flying moves. He tries
to pull out, clips a wing, pinwheels, and slams into the canyon
wall. I shoot into the blue, straight up, with the last enemy jet
sniffing my ass. Pop a loop and now I’m on his ass.
I feel the chill of death rush up his spine. Before he can twitch,
I’ve fixed him in my sights and plowed the last of my shells into
his carbureted guts.
As I split off, he explodes, raining molten steel over the Swat
Valley.
Now I’m free — but I’m also out of ammo. Plus, I’m extremely
low on fuel — just a needle’s width from empty. Some drones can
stay aloft forever powered by a single hydrogen cell, but when you
operate on jet fuel or batteries, you can burn out fast.
The rule is, always — Always! — know your fuel level. Get so
you can sense it down to the last lickable drop.
How you use fuel is the greatest challenge in drone flying.
That’s why I lighten my load, befriend the wind, glide the ther-
mal, and lick the tank dry. I would lie, cheat, and steal from my
grandmother to gain a few more seconds in the air.
Fuel is gold. Ammo is silver. All else is crap.
I close on my target, a biological weapons plant located in the
village of Quaziristan. Ground guns open up. Flak pops all over.
I’m getting scarred and nicked, but nothing penetrates my quar-
ter-inch-thick skin. Not yet, anyway.
I brush the rooftops of the village. The thing about Pakistani
villages is, almost all the structures are just one or two stories. If
they were multiple heights, it would be death. But they are basi-
cally the same height, thank God.
Before she can even hear me, I blast over the head of a black-
veiled woman hanging clothes on a rooftop. I can’t actually see
it, but I know I’ve just shredded every last robe and T-shirt on
the line. I just hope my sonic smack hasn’t knocked her off her
feet.
Thirty seconds to an empty tank . . . twenty-nine . . . twenty-
eight . . .
Now I’m in the heart of the Zone. A place of peace and calm.
Instinct and prayer. A whisper from death, yet more alive than
ever. Part of something bigger.
At fifteen seconds, I shoot into the sky, get my first naked-eye
look at the weapons plant. The ground guns blast away. I can
barely see through the flak. I’m nicked . . . nicked . . . nicked. But
my skin holds.
Twelve . . . eleven . . . ten . . .
I fix a laser on my target. I’m going to rack up an extremely
high score, cement my number one position on the leaderboard.
Put more distance between me and the great Sergei.
My thumb slides to “Activate.”
Just one little push of a button.
“Five . . . four . . . three . . .”
A bell rings, and children swarm out of the building next to
the weapons plant.
My thumb twitches, leaps left. I hit Self-Destruct.
My drone pulverizes, showering down as molten particulate.
Many little children are cut and burned. All are covered with soot
and dust. The last image on the screen is of a cluster of saucer-
eyed kids.
Trembling.
PILOTING: AWESOME.
MARKSMANSHIP: AWESOME.
I get a good score — some would say great — but it’s a long
ways from my best. Six months ago, I would’ve been happy with
it. Now I’m disappointed, because I’ve raised my performance
level to the upper reaches of the game’s exosphere.
Still, I’m pretty sure I’ve held the lead. When the leaderboard
reconfigures, sure enough, there I am on top: ClayMadSwooper.
“Hoo-woosh!” somebody says.
“Daaaamn!” somebody else says.
I become aware of everybody around me — Cam, Lobo, Mi-
chelle, Latoya, Rafe. Even a few stray wranglers, holding their
little cappuccino cups. Everybody’s been watching.
“Dude, that was a helluva game,” Rafe says. “But why’d you
self-destruct? You coulda taken out that plant. You coulda scored
off the charts.”
It’s pointless to point out the obvious to some people.
Cam claps my shoulder. “You made the right call, man. You
saved that school. You saved those little kids.”
“Quite a show, hombre,” one of the wranglers says. “I’d say
you’ve played this one before.”
“It’s just a game,” I say. “No big deal.”
gard skinner
TAG: PHOENIX
LEVEL: 60+
CONFIRMED KILLS: 96,598,322
ACCURACY: 67%
HEADSHOTS: 22%
PREFERRED LOAD: SHOTGUN,
MACHINE PISTOL
UNIT AGE: CLASSIFIED
TAG: RENO
LEVEL: 60+
CONFIRMED KILLS: 89,996,899
ACCURACY: 68%
HEADSHOTS: 37%
PREFERRED LOAD: LASER
MACHETE, SNIPER CANNON
UNIT AGE: CLASSIFIED
TAG: YORK
LEVEL: 60+
CONFIRMED KILLS: 92,135,698
ACCURACY: 59%
HEADSHOTS: 21%
PREFERRED LOAD: ROCKET
LAUNCHER, KNIVES
UNIT AGE: CLASSIFIED
TAG: MI [“ME”]
LEVEL: 60+
CONFIRMED KILLS: 86,002,354
ACCURACY: 74%
HEADSHOTS: 39%
PREFERRED LOAD: RANGED
WEAPONS, EXPLOSIVE
ORDNANCE
UNIT AGE: CLASSIFIED
TAG: JEVO
LEVEL: 60+
CONFIRMED KILLS: 56,021,888
ACCURACY: 48%
HEADSHOTS: 44%
PREFERRED LOAD: MELEE,
FISTS, TEETH
UNIT AGE: CLASSIFIED
Level 1
Our first war with Dakota she was wetting her pants, pinned down
by laser-machine-gun fire, explosions everywhere, missiles scream-
ing, star fighters diving, cannons thumping . . . The girl was terri-
fied, spouting gibberish, but, OK, not really condition yellow.
Sure, she was redlining. We all were. It was an inferno out there.
But to be fair, her army-issue trousers were not pee-stained. Or two-
stained.
Was she brave that day? Not a bit. All huddled in a ball, a teddy-
bear clutch on her weapon, cringing at every blast as Planet LB-427
was reduced to ash.
A seven-hour battle. She didn’t fire a single shot at the enemy.
But at least she could still move and speak, which counts for some-
thing when you’re dropped dead center in the most intense firefight
ever spawned by bloodsucking alien invaders.
In the distance a chrome skyscraper erupted in flames and top-
pled over, crushing half our regiment. Two orbiting star destroyers
collided and rained razor-sharp chunks into our foxhole. Smoke bil-
lowed from a crashed troop crawler while a monstrous spider-bot
lost three legs and rolled on its back, squirming, helpless, just a
countdown away from its atomic core going auto-destruct.
It wasn’t a totally unusual situation — another day on the front
lines, another hopeless battle. Our side was defending the last bridge
to the Lair of Ultimate Doom as the enemy advanced on our posi-
tion and tried to wipe us out. Before night fell, they hoped to storm
the fortress gates and have it out with our boss, King Necramoid.
Typical intergalactic war. The noise. The smoke. The burn. The
death.
Pure slaughter. Blood frosted the ruins. Severed body parts en-
tangled our feet as we struggled to move. There were just a few
dozen of us left, all wearing the slime-green Nec uniform, armed
with single-burst blasters, and while we had the numbers, the gamer
out there was mowing us down like he was cutting grass. This one
was a good shot. Quick with his weapon switches. Flawless ammo
management. Relentless power-ups.
Over to my right, by the concrete barriers, Third Platoon caught
a full wave of Dicer fire. They were sliced neatly in two, all right at
the waist. A med-bot tried to revive the top halves but lost both
arms to a frag grenade for the effort. All the dying bodies squirmed,
bled, and finally went still.
But that day, Dakota — man, she was not with the program.
“I don’t wanna die!” she screamed, cradling her cold rifle, all
curled up in a spot where the gamer had no angle to snipe her in the
helmet or toss a betty in her lap.
“It’s your job to die!” I argued. “Now get out there, expose your-
self, fire off a few random shots, and let the enemy rip you to pieces!
At least we can use you as a distraction so the rest of us can take him
out!”
“Why can’t we reason with him? I’m sure he’s just a normal per-
son like the rest of us! Let’s wave a white flag and sit down to discuss
a peace treaty!”
KABOOOOOOM! The gamer blew up our force field genera-
tor with a Quasi-Burst Rocket Launcher. Those babies are lethal.
Downside: they take forever to reload.
Dakota jumped to her feet. Out there in the clearing, the gamer
was reaching for another shell for his QBRL. She had a moment to
do something. Anything. She might have even taken him out with
her weapon, but instead, she waved and screamed, “Hey! You!”
The gamer looked up. Wow, they never look up. Not even when
one of us emits a truly beautiful death howl or dying scream or some
kind of agonized shriek. Gamers refuse to pay attention to the NPC
hordes. They just kill us over and over and over again.
But this one did pause. He stopped loading. He looked right at
Dakota as she hopped over the low wall, tossing her weapon aside.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” she promised, removing her battle
helmet, blond locks tumbling out. “Really! Trust me! I just want to
talk. You look like a reasonable person . . .”
The gamer shrugged.
She rambled on. “So have you ever stopped to ask yourself why
we have to fight and why we have to die and what’s the point of —”
The gamer holstered the rocket launcher and quickly drew a
pair of hand cannons. KERPOWWWWW! They looked to be the
.46-caliber upgrades. Both glowed gold and packed armor-piercing
ammo. Bad spot for Dakota to be in, but she dove quickly into a
bomb crater, her hands still stretched up in surrender.
“You don’t have to kill me!” she yelled. “And we don’t have to
kill you either! There can be peace between our species!”
Strange moment. The gamer paused. Why would he pause? He
had a lot of work to do before finally reaching Necramoid’s war
chamber. These guys don’t stop for anything when a boss battle is so
close they can smell it on their progress bar.
But Dakota was having an effect. There was no doubt. The
gamer lifted his weapons, taking harmless aim at a blank wall in the
distance.
Dakota peeked her head over the edge of the crater. Realizing
the gamer was not going to sizzle it off, she clambered across the
bloodstained dirt.
“Who are you?” she asked him. “What’s your name?”
The gamer pointed to a readout over his head. His tag, God_
of_Destruktion glowed green.
Then she let him have it, like a dozen questions all at once.
“So, how old are you? Where are you from? How did you get here?
And who am I? How did I get here? What time is it? What day is it?
What year is it? What is this place? Why all the anger and hostility?
What did I ever do to you? ”
God_of_Destruktion tilted his head. He looked confused.
Heavy metal armor shrugged again, the dents and scars moving like
skin over a massive frame. His facemask, dark as a sith helmet, be-
gan to pan around.
He sensed something. It made him nervous. But he wasn’t sure
what it was.
Dakota pressed, moving forward a bit, “Really, tell me, who am
I?” she pleaded. “Why am I here? Part of this madness? Help me,
G-O-D, please . . .”
But something set God_of_Destruktion off. He jumped back a
step, boot rockets popping on, catapulting him a dozen yards away
from the approaching girl. A trap! That must be it! He seemed to
puzzle it out very quickly . . . Had the NPCs in this level sent a
pretty girl as a . . .
“Suicide bomber,” I heard him mutter over the radio. “Nice
work. Clever game.”
Yes. That had to be why this enemy soldier had approached
him. Unarmed. So gorgeous. So vulnerable . . .
Dakota froze, and I watched the whole thing unfold. Honestly,
I’d never seen anything like it in all my years in the muck. Nothing
even close. And I’ve sent millions to die. Maybe the gamer was right
to be afraid. What if Dakota was some kind of self-destruct bomb?
I’d only met her that morning while getting suited up. For all I
knew, she might be the next generation of NPC soldier.
God_of_Destruktion wasn’t taking any chances. He wanted to
live just as bad as Dakota.
The guy pulled a fusion grenade and slapped it to a sticky pad
— another nice move. I could see what was coming. That guy knew
war — then he threw the thing neatly at Dakota in a long arc. There
was a SPLAT!
She turned to look back at us, the blinking device stuck squarely
to her forehead; one great toss, if you ask me.
The gamer dove behind cover. What could the rest of us do?
We all dove too. Reno, York, Mi, Jevo, all of us.
Dakota erupted in a shower of red mist and electrical backlash.
When the battle resumed, there wasn’t a piece of her left that
was larger than a raindrop.
Level 2
Our shift came up, like it always did, at around 1600. That’s about
when day workers come home from their slog and begin a lifelong
quest to avoid reality and live inside video games instead. God bless
’em.
From four till about dinner, then for much of the night, those
were prime duty hours. And that was when my regiment was on
duty. Team Phoenix. Not to brag — OK, to brag — we’re the best.
We’re the next-generation, cutting-edge, biggest, baddest group of
kickass NPC AI mother-crushers that ever played game. We’ve got
game. No, we are the game. We’re the top team.
There were others. A vet named Rio ran a solid crew, kind of
like us, but focused on previous-generation servers. She was tough.
Two-dimensional attack strategies, but tough nonetheless.
Another guy, Lima, had a tight squad. Great at hand-to-hand,
melee, the up-close-and-personal wetwork. Syd, Dub, Scow . . . I
knew most of them, but my team topped every stat.
We played prime hours, the newest games, on the toughest set-
tings, and we won more than most. Not all the time, obviously, but
we won.
You wanted to be a real gamer? You had to beat my crew, day in
and day out, across all the platforms, across all the games, and then,
maybe then, you’d be pretty good.
She was right, to a point. Getting burned and shot and blown up
a dozen times a day has its drawbacks. On the positive side, our
health plan is great. The BlackStar Re-Sim machines run without a
hitch. They always put all the parts back in the right place.
BlackStar owns video gaming. You know that. They’re the
planet’s largest manufacturer. It’s what they do. It’s all they do. On
every continent, in every home. Hundreds — no, thousands of titles.
Everything from sims to MMO to RPG to puzzle to football to
hockey to sweet little games for sweet little kids to big open-world
butcher-fests for anyone who can legally buy the discs.
Legally buy the discs . . . Ha ha. Good one.
So that was our day. Every day. Between eight and sixteen hours
on, playing the most advanced, CPU-intensive games as the bad
guys, getting blown to smithereens. Then eight hours off. But we
never worked more than sixteen a day. Not once in all the years I’d
been running this regiment.
It makes sense to me. We had a job to do, but we need a break
from time to time. You can’t just surround yourself with all that
mayhem 24-7 and not have it twist you all up, even if it is graphi-
cally generated. No brain can take that kind of intensity.
“I hate it,” Dakota was saying that night. Man, she’d been push-
ing my buttons ever since she was assigned.
Reno, I think, was also fed up with her moaning. It was an
honor to be on our team. Why not act like it?
He told her, “You know, you could be a thousand other places,
Dakota. You could be a mischievous frog in fairyland adventures
or a banana peel in barbie kart or even just a lowly ghost in ultra
pacman. How boring is that? Floating the same pattern in the same
maze over and over again throughout eternity? You should be proud
to be up here with us.”
“I am,” Mi said, squeezing my arm. She likes me a lot, by the
way. She likes this team. Good fighter. Follows orders. Zero whin-
ing.
I like Mi too. What’s not to like? She’s a stud athlete, hot from
head to toe, and did I mention the ZERO WHINING part?
“Plus,” York added, “we get to play the fun games. Best weap-
ons. Best tech. Best worlds. And we get to wipe out the gamers
almost as often as they incinerate us. We send them back to their
checkpoints with their tails tucked tight!”
“Right on!” Reno agreed, fist-bumping his buddy.
“Dead straight,” York continued. “Do other teams get to play
next-gen games? None that I know of. They give us the most wicked
bombs and vehicles and let us try to outsmart and outgun the best
players on the net.”
“That there’s a fact,” Reno said.
“But” — Dakota was used to standing up for herself, that there
was obvious — “you idiots just don’t get it, do you?”
Idiots? I started to smirk but caught myself. I should keep a
straight face. They all look up to me and act like I act. After all, I’m
senior guy around here. I’ve got a role to play, same as them. Usually
it’s combat leader. Other times it’s more like father to squabbling kids.
“Idiots?” Reno howled at Dakota.
“Right, idiots,” she repeated. “Are you too much of a meathead
to be aware of what’s going on?”
“Aware?”
“They’re using you! BlackStar’s making a fortune off us dying
every few minutes or hours, then patching us up, then tearing us
apart again!”
“So?” York asked.
“Yeah, so?” Reno echoed again. “This job’s a whole lot more fun
than flipping dog burgers or asking if people want fries with their
chicken parts.”
“I couldn’t do that,” York said.
“Me neither,” Mi agreed, still clutching my arm. “By the way,
anyone check the stats lately? See whose accuracy rating now leads
all BlackStar NPCs and gamers worldwide?”
I’d checked.
Mi rocked, no doubt about it.
That’s my girl.
There, I said it.
’Cuz she is.
Do I love Mi? Well, I sure love me.
But Miami . . . I don’t know if I can call it love. It might not be
in my programming.
Ah, WTH? Why quibble over code?
Yeah, maybe I do love her. What’s not to love? Brains, body,
those eyes . . . plus, she’s got great stats.
Welcome to battleground 7: the spawnicide. Team Phoenix
playing the part of the shipwrecked extraterrestrial tribal horde.
Mostly human, we had big insect parasites embedded in our bleed-
ing eyes. Mi still looked totally hot, even with the antennae coming
through both nostrils and thorax deforming her freckled cheeks.
The asteroid mining colony was all burned out. The only things
left were their abandoned machinery, settlements, and drilling rigs.
As bad bugs, we were supposed to also have mind-control pow-
ers, but so far, none of them had worked. No matter what spell we
chanted or fierce stare of cranial dominance we tried, the enemy
would not just put down their weapons and let us bite off their
heads.
The gamers, well, they were next-gen human infantry with
superior weapons and hypersonic hovercycles. Their laser-sighted
smart bullets could curve around walls, barricades, and cruise right
into our basement headquarters.
It’d been hard to escape that opening-scene bloodbath, but we
got out. Through the alleyways. Across the molten river. There we
found a couple of half tracks and motored across open asteroid to
our next rendezvous point.
Right now, about eight of us were holed up on an oil derrick
platform in the center of a rock plateau. Bad place to be, but at least
we had hostages.
That’s right. Live captives. What a game element. Along one
wall, we’d come across a dozen of the gamers’ squad. Sure, they
might just have been foot soldiers, but they were ours now. Some
other NPCs had trapped them, disarmed the whole bunch, and
then gotten creative. The jailers were long gone, but they’d left us
bargaining chips.
We’d found the men up here, suffering. Still kicking. They were
strapped to the wall with heavy chains, and someone had obviously
been asking hard questions. Evidence of torture was everywhere.
As soon as the gamers on our trail found this place, well, we knew
they’d blame us. We’d take the rap for this little house o’ horrors.
All of the captive men were still in their issue gear. Flak jackets.
Some had helmets. Some wore their boots, while a few had scorched
bare feet. The only consistent feature was that each of them, one
after another, had had his right hand hacked off just above the wrist.
And it was not a messy job. No, the cuts were clean, like sliced
with big teeth. Then someone had used barbed wire to form a tour-
niquet. Still, whether the amputations had been for information or
snack purposes, the neat wounds matched each other.
Man, in this heat, those must have hurt.
There wasn’t much we could do. Put a bullet in each of them?
No, not yet. We could use the collateral. The gamers were no more
than a click or two away.
Mi wasn’t fazed a bit. She’d seen worse. If anything, she didn’t
much like the prisoners being underfoot as we strung up our de-
fenses. Claymores guarded the entryways. Tripwires crisscrossed ap-
proach gaps. It was all about covering weak areas and finding ways
to whittle down the odds.
At one point, though, she was back at my side. Felt just right
under my arm. Like our bodies had been carved as puzzle pieces
that were a flush-perfect fit. Not only our bodies, you know, but our
minds. The way we thought. The way we fought.
Her fingers came up, picked off a piece of scrap or something
that had stuck to my forehead. I saw it again, like I always did — she
didn’t opt for shooting gloves in desert environments — I saw the
branding tattoo that wrapped around her palm and the back of her
hand. An artistic loop. The string of holographic slashes and dashes.
Blue ink that was etched into her skin. Like a bar code, only with
curved lines. Different thicknesses. Swirling and dancing, woven in
a 3-D helix. A striking mark. Maybe ten thousand swipes of the tat-
too gun, glowing that faint blue, beautiful as LED-powered holiday
decorations.
And that’s when Dakota walked into the holding room drag-
ging a burlap bag. A drippy burlap bag.
“I found ’em,” she told us all.
“The gamer attack team?” Mi asked, turning to the window,
hoisting her sniper rifle.
“No, Mi. For the stumps. I found their hands.”
“From our prisoners? So what?”
“I think we can still match ’em back up.”
“What? Why? ”
There was a grate, a trapdoor, in the center of the room that
opened onto the asteroid surface thirty feet below. Dakota started
kicking debris down there, making space to work. Then, one by
one, she pulled the severed paws from the bag and lined them up so
that she could look at each, then up at the string of men who were
chained to the wall.
A pile of right hands. A dozen handless men. It was almost like
one of those draw-a-line sheets where you match the chicken or the
cow with the house it lives in.
She moved the palest limb to position three. It matched the
third guy’s skin tone.
The bigger one with the tribal ink probably belonged to num-
ber ten. That left a freckled one. She put that over in front of the
redhead.
We all watched her. What on this barren world was she doing?
Why?
No one moved as Dakota just kept at it. Trying to put the cor-
rect hand back in line with the correct mangled limb.
I finally walked over. It looked like the gamers had hit pause or
something, so we had a few minutes, but this was not the way to
spend it. This was useless.
We heard a scratch at the door, then a slight whimper. There
was an animal out there on the railings. Reno moved over to look
through the hatch.
“Dog,” he said.
“Duh,” Mi needled him.
But Dakota kept going. I picked up one of the hands, and you
know what I saw. It was so near-perfect that it was almost as human
as the hand in front of your face right now. Still, you could tell.
If they could someday make these environments indistinguishable
from reality? Who knew what they’d do? Still, there are always min-
ute glitches. Take these hands. Sure, they looked exactly right, but
maybe the weight was off a little or the skin tone was too perfect.
Was the blood running after it should have dried? Did the bone
shards feel as sharp as bone actually feels? What about the hairs, or
the texture? Sticky? Not dry enough? It can be tough to tell, but you
can still tell.
Dakota put the darkest-skinned hand in front of the black man.
A tanned one was placed with a guy who looked like a surfer; he had
long, shaggy hair under his helmet.
One after another. The men moaned. They moved. The pain
was still intense. None really acknowledged her work, though.
She scraped her fingers in the bottom of the bag. “I’m missing
one,” she announced.
No matter. Nothing she could do. Then, one at a time — and
we all watched, still wondering why waste her effort — she took a
matched hand and walked it over. With a gentle shove, she tried to
work it back in place on the soldier’s arm.
Of course it didn’t stick. Or weld. Or melt on. C’mon, these
wars are realistic to the last detail. All it did was make the soldier
jerk back in pain. What could she have been thinking? Certainly
not about our mission.
Scratch, scratch, that dog really wanted in.
Reno opened the door. The animal trotted in, a mangy black
cur that probably hadn’t eaten in a week. Which was why, we knew,
that final missing hand in his mouth was a fine catch.
He had the last limb. And he went over into one corner, sat
down, and began licking and gnawing on it.
“Nice detail,” York snarked. “There’s always a mangy dog lick-
ing the wrong thing.”
But Dakota would have none of that. No, that hand seemed to
belong to her.
She jumped at the dog. It growled, and I wondered what
would come next. Along that far wall, twelve men — eleven with
their hands back at their sides, one without — also watched her ev-
ery move.
It wasn’t like she could cure the combatants, right? The mission
profile had nothing to do with playing medic. None ever did. We
were probably going to kill them all when the next attack came any-
way. Those gamers weren’t going to leave it on pause forever. They
wouldn’t let all these low-level online combatants stay captive. The
game had to move along. Objectives had to be met.
The dog growled again. Dakota growled back. She reached for
the hand suddenly, trying to catch the dog off guard, but the beast
coiled and snapped. It crawled deeper into the corner with its fangs
between its tasty meal and Dakota’s approach.
“Gimme some food,” she said. “I’ll distract it with some food.”
“It already has something to eat,” Mi corrected her, shrugging.
“Damn, girl, what is up with you?”
Then Mi did what we’d all thought of doing first. Well, not
Dakota.
Mi walked over, chambered a shotgun shell, and blew the dog’s
head off.
Brains spattered the wall, but she didn’t even break stride, reach-
ing down for the hand. Casually, she tossed the thing at Dakota.
“There, OK? You better get it together, D. Keep this up and
you’ll get sent down for sure.”
Dakota, the sagging appendage in her hand, just stared back.
Then she went over and placed it by the final hostage.
And that’s when the gamers attacked.
Rocket shells flew through the windows. Grenades bounced up
through the trapdoor. Over our heads, an Apache space chopper
rained hell in the form of 34mm mini-gun tracers.
My team was quick, returning fire. Even Dakota.
Reno, York, me, Jevo, the rest of the crew: we poured lead down
on the exposed gamers. We had position, and they had a rescue mis-
sion to complete.
All except Mi. Through the smoke I caught a glimpse of her
walking along the soldiers, kicking their reclaimed hands one by
one at the hole. She watched them drop and bounce off the rocks
below.
An hour later, traps exhausted, caught in multiple crossfires, we
lost our rear wall. After that, they cleaned us up pretty quick.
I took a bullet in one ear. On its way out, it cleaned wax from
my other ear as well. But we all went down fighting, ’cuz that’s what
we do.
Hellhole (Excerpt)
On Sale: January 6, 2015
Across
1
Stolen
The next morning, Max slept in. Only by five minutes, but those
five minutes translated into five minutes late showering, five min-
utes late getting dressed, and, ultimately, five minutes late for the
verbal beatdown Stavroula was all too willing to deliver.
“We open five minutes ago,” she scolded as he rushed in.
“I know, I know.” He pulled his blue vest out from under the
counter and put it on, praying that she wouldn’t notice the glitter
shower that ensued. “I’m sorry.”
“Five minutes ago. And where is my cashier? Watching goats
mate on the computer?”
“I — no! Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know what you kids do on that box!” she said, throwing
up her arms. “All I know is that you are late. Tell me why.”
Max’s mouth was devoid of saliva. Even if it wasn’t for the cat,
he still hated being in trouble. And truth be told, he was still a bit
shaken by what he’d seen up on Ugly Hill. If not for the dirt caked
on his shovel, he might have thought he dreamed it.
“Last night, I — um, couldn’t sleep, and —”
“And, and? I no sleep in six years since my husband die, bless
his soul.”
Max joined her in making the sign of the cross. “It’s just — I —”
He didn’t want to do it. He hated trotting out this excuse, this
despicable, manipulative excuse, but she was staring at him so hard
he was willing to do anything to make her stop.
“It was my mom,” he said in a low voice, taking care to inject
double doses of Sorrowful Despair and Soldiering On in the Face of
Adversity.
Stavroula’s scowl diminished, replaced by a look of sympathy,
or perhaps disappointment at not being able to keep yelling at him.
“Ah. Yes. Is she all right?”
He nodded and spoke in clipped words. “Yeah. Fine.”
“Good.” She waggled her finger at him as she walked back
toward her office, but any anger was long gone. “Just don’t let it hap-
pen again.”
The door slammed.
Max exhaled. After making sure that his resting heart rate had
been restored, he reached for his book of crossword puzzles. Over
the entirety of last Saturday’s double shift, he’d solved twenty-one
in fourteen hours, resulting in a rate of only 1.5 puzzles per hour,
which simply would not do. Fatigue had set in. Fatigue was the
enemy.
Determined to do better this time, and even more determined
to put the Ugly Hill incident out of his mind, he set his watch for
fourteen hours — his shift lasted fifteen, but he had to allow a spare
one for lunch, dinner, and those pesky interrupting customers.
He uncapped his pen, got to work, and didn’t stop until halfway
through puzzle number five, when the door jangled and Audie
walked in.
“Greetings, hermit!” she said.
Audie had exactly two moods: exuberant and slightly less exu-
berant. Nothing in between. Today: a rare appearance by the latter.
Max hit the Stop button on his watch and gave her a withering
smile. “I can make it up to you.”
“You damn well better.” Audie attempted to look stern but
failed immediately, as her face just didn’t bend that way. “With
meats. Chop-chop!”
Max retrieved the box of Slim Jims he’d stashed and plopped it
on the counter. “Today I’ve prepared for you a selection of plastic-
wrapped charcuterie, featuring a rustic gastrique of artisanal pig
anuses and a decadent mélange of mechanically separated chicken,”
he said in the style of the chefs on all those cooking competition
shows his mother complained about wasting her life watching, yet
watched anyway. “Bon appétit.”
“You’re such a freak,” Audie said with a giggle, tossing a wad of
money at him and attacking the wrapper. “But thanks.”
“How do you find the mouthfeel, ma’am?”
“Ew. Lifetime moratorium on that word.”
“What, ‘mouthfeel’?”
“Stop it!” she cried, giving him one of those fake smacks on the
arm that she had perfected since the age of five.
Max dodged it with a smile. “What are you doing up and about
so early on a Saturday?” he asked, taking a Slim Jim for himself.
Audie nodded toward the window. Her father was outside,
pumping gas into the family car while her mother squeegeed the
windshield. A third person was asleep in the back seat. “I’m giving
Wall a ride to the airport. Which of course means we’re all giving
Wall a ride to the airport because Mom and Dad insisted on com-
ing. Like they think I’m gonna be so heartbroken about him going
away for the weekend that I’m gonna bang him right there atop the
check-in kiosk.”
“That’s a fun visual.”
“I agree. Little fantasy of mine.”
“Then maybe their suspicions aren’t unfounded.”
“Hey, don’t take their side.” She took another bite. “He’s not even
conscious, anyway. Killer game last night, not that you’d know.”
As they munched, Max toyed with the idea of telling her about
what he’d seen up on Ugly Hill. Maybe she could —
— kindly inform me that I’ve lost my mind? his brain butted in.
She’ll think I’m bonkers. And if God forbid her father catches wind
of it, he’ll go up there to investigate, and then I’ll lose my private dig-
ging spot, and if he God forbid decides to question me any further,
I’ll totally cave and confess the theft of Frankencat, and then I’ll be
arrested and go to jail and will almost certainly need to learn how to
sharpen a toothbrush into a shiv to defend myself, which is a skill I
should probably start honing now . . . I wonder if you can whittle a
Slim Jim —
The door bells rattled Max out of his psychotic thoughts as a
human refrigerator walked into the store. It leaned on the counter
and smiled at Audie with a mouth full of straight, achingly white
teeth.
“Hey, girl.”
Audie’s mood ramped right up into high gear. Click! Full steam
exuberant. “You’re awake!” Her face glowed as he grabbed her hand,
twirled her around, then dipped her almost down to the floor, plant-
ing a big wet kiss on her laughing mouth.
The giant pulled her back up, then turned to Max. “Hey,
hoss.”
“Hi, Wall,” Max replied in a voice as microscopic as he felt.
The real name of E’ville’s star linebacker and Audie’s boyfriend
of three years was Emmanuel, but on the football field he basically
turned into a concrete parking garage with a little helmet on top, so
Wall was the nickname that stuck. He was a nice guy, yet Max still
felt like the Microceratus gobiensis to Wall’s Brachiosaurus altitho-
rax. Max just didn’t know how, as an athletically challenged and
thoroughly unimpressive human being by comparison, he could
ever find anything in common with the guy. Max didn’t know a
thing about football. He didn’t know how to bridge the popularity
gap. And he didn’t know what a hoss was, either.
The office door pounded open. “No!” Stavroula yelled upon see-
ing Wall snap into a Slim Jim. “No more! You football brutes eat up
all my meats!”
“Roula, Roula, Roula,” Wall said, propping a massive arm over
her shoulder as she approached the counter. “You know I need my
meats. I’m a growing boy.”
She made a psff noise. “You grow anymore, you hit head on
ceiling, break sprinklers, flood store. Bah.” And she was off again,
shuffling to the back room with a dismissive wave.
Max stuffed more Slim Jim into his mouth. Now that Wall was
here, he didn’t dare bring up Ugly Hill. “So, did you win the game?”
he asked.
“Did we win the game?” Wall answered, his mouth full of
nitrates. “He’s asking if we won the game!” he shouted in disbelief to
an invisible crowd, then let out a hearty laugh, followed instantly by
a death glare, a combination that could be pulled off to perfection
only by himself and a Mr. Denzel Washington.
Max genuinely feared for his life for a second there, but Wall
had already started laughing and ruffling Max’s hair. It went askew
for a moment, then settled right back into its default golf visor
position.
The door chimed yet again. Max stood a little taller, preparing
for the double whammy of Audie’s increasingly intimidating par-
ents. There hadn’t been anything too scary about growing up next
door to a teacher and a policeman, but subsequent promotions in
their respective fields had put them in a much more imposing light.
It was that whole authority figure thing again. Something about
them made him want to constantly smooth his shirt and glitter-
precipitating vest in their presence.
“Max!” Audie’s dad said. “Haven’t seen much of you lately! How
are you doing?”
“Fine, Chief Gregory.”
Audie’s mom joined him at the counter, her smile frozen in
place. “And how’s your mom?”
“Fine, Principal Gregory. I mean, she’s the same,” he added
when she made a doubtful face. “Sleeps a lot.”
Audie’s mom clucked her tongue. “We just haven’t heard from
her in a while, so . . .” She leaned in and spoke in a whisper that
was dripping with compassion. “You know, Max, you can call us.
Whenever you need something. I just feel so bad thinking of her
cooped up in there, all alone all day.”
“Yeah, but you know how she is,” Max said, squirming. “She
doesn’t like people to see her when she’s . . .”
He trailed off. Back in the day, his mom and Mrs. Gregory had
been good friends. Now he couldn’t remember the last time they
spoke.
She frowned. “I know, but —”
“Mom, give it a rest,” Audie said. “He knows the drill.”
Principal Gregory threw up her hands. “Sorry! Can’t turn off
the mom in me!”
Max was willing to do anything to get out of this conversation,
up to and including talking to Wall. “Where are you headed, Wall?”
“College visit for the weekend,” Wall said. “ ’Bama.”
“Oh.” Max tried to nod knowingly. “Sure. Go Gators.”
They all looked at him as if he’d kicked the Pope in the junk.
“Max,” Audie said, aghast, “it’s Roll Tide.”
“Roll Tide!” the other three echoed in unison, pumping
their fists.
Max tried to punch the air in a similar enthusiastic fashion, but
he looked ridiculous and everyone knew it, so he switched to swat-
ting at an imaginary fly instead.
“The coaches there are very interested in him,” Audie said,
gazing adoringly into Wall’s eyes. He took Audie’s chin in his mas-
sive hand, moving in to kiss her.
“Emmanuel!” Chief Gregory interrupted, clapping his hands
on Wall’s back. “Come out and help me check the tire pressure.”
Wall gave Audie a wretched look and slumped out the door.
Principal Gregory paid Max for the gas. “Here,” she said, hand-
ing the change to her daughter, “buy yourself a drink.” She turned
back to Max. “And you — remember what I said. Whatever you
need, hon.”
“Mom.”
“Thank you,” Max said. “I’ll remember.”
After she left, Audie let out a long, exasperated breath. She
grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, then rounded on
Max like a feral dog. “So. Why’d you skip my game last night?”
Max decided to feign choking on his Slim Jim to escape this line
of questioning, but the jangle of door bells saved him from having
to resort to such theatrics. Three girls walked in, two of them talk-
ing loudly. The third girl headed straight for the snack food sec-
tion. Max watched as the top of her straight brown ponytail bobbed
down the aisle, then stopped, hovering above the Cheetos. Giggling,
the other two followed.
“You know what?” said Audie, a wicked grin spreading across
her face as she watched the girls. “I don’t even want to hear your
feeble excuses.” She pointed the remains of her Slim Jim into his
face. “You know there’s only one way to make this up to me.”
Max waved his hand, dismissive. “I’m not doing this today,
Aud. I’m very close to beating the crossword record.”
“Oh, screw the crossword record.”
Max narrowed his eyes. “How dare you.”
“Come onnn,” Audie said in that whining voice she used when
she knew full well she’d already won. She nodded toward the girls.
“Try. For me.”
Max grumbled. Ever since that fateful night their thirteen-
year-old selves decided to finally French it up — a kiss that garnered
such rave reviews as “slimy” and “like kissing my brother” — any
potential sparks between them got permanently switched to Off,
unplugged from the wall, and buried in the backyard, never to be
spoken of again.
This was totally fine with Max; he’d felt the same way about that
gross kiss as she had. But once she started dating Wall, he got relegated
to permanent third-wheel status, and now Audie was constantly get-
ting on his case about nabbing a girlfriend. “We could go on double
dates!” she’d insist, a prospect Max found especially nauseating. To
get a date, one generally needed to be able to string words together
in a coherent manner around the opposite sex, or at the very least be
able to smile charmingly. Both Audie and Wall did these things quite
well, whereas Max had all the flirting ability of a packing peanut.
The venerably popular Krissy Swanson approached the coun-
ter with an armful of snacks and sodas. Audie stood behind her
and made a go-ahead gesture at Max, followed by something much
more vulgar. “Fine,” Max mouthed at her as Krissy dug through her
purse.
When she looked up, Max smiled. “Find everything okay?” he
asked.
“What?” she said in a distracted voice, as if surprised to learn
that the counter kid spoke Human. “Uh, yeah.”
Wiggling his eyebrows, Max held up the bag of Cheetos. “Pro-
cessed cheese snacks,” he said with a knowing nod. “I like that in a
woman.”
Audie had to excuse herself.
Krissy gave Max a look. “They’re not for me. I’m getting the soy
chips and diet protein water.”
“Oh, yeah, you gotta have protein,” he said, scanning the rest of
her items and placing them in a plastic bag. “Amino acids are, like,
the shit. You like veal?”
“I — what?”
“Me neither. It’s baby cows, did you know that?” Max could
already feel this thing going south, yet he pressed on, as always. “I
don’t think I could eat a baby anything. Except baby corn. Those
things are so weird. It’s like, are you real corn, or were you shrunk
by a shrinking ray, or what’s going on here?”
Krissy’s eyes darted to the security camera. “Am I on a reality
show right now?”
“No,” Max said. “Why?”
“Okay. Um, here,” she said, tossing him a twenty-dollar bill and
grabbing the plastic bag.
“But it’s only twelve —”
“Keep the change!” She grabbed the elbows of the other two
girls and plowed out the door, barely able to keep her giggles in as
she relayed the tale of her encounter with the troglodyte cashier.
Brown Ponytail threw a languid glance back at him as they left.
Audie emerged from her hiding place behind the motor oil,
holding her stomach. “You should be studied by scientists,” she said
between laughs. “Veal? Veal?”
Max shrugged. This was nothing new. Humiliation in the face
of the opposite gender was an unfortunate plague he’d simply had
to get used to, like high milk prices or the continued existence of the
Kardashians.
“So what are you doing after you get back from the airport?” he
asked Audie just as the door opened. He nodded hello at the new
customer, a guy sporting heavy black eyeliner, several piercings,
and a visible hangover. The man nodded back, making a beeline for
the coffee machine.
“I don’t know,” Audie replied with a shrug. “Maybe go see the
new Michael Bay explodathon.”
“Spoiler alert: everyone dies.”
Audie rolled her eyes, having grown sick of Max’s standard
spoiler-alert joke long ago. “We’ll see. I was gonna devote the day to
Madden” — here she crackled her knuckles as she always did at the
mention of the game, like a Pavlovian response — “ but my Xbox is
busted.”
Max gasped.
His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “The red ring of
death?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
Max’s main fear in life was, of course, that his mother could drop
dead at any given second . . . but if he was being completely honest,
the prospect of the same thing happening to his Xbox struck him
with an almost equal amount of terror. “Well, you can go play on
mine if you want.”
“Really?” She did her Audie-is-super-excited-about-something
hop, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Key still under the mat?”
“Yep. I’ll call mom and tell her not to bash the intruder’s
head in.”
“Thanks, man!” She lunged across the counter and gathered
Max into a headlock. “All is forgiven. As long as you come to my
game next week.”
“I’ll . . . see what I can do.”
“Just once before the season is over! That’s all I ask!”
“Okay, okay.”
“Or at the very least, come to the pep rally this Wednesday. You
don’t have any secret dates with fictional people on Wednesdays, do
you?”
“I do not.”
“Then come.” She tossed the empty Slim Jim wrapper at him.
“And thanks for the meats.”
“Any time. I’ll tell Izzy you said hi.”
“Who?”
“The Slim Jim reorder guy.”
Audie laughed and shook her head as she exited the store.
“Yeah, you do that.”
Guyliner brought his coffee up to the counter, his eyes bleared
and tired. “And a pack of smokes. Whatever’s cheapest.”
“Sure.” Max rang up the purchase and placed the cigarettes on
the counter.
The guy let out a small laugh. “You were there too?”
“Huh?”
He showed Max the back of his hand, which featured the faded
slash of a black Sharpie. “At the concert,” he said, nodding at the
similar mark smeared across the back of Max’s hand.
From the ash that floated up out of the hole. Max hadn’t noticed
until just then that it was still there. But I took a shower . . . ?
“Killer show, right?” the guy said, handing Max some money.
He took a long gulp of coffee. “Lucky I didn’t black out in a gut-
ter somewhere. Anyway, cheers.” He held up his cup in thanks and
exited the store.
Max examined his hand. He licked his thumb and rubbed it
against his skin, but no matter how hard he tried to wipe off the
mark, it wouldn’t fade.
• • •
When his watch alarm went off at the end of his shift, Max slammed
his pen and crossword book onto the counter and pumped his fists
into the air.
“I win at LIFE!” he shouted, enjoying for a moment the delusion
that completing twenty-five crossword puzzles in fourteen hours
meant he’d won at anything at all.
Stavroula’s grumpy face poked out from behind the Funyuns.
“Why you yell?”
“Oh, sorry,” Max said, lowering his arms. “I just —” But talking
about his victory would make it sound even sadder. “Nothing.”
She looked at her watch. “Okay, ten o’clock. You go home now.”
He took off his vest, threw out the wrapper from his Hot Pocket
dinner, and stuffed his crossword book into his bag. “Thanks, Stav.”
“And tell your mom I say feel better.”
The sting of the earlier lie prickled in his stomach. He nodded
gravely. “I will.”
He biked home under a moonlit sky. Bracing for the worst as
he opened the mailbox, he was relieved to find nothing more than
a Home Depot catalog. That, he could handle. They made good
shovels.
On his way to the back kitchen door, he assessed the house.
Dark, except for the flicker of television visible through his moth-
er’s bedroom window and the rectangle of light coming from the
basement. The leaves of his mom’s beloved ficus tree inside blocked
the view of the small den down there, but judging by the guttural
noises and whistle blows coming from within, Audie was well into
her Madden conquest.
After dumping his stuff onto the kitchen table and wondering
why Ruckus hadn’t greeted him with a friendly claw to the face,
neck, and torso, Max grabbed a granola bar and headed to the base-
ment. Sporty football music hit his ears as he descended the stairs.
“This was my plan all along,” he sang down to Audie. “You wear
your thumbs down with hours of playing and then I swoop in to
kick your ass, no matter how many times you crack your knuckles
in a threatening manner.” He unzipped his hoodie as he neared the
bottom of the steps. “Jesus, Aud, it’s like a hundred degrees down
here —”
He stopped.
The granola bar fell to the floor.
Perched on the edge of the plaid 1970s-era couch, where Max
had fully expected to find Audie, was a man in a teal-blue velour
tracksuit. His beard was rust colored and shaggy, as was his hair,
out of which poked two white, jagged horns. And though he was
currently dumping the remains of a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos
into his mouth with a cheese-dusted hand, the coloring didn’t end
at the edges of his fingertips.
Every visible inch of his skin was red.
He shook the controller at the television with his other hand
and flashed Max a garish grin, food globs flying out of his mouth as
he spoke.
“This shit is awesome.”
laura l. sullivan
They came later that night when Hannah was onstage again,
singing one of her sweetest love songs. As the young couple’s
fingertips touched for the first time with poignant minor notes
that boded ill for their future, the door was shoved open and a
group of armed men stormed in. They weren’t in uniform, but
most were party men or SA or SS members, and after their first
bullhorn announcement that this Jewish-owned establishment
was hereby shut down, were rather chagrined to be told by pa-
trons who happened to be their superiors, Shut up, we’re enjoying
our champagne. They smashed a window but were disheartened
to learn that despite what they had been told, Der Teufel was
no longer a Jewish cabaret. They checked a few papers, referred
to their list, then summoned Aaron Morgenstern to join them
for a conversation outside. Hannah tried to cling to him but he
brushed past her without appearing to recognize her. None of
the mob paid her the slightest attention. She was dressed once
more in her blond wig and dirndl.
They kicked her father to the gutter as she watched, while
her mother dug her nails into her daughter’s arm, pulses of pain
sending the silent coded message: Do nothing. By law you are Jew-
ish too. Down the street, all through Berlin, worse was happen-
ing. Storefronts were smashed, inventory burned. A synagogue
two blocks away was in flames, its relics plundered or destroyed.
Dimly, Hannah saw someone surrounded, heard laughter, saw a
ghoulish figure raise a sledgehammer. Old women were thrown
out of their homes in their nightclothes, their teeth still in jars at
their bedsides. Young men were rounded up for Dachau. A shot
rang out. Another. And through it all, like the crackling of a wild-
fire, breaking glass.
Aaron was lucky. Seeing an old man in this Devil’s disguise,
they decided he was unfit for labor and set him loose with no
more than a split lip and a cracked rib. Der Teufel’s juggler and
two of the waiters were taken to labor camps, and only the jug-
gler ever returned, years later, gaunt and lash scarred.
Near morning, when all was still at last, Hannah crept out to
the street. The infernal gasses of the neon devil still glowed above
her, pulsing red, leering at the river of glass shards and knocked-
out teeth and once-prized possessions littering the boulevard.
This was mine, she thought, looking out at Berlin. This was my
city. I loved it. It loved me.
Numbly, she found a broom behind the door and tried to clear
away some of the rubble, murmuring all the while, “My city . . .
my city . . .” Before long, a middle-aged man came by, a man with
kind, tired eyes, a baker or grocer up early to open his store.
“Don’t bother with that, Fräulein,” he said pleasantly. “A nice
girl like you needs her beauty sleep. They’ll drag out some Jew
dogs to clean up the mess soon enough.” He tipped his cap to her.
“Good morning!”
She watched him pick his way carefully through the glittering
glass fangs, a typical Berliner, who smiled at pretty young girls
and worried about his neighbor. A good man, except for one
thing.
When he was gone, she ripped the forgotten blond wig off her
head and flung it after him.
December 1938
Mistwalker (Excerpt)
On Sale: February 4, 2014
The hope was used up; all we had left was superstition.
That’s why Seth Archambault took my place on my father’s
fishing boat. That’s why I stacked egg-salad sandwiches in a
cooler instead of pulling on my oil clothes.
“Bad luck to have a woman or a pig onboard,” my father told
me over dinner the night before. Mom didn’t blink; she knew it
was coming.
“Which one am I?” I asked.
Dad didn’t answer. He drained his coffee, then drifted from
the table. His weighted steps shook the floor as he jammed
a baseball cap onto his greying head. Last summer, his hair
gleamed copper, the same watery shade as mine.
Old-time navy tales said it was supposed to be bad luck to
have redheads aboard too, but we Dixons had proved that wrong
for years. Like a bunch of Down East Weasleys, we’d always
been ginger. Even the black-and-white pictures in Gran’s albums
showed generations of freckles on milky faces and waved hair
too in-between to be blond or brunet.
And let’s be honest. We were moored when my brother, Levi,
got shot.
He fell onto the boat. Into my arms. And he died on the dock.
So, technically, our bad luck lately had nothing to do with red-
heads, pigs, or women onboard the Jenn-a-Lo.
But it wasn’t an argument I wanted to have before sending
my father and my boyfriend into new October seas. That’s why
I got up with a dawn I couldn’t see and made sandwiches I didn’t
like. Leaving through the back door, I kicked Levi’s boots out of
my way and headed for the water.
The fog cloaked me in dewy silk. It tasted cool and beaded in
my hair. I moved through it uneasily. My walk was familiar, but
the world was hidden — I held my hand out to touch everything
I could to guide me.
At the end of my walk, the Jenn-a-Lo slept where she always
did when we weren’t fishing her. But she was a ghost in the mist;
we all were. An unseen harbor bell called, answered by the sleepy
bump of boats against their slips.
Conversations drifted in the air, disconnected from breath
and body. But I recognized the voices — Mr. O’Toole wanted
to know if Zoe Pomroy still had his coffee grinder. Mal Eldrich
asked if it was cold enough for Lane Wallace, which got him
soundly cursed because it was the 275th day that year he’d asked
it, and he’d no doubt ask it for the remaining ninety.
This was Broken Tooth before fishing started for the day:
the wharf alive with ordinary, daring men and women. They
laughed and cussed and got ready to sail on seas that would be
just as happy to swallow them as feed them.
More likely than not, this had always been Broken Tooth. For
the Passamaquoddy who fished here first, then for the English
and French and Scots-Irish who drove them out.
Funny thing was, it never used to be this foggy. We’d have
some, but everybody talked about how Broken Tooth didn’t get
blessed much, but we got blessed with clear waters. Not any-
more; seemed like it hadn’t been clear since Levi died. It was our
shroud.
With a heavy sigh, I hurried to the Jenn-a-Lo. At first, just the
red script of her name floated up in the fog. Trailing my hand
along the rail, the boat took shape. She wasn’t new; she wasn’t
beautiful. I loved her all the same.
Thankfully, in the pale of a frosted morning, I couldn’t make
out the shadow of Levi’s blood, stained into the warp of the
wood dock. Before I could think about it, a hand reached out of
the mist to take mine.
“Egg salad?” Seth asked.
“What else?” I said, and stepped onboard. Putting the cooler
down, I slid it across the deck with a firm shove, then turned to
find him. He was a shadow in the haze, then suddenly a boy. My
boy.
In my orbit, Seth touched me with hands just as certain as my
steps toward the shore had been. Brushing my lips against his
jaw, I curled closer to him so I could slip toward his mouth. His
skin was cool; at first, he tasted of coffee and Juicy Fruit.
The second kiss, though, tasted like nothing but want. That
was the beauty of a silver morning: it was possible to steal away
with someone without moving at all.
When I broke the kiss, I pressed my brow to Seth’s temple.
“You better be careful.”
“Always,” he said.
“Make Dad eat,” I went on.
Seth’s breath spread heat across my cheek. “I’ll ask him to,
anyway.”
“Don’t feel bad if you’re just changing water in the pots,” I
continued. “Or pulling seeders and v-notches. That’s just fishing
this time of year.”
I felt him smile. “I’ve got this, Willa.”
Of course he did. I knew he did. But I felt strangely stripped,
knowing that I wouldn’t be my father’s sternman today. As fine
a fisherman as Seth was, he didn’t know the particular rhythms
of our boat. Her quirks waited to catch him, as if winter seas
weren’t wicked enough. It was supposed to be clear and cold
today if the fog ever lifted, but there was no accounting for the
Atlantic’s whim.
“Mind the hauler. It’s sticky,” I told him, and smoothed off his
knit cap so I could run my fingers through his hair.
Seth bowed his head, catching me in another needy kiss. Pos-
sessive, his hand tightened on my hip, and I twisted my fingers
in his hair. Selfishly, I wanted to leave him with an edge, troubled
by a hunger he couldn’t satisfy.
That was the one thing I was still sure of, that Seth Archam-
bault wanted me more than he wanted anything else in the world.
Catching his lower lip between my teeth, I tugged it as I pulled
away. And then I put my back to him, walking off as quickly as I
could.
In my family, we never said hello or goodbye — another su-
perstition. That one came from my mother’s side of the family.
Without hello, you couldn’t mark a beginning. To avoid an end-
ing, of course you went without goodbye.
Maybe whoever started it thought they could live forever. All
they had to do was trick time into believing their lives were a
single, uninterrupted moment.
They were wrong.
Bailey didn’t come to a full stop in front of my house. Instead,
she pushed the passenger-side door open and yelled, “Get in,
loser!”
Running alongside her battered pickup, I threw my apron
and rake inside. The truck picked up speed on the incline, and
I lunged for the door. And there I was, hand on window frame,
feet off the ground. For a second, I was flying. Then I was rolling
like a loose marble into the truck’s cab. I fell against the seat with
a laugh.
“What, you’re too good for seat belts now?” Bailey asked.
I made a point of shutting the door before bothering to belt
in. “Well, yeah. You’re still too good to get your brakes fixed.”
“Always judging.”
“That’s what friends do,” I told her.
It was easy to smile with Bailey Dyer. We grew up together,
literally. We met when our mothers, best friends, had plopped us
in the same crib. We entertained each other while they played
pinochle.
If you start out sharing a diaper bag with somebody, it’s easy
to share everything else. Bailey knew to the minute when I got
my first period. She came out to me before anyone else. It’s not
like our moms were shocked by either of those developments,
but it was still nice to have a secret-keeper.
“So is Seth . . .” Bailey started, turning the radio down. She
didn’t finish the thought. It was a blank for me to fill in, offered
smoothly.
“Yeah, he’s out there.” I put my feet on the dashboard and
sighed. She knew I hated it; she’d listened to me rasp my throat
raw over it last night. But that was last night, and by daylight, I
had to be practical. “Not a lot to be done about it, you know?”
Bailey drummed the steering wheel. “You could kneecap
him.”
“You can’t dance in casts, dude.”
“Like you care about the fall formal,” Bailey said.
“Seth does. I think he bought a ring.”
She cut a look at me, her brown eyes sparkling. “You’re going
to say yes, right?”
The weight of the air changed around us. Finally, I said, “I
don’t know,” and leaned against my window. Instead of saying
something useless, Bailey raised her brows and nodded, focusing
on the rough road.
It was junior year, the deciding year. I’d planned to take the
SAT with Bailey, just to lend her moral support. College had
never been in my plans. I was going to marry Seth and fish with
my father until he was too weathered to go out. Then the boat
would be mine, then my kids’, then theirs . . . It was a good life,
a beautiful inevitability.
And it was gone.
A little farther down the road, Bailey asked, “Why not?”
“I can’t.” I said. “I’ve been paying the mortgage, Bay. Dad
hasn’t been out since Levi died. What if he never gets back out
there proper?”
“He’s fishing today.” Bailey threw her shoulders back. “Okay,
I know, with Seth. But if he won’t take you out, buy your own
boat. Pay their mortgage and yours, too . . . oh.”
“Hey, look,” I said, plucking my roll of apron and rake off the
seat. “Mud flats.”
Bailey dropped out of gear, then put all her weight onto the
brake. We rolled to a stop on the gravel shoulder. The engine
shuddered, making the whole truck shake before it finally went
silent.
The old girl was a junk heap, and Bailey would have been bet-
ter off buying a new one. But she was saving for college. Finess-
ing another four thousand miles out of a Ford that should have
been put down was a matter of pride.
We had that in common.
I got to the back first, unhitching the thing to get to our dig-
ging gear. The tailgate fell, rusty flakes fluttering to the ground
as we pulled on rubber waders and tied each other’s aprons. The
former were necessary, the latter an in-joke.
They were our freshman home-arts project: uneven gingham
monstrosities that would have made our grandmothers roll in
their graves. Our aprons were thin and threadbare. Even if they
weren’t, fact was, nothing was going to keep us clean.
Snatching up our rakes and buckets, we started down the
rocky incline to the shore. Low tide had taken the water out,
leaving a gleaming expanse of grey mud. Thin-boned pine trees
sheltered us from the wind; this cove was a good place to go dig-
ging because of that. With the tree break, the cove stayed a little
warmer a little longer. If we were lucky, we’d have until the end
of October.
Mussel shells decorated the flat, black and white bouquets
that could cut as clean as a knife. Bailey walked down a few yards
so we wouldn’t get in each other’s way, and we got to work.
Piercing into the mud with my rake, I flipped it and reached in
with bare hands. Nothing. Breath frosting in the air, I moved up
and started a new row.
“First!” Bailey cried.
I looked over, and she held a bloodworm high, presenting it
to me with a smirk. The little monster twisted on itself, trying
to get its black teeth into her wrist. Bailey dropped it into her
bucket and said, “That’s what you get for changing the subject. I
win, you lose.”
“I like how classy you are,” I replied. “All class, that’s you.”
Slapping her own butt, Bailey left a handprint. “Kiss it,
Dixon.”
I flicked a handful of mud in her direction, then went back to
digging. Bloodworms didn’t look like much, but on a long low
tide, we could each pull three hundred. At a quarter apiece, that
added up. For Bailey, her college fund. Lately, for me, the bills my
parents couldn’t manage.
“So . . .” Bailey dared again, because she was my best friend
and knew she could get away with it. “How far out are they
gonna have to go, do you think?”
“A ways.” Cutting mud and pulling worms, I didn’t lift my
head, but I did raise my voice so Bailey could hear me. “Looks
like those mokes on Monhegan aren’t the only ones on winter
lobster this year, I guess.”
“You remember that one girl?” The from Monhegan was im-
plied.
I pulled a worm, dumping it in my bucket. “Yep. Crazy like
everybody else out there.”
“You ain’t lying,” Bailey replied.
And then, because I could, in the middle of a mud flat, just
the two of us and nobody else, I dared to say a wish out loud.
“After this summer, we need a good season.”
Bailey hauled her boots from the mud and moved to a new
patch. Invoking casual magic, she said, “Ask the Grey Man. It
can’t hurt.”
A ghost, or a revenant, maybe a cursed sailor or faery — who,
or what, the Grey Man was was up for debate. People couldn’t
even agree that it was a man. Some of the old-timers insisted it
was a Grey Lady.
But we all agreed that he lived in the lighthouse on Jackson’s
Rock, and if you could get him on your side, you’d have the best
fishing of your life.
It was a lot like the Norwegians biting the head off a herring,
or throwing the first catch back for luck. Chewing on anise and
spitting on the hooks. Leaving women behind and never setting
sail on a Friday. Old rituals we kept to guarantee the impossible:
all good weather, no bad days.
But in our bones, we knew it was blizzards and nor’easters
and squall lines that sank ships. Draggers and trawlers and peo-
ple from away stealing our catches and leaving nothing for our
pots. Government dopes making us trade float line for sink line,
twice as expensive, lost twice as much.
In lobstering, nothing was certain — except the lighthouse on
Jackson’s Rock. And that was automatic and empty. If there was
a Grey Man, he had lousy taste in real estate. No one went to
Jackson’s Rock and likely no one ever would. Just thinking about
it made my head hurt.
Then again, maybe he was right where he meant to be —
where no one could ask him a favor. Where he’d never have to
grant one. Like most faery stories, the price was probably too
high. My family had paid enough for our calling this year.
We couldn’t spare anything else.
After selling my catch at the worm cellar, I wasn’t ready to go
home yet. The ocean flowed with new colors, crimson and gold.
Sunset transformed the shore. It called the sailors and the fisher-
men home.
Pushing my hands into my back pockets, I walked down the
dock. It was easy to tell who’d gone far out, past the island, half-
way to Georges Bank. Nothing held their berths at the pier but
short, choppy waves. No sign of Daddy and Seth yet either.
Lobsters liked warm water — that’s why summer fishing was
easy. As the seasons changed, they marched to the depths. They
were safer away from shore. The rest of us, not really. Cold, open
waters, waiting for drowning storms . . .
I wasn’t gonna think about that. Once everybody came home
safe, that would be the time to think dark thoughts.
Lifting my face to the wind, I walked over warped wood.
Maybe it was crazy, but I loved the way it tilted beneath my
feet. Being able to walk over it without looking filled me with a
strange sense of pride. Like it was proof I belonged there. That
this was my place and my destiny.
“That you, Willa?” Zoe Pomroy asked.
I couldn’t see her, but it was easy to follow her voice. Turning
down her slip, I approached the Lazarus, following the scent of
coffee to the teal and white boat all the way at the end. That was
the only place it fit.
Zoe had one of the bigger ships in our fleet. Fifty foot, with
what amounted to an apartment inside. She had a kitchen and
a head, a cabin and a guest room. When the weather was good,
Zoe lived aboard. Daddy liked to give her hell about fishing from
a yacht, but I admired her.
Leaning over the rail, Zoe grinned down at me. “I got some-
thing good today.”
“What’s that?” I asked, already climbing aboard.
Lamps illuminated the cabin. Everything inside gleamed,
dark wood polished to a sheen. From the stern, I could make
out the galley and the table. The rest of Zoe’s floating condo
required an invitation.
“I’ve been pulling traps for damn near thirty years,” she said,
opening a cooler on deck. She reached inside, hefting a lobster
out with her bare hands. Its claws were already banded, so the
worst it could do was wriggle at her. “And I’ve never seen one of
these.”
In the dimming dusk, it was hard to make out what kind of
wonder she had. The lobster was kinda big, but nothing special.
Then Zoe dipped him into the light that spilled from the
cabin. A spark of excitement raced through me. He was blue.
Not kinda sorta, if you squint at a green lobster, you might see
some bluish spots. No, this was a deep shade, halfway to navy.
Midnight freckles and powder blue joints, even his eyes were a
hazy shade of midnight.
“Hot damn, Zoe, that’s something else.”
“Isn’t it?”
More than a little irritated — he’d probably been passed
around to half of Broken Tooth by now — Old Blue the lobster
curled his tail under. Flailing his claws, he wanted to pinch me.
He just couldn’t. I trailed a finger down his segmented tail and
hefted him in my hand. He was eight pounds, easy.
“You taking him back?” I asked.
Nodding, Zoe leaned against the rail. “Yeah. He’s bigger than
legal, but I wouldn’t have kept him anyway.”
She didn’t have to explain. Lobsters like these, we shared
them. Took pictures, handed them around. Then we gave them
back to the ocean. It balanced things; it reminded the water gods
and the universe that we appreciated all of it. That we weren’t so
greedy to keep every last creature we pulled in our traps.
And it meant somebody else might find him later. Nobody
knew how old a lobster could get. In fact, left alone, they might
live forever. Every year, they shed their shells and grew a new
one. Nothing limited how big they could grow.
Up in Nova Scotia, they found one that weighed forty-four
pounds. Forget losing a finger to a lobster — that thing could
break arms with its claws.
So if we gave back the big ones, the blue ones, the ones that
were special, there was a little bit of immortality attached to it.
In two days, or two hundred years, somebody else might haul it
up. Take pictures, pass it around. Past to present, lobsterman to
lobsterman.
I watched Zoe put Old Blue back in the cooler. “You see Dad
and Seth out there today?”
“This morning,” she said. Straightening, she dried her hands
on her jeans. Nodding toward the cabin, she invited me inside.
“Past the Rock, heading on out. You want some coffee?”
Back home, the house sat empty. Mom was at work, and
Daddy was still out. There was nothing in that house but un-
natural quiet, so I took a cup of Zoe’s coffee, and another one
after it. Just to stay on the water a little longer.
Just to be close to the sea.
One
Grey
Since she was caught up worrying about the SAT instead of pay-
ing attention, Bailey stepped on the back of my shoe again. I
stopped in the middle of the walk. As I expected, she kept going
and crashed into me.
All betrayed, she asked, “What?” like I’d pulled a gun and
rolled her for her iPhone.
“We’re not sitting the test until May,” I told her.
“But I have to be ready by then. You don’t just waltz into
the Ivies, Willa. I have to think about it now.” Bailey waved her
hands. “I don’t even have a subject. I need one for apps, and
you know I suck at essays. I don’t get along with them, Willa! I
choke!”
I stepped to the side so she could walk with me to school.
“Write about lobstering. Or growing up all quaint and whatever.
Hell, write about being the only lesbian in a fishing village!”
“I’m not the only one,” she said.
“Cait lives in Milbridge,” I replied.
Folding a stick of gum into her mouth, Bailey shook her head.
“It’s not interesting. Dear Harvard, I’m unique and not a soul is
bothered. Boo hoo hoo. Love, Bailey.”
I wrinkled my nose. “You’re not applying to Harvard.”
“That’s not the point!”
With a huff, Bailey picked up the pace. I gladly followed, be-
cause we were both going to be late the way we were dawdling.
It’s not like it was a long walk. The Vandenbrook School was our
town school. K through 12 went there, to this Victorian mansion
perched on a hill.
Mom said when she and Dad went to Vandenbrook, they had
to climb uneven granite stairs set into the dirt. Talk about a mess
of fun in the winter. Sometimes it would get so cold, the earth
would spit one out like a baby tooth.
But right before I started kindergarten, the town trust paid to
pave the walk. They even put warmers beneath the concrete to
keep it clear. Come December, we’d be tromping through knee-
deep snow to get anywhere except school.
Everybody argued about why they did it and how they found
the money for it. But I guess people were making noises about
busing us to Narraguagus, and pride set in. Like everything else
in Broken Tooth, it came down to tradition — we always had
schooled our own, and we weren’t about to stop without a fight.
I liked it. I liked that I could find the place my dad scratched
his initials in the old servants’ stairs when he was seventeen and
sick of school. My granddad had done the same, and his father,
too, back when it was just ten boys taking lessons with the rich
owner’s son.
That wood contained one slice of me, the same way the Jenn-
a-Lo claimed one, and the coast, and the jack pines, and the sea. I
had planned to wait until graduation to add my initials. Instead, I
broke in this past summer, the day of the funeral, to do it. It was
too sunny outside, but nice and dark in the back hallway.
Bailey snapped her fingers in front of my face. The crack
dragged me out of my thoughts, and I cooled my cheeks with
my hands.
“Sorry.”
“Where’d you go?” she asked. She clasped the back of my neck
and pulled me in roughly. It wasn’t a hug. It was a good shake,
but it meant the same thing. I leaned into her, long enough to
get her perfume on me, then threw my shoulders back.
“I’m all right.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” And to prove it, I tugged my bag onto my shoulder
and said, “I think you should write about worm digging to pay
for college. Make up some stuff about how cuts and worm bites
get you good and tough. Ready for the world.”
“Yeah, right.”
“It doesn’t have to be true,” I told her, and started up the
stairs. “It just has to get you by.”
Sailors used to mark the edges of their maps Here There Be Monsters.
They weren’t entirely wrong. Monsters don’t have claws, they have
eyes dark as molasses and hair white as a new dime. They have soft
petal lips that whisper the sweetest promises.
I can say with absolute authority that one doesn’t notice a cloak of
fog if one is too entirely entranced with the creature wearing it.
It’s the thing beneath, the thing you cannot imagine, that captures
you.
Susannah had delicate fingers; she liked to pull them through my
hair. I would close my eyes and exist under her hand. My heart beat for
her touch. My blood ran for a single flash of her lashes. Not once did I
question the mist at her feet. It seemed ethereal at the time.
My father’s boat was fast; he had a talent for cutting ice. We
sailed up the shore from Boston thrice weekly, buying lobster today to
sell tomorrow while the beasts still waved their claws and curled their
tails.
It was an idiotic profession. One he intended to press on me when
I was of age to captain my own ship. He assumed I wanted it. That I
would be no happier than at the moment I reflected him completely. But
I stood on the deck of his ship and loathed him.
The man was gentle enough — many found him convivial company
indeed. But I detested the cream he rubbed into his hands. As if any
tincture might soften them and let him pretend to be a gentleman. I’d
always wondered if he realized he stank of lobster. Even after a boil-
ing bath with flowers and fresh soap: then he smelled of lavender and
lobsters. It was no improvement.
I had bigger plans for myself. A life of adventure, one lived on rails
and on horseback. Through cities and deserts. Oh, especially deserts — I
fantasized about them. To bask in the heat all day long, to warm my
feet in the sand. To spend not a single moment soaked with salt water.
Whatever the hook that bound my father with the sea, I didn’t possess
it. And I had my plans to abandon it eternally.
Working the lobster line with my father offered me little entertain-
ment, so I had to make me own. The island in the Broken Tooth harbor,
that fascinated me. The villagers said it was abandoned, dangerous,
haunted.
When my father and I sailed in, I studied its forbidding shape, won-
dered about its secrets. On our departure, I did the same, gazing and
gazing at Jackson’s Rock.
And it was in such contemplation that I saw Susannah for the first
time. She stood on the island cliff in the bay, her hair unfurled, long
locks tossed by the wind. With a pale cloak and gown, she seemed made
of the mist.
Leaning over the side, I stared at her — I wondered earnestly if this
was a siren. If she would open her mouth and sing. If she would draw
our ship into the rocks beneath her feet.
Instead, she waved.
Her fingers bloomed like a peony bud, and there was a weight to her
smile that I longed to lighten. She shrank as we slipped away on good
winds. Soon she was nothing but a star on the horizon, and then noth-
ing at all but a memory.
My thoughts troubled me: Was she the lighthouse keeper’s daugh-
ter? Was she there alone? It was the shape of her smile that drew me
back. In my ship’s bunk, and in my bed at home, I invented in that
expression a damsel that only I could rescue.
Certainly, her father had locked her away from the mainland; un-
doubtedly, her stepmother had made her a servant. She was a nymph
or a princess, Snow White or Cinderella. She was Rapunzel, and in my
fever, I felt certain that if I only asked, she would let down her platinum
hair.
She did.
While my father attended to business in the village, I rowed to the
rock. My shoulders burned, and the sun — so mild to just stand in it
— spilled fire all across me. In dreams, I was dashing in my rescue, crisp
in linens. In truth, I landed on the shore with my shirt soaked through
and damp hair clinging to my face. The ocean. Always the godforsaken
ocean.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Susannah stepped from the trees, a pale
apparition.
Already lovesick from memory, the fresh sight of her only stoked the
fever. Leaping ashore, I approached, hands out as if she might startle
like a doe. I told her, “I came for you.”
“Why?”
With every bit of foolish sincerity I had in me, I replied, “Because I
love you.”
In retrospect, I should have been surprised that she let me kiss her.
That she threaded her fingers in my hair and whispered exactly the
right words in my ear to entice me back. Our stolen moments were
painted in romantic shades, in the bronze twilight beneath towering
pines.
For an entire summer, again and again, I returned to her rock, to her
pale and spectral kisses — until I swore I would do anything for her. I
would die for her.
And then I did.
I was an idiot, and a fool, and I have had a century now to shame
myself for mistaking lust for love. Every time I look in the mirror and
see my dime-silver hair and my eyes dark as molasses — every time I
look across the water to Broken Tooth, hoping that the girl thinking of
me will soon come to my shore — I’m reminded of my stupidity.
And I hate myself only a little for hoping she’s just as unwise.
a. j. betts
Zac
7
8
9
10
11
12
A newbie arrives next door. From this side of the wall I hear 13
the shuffle of feet, unsure of where to stand. I hear Nina go- 14
ing through the arrival instructions in that buoyant air hostess 15
way, as if this “flight” will go smoothly, no need to pull the 16
emergency exit lever. Just relax and enjoy the service. Nina has 17
the kind of voice you believe. 18
She’ll be saying, This remote is for your bed. See? You can 19
tilt it here, or recline it with this button. See? You try. 20
Ten months ago, Nina explained these things to me. It was a 21
Tuesday. Plucked from a math class in period two, I was bustled 22
into the car with Mum and an overnight bag. On the five-hour 23
drive north to Perth, Mum used words like “precautions” and 24
“standard testing.” But I knew then, of course. I’d been tired 25
and sick for ages. I knew. 26
I was still wearing my school uniform when Nina led me 27
into Room 6 and showed me how to use the bed remote, the 28
TV remote, and the internal phone. With a flick of her wrist 29
she demonstrated how to tick the boxes on the blue menu card: 30
1 and a tortoiseshell claw that grips most of her sandy hair. Her
2 right hand clutches the back of her neck.
3 Beside me, Mum is all meerkat. Her attention twitches from
4 the door to the wall, then to me. After twenty days in Room 1,
5 she’s forgotten that out in the real world people get pissed off,
6 that tempers are short, like at school, where kids arc up after
7 getting bumped in the lunch line. She’s forgotten about egos
8 and rage.
9 Mum readies herself to launch into action: to follow that
10 woman and offer tea, date scones, and a shoulder to lean on.
11 “Mum.”
12 “Yes?”
13 “Save the pep talk for tomorrow.”
14 “You think?”
15 What I think is that they’ll both need more than Mum’s
16 counsel. They’ll need alcohol, probably. Five milligrams of Val-
17 ium, perhaps.
18 I lay down NOSY, snapping the squares onto the board, but
19 Mum doesn’t take the bait.
20 “Why would anyone argue like that? In a cancer ward?
21 Surely they’d just —”
22 As if through a megaphone, a voice comes booming through
23 the wall.
24 “What . . . on . . . earth . . . ?”
25 Then a beat kicks in that jolts us both. Mum’s letters clatter
26 to the floor.
27 Music, of sorts, is invading my room at a level previously
28 unknown on Ward 7G. The new girl must have brought her own
29 speakers and lumped them on the shelf above the bed, facing the
30
wall, then cranked them right up to the max. Some singer howls 1
through the plaster. Doesn’t she know it’s our wall? 2
Mum’s sprawled on all fours, crawling under my bed to re- 3
trieve her seven letters, while the room throbs with electropop 4
ass-squeezing and wanting it bad. I’ve heard the song before, 5
maybe a year or two ago. 6
When Mum gets up off the floor, she’s holding a bonus T 7
and X, a strawberry lip balm, and a Mintie. 8
“Who’s the singer?” Mum asks. 9
“How would I know?” It’s whiny and it’s an assault on my 10
senses. 11
“It’s like a nightclub in here,” she says. 12
“Since when have you been in a nightclub?” 13
Mum raises an eyebrow as she unwraps the Mintie. To 14
be fair, I haven’t been in a nightclub either, so neither of us is 15
qualified to make comparisons. The noise level is probably more 16
blue-light disco, but it’s a shock for two people who’ve spent so 17
long in a quiet, controlled room with conservative neighbors. 18
“Is it Cher? I liked Cher . . .” 19
I’m not up to speed on female singers with single names. 20
Rihanna? Beyoncé? Pink? Painful lyrics pound their way 21
through the wall. 22
Then it hits me. The newbie’s gone Gaga. The girl’s got can- 23
cer and bad taste? 24
“Or is it Madonna?” 25
“Are you still playing or what?” I say, intersecting BOOT 26
with KNOB. The song is banging on about riding on a disco 27
stick. Seriously? 28
Mum finally pops the Mintie into her mouth. “It must 29
30
1 be a young one,” she says softly. Young ones upset her more
2 than old ones. “Such a shame.” Then she turns to me and is
3 reminded that, yes, I’m a young one too. She looks down at her
4 hand of disjointed letters, as if trying to compose a word that
5 could make sense of this.
6 I know what she’s thinking. Damn it, I’ve come to know her
7 too well.
8 “They must be good speakers, don’t you think?” she says.
9 “What?”
10 “We should have brought your speakers from home,
11 shouldn’t we? Or bought some. I could go shopping tomorrow.”
12 “Go steal hers.”
13 “She’s upset.”
14 “That song is destroying my white blood cell count.”
15 I’m only half joking.
16 The song ends, but there’s no justice, because it starts again.
17 The same song. Honestly, Lady freaking Gaga? At this volume?
18 “It’s your turn.” Mum places BOARD carefully on the . . .
19 board. Then she plucks another four letters from the bag as if
20 everything is normal and we’re not being aurally abused.
21 “The song’s on repeat,” I say, unnecessarily. “Can you ask
22 her to stop?”
23 “Zac, she’s new.”
24 “We were all new once. It’s no excuse for . . . that. There’s
25 got to be a law. A patient code of ethics.”
26 “Actually, I don’t mind it.” Mum nods her head as proof.
27 Bopping, I believe it’s called.
28 I look into my lap at the T F J P Q R S. I don’t even have a
29 vowel.
30 I give up. I can’t think; don’t want to. I’ve had enough of this
song, now playing for the third time in a row. I try to suffocate 1
myself with a pillow. 2
“Do you want a tea?” Mum asks. 3
I don’t want tea — I never want tea — but I nod so I can be 4
alone for a few minutes, or an hour, if she tracks down the new- 5
bie’s significant other and performs emergency scone therapy 6
in the patients’ lounge. 7
I hear water running as Mum follows the hand-washing 8
instructions conscientiously. 9
“I won’t be long.” 10
“Go!” I say. “Save yourself.” 11
When the door closes behind her, I release the pillow. I slide 12
my Scrabble letters into the box and recline my bed to hori- 13
zontal. I’m finally granted precious mother-free time and it’s 14
ruined by this. The song begins for the fourth time. 15
How is it possible that Room 1 can be such an effective 16
sanctuary from the germs of the outside world, but so pathetic 17
at protecting me from the hazards of shit music? 18
I can’t hear the girl — I can’t hear anything but that song — 19
but I reckon she’s lying on her bed, mouthing the lyrics, while 20
I’m doing my best to ignore them. 21
Room 2 is pretty much identical to mine. I know; I’ve 22
stayed there before. They have the same wardrobe, same bath- 23
room, same paint and blinds. Everything is in duplicate, but as 24
a mirror image. If looked at from above, the bed headboards 25
would appear to back onto each other, separated only by the six- 26
centimeter width of this wall. 27
If she’s lying on her bed right now, we are practically head- 28
to-head. 29
Farther down the corridor, there are six other single rooms, 30
The tap isn’t angry like the music had been or the words 1
she’d shouted earlier. The tap is close. She must be near now, 2
puzzled, a curious ear against the wall, as if listening for alien 3
contact. 4
I crouch. 5
Knock, I reply to the wall, down lower this time. 6
Tap. 7
The wall sounds hollow. Is it? 8
Knock. 9
Tap. 10
Knock. 11
Tap tap? In the quiet, the tap is raw. I think it’s a question. 12
Knock. 13
In the gaps in between, there’s nothing but the whirring of 14
my IV machine and the anticipation of the next cue. My quads 15
ache as I wait. My feet feel cold on the linoleum. 16
Tap? 17
Knock. 18
It’s clear neither of us knows Morse code, and yet some- 19
thing is being spoken. I wonder what she’s trying to ask me. 20
Knock. Silence. Knock. 21
And I wonder what I’m saying. 22
Then that’s it. 23
Whir. Hum. Buzz. Drip. Whir. 24
On my knees by the wall, I’m ashamed. I shouldn’t have 25
complained about her music on her first day of admission. There 26
are too many things I don’t know. 27
She doesn’t tap and I don’t knock. 28
I just kneel, imagining she’s doing the same, six centimeters 29
away. 30
she doesn’t say, Have you opened your bowels? the way the 1
nurses do. 2
“How’s yours, Mum?” 3
“I’m just asking.” 4
“You want me to photograph it next time?” I maneuver 5
myself and the IV pole past her. She whacks me gently with a 6
pillow. 7
“You want me to keep a log book?” 8
“A bog book.” Mum impresses herself with her wordplay. 9
Documenting my bowel movements — now that is an ex- 10
cellent use for the so-called diary that Patrick gave me. He 11
thought I’d benefit from expressing my emotional journey, or 12
something like that. Instead, I could use it as a bog log, plotting 13
frequency and consistency. I could color code each page, draw- 14
ing big brown pie charts with annotations. 15
“How about: Dear Diary, it’s December ninth, twelve days 16
post-transplant. Semi-diarrhea. I chose the half flush.” 17
“I don’t think that’s what the diary’s for.” 18
“Not poo and spew?” 19
“It’s for your feelings.” Having raised two boys and Bec, 20
Mum knows better than to use the “f” word in earnest. 21
“December ninth. I feel . . . lighter.” 22
She smiles. “See, that’s better.” 23
I don’t need to write about crap. Of any kind. 24
I conquered toilet training at three years of age. I wasn’t 25
a prodigy, sure, but a solid student. From then on, toileting 26
was supposed to remain a private thing behind a locked door, 27
far from a mother’s queries. Mum’s job was to monitor other 28
things, like the kind of food going into my mouth in the first 29
place. And she had. She’d done a good job. 30
1 “Mum, go home.”
2 “Zac —”
3 “You don’t have to stay. Anymore. I’m getting better.”
4 It’s true. Days Minus 9 to Minus 1 were hell. Day 0 was an
5 anticlimax. Days 1 to 3 I can’t recall, 4 to 8 were foul, 9 to 11
6 were uncomfortable, and now, twelve days after transplant, I’m
7 starting to feel human again. I can handle this.
8 “I know,” she says predictably, turning a page of her maga-
9 zine. “But I like it here.”
10 It’s bullshit and we both know it. Mum’s not a four-wall
11 kind of woman. As long as I can remember, she’s always had a
12 straw hat and a sheen of sweat. She’s hazel eyes and sun spots.
13 She’s greens and browns and oranges. She’s a pair of pruning
14 shears in hand. She’s soil and pumpkins. She’d rather be picking
15 pears or fertilizing olive trees than stuck in this room, with its
16 pink reclining chair. More than anything, she’s my dad’s soul
17 mate, though she won’t go home when I ask her — even when I
18 beg her.
19 My room has two windows. There’s the small round one
20 in the door that looks into the corridor, and there’s the large
21 rectangular one that looks out over the hospital entrance, park-
22 ing lot, and nearby suburbs. That’s the one she sits beside most
23 days, like a flower tracking the sun.
24 “List three things you like about the hospital. Apart from
25 the puzzles and gossip.”
26 “I did like my son’s company . . . once.”
27 “Just go home.”
28 After my first diagnosis, the whole family would drive up
29 to Perth for each round of chemo. Mum, Dad, Bec, and Evan
30 would stay in a motel room three blocks away, visiting each
Zac
7
8
9
10
11
12
Status: Need new tunes in here. Suggestions?? 13
“I need new tunes,” I tell Mum after four rounds of Mario 14
Kart and a torturous half-hour of Ready, Steady, Cook. With 15
my taste buds screwed up from chemo I’ve lost any interest in 16
food, so watching so-called celebrity chefs prance about with 17
artichoke hearts has no appeal. Mum, however, considers it 18
compulsory viewing. “I know my iPod playlist by heart.” 19
“You want me to go to the music store?” 20
It’s perfect: sending Mum on a CD-buying mission will 21
give me at least an hour solo. 22
“Only if you have time . . .” 23
Mum finds her purse and smudges on lip-gloss. She washes 24
her hands again and checks her face in the mirror. 25
“What should I get?” 26
“Ask the store. Tell them it’s for a seventeen-year-old. 27
Male.” 28
She shakes her head. “No way. Write down some titles.” 29
30
1 Play Gaga.
2 I INSIST!
3 (Really!)
4
5 I wonder if capitals are too much. Or the exclamation marks.
6 I consider drawing a smiley face to offset any traces of sarcasm.
7 “Why don’t you download Lady Gaga from iTunes?”
8 “I don’t want to hear Gaga,” I whisper, pointing to the wall.
9 “I want her to hear Gaga.”
10 Nina folds the page carefully. “As you wish, Zac. Take your
11 pills, huh?”
12 Nina pockets the note, then washes her hands for the com-
13 pulsory thirty seconds. It feels more like sixty.
14 “Where’s your mum?”
15 “At the store buying music.”
16 “Lady Gaga?”
17 I snort. “As if.”
18 “Of course. You’re okay then? On your own?”
19 “Definitely.” I nod and she leaves, both of us grinning.
20
21 • • •
22
23 Mum’s got a good snore happening, the way she always does at
24 three a.m. One of these mornings I should record her as proof.
25 She reckons she doesn’t snore — that she barely even sleeps —
26 but I know the truth. When she’s at her noisiest, I’m at my most
27 awake.
28 It’s not Mum’s fault: it’s the three a.m. curse. I wake up
29 bursting, go for the third pee of the night, then can’t get back
30 to sleep.
Three is the worst hour. It’s too dark, too bright, too late, 1
too early. It’s when the questions come, droning like flies, nudg- 2
ing me one by one until my mind’s full of them. 3
Am I a bus driver? Addicted to late-night television shop- 4
ping? A long-distance skier? A musician? A juggler? 5
It’s 3:04 and I’m wondering who I am. 6
The marrow’s German — the doctors were allowed to tell 7
me that much. I’ve had German marrow for fourteen days, and 8
though I’m not yet craving pretzels or beer or lederhosen, it 9
doesn’t mean I’m not changed in other ways. Alex and Matt 10
have nicknamed me Helga, and it’s caught on. Now the whole 11
football team thinks it’s hilarious that I could be part pretzel- 12
baking, beer-swilling, braid-swinging Fräulein from Bavaria 13
with massive die Brust. 14
But is it true? Could I be? 15
I try to catch myself being someone else. 16
I know it sounds like a B-grade thriller — When Marrow 17
Attacks! — but if my own marrow’s been wiped out of my 18
bones and then replaced with a stranger’s, shouldn’t that change 19
who I am? Isn’t marrow where my cells are born, to bump their 20
way through the bloodstream and to every part of me? So if the 21
birthplace of my cells now stems from another human being, 22
shouldn’t this change everything? 23
I’m told I’m now 99.9 percent someone else. I’m told this is 24
a good thing, but how can I know for sure? There’s nothing in 25
this room to test myself with. What if I now kick a football with 26
the skill of a German beer wench? What if I’ve forgotten how to 27
drive a pickup truck or ride an ATV? What if my body doesn’t 28
remember how to run? What if these things aren’t stored in my 29
head or muscles, but down deeper, in my marrow? What if . . . 30
1 what if all of this is just a waste of time and the leukemia comes
2 back anyway?
3 At 3:07 I switch on the iPad, dim the brightness, and track
4 my way through the maze of blogs and forums, safe from the
5 prying eyes of Mum. Snoring in the recliner beside me, she’s
6 oblivious to my dirty secret.
7 In less than a second, Google tells me there are more than
8 742 million sites on cancer. Almost eight million are about
9 leukemia; six million on acute myeloid leukemia. If I Google
10 “cancer survival rate” there are more than eighteen million
11 sites offering me numbers, odds, and percentages. I don’t need
12 to read them: I know most of the stats by heart.
13 On YouTube, the word cancer leads to 4.6 million videos.
14 Of these, about 20,000 are from bone marrow transplant pa-
15 tients like me, stuck in isolation. Some are online right now. It
16 may be 3:10 a.m. in Perth, but it’s 7:10 a.m. in Auckland, 3:10
17 p.m. in Washington, D.C., and 8:10 p.m. in Dublin. The world
18 is turning and thousands of people are awake, updating their
19 posts on the bookmarked sites that I trawl through. I’ve come to
20 know these people better than my mates. I can understand their
21 feelings better than my own. Somehow, I feel like I’m intrud-
22 ing. Yet I watch their video uploads with my earbuds in. I track
23 their treatment, their side effects and successes. And I keep a
24 tally of the losses.
25 Then I hear the flush of the toilet next door.
26 The new girl and I have one thing in common, at least.
27
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