Eighteen by rifka handelman

E I G H T E E N

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or

locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used to advance the fictional

narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Eighteen

without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Printed in the United States of America. rifkahandelman.wixsite.org/portfolio Illustration on pg 45 traced from “Apple II IMG 4214” by Rama, CC BY-SA 2.0 FR, via Wikimedia Commons.

Illustration on pg 49 traced from “Polikarpov Po-2 Budaörs Airfield 2016 07” by VargaA, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

The text of this book is set in 10.5 pt Adoble Caslon Pro. Book design by Rifka Handelman

Cover design by Rifka Handelman Winged Press.

When a teacher asked what did your mom cook No, my dad cooks

Every night, standing in the kitchen I barely remember and now in the kitchen I do He cooks

He has no aspirations

He just wants to cook for his family I stand over a pot of hot oil and flip donuts, warning people not to burn their fingers on them when I lift them out

In the eighties he was a little boy who read his way through all the sci-fi on the tiny shelf in his Detroit library

There have been two books where there was a trans character They didn’t use the word trans because it was science fiction And so he didn’t notice

But that is the kind of book he is reading and the kind of book he gives to me

Along with the old ones he read at my age I am reading Anne McCaffrey; I liked Moreta best He’s the funny one

Smart little jokes that he sets himself up for He makes my mom laugh

Makes obscure references that he has to explain to us He makes himself laugh too

When I am being normal I pull my mom’s phrases out of my script, but

when I am being funny and grumpy and snarky my dad’s voice is the one that comes out

I think I’m always going to be his daughter but I think I’m ok with that because I’m him — Rifka

Title of Story

The gears of the landing mechanism grind as the ship sets down on

Titan, Saturn’s moon. The airlock doesn’t have any windows, but I’ve seen pictures of the place. Rich with the most precious resource of all, but desolate. Totally devoid of life, as is every other planet humanity has laid eyes on. But the water buried beneath the surface of those planets saved the Earth. “Suits,” says Kieran. He adjusts the fit of his dive suit, checking each and every strap. “I’ll be sorry to see him go.” McKenna is beside me. “He’s a baby, and a pretentious scholarly one at that, but he’s not a bad squad leader.” This is Kieran’s gap year before his doctorate. Why he decided to work for AquaDelve, the world’s largest water mining corporation, is beyond me, but this is his last job before he goes back to school. “Yeah. Wonder who we’ll get next.” I don’t bother to check my equipment, though McKenna is fiddling with a buckle on her suit. I’ve been doing this

EIGHTEEN long enough to know when something’s off, and right now my suit fits me like a glove. The whole crew is assembled in the airlock. Outgoing McKenna, quiet Hayes, whose first name I’ve never learned, brilliant Leon, studious Kieran, and me. The eldest, I suppose. Leon, our engineer, flicks switches on the control panel above the door. The airlock cycles, the door behind us hissing shut, and the hatch to the ground unfolding into a ramp that leads us to the gray-brown dirt of Titan. The faceplates of our helmets brighten. That’s not the right word for it, but it’s not like they give off light. They just make it less dark for us. We’re far from Sol, and what light reaches us is blocked by the haze of Titan’s atmosphere. I glance around. Something in me wants to stare at the dusty landscape, but the clanking of tech reminds me to get to work. The ship landed us on a hill, but a short ways down is our prize. The Kraken Mare. A huge lake. Of methane of course, so of no use to us, but it means the crust here is fragile. McKenna, Hayes, and I drag the huge drill down from the ship and begin the process of getting it down the hill without crushing ourselves. “They…should…put wheels...on this...thing,” McKenna huffs, both hands braced against the drill. Though the gravity is light, the atmosphere is heavy, and the drill is already a gigantic hunk of metal. I step around the side to bring some of the weight off her and grin. “They wouldn’t want to make our jobs too easy, would they?” Huffing and puffing, we bring the drill down to the edge of the lake. Kieran stands on the beach taking a sample of the gray-brown dirt. “You know you’re not supposed to do that,” I say. Officially, Aqua-Delve makes sure every planet they harvest H 2O from is devoid of even microbial life. Unofficially, water is too scarce a resource. Lives on Earth and Mars are saved by two hydrogen atoms and a single oxygen. Kieran waves me off. “It’s unofficial. Research purposes.” “And even if you did find anything, they couldn’t do anything but give you a bad recommendation. Which they wouldn’t because you’d hold it over their heads.” McKenna has finished wiring the drill to the ship. Kieran frowns. “You’re ignoring the ethical component.” “Yes, you’re evil,” I tell her.

Dragonfly “Better than old,” she teases. “I may be Evil McKenna but you’re Old Estelle.” “You’re only two years younger than me!” Lie. I am at least ten years McKenna’s senior. She doesn’t even bother dignifying that with a response. Kieran straightens up, emptying the dirt from the tester back onto the ground. “You’re both ancient.” Several yards away, the drill starts to whir. Leon hurries back towards us. “We’re up and running.” A terrific cloud of dust kicks up. It’ll be over an hour before we can lay pipes. Hayes is already heading back to the ship. Kieran pulls his tablet out of his suit pocket and sits cross-legged on the ground to read. I should probably go back to the ship. For some reason, I don’t. I don’t usually explore the planets or moons we land on—they’re all the same after the first fifty jobs—but something about Titan is alluring. Wrangling the drill, I hadn’t really gotten a good look, but the part of me that wanted to stare at the landscape finally can. It’s not special. Not really unlike the training grounds on Luna, really. The dirt’s more brownish, and thicker, but even the gravity is similar. But something about Titan reminds me of Earth. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, just a roiling mass of gray clouds. The landscape is eerily similar—the lake of course, hills, the pebbly dirt. Except for the fact that everything is different, it could be Earth. I can see a cleft between two rocks. Nothing unusual, but I draw closer. Light flickers from it as I draw closer and realize that it’s larger than I originally thought. There’s slope just level enough to climb down. The light is nothing unusual—Titan is covered in cryovolcanoes, but this flickering is like candlelight reflecting off the walls of our home as we sat down to Pesach dinner. Only my mother was even remotely Jewish, and, but she had been odd in the way she clung to her great-great-and on and on grandparent’s heritage amidst drought and devastation. So we’d made supper. My mother had saved her water rations for weeks to make matzah ball soup. We even had a costly orange for the seder plate—but we couldn’t afford lamb. We had grown the herbs and so had plenty, and had bowls of salt on the table. Eggs were expensive as well, but not so much as the orange, so we had one for each person. My father had made usual food as well, broccoli and soybeans and cashews and chicken that I had watched mother buy and helped her flavor like gefilte fish. We had matzah instead of bread, but it was still a feast. We had our fanciest seder plate, patterned with an extinct dragonfly. My mother poured the water

EIGHTEEN reflects the light. Not water, methane, of course. Titan doesn’t have surface H2O. The liquid is the reason the light flickers. I pick my way down, further down into the light. Light that is almost definitely not from a cryovolcano—but what else could it be? Liquid laps against the cavern wall and it’s suddenly warm on my face as my mother prompted me, the youngest at ten years old. Mah nishtana. Halailah hazeh. I couldn’t sing. I froze, hot shame spreading down to my feet brush small rocks down into the pool. I’m fully in the cavern now and the ceiling glows. It is not a cryovolcano. —Hello— a voice says and I jump in shock ran up my legs as I flung myself into the basement, crying. My parents called. “Estelle come back. It’s alright, it’s okay to forget.” “Mah nishtana hailah hazeh mikol haleilot,” I spat through my sobs, my vocal cords unfrozen now that no one was looking at me. I never wanted to have them see me again I was never coming back up above me the ceiling sparkled. Voices echoed in my head. —Estelle Yael Martinez-Horowitz— —Aqua-Delver, Sol-Daughter, Earth-Child— Somewhere I am stammering to myself—no words, just sounds of disbelief. This isn’t real. Methane seas and gray-brown dirt are no place for life. A dragonfly buzzes over the surface of the liquid. My faceplate registers water. —Take off your helmet— I can’t breathe this air. It’s hundreds of degrees below zero. If I expose the atmosphere to the oxygen in my suit, I’ll become a ball of flame. My hands lever the helmet off my head and I breathe. A scream bubbles up from my stomach but stops at my throat. Years of carefully contained oxygen tanks on methane planets. Hazard, combustion warnings. Oxygen should not be here. I dip a hand into the clear water coursed down my throat. Ever the child of the Water Wars, I had grabbed my cup as I fled the table. My father had poured the final drops into my cup while his held no more than a swallow. I mopped my tears. Crying wasted water. I pressed my palms against the rock. I slip off my gloves and feel the mossy sides of the cave. Light flickers under my touch. I am breathing oxygen.

Dragonfly —Do you see— says the voice. —You must— My hands tremble as my head is rumbling filled the air, thrumming through the wall I was curled up against. I started up—there was no warning, there had been no air raid sirens—and was thrown back against the wall as an explosion shook the ground. Somehow I stayed conscious and saw the gray-haze of the sky. My vision dipped in and out of focus in time with the ringing in my ears, the shards of the bomb around me blurring into cylinders, their blue-wave logos wavering. I blinked at the one that had sunk its way into the flesh of my arm is hidden beneath the white of my suit. I can still feel the scar where they put the stitches criss-crossed around my arm as I stared down at it. Dazily, I lifted my chin and a face floated into my view. “You’re going to be fine,” the man told me. “No internal bleeding. You’re a very strong girl. Those Europeans wouldn’t send bombs if our country was made of people as strong as you.” The man’s shirt had a blue wave logo and turquoise lettering. Where had I seen that? “Aqua-Delve,” I mumbled. He smiled and his voice was so reassuring. “That’s right. Aqua-Delve has saved you. We’re going to save the world.” —Did they?— “Yes.” I find sure footing, conviction. “Yes! They saved my life. They cared for me until I was old enough to work! They take the water from planets that don’t need it and give it to people who do. We were a population dying of thirst and they gave us life!” —Will you take our water Estelle Earth-Child?— “My planet needs it. We must save ourselves.” Kieran will want to study this place certainly. We will take the water. There is a reason they stopped screening for life. Earth needs water. —We are old, Estelle Yael Martinez-Horowitz. We have watched your planet for a long while but are now too old. But we may still see a little.— Unwillingly, I see it in their mind’s eye. This is not my memory; this is a clear image. We are in a city; we sink into the ground. An elevator shaft leads down. Shiny turquoise lettering. Aqua-Delve. A hidden reservoir. Lakes worth of water, hidden far from thirsty mouths. So much that thousands could drown. All the farms in the world could not need this much. Our dried-up lake beds dream of

EIGHTEEN this much water. Dams of the past are broken by this flood. I stumble backward and trip over a rock. “We need that! We can’t have another war!” My hands scrabble in the dirt but I can’t find purchase. —You think all that came from planets, Estelle Earth-Child? You believe your people cannot mix one oxygen and two hydrogen? That that amount of water came all from planets? That your corporation would give up indenturing orphaned children and profiting off the water they spend their lives gathering?— They sound angry now, and I tremble at the force of their voices. —You think we have not watched as your people travel the solar system, as they have stolen water from planets with potential? Do you believe that your planet is the only one with the potential for cyanobacteria? For an oxygen-rich planet? Do you believe that all life needs that? Do you think you are alone in the universe?— The last line is delivered with such ferocity that I choke on my own breath. I feel tears course down my face. A torrent of sun-bright images flow before my eyes, until they stop. `of water from the pool. It rushes down my throat. My blood seems to sparkle. For a moment, my whole body itches and then it is gone. When I scramble up to the surface, I leave my helmet and gloves behind. Kieran finds me first. I see piping laid across the ground, ready to deliver water. How long have I been missing? He hurries up, relieved at first, then shocked when he sees me helmetless in the nitrogen air. The first thing he says is “Shit Estelle, where’s your helmet?” Everyone else hurries over. I gesture to the cavern mouth, green, dancing light playing up over the slope. “Come with me.” I watch as my crew stands stock still under the barrage of realization. They do not crumple or cry as I did, but Hayes whimpers. —It is easier for them. You are the only one to remember the war. They do not fight us.— I stand patiently by the side as they wake from their trance and remove their helmets. They drink from the pool and I see them change as I must have. Nothing is different—yet we are no longer all the way human. We take our helmets with us when we leave but as we stride through the nitrogen air back to the ship, we do not put them on. Our suits are no longer air-tight, and Titan’s wind finds its way in and caresses our skin. We revel

Dragonfly in the temperature of -179 degrees. We drag the empty pipes and the drill back to the ship. They may have other uses. McKenna steps fully out of her suit and hangs it over her arm. She bends down and runs a hand through the gray-brown dirt. “It’s beautiful.” This is the final message from the crew of the ship GA4516, formerly of the Aqua-Delve Corporation, to the citizens of Earth. Estelle Yael Martinez-Horowitz recording. Captain Kieran Smith is with me, as are Rue Hayes, McKenna Adichie-James, and Leon Wang. To all the people of Earth: we ask something of you. Look underneath your cities. Look hard at the bombs that fell among your homes. Ask questions of the corporation that stopped the war and think. We will journey the system and beyond and do our best to restore the planets that Aqua-Delve has drained. It was pure greed that made you keep mining, hoarding, stealing. You stole it and with it, the potential for humanity to have companions in the universe. There are many of those among you who are grown up, who have the ability to be kind to your universe. Look to them, look to your communities—not corporations. We are no longer quite like you, achieved through means you will not find. Do not look for us, but know that we will be out there, somewhere in this universe. Over and out.

Eighteen

The warm, damp air of the greenhouse courses through your nose,

down your throat, and settles in your lungs. The cement floor is rough against your bare feet, but you don’t mind. You look up, past the dim lights at the apex of the roof, and see the stars, dim and twinkling, spread out beyond. The door clicks shut behind you. You bend down and pick up the watering can at your feet. It is time for the nightly watering. At night, the plants lie dormant, sleeping, their eyelashes curled against their cheeks. But you touch the dry soil, rub the crumbly particles between your callused fingertips, and you can feel their thirst. You water the plants. Each one is different. Every leaf, every limb, every root bends and twists and grows in its own way. You take care in your watering, careful to treat every plant with care, in its own unique way. Some plants like it when you hum to them, the music resonating with their heartbeats. Some plants

The Greenhouse prefer water spread in spirals around their roots. Some plants need only a few drops of water to sustain them. Your watering can grows lighter as your soft footsteps traverse the pathways of the greenhouse. You need to refill it. The pump is close to the glass wall on the left, out of the way. You move toward it, stepping around the eyes of a bush that should really be moved out of the way. You’ll make a note of it. You reach for the pump handle, and stop. Another hand, the mirror to your own, reaches for the pump handle. You look up, and meet their eyes. Then your gaze flicks down, to their badge. You see them do the same, see their lips form your name. You smile, and gesture to the space in front of the pump, for them to set down their watering can. They do so, nodding graciously, and you take hold of the cool metal handle. Dark liquid courses from the spout, and you wait calmly for their watering can to fill. They switch out your near empty-one with their full one, and you smile once again. The both of you, caretakers to a garden, to a greenhouse. One and the same, unified. Once you’ve set the handle down, you both set off in different directions. You continue your path through the rows of sleeping plants, trickling life down their stems. You reflect on the other caretaker—how they must be doing the same. Together, you are watering your garden. You touch the spout of the watering can to the root of a rosebush, and then stop. The roses are beautiful—barely red in the dim light, but the curves of their petals, the way their lips form patterns, is entrancing. Except for one. You touch its softness, lightly, marveling at the velvet-like texture, and then your fingertips find the brown spot marring its perfection. You reach down and curl your nails underneath the root, where the bush springs from the soil, and you feel the illness gripping the plant like a fist. A shudder runs through you. You withdraw your hand from the soil, wipe the dirt off. You rise, slowly, and go to find the other caretaker, for the pot is too large for you to lift on your own. You find them watering a small tree, whose skin forms thick, raised scars. At the sound of your approach, they look up, and you explain. Your voice is low, careful not to shatter the glass of the greenhouse. They nod along with your words, and then follow in step to the rosebush. Together, you lift the pot. Slowly, carefully, you bring it through the turns of the aisles to the door. You feel a rush of wind on your face as the

EIGHTEEN other caretaker opens the door, and then you both crouch and lever the pot outside. You hear the plaintive, musical cries of the rosebush, and you mourn its velvety softness, but only for a moment. There is still watering to do. You return to your task, once again feeling the delicate thrum of heartbeats, of sighs and swallows as your watering can grows lighter. A vine that has climbed around a ceiling beam to dangle down, brushes your face in thanks. In the morning, the sun will come up and the greenhouse will be full of the crackling of growth as joints creak and limbs extend, the rustling of plants straining up towards the light, toward life. The vines will creep over the window panes, their fingertips intertwining and the flowers will open their petals, eyes staring from their clustered centers and the skin of the trees will pucker and stretch, their limbs stretching to brush the glass roof and the low-growing weeds will run amok over their roots. In the morning, the plants will become thirsty once more, and tomorrow night they will be watered once again.

But now, the sky is dark and glistening with starlight, and the lights at the top of the greenhouse cast a pale glow over the darkened leaves. The air hangs heavy and still as a sleeper’s breath. You breathe in the aromas of this greenhouse, your greenhouse, and feel your thoughts relax. You realize, in tandem, that you have reached the final row of plants, and that your watering can is empty. You look up at the sky, which has not yet begun to show the first seed of dawn, and you know you have a little time. So you move back, tracing your footsteps, looking at every leaf and hand and petal and eyelid and bone and root and stem and bud. Something swells within the pit of your stomach, something like the germination of a seed. You love your greenhouse, and the life it harbors. You look up at the sky once more, and see the telltale brush of dawn against it, see the stars fading, the lights dimming as the sun comes to take their place. You realize that it is time. There is a box, made of planks of wood, and full of soil, just by the door. Waiting. You walk toward it and touch the damp, dark soil. You step in, feeling your toes sink down into it, feeling

The Greenhouse your roots spread outward. Your arms move upward, your skin dimpling and hardening. Serenity, completeness overtakes you. You feel at one with the waking life around you, hear the popping and rustling of shedding sleep, of growing. You are content, in your greenhouse. You begin to grow.

The first time I met Fox was before I even really learned how to skate.

I was still doing the whole pads-and-helmet thing, but once I could reliably stand on the board and push myself along without falling over, my friend Camilla convinced me to come to the skate park with her. We were sitting on our boards, absentmindedly pushing ourselves back and forth. I was in the process of peeling my sweaty hair out of my helmet when she mentioned it. “Really?” I said. “Won’t everyone there be really good? You’ve mentioned all the tricks your skater friends can do.” She shrugged. “Yeah, but everyone’s been a beginner. Plus, I bet they can give you better tips than I can.” She’d only been skating for a year. I played with the straps of my helmet. “If you really think so.” She hopped up. “Okay, let’s go!” I blinked up at her. “Now?”

Sk8er “Yeah! We’ve got time, haven’t we?” She checked the time on her phone. “Plus, there’s a 7-Eleven, so we can pick up energy drinks for Fox.” I rose and picked up my board. “Who’s Fox?” “Ve’s like, the best skater I know. Ve’s addicted to energy drinks—I always tell ver that’ll kill ver, but ve just says ve can’t die.” I opened my mouth and then closed it. “Uh...cool?” Cam grinned. “You’ll like ver.” She nodded at my board. “We’re not walking there. I promise I won’t go too fast and leave you behind.” She did, a bit, but it just meant I didn’t have to wait at the 7-Eleven. The park wasn’t far from there, so I could almost pretend I was keeping pace with her. When we got through the gate I stepped off my board, letting it keep going and hit a concrete ramp as a brightly colored figure went up a curve of the bowl and flipped their board over their head. Cam had stopped her board by stepping hard on the back and scraping to a stop. She put a foot on the ground and nodded to the somersaulter. “That’s ver.” Ve saw us and turned vis board, swooping expertly toward us. When ve got closer, ve just jumped and grabbed the nose of vis board, landing squarely on the ground holding vis board. Fox’s clothing was bright. Despite the day’s summer heat ve wore a neonpink hoodie that faded into a bright blue around the bottom. Vis leggings were highlighter-yellow and vis shoes were covered in a multicolored tie-dye pattern. Even vis sunglasses had magenta rims. Ve didn’t say anything. Cam handed ver the energy drink and ve grabbed it, cracked it open, and began to chug it. Cam leaned toward me. “If you have any kind of energy drink, ve won’t say anything until you give it to ver.” There was some kind of expression on my face, because she looked a little sheepish. “I swear ve’s normal. Okay, maybe not normal, but ve’s nice, I promise.” Fox swallowed audibly and tucked the can into the pocket of vis hoodie. “Cam-flam! How’s it skatin’? Who’s this grom?” On the last sentence, ve looked to me. “Hi Fox,” Cam said. “This is Zo, my friend.” “Hi,” I said. “What’s a grom?” “A grom means a newbie,” Cam said.

EIGHTEEN “You’ve got them pads, and a brain bucket,” Fox said, gesturing to my nees, elbows, and helmet. “No judgement here, you’ve gotta protect yourself.” Ve pushed back vis hood, revealing aggressively neon green hair. “Fox!” Cam sounded reproachful. “What’s this? We just got everything cleaned!” She’d gone over to the fence, where a half-dozen cans of spray paint were sitting. Fox shrank into vis hoodie, looking guilty. Cam gathered up the cans. “We had ve switch to chalk,” she explained. “Spray paint is much harder to wash off concrete. But someone forgot.” “Old habit,” ve muttered. “Chalk just isn’t as rad.” I didn’t really see why ve would have to switch to chalk—now that I looked, the ramps and bowls of the part did look too clean, like they had just been power-washed, but I saw plenty of tags on the edges that had escaped the scouring. “Yo Cam, I’m stoked to see your Tic Tacs,” ve said. “It was lookin’ butter the other day but you were gettin’ hot pockets.” Ve set down vis board and hopped on, wiggling back and forth. “And I’m hype to see your stuff, grommet.” “I can’t really do any tricks,” I muttered. Ve grinned, flashing white, pointy teeth. “No prob, no prob! We can have you in a tail slide by sunset. I’d stake my Monster on it.” Ve skated over to the sideline and carefully set vis empty can by the fence, then came swooping back. Fox was a good teacher. Ve was right—I was doing a tail slide, where you step on the back of your board to stop, by the end of the day. Cam got good at her Tic Tacs, and she spent most of her time wiggling across the flat area of the park. I was not as graceful, even once I managed the tail slide. I still had trouble going up ramps, and I fell a fair amount. Fox would skate around me, occasionally doing a trick, and then ve would come back and shout something in cryptic skater-talk that still sounded encouraging. I managed to pick up on some of the words—“watch out, shinner!” meant I was about to slip and get whacked in the shin, “sketchy!” meant I was close to falling, and “gnarly!” meant cool or good. As Cam and I walked home, the orange sun in our faces, I asked her if Fox always talked like that.

Sk8er She nodded. “I thought it was just a hardcore skater thing, but I’ve never heard ve not talk like that.” She giggled. “I think ve’s forgotten how to talk normal. Or maybe ve was born talking like that.” We both laughed. I spent a lot of the summer at the skate park. Sometimes Cam’s other friends were there, and I became pretty friendly with them, but Fox was an omnipresence. Sometimes, I absently wondered if ve slept there. Vis clothes definitely changed, but it was just a rotation of different brightly colored hoodies and pants, regardless of the weather. Occasionally, ve’d show up with vis hair another riotous color. The ground was often covered in chalk circles about the diameter of a skateboard, though I never caught Fox drawing them. They were all different colors, and some were multicolored, drawn in twisty patterns. One of the few times Fox wasn’t there was when I had to spend a whole afternoon power washing the park with Cam and the others. We got there and the place was absolutely covered with circles, except they were made of spraypaint. The effect was prettier and more vibrant than the chalk, if a little more dizzying, and I didn’t get why we had to wash it until I tried to skate over one of them and nearly faceplanted. As I picked gravel out of my hand, Zaida, one of Cam’s friends, came to help me up. “Should’ve warned you,” ne said. “The circles make it hard to skate for some reason. That’s why we made Fox switch to chalk. It doesn’t have the same effect, but ve can still draw with it.” “Why do they do that?” Ne shrugged. “No one has any idea. It just happens, and we realized it’s better to wash it than to try to go around it.” Cam came with a power washer. “I can’t keep justifying this to my dad,” she grumbled. “He’s all ‘it’s just a skate park, how does spray paint stop you skating?’ I can’t explain this.” She set it under the lip of a roof. “Give me a boost?” Zaida showed me how to link our fingers under Cam’s feet so she could reach the outlet while Cam’s other friends Malik and Elle moved the washer itself. The extension cord was barely long enough to reach the edge of the park, so that was where we started. “It’s easier if we don’t have to be tugging at a cord as we keep going,” Zaida explained. Cam took a turn first, then Zaida, then ne offered it to me. I fumbled with it at first but I scoured one and a half ramps till my arms got tired.

EIGHTEEN “Sorry guys. Not gnarly of me.” Fox had appeared from somewhere, but I hadn’t seen ve come in. Ve had their skateboard tucked under one arm and vis other hand in the pocket of vis hoodie. We offered ver an energy drink, but ve shook vis head. “I’ll chug it once I give you dudes a hand. It’s sketchy to do that. I know the circles make y’all wipe out and bail.” Ve tried to help us with the pressure washer, but it would only work for about 10 minutes in vis hands before it would start to sputter. Eventually, ve went and sat on vis board, handing vis head. I was taking a break, so I took the can of energy drink and sat next to ver. “Everyone forgets sometimes,” I said in what I hoped was a consoling way. Ve took the can and just stared at it. “Yeah. Still kinda sketchy. Kinda mob. Sorry, Zo-go.” Ve’d nicknamed me that, just like how Cam was Cam-flam. “Are you running low on chalk?” I asked. “We can get you more.” Fox started to shake vis head, then stopped. “Pink,” ve said. “It‘s my favorite color, and I really wanted to use it.” “I’m not sure we can just get pink chalk,” I mused. “We might have to get a whole box. I can go to the art store tomorrow.” “Thanks,” ve said, but vis head still hung. I patted ve on the shoulder. “Drink your Monster and then you can help me with my ollie. It’s not my turn on the washer for a bit.” Ve perked up, and ve cracked open vis can. That summer, I managed to get comfortable enough to shed my pads and helmet, though I put them back on whenever I tried to learn something new. But once I mastered the ollie enough to get up curbs, Fox suggested we go for a ride into town. I agreed, partly because it sounded fun and partly because I wanted to see if ve could actually go outside the park. We set off at a moderate pace. Fox was definitely slowing down for me—I’d seen how fast ve could really go—but as I felt the wind whipping my face, I realized how much I’d improved. I managed to ollie up my first two curbs without a problem, so I sped up a bit. The third one was the sticking point. Or rather, the falling point, as my back wheel caught the curb. I felt myself unbalance, my feet sliding backward, and my head hit the ground with a crack. I came to a second later and it felt like patches of my skin were on fire. I tried to move—and gasped in pain. “Shit dude, you broke your leg.” Fox’s face hovered into view above me. My mouth wouldn’t make words, so I just made a bunch of sounds. “That was a gnarly wipeout,” ve said. “It was a burly curb.”

Sk8er I was able to speak again. “Yeah, I don’t care if it was a great wipeout or difficult curb to get up, can you call me an ambulance.” Ve was—what—pulling chalk out of vis pocket. “I can fix you,” ve said. “You gotta promise not to spill to the rest of the group though.” “What?” “Promise?” ve said? Even through the haze of pain, I trusted ver. “Yeah.” Ve glanced uneasily over vis shoulder then began to draw a pink circle around me, the chalk scritching against the ground. As long as I didn’t move, or breathe, or think, the pain was manageable. Okay, it wasn’t. “Sorry, sorry, sorry dude. It’d be better if I had paint.” Ve sounded more harried than I’d ever heard. I heard them complete the circle, then get on their board—what? They did a series of more complex moves that I’d ever seen—kickflips combined with skating backwards, Tic Tacs into full-on backflips. I felt my leg bones shudder, the broken part move. My skin itched, and the front of my skull felt like someone was splitting it apart. And then the pain was gone. Gingerly, I sat up and examined myself. No broken limbs. Even my scrapes had healed into raw-looking skin. Fox was sitting on vis board, drinking an energy drink. It was the first time I’d ever seen ve looking winded. “What was that?” I said. “What are you?” “I’m a skater, dude,” ve said. “A sidewalk surfer. A pro.” “And you can, what? Heal broken legs?” Ve finished vis can and put it in vis pocket. “Yeah. The circle helped, but it’d be better if it was paint. I wasn’t sure I’d land it.” “I—okay.” I rubbed my temples. “Don’t tell the others, dude. I want to tell them, but I’m not sure how. Y’all are rad.” I gave a half-hysterical laugh. “It’s not like they’d believe me!” “They might. They already know the circles aren’t right.” I shook my head. “Whatever. I won’t tell them. Anything else I should know?” Fox stood. “Not really. I’ve gotten pretty sweet at keeping time going at the right pace, so that shouldn’t be a catch.” “You’ve what.”

EIGHTEEN Ve gestured for me to get back on my board. “Dude, that’s my skate park. Spend enough seshes in it and it doesn’t act normal. Damn, I guess I’m just tellin’ you everything. Go slow this time?” It took me a second to get the change of subject. The skater-talk wasn’t helping. “I—yeah. Fox, what are you?” Ve was already pushing vis foot against the ground. “Dude, I told you. I’m a skater.”

Title of Story

Your roommate’s finally kicked you out for the night. The light

coming from your laptop is too bright, even on its lowest setting. It’s not his fault, it really isn’t. He has an 8 AM class tomorrow. And before asking you to leave, he asked you to sleep. You haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in what, two weeks? he’d said. He’s right. And it’s not even midterms yet. He’s responsible. He’s getting a good, healthy amount of sleep. Not that he’ll be present in class tomorrow—just on his phone, probably. You shared a class last semester, and that’s all he did. He does the bare minimum readings and the bare minimum work. You are a different kind of responsible. What is responsible, anyway? It wasn’t responsible of you to take 21 credits, but they’re your responsibility now. Pass, get good grades. Despite your chronic lack of sleep you’re awake in class, contributing to discussions. Your professors approve of you. Besides, there’s something intoxicating about stepping out into the cold night, intoxicating like drugs or pain. You can admit it to yourself: this is

EIGHTEEN the only way you feel anything. You always manage it—you haven’t hit your limit yet. You’ve never taken this many credits, and you know the limit is still further along than that. So the feeling of waving away your advisor’s warning—are you sure? that’s a lot of credits—was euphoric. You shiver, and pull your sweatshirt tighter around yourself as you walk towards the library. But your heart sinks when you see the darkened windows. It’s always open late—24 hours. You’ve gone there plenty of times. You still tug at the freezing metal handle. “Sorry!” the sign reads. “Closed for tonight due to staffing shortages.” Fuck staffing shortages. You think about breaking in, about breaking down, but you have work to do. It’s stopped feeling good though—it just feels heavy. Fine then. You’ll go into the city. Something will be open. A 24-hour diner would work fine. You can order endless coffees and they’ll leave you alone. You set out. It’s still cold, and the wind cuts through your clothing to bite at your skin. Maybe you should have grabbed a warmer jacket. The streetlights only show how dark everything else is. Nothing’s open. This is a small city. You could go back to your dorm. Unappealing. Break into the library. More trouble than it’s worth. You could sit somewhere on the quad, braving the cold. You’d freeze. Would that be so bad? The thought of going back to your dorm makes you sick. At least one assignment would be late. The others would just end up being late some time in the future. You’d get marked down. You feel a lot more like crying now. The scent of coffee and cinnamon sugar hits you, carried on a current of warm air. You turn. Huh—there is a light in one of the buildings. You must have missed it. It looks like a coffee shop. Tiny—only a few tables. The sign above the door reads Lydia’s. The door is propped open invitingly. And the neon sign in the window says OPEN. You enter. There isn’t anyone inside. “Hello?” You pitch your voice loud enough for even someone in the back to hear, but there’s no answer. You close the door—no sense in letting out heat, and if any of the staff come back, well, they’ll just open it again. So you look around. The chairs and tables are mismatched: there are armchairs with little throw pillows next to antique-looking tables, and carved chairs next to plain wooden tables. The counter has all the usual things—milk steamers, syrups, coffee machines. Behind it is what looks like

One Night’s Sleep a warming rack full of cinnamon sugar donuts. Above it, on a blackboard in cursive font, are the words “Make Yourself at Home.” You set your bag down on a chair. Not an armchair—you’d just fall asleep. Speaking of falling asleep, you need coffee. You call out once more, but there’s no response. Well, you worked as a barista this past summer. You make yourself coffee: black, with two shots of espresso. Your usual is one shot—best to not build up your tolerance too much—but you’re so tired right now. You need it just to focus. After a moment, you add chocolate syrup. Why not, right? You put a donut on a plate too. It’s probably long stale by now, but cinnamon sugar is cinnamon sugar. You go back to your table and open your laptop. Your essay hasn’t changed since you last looked at it. It feels better to work here—you’re warm and comfortable, with good coffee and a delicious donut. A very delicious donut—it tastes fresh. You look at it, then shrug internally. Not going to look a gift donut in the mouth. You finish your essay. This is a nice place to work—no distractions, like in the library, no noise like in a busy coffee shop, no roommate like, well, in your room. You actually feel kind of proud of what you’ve written. You haven’t taken much pride in mundane schoolwork like this for a long time. You can turn it in. A sickening wave of nausea hits you. Your mouth fills with saliva, coffee mixing with the beginnings of stomach acid. Assignment Overdue. Your heart nearly beating out of your chest, you check your planner. You had the date in wrong. You had the date in wrong you worthless— Something in you snaps like a tiny twig holding out against a winter wind. You crumple onto the table, shaking with the sound and weight of your sobs. You cry for maybe twenty seconds before you abruptly stop yourself. Turn it in. Email the professor. Apologize profusely. You do these things, robotically. You are in a gigantic room and every sound you make is reflected back at you tenfold. You close your laptop. You have other work, but you stare at the wall instead, your eyes unfocusing. You know you have other work. Your laptop stays shut.

EIGHTEEN You try thinking nasty things at yourself, but they just bounce off you. The person thinking them can’t put any kind of real feeling behind them. Are the nasty thoughts to make you work, or make you cry? Something nudges your foot. You don’t even jump. You just slowly turn to look at it. It’s a cat. A little black kitten. It rubs up against your ankle, purring. You stay still. It looks up at you with big green eyes and meows plaintively. You watch it. It looks toward the counter, and you follow its gaze. Cat food and water dishes. You must not have noticed those before. Fine. Fine. You’ll feed the cat. Standing feels like you’re picking up a hundred pounds, but once you’re moving it’s easier to keep doing so. Plus, the kitten is watching you expectantly. The cat food is in the first cupboard you open, underneath the counter, and you dump some of it into a dish. You fill the other dish with water. The kitten comes over to you and, with an affectionate brush against your ankles, begins eating. You won’t go back to sit in front of your closed laptop. The nearest chair is an armchair, and you sink into it like a stone. The kitten finishes its meal and begins to wash itself, licking a paw and then wiping its face and ears. Once it’s done, it comes up to you—again— and looks up pleadingly. The second you pick it up, it begins to purr, and you place it in your lap, stroking its back. The resonant vibrations against you unravel something, and you start to cry again. First one tear, then another, and you find yourself wiping your nose. You feel as though your ribcage is shaking, and then the walls crumble. You don’t cry prettily. It’s not a few tears, or a sedate waterfall. It’s not even a dignified heavy sobbing. And yet, the cat stays with you through all of it, even as your muscles contort as you flinch at your own thoughts and as half-strangled sounds come out of your mouth. Once you’re done, you hurt, like you’ve just worked out after months of being still. When was the last time you cried? Your sleeves are snotty and you know your face is red and puffy. The kitten climbs up your torso with only a little pricking of claws and licks your cheek, then rests its head on your shoulder. You watch it blink at you, and then its eyes close. Unwittingly, so do yours.

One Night’s Sleep

You wake with a start, your heart beating in your ears. No. No no no. How long has it been? The kitten clings to your shoulder, then climbs over it and jumps to the back of the chair. You go to the table, grab your laptop, your notebook, your pencil case. Not even bothering to put them in your bag, you turn to the door. Outside the window, the sky is dark and the streets are silent. You stop dead and check the time on your phone. It’s been—two hours. Since you first stepped into Lydia’s. It had taken you, what, an hour, maybe an hour and a half, to finish your essay? Crying felt like it had taken forever. But you feel like you’ve slept eight hours. More than that, maybe. You feel rested, alert. The fog and tension in your brain is clearing. You still have homework. But first, you make yourself a latte. With decaf—you’ve had enough caffeine today—with steamed milk and chocolate syrup and whipped cream. As the sun begins to filter in through the windows, casting a glare on your laptop, you’re not ahead of your work. Just caught up. But you’ve eaten a donut and had some coffee and rested, so you feel better. Should probably get some real food for breakfast before class though. You pack up your stuff and leave, giving the kitten an affectionate pet. As you walk away, you turn back and it’s sitting in the window watching you. You wave, and turn towards school.

It’s exams, and well, it’s exams. Your grades stayed the same once you started sleeping properly—turns out that when you’re well rested, it’s easier to do your work, and easier to do it better. It’s still stressful—21 credits is stressful no matter what you do—but you feel better. More alive. But come exams and you are having to stay up late studying and working on projects. There isn’t any way around it. Your roommate has been struggling too. He’s having trouble in one of his science classes. You’ve tried your best to help him study, but it’s really not your field and you have your own stuff. When you come back from class and he’s still open to the page he was two hours before, you take him to Lydia’s.

EIGHTEEN “I swear I’ve been on the street a hundred times and I’ve never seen this place,” he says as you walk through the door. The kitten—now a bit bigger—rubs against your ankles, and your roommate kneels down to pet it. “What’s its name?” he asks. “I don’t think it has one,” you say. “Well, we should name it.” You go behind the counter and start lattes. The donuts are now chocolate frosted. “How about coffee?” “That’s not a very good name for a coffee shop cat.” He’s picked up the kitten and is cradling it. “How about Bean? Like coffee bean, but not so obvious.” You put food in the dishes for the kitten—for Bean—and set a latte and a donut in front of your roommate. “Eat,” you say. “Then we’ll study. Take a nap if you want. I probably will.” “I don’t have time to nap.” He bites into the donut. “Oh this is good!” “You do here,” you say. “There are more donuts if you want them.”

Title of Story

Today The boots look to have once been black, but are now scuffed and faded and patched until they resemble a scruffy animal more than anything else. They crush the sickly grass as the woman walks across the plain. She resembles her boots in a way, a patched-together, worn look to the clothes that cover every inch of skin. Her too-heavy pack has the same look; more patches than original canvas, scarred from use and scorched from radiation fires, and the two masks clipped onto her pack are dusty. The sheath for her knife looks like it was made from an old leather jacket, the zipper flashing in the sun. The woman’s gas mask is cracked and taped together—she can feel the angry, deadly air scratching her lungs as she breathes. The only thing about the woman that looks new is the water bottle hanging at her hip, and despite the weight of the shiny metal, it is too light. She can feel the dryness in her throat and the way her blood moves sluggishly through her.

EIGHTEEN The hollowed-out shell of a town the woman heads for is in almost worse shape than she is. Most of the houses are barely standing, and the ones that are have rotted roofs and smashed windows, their furniture moldy and destroyed by the animals that survived the end of the world. And yet, to the woman, it is a haven. She reaches what was once a house and moves between fragments of plaster and drywall that cling to their vertical positions. She stops. Sets down her pack. Detaches something from it—a crowbar, a lucky find in a ruined hardware store five years ago. She sticks the edge into the ground—no not into the ground, under a square of metal. With a huff, she pushes down and the trapdoor pops open. She reshoulders her pack, but holds on to the crowbar as she descends the steps, closing the trapdoor behind her. She can almost feel her pupils dilate, her eyelids sweeping open behind the goggles on her gas mask, searching for any source of light, but she might as well have closed her eyes. Automatically, she reaches back and pulls the lantern off her pack. Her fingers easily find the button and the circle of darkness around the woman is banished by dull red light. Red light saves power—her lantern has been soaking up sun for days, but better safe than sorry. She holds the lantern to the wall, making a circuit of the room. She stumbles over something, sending the pieces of it clattering across the floor, but finds the switch panel on the wall. Click, click, the whir of an air filter, lights in the ceiling glimmering to life. She switches off her lantern. She gives the air purification system a moment, then takes off her mask, breathing the fresh air gratefully. The thing she tripped over is a child’s skeleton. Until now it had leaned against the wall, in ragged shorts and an only-somewhat ragged shirt. Synthetic fabric. In front of it are two more, larger skeletons, also in a mixture of rags and better-preserved clothes. Next to them, an empty cylindrical pill container. At least this family’s end was quick. They did not have to watch each other starve to death. Twenty years before today The woman was once a fifteen-year old girl, at school when the news broke. She didn’t know until she reached home. There was only the sound of the principal’s fearful voice, instructing the students that they were to be released early.

The Town After the End of the World They knew something was wrong, but the girl and her best friend walked home, chattering and joking as if this was normal. The girl waved as her best friend went inside, then turned down the street to her own house. She never saw Hailey again. One hour to pack. Twelve in the car as the highways clogged. Six in the car on the side of the road, hidden in the brush, all lights off. Wet grass is dangerous in the car’s engine, her dad told her. Unspoken: more dangerous to be seen, to be attacked by a panicked mob. Three more hours of driving, and the girl’s phone is out of battery. She warns her group chat just before the screen goes dark—lies and says she will see them again. Three more hours of being alone with her thoughts. There are roads to the cabin, but the car sputters out so they walk. Two hours of walking. The girl’s feet hurt, and she is glad to see the cabin. She goes to her room and lies down on her mattress, not even bothering to put on sheets. Six months in the vacation cabin. In the pantry, her father counts cans of food. Her mother fills containers, sinks, the bathtub with water. The cabin is equipped with its own filter system, but also to the grid. Better get as much as they can before everything shuts off. They are glad they equipped solar panels, back when it was trendy instead of lifesaving. The girl has power in her phone, but her crush, her friends, her aunt in Colorado, none are responding. She cries at night for her cousins and grandparents, in New York and Washington. She muffles her sobs into her pillow, and so do her parents. Her parents tell her not to watch the footage of the bombs falling, but she does, the cameras not destroyed transmitting until they are eaten away by the radiation. The government sets up shelters, with gas masks and food. Her father comes back with three masks, returning bruised. They took the food, he says. Good thing you got the masks, her mother says. The news says this radiation is different; it will last centuries. The news tells them that people are having air purifiers and solar panels built into their basements and yards, but the cabin does not have a basement and they are too far away. Far from companies with solar panels and air purifying systems, but also from bombs. Bombs do fall in other places. There are so many. The girl’s own country has no more bombs left to send but their enemies do. If we go down, you’re going down with us. The cell towers stop working and the girl gets tired of the music in her phone.

EIGHTEEN She helps her parents plant beans, but they will not be enough. When they have one week of food left, her parents tell her to cover every bit of bare skin with clothing. Her pack is heavy but she knows her parents’ loads are heavier so she does not complain. They set out across the world. Many, many miles from the cabin, the air begins to have a haze. It would have reached us in a week, her mother says, muffled behind her gas mask. Two years after today The woman walks through the top floor of what was once a shopping mall. The walls are cements and these windows have survived, but it is better to be careful, so she keeps her mask on. Through the window, movement. She found the antique spyglass when she first got here, and has always thought it looks strange in her heavy glove. She trains it on the movement. Two children, hurrying across the grassy sea, the taller one clutching the littler one’s hand. Two men, behind them. They run slower—they trade a mask back and forth back every couple of steps. The smaller child turns its head to the adults, slowing, and the older one moves back and scoops it up to run, moving further from the two adults. The woman is transfixed, her eye glued to the spyglass. Then—one of the adults stumbles, falls. The woman sees the older child turn, for only a moment, then keep running toward the town, pulling the younger child along. The other adult is bending over the second one, shaking them and the spyglass falls to the ground and the woman is moving down the stairs, and out the door and running across the yellow grass, past the children, to the people—men, she can see now—crouched on the ground. The woman hauls the fallen man up, slinging his arm over her shoulders. Today The woman takes the arm and leg bones of the two adults. Within her pack, there is a plastic bag, with other bones in it. Beside it, a bag of polished, clean bone tools—needles, fish hooks, flat scrapers. She does not touch the bones of the child. The basement is out of food, but they have gas masks and mask filters. She discards her old cracked mask, putting the filter into the new mask, and takes the family’s filters. They last five years, the good ones longer, and the woman has enough by now for several lifetimes, but she takes them anyway.

The Town After the End of the World She passes over board games in mouldering boxes, deflated rubber balls, dusty books, a box of chalk. The dead family’s cell phones are stacked neatly in a corner—she has no use for these. A bin with a CD player and CDs labeled “Music” she ignores. A stack of solar lanterns is a lucky find, and she places these carefully in her bag. The beds, one large, one small, are moldy, though she finds a blanket that she rolls up and stows away, discarding a more ragged one in exchange. She finds a metal filter-water-bottle bigger than her current one and switches it out for the one at her hip, drinking the last few drops. She stuffs the old one full of socks before putting it in her backpack—her pack can only hold so much. Last of all, she finds a sink and an incinerator toilet behind a screen in the corner next to chairs and a table. It’s strange to sit on a toilet like this— she rarely finds one that works. She stands and flushes. Automatically, she turns on the sink. The water is dark brown first, but in a moment it runs clear. The sound is deafening in the heavy stillness of the basement. She washes her hands, then fills her bottle, letting the water run into and over the filter. This is different from the hundreds of towns the woman has visited. Seventeen years before today They have not seen other survivors in months. The last group was friendly— they traded new pairs of socks and a knitting lesson for beef jerky and energy bars, then went on their way. They were a group of eight—two families and a couple. Safety in numbers, but numbers mean more mouths to feed. So the girl waves excitedly when they spot another group cresting a rise as they head out of town. Her father places a warning hand out and crouches low, but it is too late—a shout rises up from the other group. Like swarming insects, they move toward the girl and her parents at a run. The girl is the first to see their guns. Run, she says, and does, but her parents are slower, and a crack rings out and her father screams and the girl nearly crumples at the sound. She turns and her father is standing stock-still, scarlet welling out from between where his fingers are clutched over his stomach. Dad, the girl says and steps toward him. Go, he says, and the girl’s mother takes her knife and cuts his pack from his shoulders, takes his mask from his face. The girl takes them up before her mother can. Run, her father says, and they run, back into the town.

EIGHTEEN They are coming here, the girl says. She is awkwardly holding her father’s backpack to her chest and his mask is slung around her neck. Her mother is crying, the sounds leaking out from behind her mask. The girl is not. We need to leave, the girl says. She and her mother run. When they cannot run anymore, they walk. They can’t run forever either, the girl says. Her mother stops crying when they reach the outskirts of town and walk into the woods. North, the girl’s mother says. She helps her daughter sort the contents of her father’s pack, dividing them up. They leave what they cannot carry. The girl clips her father’s mask onto her backpack and wipes tears off her face. Two years after today The woman and the man carry the fallen man to what is left of the closest house. The woman ducks out from under his weight to lift the trapdoor, and the man on the fallen one’s other side grunts. The children hurry up to them, and they follow the woman and their parents into the basement. This one is the first one the woman found when she first came here, and she switches on the air purification system. The family remove their masks when she does. The children are both girls, the older one around eleven, the younger one perhaps five. The first man sets the second down on the floor and takes off his mask. “Thank you,” he says. The woman jumps. She does not know when she has last heard a human voice. “My name is Jordan.” He takes off a glove and holds out a hand to her. She stares at it, and after a moment, he lets it fall. “This is Alicia”—he indicates the older one—“and Kimmy.” The woman is still silent. “This is my husband, Henry. He just breathed some bad air.” “Our filters are fucked,” says the older girl—Alicia. “You know not to use that word,” says a raspy voice. Henry is awake, breathing in the better air. He coughs. His family gathers around him. The woman opens her mouth. Takes a deep breath. Closes her mouth and opens it again. Tries to speak. Hums almost inaudibly, to herself, to check that her vocal cords are intact. She opens her mouth to introduce herself but produces no sound. She goes over to the shelf in the corner, the one left over from when the dead family lived here. She takes a piece of chalk and writes her name on the wall, the letters alien yet familiar. Her pack is sitting in the corner, and she finds three gas mask filters. She moves over to the family and holds them out. “Your name is Adrienne?” asks the older girl. The woman nods.

The Town After the End of the World Jordan takes the filters and attaches one to each mask. “Thank you,” he says again. The woman writes on the wall. I have extra masks. I am going to get one. She puts her own mask back on and slips out the trapdoor. Inside the basement, the small child, Kimmy looks up at Jordan. “Why can’t she talk?” “Yeah,” Alicia says. “That’s weird.” “Sometimes people who have been alone for a long time and don’t talk to anyone don’t talk.” “Why?” says Kimmy. Jordan starts to give an answer then closes his mouth for a moment. “I don’t know, sweet pea. But she saved us, so she’s probably nice.” “Why doesn’t she have anyone to talk to?” Alicia butts in. “Doesn’t she have parents?” Fifteen years before today The girl cradles her mother’s head in her lap. The fever radiates off her skin and she whimpers whenever the girl shifts. The girl’s mother occasionally spasms, and her tortured breaths are loud in the quiet of the apartment building. The girl pours water onto a torn piece of her shirt and lays it on her mother’s forehead. No, her mother groans through clenched teeth. The girl knows her mother is telling her to conserve water but her mother sighs at the cool touch. The girl turns her head so that her hot tears do not hit her mother’s burning skin. It was a good day. They had just found a camping supply store—mostly looted, of course—but they had new backpacks, ones for hiking, and a tent that rolled up tiny, and compact sleeping bags. There was no food, but the girl’s mother had gone into a house nearby and come out balancing cans. They had eaten the sweet can of pears then and there, and sucked up the juice when they were done. Then as they were walking toward the apartment building the girl had seen—brick-walled and with intact windows—her mother had tripped and cried out, fallen against a rotted wall. The girl had turned and helped her mother up, and when they were inside the building had examined her mother’s arm. The nail had ripped through her mother’s layers of clothing and cut the skin in a jagged gash. Bandages, the girl had said, and rummaged through her pack. As her daughter pulled back the layers of sleeves and

EIGHTEEN wrappings and packed gauze onto her mother’s wound, the girl’s mother caught her breath and then sighed. I’m not up to date on my tetanus shot, she had said. The words sounded like something out of a long-gone world. The symptoms set in three days later and steadily worsened. The girl re-wets the cloth on her mother’s forehead. The spasms stop—this is good, the girl thinks. Her mother still struggles for breath. At some point during the night the girl’s head droops. When she wakes, her mother’s breath no longer rasps through her chest. She is determined not to leave her mother for the maggots. She goes back to the camping supply store and finds a shovel. Her hands blister even under her gloves, but she digs her mother a cold, shallow grave. The woman clips her mother’s mask onto her pack, takes what she can carry from her mother’s things, and sets off. Today The woman is above the first basement, and she sees what she missed. There is a rain barrel, and a filter. She can see where the copper pipes go into the ground. Other towns have had rain barrels but no filters. This is the first thing that convinces her to stay. The second thing that convinces her to stay is the grow-room in the fifth basement she visits. The ones in between are nothing special—a few have skeletons and some even have food, but upon finding the air purification system and lights in the fifth basement the woman stops. This basement is larger than the others, and rows upon rows of shelves and bright lights stretch away from her. She inhales the smell and is violently taken back to the halls of her high school, a lifetime away. The plants are dead, but the smell of weed remains. She finds more weed seeds in a box, but underneath them are others. Potato seeds, corn, vegetables of all kinds. She finds the switch to the sprinkler system, which still works. There is a small refrigerator in the corner. The woman puts her face in her hands and sobs. Two years after today The woman brings back not only an extra mask, but food and bottled water, and extra dishes for the family. There are only three chairs, so they sit on the floor to eat. Henry accepts the extra mask with wide eyes and both he and Jordan thank her profusely. “What are those masks?” Kimmy points at the woman’s pack.

The Town After the End of the World They’re special, the woman writes. “She says they’re speh-ki-all,” Alicia tells Kimmy after peering at the words, her small brow furrowed. The woman sets out the food—cold baked potatoes, canned beans, pickles. The children reach for it eagerly, but they stop at Jordan’s outstretched hand. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he says slowly. They’re safe to eat, the woman writes. I tested the soil where I grew them. She brushes the words away then writes again. I can show you after this. They need no more prompting. The children have to be reminded to use forks and knives—the woman forgot to bring napkins, but Henry takes some clean cloths out of his pack. “How long have you been here?” Jordan asks in between bites. The two men are clearly trying to be polite, but the woman can see that they have been hungry for awhile. “I’d assume not long.” He nods at her pack and the woman realizes that it’s still full of most of her stuff. Two years, the woman writes. There is water and food here. She glances at the pack. I just like to be prepared. She brushes her words away and gestures to them, to Kimmy and Alicia both happily stuffing food into their mouths and raises an eyebrow. “We were both studying at the University of Illinois. I had almost completed my teaching degree and Henry was in the botany master’s program. We had been on a road trip when the bombs hit Chicago. We got the news and just kept driving until the car ran out of gas. Both of our families were in Chicago.” Jordan closes his eyes for a moment. “We just drifted around, scrounging, I guess. We found Alicia when she was five. We found this decrepit farm—it was falling to pieces, and she was half-starved from living on crackers and peanut butter. Her parents—they must have just abandoned her there. We couldn’t leave her.” His voice catches. “She doesn’t talk about the years before then. She didn’t speak till we found Kimmy a year later. Her mom—Kimmy’s—was in labor when we found her. Kimmy was okay but her mom had complications. She asked us to take Kimmy with us. We found her I.D. in her pocket and named Kimmy after her mom. We’re lucky my teaching program had a mandatory infant care course.” He snorts. “I thought it was the dumbest thing while I was doing it.” He shrugs. “Then we just drifted around some more, and, well, here we are.” A pause. “What’s your story?” The woman takes a deep breath and adjusts her grip on the chalk. I was fifteen. My parents and I scavenged too. Other survivors shot my dad, and my

EIGHTEEN mom got tetanus from a rusty nail. I just walked around finding what I could. I found this place. All the people here had nice basements. I think they were rich. The grow room, I can show you, it was for weed. The grin feels alien on her face but she tries it out anyway. I found the library and survived on canned food until I read a couple books on gardening. I grow enough to eat. You’re a botanist, right? You can critique my work. Henry laughs as he reads the sentence. “I’d be happy to.” What happened to your mask? Henry runs his hand over his face. “The dumbest thing, I swear. It was yesterday, and I tripped and fell on my face and it cracked. Pretty fuckin’ dumb, right?” “Dad!” says Alicia. “You said that’s a no-no word!” Kimmy leaps up and hops from foot to foot. “No-no word! Daddy said a no-no word!” Alicia starts chasing her around the room, shrieking “No-no word!” Jordan looks apologetic. “Sorry about them. You’d think that after that run they’d be tired.” Kimmy runs full tilt into Jordan, nearly knocking him over. She grabs his neck and buries her face in his shoulder. “I’mma sleep,” she says. “You’re welcome to stay.” The words fly out of the woman’s throat. Her voice is raspy from disuse and she puts a hand to her throat. Henry and Jordan both stare at her. “I—I mean it. You can help grow more food in the grow-room and there are plenty of basements to live in.” She’s babbling now. “Your kids need stability. We’ll still need to scavenge and stuff—but there’s probably towns around here and there’s tons of kid’s toys and whatnot. I—not that I can stop you. I’m just—inviting you.” She coughs. “Yeah.” Five years after today The engineer and the doctor are the next people to arrive. They come bouncing across the plain in an old pickup truck with worn-out suspension. Alicia, old enough to be on watch, calls through the intercom Jordan made. Something about it is reassuring to Adrienne—perhaps that, though Jordan had little knowledge of any kind of engineering, he read enough books from the town library to construct it out of scrap. Perhaps it’s a sign—that they can continue to survive. When Adrienne slowly approaches the pickup truck, hands held in front of her, there is a moment of dizzying fear—that these people are not the

The Town After the End of the World friendly kind, that they will shoot her down the way they shot her father— and she remembers the gun that they found in one of the basements, and the way her hands would not unclench when she tried to pick it up. The old couple who step out of the truck do point a gun at her, but she stands firm with her empty hands out. The knife she carries is heavy at her hip but she knows she cannot draw it before they pull the trigger. The three are frozen for a moment—the old couple with the gun and the woman with her hands in front of her—and the weapon is lowered and Adrienne takes a step toward them. She invites them into her house. It is still the basement she found, but it has been cleaned out, and a wall divides her living space. There is a tiny kitchen-like area and the table and chairs from the previous owners are still there. A mint plant, potted in soil from the grow-room sits on a shelf under a light. Her pack, her parents’ gas masks are behind the wall, out of sight, but she can feel the still-full pack weighing on the back of her mind. The old couple are named Katherine and Benjamin. Benjamin is a doctor—“worked in the ER,” he tells Adrienne as she sets down cups of mint tea—and Katherine is an engineer, with dual PhDs in electrical and mechanical engineering. “Not that that means anything.” She laughs a little. “But I can fix the truck, and I made a decent water filtration system.” “And she made us an oil press,” says Benjamin. “That’s how the truck runs, on cooking oil.” They tell her a bit about how they survived, and Adrienne can sense moments where they hold back the darker parts, glancing at each other in a moment of shared remembrance. Adrienne tells them about how she found this place. Katherine cocks her head when Adrienne tells her about the intercom and the water filter, and Adrienne is happy to show her. They stay. Six years after today The next group is on foot. A haggard young woman, who likely does not remember a time before the bombs, with three young children who all call her “Miss Ava” and a silent boy with headphones firmly over his ears. Later that year, four teenagers with guns. One of them, startled, lets off a shot that hits Adrienne in the shoulder, but she stands there with blood running down her arm until they come and talk to her. The boy who shot

EIGHTEEN her is called Briar and he will not stop apologizing until Benjamin lets him assist in pulling out the bullet. Seven years after today A lone man with tired eyes who has packs of seeds stuffed into the bottom of his pack. They are all out of space in the grow-room and they work on sealing up the mall properly and purifying soil. Katherine works day and night, and Adrienne helps in any way she can. She often has to remind the old woman to sleep and eat, but soon the bottom floor of the mall is covered in a layer of radiation-free soil. Eight years after today A family, a mother and father with two boys. A lone girl with angry eyes. Another doctor, who takes over the infirmary when Benjamin dies of a stroke. They still do not have a name for the town. Alicia is seventeen and has taken a great interest in chemistry. She takes a shine to a scarred boy who stumbles into their town one day. Ten years after today Katherine falls in love with another engineer, a woman with a Southern accent whose mask is on its last legs and who is coughing by the time Adrienne meets her on the outskirts of town. Together, they make plans for a dome over the town, a place where the children can run around and breathe clean air. Katherine has leukemia and dies in her sleep, the plans half-formed, but Louise, her wife, continues. Adrienne unpacks her old backpack. The food and supplies go into the community warehouse. Her parents’ gas masks she hangs quietly in the donation area, for anyone who might need them. Fifteen years after today Adrienne gets to hammer the first nail into the first plank that will be the dome. There are enough people now that the plans are finished and they can begin to build the dome. They have given the town a name. First it was just their home, but then it took root, and the town is called Home. As she hands the hammer off to Alicia, who is elegantly managing the entire thing, Adrienne collapses, clutching her stomach. She has been

The Town After the End of the World lucky so far, but twenty years of walking through clouds of pollution and radiation will come back to take their toll. Twenty years after today Adrienne sits quietly in a rocking chair, breathing in clean air and looking up at the sky. The dome is finished, and the skylights send sunlight into mirrors hung specifically around the enormous space, transforming it into something light and airy. It is tall enough to grow trees in, but Adrienne will not live to see the oaks grow big and strong. The outside is plastered with solar panels. A group of children runs across the field, shrieking. All the children in the town of Home call her “Grandma Adri.” Two, Daisy and Sam, sit at her feet, begging for a story. Briar is at her elbow, offering her another dose of meds. The cancer has progressed now, and all they can do is manage the pain. She takes the pill with quiet thanks. Tomorrow, Kimmy will go before the elected Council and will ask their permission to set out and start a new town with her friends. They will debate—Henry is on the council and does not want to see his youngest daughter in danger—but will tell her yes. Tonight, Adrienne will die in her sleep. Now, she takes a deep breath. She will brighten the story for them—there is simply too much trauma and pain to tell it in full—but these children were born in the town of Home and love the adventurous stories of her life. “Before there was a town called Home, before there was radiation, before there were bombs, there was a world full of people.”

Eighteen

path engaged query: dictionary path engaged dictionary query: “solar” solar | sōlər relying or powered by photons, usually from stars. [archaic, requesting corroboration] relating to or determined by Sol. Sol | sōl

Access: Archive

Star dating to around 189477 hesh. Theorized to be the birthplace of humanity. query: “star index” path engaged star index query: “sol” Sol [local code #ris87nf] A supernova located on the Orion Spur [aux shyr code #horistj7-2] of the Sagittarius arm [shyr code #horistj7] of the Milky Way Galaxy [gala code #8994884]. This star is theorized to be the birthplace of humanity [see Earth], along with Maris-201 [see Kepler] and Novik-333 [see Hesrid, Lilona, Tennyson]. Structure ↓ Chemical makeup ↓ Formation ↓ Surrounding bodies ↓ Birthplace of humanity ↓ Rendering ↓ Birthplace of Humanity archiving error: 678 message: Maintenance is currently being done on this page due to a high volume of edits and additions from possibly unqualified sources. Please refer to a trusted source while the Archive sorts this out. If you previously used information on this page, be aware it might be factually inaccurate. query: “birthplace of humanity” path engaged resource: “The Great Debate: Our Home Star” author: E. Eilii, professor at Mehlokuhle University

EIGHTEEN reference identifier: 8%9-11ees In the current academic environment, there are three schools of thought as to the star from which humanity originated. It is impossible, as in any historical field, to come to any sort of conclusion that one could term “factual,” as evidence for all three continues to pile up. Even the millions of volunteers at the Archive would take lifetimes to sort and vet the multitude of resources on the topic. We can be mostly sure that all were inhabited by humanity at one point or another, but academic debate among astrophysicists, biomechanical scientists, and historians remains fierce. Arguably the most popular theory among academics is that humanity originated from Novik-33 on the Six arm of the Barraspir Galaxy. Two of its child-planets, Hesrid and Lilona, have been deemed suitable for life at roughly the time humanity might have originated on a planet. A third planet, Tennyson, may also have been habitable, though a relatively recent impact with a supermassive asteroid makes it difficult to determine this. Hesrid, with a diameter of 11,056 km, is noted not only for its location in the Gauld-Lox zone, but also the lakes scattered across the planet’s surface. Documents from Hesrid indicate human habitation as early as 76822 hesh. The main strike against Hesrid is its propensity for violent storms. Currently, these are mostly seen in equatorial regions, but some meteorological models indicate that they were widespread until after the time humanity is theorized to have originated. Close in both size and proximity to Hesrid, Lilona is another planet in the Gauld-Lox zone that could have been our original home. With documents proving humanity’s existence there from around 76830 hesh, it is distinct from Hesrid in its especially high concentration of metallic elements and minerals present close to the crust. However, Lilona’s relatively small percentage of land—around 20%—would make it difficult for a species to access most of these resources, making neophyte space travel difficult. Tennyson is the most difficult planet to study, due to its impact with supermassive asteroid 7opp8-pendro23. It is not presently in the Gauld-Lox zone, but is included on this list because of the many models that theorize

Access: Archive the impact event knocked it out of its previous orbit. Fragments indicate elements necessary for life, but size is difficult to determine. Few, if any sources from Tennyson can be found, though some documents from both Hesrid and Lilona reference civilizations there. The second star that may have been our home is Maris-201 and its planet Kepler. This is strongly supported by documents that refer to the planet in parental terms, something anthropologists note as proof the planet was our original one. Kepler’s location in the Gauld-Lox zone and axial tilt would mean temperate-yet-seasonable weather, though its diameter of 15290 km would likely mean slightly higher gravity than that of most current ships. Humanity is first recorded there at around 75094 hesh, but the recent criticisms of the Steng’ak research team have called this into question, and it›s possible that this could be as late as 77129 hesh. Among today›s current adult population, Sol is probably the star most thought of as the birthplace of humanity, mostly due to Daveed H’a Jacin’s film The Great Blue Sky, which tells the story of life on Sol’s planet Earth in a time before space travel. In a similar vein, a lot of evidence that Sol was our planet of origin is cultural, such as the word “solar” to mean powered by photons, or the archaic use of the word “earth” to mean soil. Earth’s diameter of 12,742 km would make gravity that is a match for the standard preferred on most spaceships, though this might only be proof that Earth was an important step in our transition to planetless living. The oldest documents date humanity’s time there to about 76870 hesh. Element-wise, though low in metallic elements, Earth’s soil contains most of the minerals humans today rely on, and both its slight axial tilt and presence in the Gauld-Lox zone are suitable for life. path closed

Eighteen

I was nine and in our house near Moscow when the plane landed

in our backyard. It was an uncharacteristically warm autumn evening. The sky was purpling with twilight as the sun was setting and the wind gently brushed the red and gold treetops from side to side. The plane came down with a swoosh and a crash and bounced and rolled through the backyard until it hit our ramshackle barn. I heard a rattle and the surprised squawk of chickens as the nose of the plane bumped the wall. The engines coughed and then sputtered and huffed their way to a stop. I was watching from the kitchen window, the after-dinner dishes I had been washing forgotten as I watched the plane. I dropped my dishrag and rushed outside, ignoring the autumnal chill. “Tatyana—” my mother began, but I was already outside. The plane was beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It had a sleek, pointy-nosed metal body that the light bounced off of despite the soot and dirt. The wings were connected to one another and sat below

Witches in the Sky and above the cockpit, from which an opaque windshield stared out at me. The Soviet flag shone red and bright through the dirt. The whole thing was tipped back on its tail nose aiming at the sky. Reverently, I stepped forward and brushed a hand along the plane’s side. It was colder than anything I’d ever felt but I didn’t pull my hand away until my fingertips began to sting and burn. “Are your mother and father home?” The voice of a man startled me. I turned as he rose out of the cockpit like a genie in a storybook. He was dressed in a fur coat and cap, with leather gloves. Aviator goggles had been pushed up to his forehead. “Are your mother and father home?” he repeated. I suddenly realized that he was speaking to me and remembered my manners. “Sir—I—yes! They are!” And like the nine-year-old I was, I immediately disregarded the subject even as my mother slowly helped my father down the back steps of the house. I pointed. “Is this your plane?” The man swung down from the plane and landed lightly in front of me. He placed a gloved hand on the plane. “She’s mine all right. I’ll have to get her looked at though. We were flying drills—it’s like practicing, only in the air—and she went down. Something must be caught in the engine.” A plane. There was a real plane in front of me. Before he could catch me I pulled myself up on the wing and yanked myself into the cockpit. “Hey!” the man cried. “Get down!” I ignored him. The cockpit was full of interesting things. Knobs and buttons, instruments that pointed and whirled. I would one day learn their names, but to my child’s mind, they were just spinning devices. The man climbed up. “Shoo,” he said. “Your parents won’t be happy.” He turned a dial on the radio and crackling static filled the air. A voice cut through. “Greyhawk, come in. Greyhawk, this is Base. Over.” I left the cockpit but defiantly climbed onto the lower wing, ducking my head to avoid hitting the one above it. I didn’t want to leave the plane. At this point, my mother abandoned my father to walk by himself and hurried across the yard to me. “Tatyana, get down from there!” I ignored my father, who was slowly making his way across the yard and turned back to watch the man at the radio.

EIGHTEEN He pushed a button before responding. “Base, this is Greyhawk. I’ve got engine trouble—” He continued speaking. Most of it was code and aviator jargon and wouldn’t have made sense to me anyhow, but I couldn’t hear over my mother’s angry squawking. “Tatyana Petrovna Makarova! Get down from there!” My mother stood beneath the cockpit, hands on her hips. “I mean what I say! Get down from there, Tatyana or double dishes tomorrow morning!” My father finally limped up on his gimp leg. “Do as your mother says, Tatyana. I’ll not have a daughter of mine mucking around in planes.” My mother was one thing, but my father was an entirely different matter. Reluctantly, I slid to the ground. It was a larger drop than I’d estimated and I hit the ground with an “oof!” “Careful there.” The pilot peered over the edge of the plane at me, then looked at my parents. “Petyr Vasiliev, 2nd Air Defense Army. Dreadfully sorry to drop in on you like this. And sorry about her.” He jerked his head toward me. “I did tell her to get out.” The edges of my mother’s lips quirked up at the pun and she shook her head at his apology over me. “What brings you here? And my apologies about Tatyana—she’ll be doing extra sweeping tonight.” She gave me the evil eye that only mothers can really give. “It was engine trouble, I’m afraid. We were flying drills and something happened.” Petyr swung down from the plane and politely shook hands with my father. “They’re sending a mechanic pretty soon to fix her up but in the meantime, I’m marooned here.” “Well, you’re welcome to come in,” my mother said. “We can’t possibly leave you out in the chill.” My father didn’t look entirely pleased with this but he didn’t protest, so we went inside. Despite the incident with the plane, my parents took a liking to Petyr. Upon hearing he hadn’t yet eaten my mother dug out some boiled potatoes and pork and he had supper. As he ate, he managed to win even my father over with his jokes and my mother was already off in gales of laughter. Outside, a mechanic parachuted down and began tinkering with the plane by the light of a lantern. Inside, Petyr regaled us with stories from the flight academy and his training. To me it seemed like a glittering future, full of camaraderie and adventure. But then the mechanic knocked on the door

Witches in the Sky to tell Petyr his engine had been fixed. He winked conspiratorially at me before leaving. I listened to the roar of his departing engine. Thus began my obsession with planes. “I’ll not have a daughter of mine mucking around with planes,” my father had said that day. His position was objectively understandable, as he had been lamed by a bomb from a plane in the Great War. But he couldn’t stop me. As I grew through primary school and into secondary, I filled scrapbooks with cut-outs of planes and, with much resistance from my father, joined the local flight school. I paid for my lessons with a job at a confectionary. In our first lessons, we didn’t even fly. It was all technical—mechanics, schematics, how to work the radio. The first time I walked into the classroom everyone turned to look at me. Every single other person was a man. So I learned it better, faster than them. I was so good, I could recite the parts of the engine in my sleep. I was the best at working the radio. And then finally, finally, we tasted the sky. The sun shone brightly the first day I went up in a plane. Jonathan, a boy who was my begrudging copilot, and I climbed in. I had studied it all, learned everything I could possibly learn. And yet butterflies fluttered in my stomach as the engine roared to life. The time it took to get off the ground was simultaneously excruciatingly long and horribly short. The runway stretched out in front of me but then it was gone all too soon and the nose of the plane lifted off the ground and then the back and then there was a sensation of being light, weightless, a dust mote floating on a beam of sunlight. I was flying. We soared up, up, and up into the sky. Wind buffeted my face but my goggles kept my eyes clear and full of the beautiful blue. When our time was up, I landed the plane well. Not perfectly, but well. I would get better at it. I slid out of the cockpit and my feet landed on the solid ground, heavy again. “I’ve got to use the restroom,” I murmured to no one in particular and once I was safely out of sight, I cried. It wasn’t extensive, just that momentary burst of overwhelming happiness that comes. I knew I wanted to fly for the rest of my life. And that was how, when the war began, I enlisted in the Red Army and was assigned to Engel’s Military School of Aviation. And that was where I met Vera Belik.

EIGHTEEN My father didn’t come to see me off at the train station. He wanted me far away from planes, but also from war, the thing that had lamed his leg and plagued him with violent dreams. I suppose he hoped to convince me to stay at home, to settle down with a nice man, perhaps. I felt his absence. But my mother was there, pressing a sausage roll into my hand and slipping an apple into my pocket as she hugged me goodbye. “Good luck flying your planes, Tatyana.” I pulled back from her embrace. “You don’t understand my love of flying, do you?” She laughed. “No. But I wish you all the best.” Her gaze intensified. “Promise me you’ll stay safe. Swear to me. You never know what can happen a million meters in the air—” “Mama, I’ll be fine. I promise. And we couldn’t go that high even if we wanted to.” And with that, the train pulled up to the station. My mother pretended she wasn’t about to cry until the train pulled away and around the bend, but I know that was only for my sake.

Engel’s Military School of Aviation looked like any boarding school, if perhaps a bit run-down. Except, of course, for the planes that peeked out from behind the rooftops of the buildings. I and about fifty other women all stood in front of it, clutching suitcases and hat boxes like nervous children, though I was twenty-one and not even the youngest at that. Nervousness flowered inside me. I studied the women around me. The woman—girl really, she couldn’t have been older than twenty—next to me had a round, yet finely boned face and dark hair in braids. Her suitcase was small, quite a bit smaller than mine, and her dress was too short, but still, she seemed somehow confident. When she suddenly turned to look at me I realized I‘d been staring and I snapped my gaze away, heat creeping up my cheeks. But she just smiled without a hint of awkwardness and held out a hand to me. “Vera Belik. What’s your name?” Her accent was faintly Ukrainian. It was quite pretty. It must have been the embarrassment from getting caught staring earlier, but my tongue felt suddenly unwieldy, like a plane out of fuel. “Tatyana,” I

Witches in the Sky mumbled. “Tatyana Makarova.” I searched, like a really smart person, for something to say. “Are you a pilot?” She shook her head. “I’m hoping to be a navigator. I went to Karl Liebknecht. Studied math.” She showed me the book she was holding—a textbook. It was clearly math but other than that it was just symbols and numbers I could make neither heads nor tails of. She looked at me. “So you’re a pilot?” I was about to reply but a stern-faced woman stepped out the door of the academy and hushed us into silence with a look. “I am Major Raskova. Welcome to Engel’s Military Aviation School. You have been selected for this training based upon your outstanding records but make no mistake— many of you will wash out. You have been chosen either as navigators or pilots. If you have issue with your placement, too bad. Any questions?” No one had any questions. After dinner, which wasn’t all that terrible, Vera claimed the bunk above mine. It seemed we’d be friends. The first day of class was a whirlwind. Flight manuals, papers, and pencils filled my arms and my ears rang from the shouts of drill instructors. Lunch was a welcome relief. Vera slid into place beside me, carrying her tray. “I heard we get to see the planes after lunch.” “Really? I can’t wait.” I grinned. Planes! I’d get my own plane. Well, not yet, but once I was deployed. Vera’s eyes twinkled. “You really love flying don’t you?” I blushed. Why did Vera make me blush so much? I’d gotten less and less outgoing as I grew up but I wasn’t usually this awkward. “I’ve wanted to be a pilot since I was nine. I got my civilian’s license at nineteen.” “Trying to get ahead of the game I see.” She raised an eyebrow. “I-I...it’s just a civilian’s license,” I stammered. I wasn’t trying to get ahead, was I? She rolled her eyes. “Relax. I’m just teasing. I’m excited to see the planes too.” Something inside me fluttered and flipped, like my stomach was flying loop-de-loops.

It was dinner three months later that brought us to the Southern Front. Vera and I had become close friends much to the annoyance of our room-

EIGHTEEN mates when we talked late into the night and to my embarrassment when she wanted me to back her up when she corrected an instructor. We were sitting together in the dining hall with the rest of our class when Major Raskova walked into the dining hall and surveyed us. We quieted. “We have just received news. You are being deployed in a week.” Deployed! A hum of whispers spread throughout the room. The major waited until we fell silent again. “You have three days of leave, and then you will depart for the Southern Front. Pilots and navigators will be assigned to different regiments.” She pulled out a paper and began to read off names. Vera and I were assigned to something called the 588th Night Bomber Aviation Regiment. I wondered aloud how we’d be flying. Vera, ever the quick one, had an answer. “At night. Night bombers.” “That’ll be dangerous.” She elbowed me. “Just swear not to crash into any trees. And I’ll get to navigate by the stars.” “How very medieval. Are you going to visit your parents on leave?” I changed the subject. Vera had five siblings who wrote her letters nearly every day. They would be delighted to see her. But her face fell. “It’s a day’s train ride to Kerch. I think I’m better off staying here.” I propped my cheek on my hand and looked at her. “Come visit my house.” “Really?” Her eyes were bright and hopeful. “Of course! My parents would be delighted to have you. And we can get a train ticket discount if we go together.” So that was how Vera came to visit my parents for two days. To say she charmed them was an understatement. When they met us at the train station my mother hugged her enthusiastically and mumbled: “you’ve been taking such good care of my Tatyana.” Even my father left his den of disapproval to shake her hand. At dinner, my mother kept heaping mashed potatoes onto both of our plates, but especially Vera’s. My parents wanted to know everything—what the academy was like, how we’d met. No one mentioned the reason we were on leave. After dinner, I offered to get Vera set up on my bed. I’d be fine on the sofa for a night. She refused. “You ought to sleep in your own bed.”

Witches in the Sky “You’re a guest,” I protested. “And as this is your home, you should sleep on your own bed!” “No. I’m sleeping on the sofa. You’re sleeping on the bed.” I didn’t know why my voice was so cold. “It’s not your fault your parents don’t have a guest room,” she growled. “With your pretty little house and idyllic life it’s almost a mystery why they don’t. You don’t have five siblings depending on you.”I suddenly recalled her small suitcase and too-short dress from the first day at the academy. We’d never talked much about our economic situations but— “My parents both worked for this life. My father lost a leg to the war so we could have money to afford this house!” “Sure they did. He got to come back and see you after though. His pretty little daughter.” That was a place I wasn’t exactly willing to touch. “His pretty little daughter? In case you haven’t noticed, it doesn’t seem like I’m his anything right now. Because of this new war we’re both in.” Her eyes were like cold fire. I didn’t know what mine were like but the little rational voice inside me told me we both needed to cool down. “What are we even arguing about?” “I don’t know. But, you know what, fine. I’ll take your bed. Whatever makes you happy.” “Fine,” I spat, and stomped out to get sheets. It was the first fight we’d ever had. That night, as I curled up on the hard sofa, I had trouble drifting off and when I did my dreams were uncomfortable things that left a bad taste in my mouth. I woke up at five by force of habit. No one was up yet, so I set about preparing breakfast. Vera was in my room—I’d have to wait until she got up. Vera. Something in my mouth twisted and I suddenly didn’t want breakfast anymore. I’d have to apologize for being so snappish. How hard could it be? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. “Tatyana? Is that you?”My mother walked into the kitchen. “Good morning, darling.” “Morning, Mama. Porridge?” I motioned to the pot. She sat down, yawned, and smiled brightly at me. “That was lovely of you! You know, I was thinking, perhaps you’d like to take Vera out to see the town? See all your old friends?”

EIGHTEEN Old friends. It came to me then that I didn’t really have any. I had acquaintances, sure, but I was always focused on flying, not friendship. Vera was the first real friend I’d had. Somehow I managed to smile and nod. My mother continued. “Perhaps that old aviator’s club will let you two take out a plane.” She grasped my hands across the table. “You really did it, didn’t you, Tatyana? Became a pilot. Just like the man who landed in our backyard that night.” The moment was broken by Vera entering the kitchen. I stood up abruptly. “I’m going to go get dressed now.” I nodded at the table. “There’s breakfast if you want it.” In my room, I splashed my face with water from the wash basin and gazed balefully at my reflection in the mirror before dressing. I wore something I hadn’t worn for a while—a dress the bright-red color of poppies. I hadn’t worn it in three months and it felt odd to be wearing it. Not odd in a bad way, just different. I went downstairs to find Vera and my mother washing the dishes as my father ate hurriedly before work. “Tatyana, you look so pretty!” my mother exclaimed. “Go on Vera, dear, I’ll finish up the dishes. Go have fun girls.” She shooed us both toward the door. “Bye Papa,” I mumbled hurriedly as we were deposited on the front steps. The door shut behind us. Vera and I were left standing out in the sunlight. Vera crossed her arms. “Your mother said we should see the town. So let’s see it.” She whirled on her heel and marched off, expecting me to follow. “I—Vera…” I hurried to catch up with her. When I did, I was surprised to see the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. Say it. Say “I’m sorry.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “Vera, I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’re right, I am lucky my father came home from the war.” She kept walking. “Vera, please, I don’t know what else I can say, other than I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry.” My voice cracked and Vera stopped. We were on the outskirts of the town now and a bench sat outside what had been an ice cream shop before war rationing. Vera sank into it and hung her head, curling into herself. When her voice came out it was hoarse. “Tatya. My beautiful Tatya. It’s not your fault.“ I sat down next to her and took her hand. “I said those things about your father because I’m jealous of him. And you.” “Jealous?”

Witches in the Sky “He got to come home after the war. And you get to see your parents before you leave.” She sniffled, and reality punched its fist into my gut. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered. “I want to see my little brothers and sisters again. I want to hug my parents. I don’t want to die before I get to do those things. I didn’t mean any of those things I said to you. I—I don’t know where that came from.” “Vera,” I said. She looked up at me. A tear slid down her cheek and I brushed it away with my thumb. Inside me felt like an oily, black, roiling pit of guilt. I’d never even thought that she might...might feel like that. “Vera, I swear to you, as your pilot and as your friend, that I will not let you die. I swear. You will go home to your brothers and sisters.” She just pulled me into a fierce hug.

After Vera washed her face at the pump, we continued into town. I had been apprehensive at seeing all the people from secondary school and people I knew before but it wasn’t so bad. Jonathan from the aviator’s club said hello to me and I introduced him to Vera. He asked about our training. The grocer waved me down for a hug, insisting I would be their “war hero”. It seemed my parents had been gossiping. “A war hero eh?” said Vera, elbowing me. “Oh, shut up.” I rolled my eyes. “Come along, I want to show you the aviator’s club.” The aviator’s club was near the edge of town because of all the noise and fumes. When we got there, Alexei Lantsov, the owner, greeted us enthusiastically. “My little star flyer! I hear you’re a real pilot now. Who is your friend?” “I’m Vera Belik. She’s my pilot.” Something inside me warmed at Vera introducing herself to my old flight instructor as she shook his hand. He grinned widely. “Would you like to go up? For free? Normally there would be a fee but for my favorite student, it shall be free.” I looked to Vera, feeling both nostalgic and exhilarated at the thought. “Up for it?” “But Tatya, your dress,” she protested. “You could ruin it.” “I’ll be careful, I promise.” I tugged her elbow. “Let’s go.” She smiled, clearly not needing any further convincing. “Take me flying.”

EIGHTEEN The plane I chose was a Yakovlev-AIR-1. It was a biplane, with just enough room for two. I tossed Vera a helmet and some goggles from the bin, grabbed a pair for myself and swung into the plane. Vera clambered up behind to me. And we were off. Up and up and up, just me and Vera against the bright blue sky. The Yakovlev was smoother and newer than what we’d had at the academy and we climbed effortlessly. As we leveled out, the sun flashed brightly into my eyes. A low-lying cloud drifted in front of us like a big gray balloon and I dipped to avoid it. As the nose of the plane tilted down, I could suddenly see everything. The white rooftops of the town were nearly too bright to look at and the people were hardly more than specks. My parents’ red-painted clapboard house was just visible in the distance. The trees were no more than green fluff dusting the hills. I took us into a dive. For a moment, everything was weightless, endless. Behind me, I heard a whoop. Twisting, I saw that Vera had closed her eyes and flung out her arms, leaning into the wind. It was an effort to pull my attention away and pull the plane up. And so we flew on, above the miniature town, through the endless sky, me stealing glances at the beautiful girl behind me.

As I lay on the sofa that night, I thought about flight. About Vera and the sky. And then a thought came to me: I very much want to kiss Vera Belik. I—what? But the thought was there. I could not deny it any more than I could deny my love of flying. I pulled myself upright and curled into the corner of the sofa. What was I going to do? I couldn’t spoil our friendship. That was out of the question. Were my feelings even real? Did all girls feel this way? My thoughts whirled and pulled me into a tornado, spinning faster and faster the farther down I went. What was I going to do? Was I even going to do anything? Sleep I told myself. I am going to sleep. I’ll figure this out in the morning. Still, it took me a while to fall into an uneasy sleep. We left for the train station at eight. My mother helped my father up the stairs. Both my parents looked somber. Vera had received letters from her family and was clutching them the way a drowning man clutches a life preserver. A sense of finality hung about the moment.

Witches in the Sky The whistle of the train blew piercingly as it neared. I turned to face my mother. She couldn’t hold back her tears this time as she hugged me tightly. “Come home safe, my beautiful baby girl,” she murmured. “Promise me. For real this time.” I sniffled, realizing I was crying as well. “I promise, Mama.” She squeezed me tightly then released me and I turned to face my father. His eyes shone silver with unshed tears. As he blinked, one rolled down his cheek. The shock must have registered on my face. “I know I haven’t been the most approving,” he said hoarsely. “I just—I don’t want war to hurt you the way it did me.” I flew forward and hugged him fiercely. “I’ll be safe, Papa. Cross my heart.” And with that, the train pulled up to the station and Vera and I boarded, leaving my parents far behind.

I became aware of Vera nudging me awake. I raised my head from where it had fallen on her shoulder, embarrassed. She nodded out the train window. “We’re here.” The base was an intimidating affair of concrete buildings. It was ringed by an iron fence with barbed wire. I could see soldiers inside, walking or sitting or standing guard. The shouts of a drill could be heard. Above, planes of all shapes and sizes wheeled and looped. The guard at the gate met us with a bored expression. “Names?” “Vera Belik and Tatyana Makarova,” Vera replied. “Identification?” We handed over our papers and he checked them against a list. He looked up at us. “You’re some of those girl pilots?” “588th Night Bomber Regiment,” I replied proudly. He snorted. “Good luck.” The gate swung open and we were allowed inside. Another guard met us inside. “Regiment?” “588th Night Bomber,” I said, this time a little hesitantly. Vera patted my arm in solidarity. He gestured in the direction of a building marked “588th Barracks” in new paint. “That way, ladies.” I didn’t like the way his gaze followed us. The door to the barracks was propped open. I peered inside. It was one large room lined with bunks. In the center of the room, some members of

EIGHTEEN our class sat, playing cards. They wore ill-fitting uniforms clearly designed for men. In particular, I recognized a blonde woman also named Tatyana— though we called her Sumarokova to differentiate her from me—who I’d become friendly with. She always called me “Other Tatyana,” as if she was the original. She waved us over. “Vera! Other Tatyana! How was your leave?” “It was fun,” Vera replied. “I got to see Tatya’s hometown. How was yours?” Sumarokova shrugged. “I just came here. I was the first to arrive, along with Nina and Zoya. Just claim whatever bunk. Uniforms are on your bed. Showers at either end of the barracks. You’re welcome to play cards with us once you’ve changed. “ We turned to claim bunks. “Oh,” Sumarokova added, ”We’ve got linen to stuff our boots. They didn’t have women’s sizes.” She held up some torn sheets. I did, indeed, need a length of linen to make my boots snug. Vera, who was smaller than I, fared worse and needed at least three lengths. The uniforms were too big as well—I had to roll up my sleeves and poor Vera had to roll up her sleeves and pants at least four times. “Get Raisa to hem those for you,” Nina advised from across the room. “She’s good with a needle.” “These uniforms should fit,” Vera groused. “We should go to the administration.” Knowing Vera, she was honestly considering it. Nina shook her head. “We tried. It was no use.” As we sat down to play cards, more of our classmates began filtering in. About two hundred of us in all. Everyone sacrificed bedding to the cause of making our boots fit. The only person who could fit into the boots comfortably was Yevdokia Pasko and we teased her mercilessly, if affectionately, for it. The horn blew for dinner and Sumarokova led us to the dining hall. The men stared at us as we entered, got our food, and sat down. A few even tossed catcalls our way. Vera shot dirty looks at them in return, looking like she was itching for a fight. I nudged her. “Ignore them. They’ll get over it.” But the worst was yet to come. In the morning, we were awakened by a one Lieutenant Colonel Bershanskaya. After our morning run and breakfast, we were taken to see the planes we’d be flying. The hangar was dark until someone flicked on a light. I stood and looked at the planes. “This has got to be some sort of sick joke.“ The words popped

Witches in the Sky out of my mouth before I could stop them. These weren’t the planes we’d be flying. Colonel Bershanskaya looked like she sympathized, but she shook her head. “I’m afraid not. These are called Polikarpov Po-2s.” They were, without a doubt, the worst planes I’d ever seen. The Po-2s were training vehicles. Retired training vehicles. They were crop dusters. Composed of plywood with canvas stretched over it, I knew it would offer no protection from either cold or wind chill. Not to mention that if those things were hit by tracer bullets they’d go up like matchsticks. At least they appeared well taken care of. “Each plane is stocked with what you will bring with you in the air,” Colonel Bershanskaya announced and we scattered to the planes. Someone raised a hand. “Colonel? I think they forgot the parachutes.” The colonel shook her head. “Parachutes are too heavy, as are navigation devices, radar, and radios. This is what they gave me, ladies and it can’t be changed. Any further complaints should be addressed to General Ivanov.” “I can navigate just fine with the stars and a compass, but I don’t like the thought of no parachutes,” Vera muttered to me. I didn’t either. “Well, what are you waiting for?” the colonel barked. “Let’s get these wings outside and begin.” As the ground crew pulled the planes out of the hangars, Vera grasped my hand, sending a thrill through me. “We’ll be fine, Tatya,” she said. It sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

She wasn’t all wrong though. We learned. Survived despite the lack of parachutes, navigated with maps and compasses and the stars. Practiced until the flight patterns became muscle memory. Two planes above at first, sending up flares against the night sky to distract the enemy searchlights. The rest, carrying two bombs apiece, to fly above. Then came the difficult part: stall the engines. Glide down, a swoosh the only sound. Drop bombs. The navigator climbs outside the plane and restarts the engines. The plane pulls up and away, back to re-arm for another pass. It was terrifying and exhausting and exhilarating. I never really stopped going mad with worry whenever Vera had to climb out to restart the engines but at least I learned to fly like I had not a worry in the world.

EIGHTEEN And then came the moment we’d all been holding our breaths for. “Ladies, you fly your first sortie tomorrow.” A sortie. A bombing run. No more practices or mistakes allowed. Tomorrow we faced the war. We were given time off that evening, to rest and prepare. I lay atop my bunk, listening to Vera argue needlepoint with Raisa. My heart reached out to the sound of her voice. Suddenly, apprehension for our flight lending me a strange sort of courage, I led Vera outside, behind the barracks. She looked worried. “Are you alright Tatya?” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to say something. And I need you to not interrupt me, alright?” She nodded, her eyes darkening with some emotion I couldn’t name. I continued. “Vera, ever since I met you, that day at the Academy, I—I can’t stop thinking about you. When I see you I just—I don’t know.” I covered my face with my hands but kept speaking. “I just want to be...with you. Whether that’s as your friend, or as something else, I don’t care. Vera, I—I think I’m in love with you.” In love with you. The impact of those words hit me like the bombs we’d drop tomorrow. Had I meant to say that? I curled my shoulders into myself, pressing the pads of my fingers into my closed eyes. “You’re in love with me?” Vera sounded breathless. “I’m—I’m sorry if this ruins our friendship and I know you probably don’t return my feelings—” “You idiot. You wonderful idiot.” Vera breathed. I raised my head to look at her. “How could you not know?” And then she leaned forward and kissed me. Kissing her was everything I’d dreamed it to be. Her lips were soft and warm against mine and her hands tangled themselves in my hair. The kiss rushed through me, like the engines of a plane propelling it through the night sky.

We were called to prep our planes, our group, and others hitting different bases. Vera and I had been chosen to be bombers. We shrugged into coats and aviator’s gloves. Helmets and goggles went on. Payloads were readied. “Good luck, ladies,” the colonel told us. “Do Russia proud.” We saluted, then climbed into our planes and soared up towards the stars.

Witches in the Sky “Head up and west,” Vera told me from the back of the plane. I did so, and soon the German base came into view. The two first planes sent out their flares illuminating everything in harsh, bright light for a fraction of a second. They hummed high above the base. Searchlights focused on them. It was time. I took a deep breath and stalled the plane. It shuddered and dipped as it always did, then pointed its nose down. Our wings swooshed through the air as the lights of the base drew closer. The first bomb lit up the night with an explosion like lightning and a sound like thunder. Fires bloomed in its wake. The second one dropped and the planes behind us followed suit; orange flowers blooming and dying in an instant, leaving fire wherever they touched. The fires spewed their hate, as bullets, back at us, the flower-bringers of the night, and I felt the plane dip as Vera climbed onto the wing to restart the engines, to bring us up and away so we could plant more flower seeds on the enemy. Again and again, we tossed down our flowers until the fire was all that remained. Memories come to me faster now. Memories of a hundred other sorties just like that first one, dropping fire-flowers upon the Germans. Other memories, like when the colonel told us that the Germans had named us—Nachthexen, Night Witches, because they likened the sound of our planes gliding through the air with our engines off to broomsticks, and how we made that name our own. The proud Night Witches. Memories of the commandments we made for ourselves, the first being “Be proud that you are a woman.” Memories of our shared sisterhood, of war and wings, but also of embroidery and dancing. Memories of Vera, kissing her, holding her hand beneath the dining tables, slipping into her bed to hold her when all the rest of the barracks had fallen asleep. Memories of meeting her parents, and then stopping by to see mine on our way back to the base. Memories of my life. But then they slow to a trickle and fade. My life has finished flashing before my eyes and all that’s left is the night over Poland and the wind on my face and holding Vera’s hand as our burning plane spirals towards the ground. Historical Note: The members of the 588th Night Bomber Regiment, also known as the Night Witches, were real Soviet pilots who served in World War II as a female-only unit. They dropped over 23,000 tons of bombs on the Germans and were the most highly decorated unit in the air force. All the Night Witches men-

EIGHTEEN tioned in this story were real people, though some details have been added to their personas. Tatyana Makarova and Vera Belik, while not confirmed to be in love, were a pilot-navigator duo posthumously awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union medal when their plane went down over Nazi-occupied Poland.

Title of Story

The cards do not slip between your hands. They are natural,

flowing, a state between liquid and solid, bending to your will and your movements. Shuffle. Shuffle. Bridge. Shuffle. Shuffle. Bridge. A net zero, breaking the spine of the cards and then putting it back into place. A net zero, except for the way the fibers of the paper bend and unbend and bend, weakening. Thus is the nature of things. You resolve yourself against it. You deal musically, rhythmically. Three three times, a perfect square, a holy number made of holy numbers. Lucky. The players look at one another, and then you all pick up your first card. Your first card is a ten of spades. As you watch, it becomes another card, a card of something else. You stare at the figure on it, a monster made of earthly creatures. Slowly, from the paper, she smiles. The devil reaches out of the card and you feel her claws pierce your eye, run down the nerve to your vein. You feel like

EIGHTEEN crying, like whispering prayers, but the one you would pray to is the one whose claws scrape lightly against the inside of your skull. You blink and the card is once again a ten of spades. Chips move around the table, voices bland and faces still. The next card is an ace of hearts, and your own heart sinks. Again, it is another card. This time you can see them both, the devil smiling out at you and the burning tower rising from the ground. You can hear the screams ricochet around your ears. You watch two figures in the window. One of them climbs to the edge, looks back. You watch its trembling hands grip the edge, then let go. It falls, mouth open in a silent scream, and you hear its body crunch against the jutting rocks. You look at the window and the second figure is paralyzed, the flames behind it blistering, the drop before it an icy cold front. The indecision is a decision itself, and its scream goes on and on and on, a guttural sound of agony. Sweat breaks out on your temples, draws a line down your cheek. Though you fight to keep your face still and your body languid, the other players still notice. Both of them have still faces, but your stomach clenches at the movement of chips. The ridged plastic is warm against your fingers as you place a bet. The bets are mostly meaningless of course, a concession to tradition. Whether that soothes the game or the players is not clear, and perhaps it is both. The game is satisfied by the exchange, by the empty motions it is used to. The players are reassured—somewhat—by the confidence they can fake, by another way to preserve what little dignity they have. But the future is immovable. It is set in thick, patterned cardstock, in ink and shuffling and dealing. No movement of chips, no calm face, no relaxed hands will change that. The third card is a three of hearts and you bite the inside of your cheek, tasting sour blood. A runed circle stares up at you. It is encircled by roiling clouds that whisper and scream to you. The strange, unfamiliar animals at the edge of the circle do not meet your eyes. There is no impetus, no movement, but slowly, the wheel—for it is a wheel—begins to spin, the beasts clinging to its edge, the strange symbols shimmering and morphing as they blur together before your eyes. You feel a sense of vertigo, the room tilting around you, the chips on the table before you sliding back and forth, clattering to the floor.

Death, Unreversed Gradually, the spinning slows, the wheel click-click-clicking past each stopper, bleeding momentum. It stops. You stare at it in confusion, with dread and hope. The card is once again a three of hearts. The other players cannot stop their hands from trembling as the final round of bets goes. You feel sweat on your back, tremors in your hands, knots in your stomach. You look at the players around you, and see yourself mirrored in their eyes. It is time. You nearly drop your cards as you lay them down on the plush red tabletop. You look at the cards of the players around you. One opponent’s cards become a priest, a sun, and an angel. The other opponent has a judge, a ruler, and a fool. The silence between the three of you trembles and solidifies and shatters into brittle shards as one of your opponents lets out a whimper. Before them are now three identical cards. Three broken knights, three black banners, three white roses. Relief, cool like the moon, washes over you as tension runs from your muscles like water. You collect the cards as your doomed opponent convulses, their spine cracking, blood seeping from between their gritted teeth. You resolve yourself once more, your spine straight, your body sure, your mind clear. Shuffle. Shuffle. Bridge. Shuffle. Shuffle. Bridge. You wear away at the life of the cards, but do not harm them, keeping their fibers straight and even. You turn away from the already rotting body and face your opponent. You deal six cards.

Eighteen

The wind’s coming off the

shore, so once they get out of harbor, it’s easy for Mimi and Elijah to leave land behind. Mimi’s sitting on the high side, holding the tiller and mainsheet. “Let out the jib a little,” they say. Elijah mock-scowls at them. “I was just about to.” She lets out the little sail, pulling it in when it begins to flap. The wind’s good, steady—nothing like the immovable flowing currents on the ocean, where they’d sailed this summer, but it’s not changing directions on them. It is, however, a few knots lower than is fun. Elijah leans out over the side, sighting at something in front of the prow. “I see a pocket. Go a little starboard.” “Aye aye skipper.” Mimi sticks their tongue out at Elijah as they turn the boat a little. Both of them wait—even in decent wind, sailing can be slow—and then keep their holds on the sheets as they hit the pocket.

Rising Waters Elijah grins as the sails curve out hard and the starboard side of the boat is pulled up. “That’s more like it!” Mimi leans backward, balancing the boat. It’s nice, perched on an angle like this. They leave the pocket, and the side of the boat comes down. They have a little momentum now, and they feel a bit of wind in their faces, so it feels like they’re moving well, but they’re relaxed now, feeling the sun on their faces. “Did you do the chemistry homework?” Mimi asks. Elijah’s eyes go wide. “Shit. I’ll do it once we’re back home.” Mimi raises their eyebrows. “No you won’t, you’ll take a nap. We’ll both take naps. Sailing makes us want to take naps.” “It’s those dot structure thingies, isn’t it? I can’t understand those.” Mimi nods. “Yeah, I had to google it, but I get it now. You can copy mine before class. Mr. Paul doesn’t care.” “Yeah he’s not so bad. Interesting guy. I like how he actually tells us about science.” Mimi adjusts the sail. “You mean at the end of class?” “Yeah. Everyone’s all ‘the ice caps are releasing water into the ocean’ but I’ve never heard of just heat making water expand. It actually makes sense if you think about, like, atoms and heat and stuff.” “What, you mean like makes the molecules move faster?” “Yeah, that.” “When we’re thirty, either our houses will be underwater or they’ll get blasted by heat.” Elijah’s face falls. “Don’t forget tornados. And hurricanes.” “Hurricanes just mean more water to drown us!” Mimi’s voice is falsely upbeat. “We’re on a boat, isn’t that bad luck?” Elijah begins to twist the end of the jib sheet between her fingers. “What, talking about drowning or storms? You’re not superstitious.” Mimi’s still smiling. “Okay, but seriously, stop.” Elijah doesn’t sound like she’s joking. “I—okay. Are you okay?” Elijah looks at the rope moving between her fingers and sets it down. “Yeah. I just—talking about climate change and extreme weather and shit freaks me out. I’m not superstitious. I—Can we talk about something else?” There’s a heavy pause. “Let’s tack,” Mimi says. “Then you can take a turn on the tiller.”

EIGHTEEN Elijah nods. “Should I switch sides now?” Mimi considers. “Yeah.” Elijah uncleats the jib sheet, letting the sail flap, and moves to the other side of the boat. “Ready,” she says. Mimi pushes the tiller out and the boat begins to turn. The mainsail comes toward the center of the boat. A sudden gust of wind hits them, shoving them through the tack. The sail snaps to the other side of the boat and both of them duck to avoid being hit. As the boat levels, Mimi cautiously hands the tiller and sheet to Elijah. “Lucky. Wind seems to be picking up.” They frown. “Though it’s getting warmer.” Mimi looks up at the cloudy sky. “We really need to head in.” “We are! Shit—” A sudden gust of warm wind rocks the boat, and sail clicks as Elijah lets it out to keep them from tipping. The world darkens a little as clouds cover the sun, though the air is still warm. Elijah swears again. “We’re on a lake. Storms shouldn’t be coming up this fast!” The water around them turns into a sheet of tiny circles as it begins to rain. Both of them wince as the drops hit them. “It’s warm!” Mimi’s frozen, the rope slack in their hands. The tiller swings, yanking Elijah across the boat. “Let the sail down!” Mimi seems to refocus. “Right! Sorry!” They scramble to the mast and unknot the rope, letting the sail crumple into itself. But as it’s falling, it billows out as the wind hits it, and the boat leans and leans and leans, the side of it dipping into the water. They both push clear as the mast swings over and the hull itself comes up. They’re in the water now, and something’s wrong. Even in the summer, Lake Michigan should be cold. It’s warm—too warm to be comfortable, like the rain. The air on their faces and arms as they bob up and down in their life jackets is hot and sticky. Elijah paddles over to the boat and pulls herself up, hanging on the centerboard. Mimi pulls themself up too. Their hands are next to one another’s, keeping their grasp even as the rain makes everything slippery, as the boat slowly begins to flip. They get it half up, the wind buffeting them, the rain pouring down, but finally, the mast is just under the surface of the water. Elijah grits her teeth, stretching her body out even as she clings. “Come on, come on!”

Rising Waters A gust of wind hits them again, this time from the other side, the one that’s coming up. Elijah’s fingers slip and her feet lose purchase on the edge of the boat. She slips down into the water, its strange heat, but with a grating of metal the boat flips up, dripping. Mimi pulls themself in and reaches out a hand. “Here!” Their voice is torn away by the wind. Elijah struggles through the water and grasps their hand. Mimi pulls her up, their fingers digging into her hand and grasping at the strap of her life jacket. Elijah comes up inelegantly, sprawling, and rolls down into the boat. Another gust of wind rips at them, and the boat begins to tip again. Mimi ducks under the swinging metal boom and leans out over the edge of the boat, tucking their feet under the straps at the center so they don’t fall. They lean out harder, stretching as far as they can, the rough strap cutting into their bare feet. Elijah’s up, crouching under the swinging boom. She reaches out and the wildly swinging tiller smacks into her hands, drawing blood, but she grabs it and puts her body weight against it. With Mimi’s weight on the side, the prow of the boat stabilizes, turns slowly, until it points straight into the wind. The boat rights, rocking from side to side as the lake grows choppy. Mimi slides down off the side, panting. They become aware of how loud it is. The wind is howling past their ears, and the rain is drumming down on the water, and the boat itself is making noise as all the pieces—the masts, the sails, the ropes—rattle against one another. Mimi and Elijah are hunched, their backs against the walls of the boat, staring at one another in horror as the warm rain runs down their faces. Mimi looks down, dazedly, at the water around their feet in the bottom of the boat. “The rain!” they shout. “We—we have to bail.” Elijah blinks at them, and they mime as best they can. There’s only one bailer, just made of a plastic jug with the bottom cut off. They take turns, bailing as quickly as they can as the rain comes down, scooping up water and throwing it out of the boat, trying to keep their balances as waves hit the hull. The water level in their boat rises. Their arms begin to feel weighed-down, moving slower and slower. The water is still warm and has begun to smell slightly of rotting things, and it now laps around their ankles. The sounds

EIGHTEEN of the storm and the creaking and snapping of the boat as it weathers it seem to be whirling around them, and yet time has slowed to the motion of bailing, or resting. Resting just means they get to put their whole body weight against the tiller and try to keep the boat pointed into the wind. The water is reaching for their knees. Elijah, bailing as fast as her weary arms will let her, realizes that tears are running down her cheeks as the boat floats lower and lower in the lake that surrounds them. She looks over at Mimi and realizes that they, slumped low enough in the warm water that none of the ropes or the boom will hit them, are crying too, their shoulders shaking not only from weariness. She wants to go and comfort them, to put her arms around them and let them cry into her shoulder even as she’ll cry into theirs, but Elijah keeps on bailing. The first thing she notices is that it is no longer so loud. The snapping and cracking of the ropes and mast and hull have slowed, and the wind is no longer ripping so violently at her braids. The rain has let up, no longer a deluge, and with her bailing, the water level is slowly lowering. As she stands there, nearly knee-deep in warm water, the wind calms, now the brisk breeze it was before the storm. The clouds spit out their last raindrops, burning like acid, and the rain stops. Elijah drops the bailer and stands stock-still as the sunlight spills over her skin. She wants to collapse to her feet, but she’d be underwater. Mimi leans themself against the side of the boat, eyes glazed with exhaustion. “Elijah. We can tip it.” Elijah slogs the few steps over and puts her weight against the side. A deluge of water comes pouring over the side, somehow drenching both of them even more. The let the remaining water slosh around their ankles. Elijah raises the sails and Mimi takes the tiller. Elijah looks around the boat, the sun now sparkling intensely off the water. “Which way is home?” She turns her head slowly back and forth. “We must have gotten blown far out.” Mimi rubs their eyes. “The sun was—fuck, uh—there when we left. So it’s this way.” They draw in the sails and move with the warm wind in exhausted silence. Mimi sits up straight suddenly, turning the boat sharply. “They think we’re dead,” they say.

Rising Waters Elijah turns to look at them. “What—” “They think we’re dead. They think we’re fucking dead. Whatever just happened—I’ve never felt rain like that—it was some kind of tropical storm. We should be dead.” They’re jerking the tiller wildly, swinging the boat. “Calm down.” Elijah moves to the back of the boat and puts a hand on the tiller. “How are you calm?!” Elijah’s eyes shutter. “I have climate anxiety, not actual anxiety.” “Shut up! Shut up!” Elijah seems to collapse in on herself—one moment, she’s levelly holding the tiller and the next she’s shaking, sobbing, holding her face in her hands. She collapses into Mimi, whose arms come around her. They press their face into her shoulder, which smells of the fetid water but also of her, their friend. Their breathing calms itself as Elijah sags against them. Eventually, her sobs slow. “I’m sorry,” Mimi says. “I shouldn’t have told you to shut up.” Elijah sniffles. “It wasn’t really a nice thing to say.” She sits up. “We should really go home now.” The air is still warm and sticky, the wind giving only a little respite. They sail, the sun driving needles into their eyes off the water. “How long has it been?” Mimi asks. Neither of them wear a watch. “Yeah. It feels like we should be back. Or at least see land. Even with the storm, we couldn’t have been that far out—” “Look!” Mimi points. Atop the water floats a beach ball. They look around, across the endless water. “How did it get out here?” Elijah reaches out and scoops it up. Her voice shakes. “Mimi, this is yours. Look, your last name’s on it. From when your brother brought it to camp.” “That’s not possible. Yeah, he was playing with it on the beach—” A pink flip-flop rocks over the waves. “That’s—that looks like my mom’s.” Mimi’s eyes are wide. “This isn’t right.” Elijah’s breath is rising in her throat. There’s a sound like shushing, a soft scraping against the bottom of the boat. “It’s seagrass. We’ve gotten turned around, we’ve hit a patch of seagrass.” Their voice is hollow.

EIGHTEEN Elijah leans over the side and grabs something. There’s a small snap and she holds out her hand, which holds an oak branch, a bead of sap perched on its end. “It’s a tree.”

Title of Story

There once was a boy whose name is lost, who lived on a long-for-

gotten planet. For his whole childhood, nothing about him was unusual. Had he never met his friends, nothing about him would have been unusual. But the boy grew up, and went off to school on his own, and there he met his friends, because they were all working late in one of the buildings. Apart, they weren’t special—just children barely into adulthood, fumbling their way through the world, but together, they had a strange ability. Where they walked, flowers bloomed. They discovered this together, when they first met. They had talked for awhile, and the boy wanted to go home to his room, so they agreed to walk with him. “Look,” said one of them, normally the quietest. They pointed at the walkway behind the group. From the pavement itself, flowers bloomed, of all colors and shapes, the light above the pathway casting strange shadows.

EIGHTEEN “Keep walking,” they said, and the group did, all walking backward. Petals drifted on a phantom wind, notes through the air, tumbling joyfully through the air. Flowers and leaves sprouted, like bright flashes of sound in an empty room. The boy crouched down and touched one of the flower petals. From then on, whenever the group walked, flowers bloomed in their wake. They discovered they could control it by the pattern of their steps, almost like dancing. They began to cover their school in flower patterns, sometimes in meandering designs that were just them walking places together, sometimes in intentional lines and spirals in the right patterns and colors to make something. People would point at them as they walked. “Look,” they’d say. “That’s the people that make the flowers grow.” The city they went to school in began to call them, to ask them to make designs of flowers in parks and through streets. The group discovered that with ladders, they could coax the flowers onto the side of a building as well, and buildings in the city were covered in living murals. Then, one of them, the quiet one who had first spotted the flowers, died. It wasn’t a special death, or a heroic one—sometimes people just die. The three that remained went to the funeral, and cried on one another’s shoulders as their friend was lowered into the ground. They realized the flowers didn’t work anymore. When the three walked together, a piece was missing, and the ground behind them stayed dead. They found themselves unbalanced, off-kilter, and eventually they drifted apart, three lonely people who were loneliest when they were together. A year later, they sat in a room together, silent. They had all agreed to meet on the anniversary of their friend’s death, but even after a year the imbalance remained. The heavy silence burned in the boy, until he stood up. “I want to make the flowers work,” he said. “It won’t work,” said one of them, her tone tired. “They’re dead.” “I want to try,” he said, and his voice broke. He cleared his throat. “Please, I want to try.” The other two didn’t feel like they could argue so they went outside and walked together. The ground behind them was lifeless. “Try,” said the boy.

Flowerpath “I think we’re done.” “Wait!” The boy grabbed her by the hand and her face closed with anger. “Please,” he said. “Think of them.” “Alright,” she said. “One last time.” The boy closed his eyes and thought of his dead friend—their face, the clothes they wore, the way their laugh sounded. The time he’d felt like he was drowning, and they talked with him every night until his thoughts didn’t pull him down into a dark spiral every second of the day. The things they’d loved—their parents, their pets. Their hopes for the future, confided at night over a bottle of whiskey. He opened his eyes and saw his pain, his love, mirrored on his friend’s faces. They could feel their dead friend, their memories of them, beside them. Together, they took a step, and looked behind them. Flowers bloomed. Not as before—not as many varieties, not as riotously colorful, but there nonetheless. The three remaining friends held one another and cried, and flowers bloomed behind them.

Zahir was, in many ways, the textbook definition of a starving

artist. They had the degree, the portfolio, the paint-stained jeans. All they needed was work. So, when the yellow eviction notice stared them down, they were indescribably relieved to hear their phone buzz with an email. It was from the city council. Someone had seen the one piece of art they had managed to sell to a coffeeshop last year, and wanted them to paint a mural on the side of a new building. And Zahir nearly dropped their phone when they saw the sun the email offered. Plus expenses. Of course they said yes. The next day, they stood in the bright sun, squinting up at the blank white face of the building. It looked hungry, they thought. Empty. It really did need a mural. When the representative from the council showed up, Zahir opened the case they had brought full of sketches. The representative waved them off,

The Mural grinning. He was the one who had seen the email, who had noticed Zahir in the first place. He was certain they’d do a good job. Just send the bill for materials to my office, he said. He looked forward to seeing what they’d come up with. They spent the day gathering materials. So much time unemployed had given them time to make connections, and they had no trouble procuring a stepladder, charcoal, and paint. They started to sketch on the face of the building the day after that. It was annoying at first—they had to find a brand of charcoal the concrete wouldn’t absorb. The first few types they tried left little scars in the textured face of the building. Almost apologetically, they sent the bill to the city council office. Their sketches didn’t look as good as they did on paper. Zahir kept having to wash off their marks as their designs just stopped looking good. They got burned a couple times washing it, before they wore gloves to protect themself. At least the building seemed unaffected. Finally, fed up and behind schedule, they just began to sketch, without a plan. Just charcoal on pale concrete, their feet glued to the stepladder. Line after line after line, the charcoal wearing away from their hand with each stroke. When they reached the bottom left corner, they walked backward and looked up at what they’d made. It was beautiful, in a way only they could see. Passersby would only see their charcoal marks, but Zahir could see what it would look like in its full glory, with colors and shadows and definition. The building felt satisfied too. It was hungry, and it wanted the colors. Zahir couldn’t wait to get started. The following day, paintbrush in hand, they began at the bottom left corner. The building didn’t eat the paint the wait it had consumed the charcoal—it trusted them now. It gave Zahir confidence as they dripped the squelchy paint onto the surface in front of them. This felt right. This was what they were meant to be doing. First, they created their strange, colorful scene, the background of mountains and stars and mouths and trees. When the sun went down and they could no longer see what they were doing, they felt a pang at stopping. But they’d be back tomorrow. When they came back the next day, there was already a single shoe in front of the building. Zahir smiled and stepped over it. They could hardly believe that their small amount of progress had already brought them this far.

EIGHTEEN They painted the dancers next, their long legs and elegantly poised arms. Their costumes were of bright, sharp colors that made Zahir’s head hurt. They wiped their eyes to better see the splotch of paint in front of them. A woman who was walking by took out an earbud. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “You have a lot of talent.” Zahir smiled and thanked her, but to their disappointment, she didn’t come any closer. It reminded them they still had work to do. The next day they put the finishing touches on the swirling shadows of the dancers, effortlessly stretching dark paint underneath tulle skirts and bony arms. They began on the butterflies as well, who were larger than the dancers, more powerful. Their gossamer wings seemed almost to burn in the sunlight, and their antennae swept across the height of the building effortlessly. The sinew and structure of their wings was complex and mesmerizing, and Zahir was fully absorbed until they nearly fell off the ladder. They realized their bout of dizziness was because they hadn’t eaten, and the sun was brushing the roofs of the buildings across the way as it meandered toward the horizon. The next day, in addition to the shoes from two days ago, there was a purse and a shopping bag, each not quite touching the wall in slightly different places. Zahir moved them out of the way of their stepladder. Their confidence in the beauty of their design grew. They had only to keep going—they were working faster than they had ever in their life--and the mural would be complete. In this way, the painting continued. Some days, Zahir would find objects in front of the wall—a hair clip, a cell phone, a briefcase, a cigarette—and would grin, satisfaction flooding through their skin. They would continue their work—a crimson pane of glass, a cerulean silhouette, a flower so yellow it might have been the sun, a single eye the color of leaves in springtime. The colors were bright, always bright, nearly difficult to look at and yet so alluring. Zahir knew the mural would be the brightest thing in the city, and everyone who came to the square would be drawn closer to its colors. At one point, the man from the city council came by. He watched Zahir work for a while, and when they came to talk to him, he clapped them on the back and told them that the council was pleased. He left then, with some difficulty, always glancing back at the mural.

The Mural One day, when they were nearly finished, Zahir arrived at the mural early. They stopped when they saw the woman in front of it. She was maybe 30, with a puff of dark hair, and she approached it slowly, her hand outstretched. Excitement flickered through Zahir. They edged closer. “Beautiful,” they heard her whisper. They watched, euphoric, as the colors reached out and wrapped themselves around her hand, then up her arm, then her torso. She stepped toward it again and the colors grabbed her legs. She was gone. She hadn’t left anything behind, and Zahir wondered how many had gone to the mural without them realizing. They had only seen the objects people had dropped—it was probably a lot more. They worked at a speed like never before, the paint flying from their brush to cling to the wall. They worked all night too, adrenaline and joy and the light of inspiration fueling them. As the sun rose, they put the finishing touches on. Another line of shadow along a dancer’s fingernail, another swatch of green in the pupil of the eye, another star in a too-empty patch of sky. They kept adding detail, layer after layer of love and care, until finally, there was nothing to add. It was perfection. It was glorious. It was a masterpiece. Zahir stepped back until they could see the thing in full. Their breath left them as they saw it in full. The colors, the shapes, the figures. It was so much, and so perfect. They could barely remember the blank face of the building, the way it looked hungry and empty. It was beautiful now. The colors tugged at them. The silhouettes beckoned and the eye glinted. Zahir stepped forward until they could press their hands against their mural, not as artist but as viewer, as consumed. They felt the colors take them.

Once, there was a planet, by some called Neris, and the planet

was an ocean. Dotting the sea of blue were islands, some lush and green, some harsh and rocky, but people lived on all the islands because there was so little land. Many folk took to the seas as well, sailing across it on tall ships with towering masts and cloth sails of every color. It became a rite of passage for young folk to take to the seas for a few years, to visit the many islands that dotted the seas of Neris, to weather the waves and storms of the open ocean. The ships themselves were integral to Neris. Each island could not support itself alone, for those that were lush enough for farming could not be mined, and those that were rocky enough to mine on could not grow enough food to live, so the ships connected the islands in balance. And then, from passing space-ships, a wealthy family found Neris. They were not only wealthy, but greedy for more money, more resources, and they

The Sailors of Neris were determined to exploit the people of Neris. The youngest son of this family had an idea, and so formed a plan. In the factories of their space-ships, the family built crafts suited, supposedly, to the seas of Neris. Once they had a fleet, the son went to the elders of each island and propositioned them. “Think of it,” he said. “With ships that need no sailors, no crew, that can weather any storm, your islands will prosper. Your people could stay home with their families, find jobs here on the islands. Your warehouses will overflow with food and commodities from other islands because our ships are so much faster. You can focus on building ships for the skies, like my family. You need only pay these ships, and a small fee on every good they sell.” Some elders agreed, and purchased the new ships. They retired their old wooden, crewed ships and loaded their goods on the automatic ones. The old ships stayed in harbor till their timbers rotted, or they were taken apart for timberwood. The elders that initially rejected the son’s offer found themselves regretting their decision. The new ships were faster, better, more efficient, and their wooden ships could not keep up. The son saw an opportunity and returned to these elders. “I am kind,” he said. “Here is a chance to fix your foolishness.” The elders looked at his price. “This is double, triple, what you offered before,” they said. “I am kind. This is a favor to you,” the son insisted, and the elders had no choice but to agree to his price. The islands prospered with the new ships. Trade flowed faster than ever before, and young folk stopped going to sea. A new generation of children were born, and some of them wished to take to the sea. Reading the books and star-charts of their grandparents, they built ships and took to sea. But they could not compete with the automatic ships, and no one would sell them goods to transport, and so the children returned home and broke their ships down for timberwood, and followed the paths of their parents. All this time, the wealthy family’s fortunes swelled. They congratulated the son for his plans. “What is next?” they asked. And the son came up with a plan.

EIGHTEEN The ships were used inefficiently, he decided. They were wasting space on some goods. The son raised the fees on some goods—things that few people needed, or that went to outlying islands at the poles. The ships stopped carrying these items, and traveled less to far-out islands, and the family’s fortunes rose even more. The son sold more things to the wealthiest islands—computers, and weapons, and technology far beyond their capabilities to invent. One of the children, the idealistic ones who had tried to take to sea, lived on a remote island, far out. She watched as the traffic in her island’s harbor slowly dried up. She watched as food became more expensive, as the cloth her family wove piled up in their house, for they had no one to sell it to. She watched as her fathers became despondent, as her younger siblings eyes grew heavy as they contemplated a future for themselves that did not exist, as the medicine for her youngest sibling’s health grew more and more expensive, and she was filled with anger. What little news she got from the other islands was often bad—weapons led to wars more destructive than there had ever been before, and the number of people that went without grew. So she gathered her friends, her lovers. They found the nautical charts, the blueprints, the books they had abandoned as idealistic children faced with failure. They built themselves a ship and the woman who had started it all was their captain. She took the cloth her family had woven and turned it into sails. They went on the offensive this time. They sailed over the seas, raiding ships. It was foolish really—the automatic ships had no crew, and so no one to defend their goods. There was an alarm system, of course, but the captain and her crew were always quick enough to be away when someone came to investigate. They sailed across Neris, bringing the goods they had taken to the outlying islands. From those islands they took the rarer goods, and brought them across the seas. They took the technology that went to the rich, and brought it to those who would use it to help their communities. And people saw them, especially children, and looked up at them. And those children followed them to sea, discovering the old ship plans and routes, and began to sail once more.

The Sailors of Neris The wealthy family, especially the son, saw this, and grew angry. From the skies, they watched the captain and her crew, and the son came down and landed on their ship to speak to the captain. He tried to placate her. “I see now that I was unfair,” he said, though privately he thought about the numbers, missing a few digits from usual, that had flowed into his family’s accounts. “I will change the ship orders, lower the fees again. Trade will flow again to outlying islands. You need not steal from my ships any longer.” He promised himself that he would find a way to profit off of this. The captain considered this. “No,” she said. The son stared at her in disbelief. “No?” “No,” the captain said again. The son’s face clouded with rage. “You dare to defy me? I offer you a gift, your little people, your planet, gifts beyond your wildest dreams, and I get no gratitude in return? I have made you prosperous!” His fists were bunched in anger, and the captain frowned at him. “You destroyed our culture,” she told him. “Our people have lost the seas. We lived happily before you were here. Now we squat on our islands, hoarding wealth like you. Our children do not experience the wildness of the open sea. So no, I do not thank you. And further, I promise you. If you do not get off this planet, and take your ships with you, you will regret it.” The son fumed, and went back to his family to deliver the captain’s ultimatum. They laughed at him. “You need not listen,” they said. “Their ships are made of wood and canvas—we are better than them.” Next time the captain and her crew raided a ship, they met automatic gun turrets that caught them unawares. Both the captain’s partners, along with her best friend, died in the onslaught, and many, including the captain were wounded. A bandage around her head, the captain wept over the bodies, and stood at the prow of the ship as they were dropped into the sea. Her one remaining eye fixed on the horizon, smoldering with anger. They returned to land, to one of the islands where they had delivered goods before. Included in those goods had been technology, and the captain found someone, a person barely into adulthood, who understood it. They were instantly adopted by the crew, who affectionately called them “the kid.” They didn’t mind.

EIGHTEEN The next time the crew came upon the ship, the kid tapped into its signals, its code. The captain didn’t understand what they did, but she watched as one by one, the gun turrets sagged. The crew took the goods that were on the ship and sank it. This continued, and the wealthy family from space ground their teeth and told the son to do better. He began to look haggard, as more people of Neris took to the seas. Those that didn’t sink his ships took them, sailing the seas themselves, dismantling the alarm systems and improving them for the use of people. Their ships were better and faster than ever before, but the people crewed them themselves, and made their own decisions. Eventually the family came to the son. “We are leaving this planet,” they said. “Your ships have failed. We are losing wealth to this place.” The son protested, but he was overruled. And the people of Neris continued to sail the seas of their planet.

Title of Story

Ky hammers the last nail into the door hinge. They step back and

swing it in a clean arc. “Ky! Oh you’ve done a wonderful job.” Ky turns. Behind them is Ms. Fellis, her arms full of food and decorations. They rush to help her, taking the cake tray and a bag full of streamers. “That door’s never hung right since the earthquake, what, thirty years ago? Of course the teams came around to fix everything—even fixed my garden hose, which hadn’t worked right before the quake, hah!—but they did just an awful job on that door. I guess shop class was worse in those days.” “Thirty years ago?” Ky sets the cake down on the hall table. “Ms. Fellis, do you have tape? I can start hanging these streamers.” She gestures. “It’s over there, hon. And was it thirty years ago? You’re how old?” Ky has the tape roll in their mouth as they tape one end of the streamer to the corner of the room. “Eighteen,” they say, slightly muffled.

EIGHTEEN Ms. Fellis, who is arranging food on the table, shakes her head and whistles. “Must have been forty years then. Goodness how time flies. Have you found a university you like? Or community job training?” Ky nods. “Larkin University, I think. They’ve got a good engineering program.” “And you’ll be close enough to visit Ellie and Julia and the baby! I mean unless—” She stops, then shakes her head. “You know my kids, they went off to school so far! Good for ‘em—Lex really did need to stretch their legs—but I do wish they’d been closer to me.” “Mom, are you nattering on at Ky again?” Allie, Ms. Fellis’ second child pooks their head around the door carrying an enormous jug of punch. “Ky, is she bothering you?” Ky flushes. “What? No! Not at—” Allie pats them on the shoulder. “Joking!” Ms. Fellis scowls. “I hope you were, for your sake.” She shoots Ky a wink. There’s a knock at the door. Allie opens it to reveal Matthew, one of their partners. He holds a wrapped gift in his hands. “Am I early? Sorry, the train from my neighborhood through the city was running on delays all of yesterday—they’re trying to fix the schedule again—so I thought it would be better to be earlier than late.” Allie glances at the clock on the wall. “Only half an hour or so.” They grin at the look on Matthew’s face. “It’s fine! You can help us set up. I’ve no idea why they keep shifting the train schedules like that.” “They’re just trying to find the best way to set it up,” Matthew says. He holds out his gift. “Uh—where should I put this? And what can I help with?” “This can be the gift table.” Ky pulls a reusable index card and marker out of their pocket and labels it. “And will you help me get chairs? We have to get them from my house.” Ky and Matthew walk across the lawn to Ky’s house. In the distance, the neighborhood tram clucks along softly on its wheels. “Are you worried about your mom having another baby at her age?” Matthew asks. Then he backtracks. “At your age I mean. Ah—are you excited? I remember, when my little brother was born I was really annoyed that he got all the attention. “ Ky opens the door, not looking at Matthew. “Yeah. I think it might be weird—everyone I know has siblings close in age. But I can help out, and

The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back I don’t think I’ll be mad about the attention.” They change topics abruptly. “The extra chairs are downstairs.” Matthew accepts the subject change. “Congratulations on graduating, by the way. Your mom said you wanted to study engineering, right?” Ky picks up folding chairs, two in each arm. “I liked math in school, even if it’ll be hard in university. And I figure even if I don’t like it, there’s always other options.” “True that.” They both head upstairs and across the lawn to Ms. Fellis’ house. “You know,” Matthew says, “options in the community are so much better now. They didn’t have all the art programs when I was your age. I would have loved to paint one of those murals in the square.” “Why is everyone lecturing Ky about the past?” Allie asks, taking a chair from Matthew and setting it up in the living room. “There’s still a thousand things to set up!” People begin to arrive. Ky recognizes most of them—people from the neighborhood and surrounding neighborhoods, from his mom’s knitting circle and his mama’s roller skating classes, old friends from university who they’ve met once or twice or recognize from old photos. Ms. Fellis’ living room is full of voices, of new people meeting one another and old friends who haven’t seen one another in awhile reuniting and catching up. People snack on chips and cookies and drink punch and soda. As they walk through the crowd, Ky catches snippets of conversation—a successful job change—someone’s art being shown in a city gallery—excitement over a new healthier and more fruitful plant to grow in gardens. Someone enthusiastically explains plans to rebuild a neighbor’s house after a fire. Allie comes up to Ky, who’s just finished yet another conversation about their university prospects. “Your moms should be back soon right?” Allie asks as Ky’s conversation partner goes off to get more punch. Ky nods. “They sent me a message—there was a holdup at the clinic. Something about the doctor running late.” Allie flashes a relieved smile. “Oh good! Well, I hope they get here soon. People are starting to eye the cake.” Ky’s stomach twists, but they smile back. The conversation grows strained—it can be heard in the timbre of the conversing voices, which keep going even as they run out of things to distract them. More people cast gazes toward the windows.

EIGHTEEN Ky checks the time and then turns to the room. “Hey everyone!” People turn to them and hush their voices. “My moms should be here soon—there was just an issue at the doctor. It’s nothing to do with them. Sorry you have to wait.” The room seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief, though people only go as far as to assure that it’s no problem at all. Not long later, the soft clatter of the tram tracks interrupts it. Ky’s head shoots up. A moment later two figures, one heavily pregnant, cross the lawn. Ky goes and opens the door before the figures are even at it. “Everything all right?” Allie calls. “Sorry,” Ellie, Ky’s mom, says. “There was such a line at the clinic—the doctor comes in from the city and they’re experimenting with the schedules again, so they were late, and everyone else got held up.” Julia, Ky’s mama, supports Ellie’s arm as she walks up the steps. “Ultrasound pictures!” she says, holding up strips of grainy photos. The guests have gathered behind Ky. There’s a babble of hellos and congratulations and oh the baby’s getting so big. Ky guides their moms through the crowd and helps Ellie sit. “Let her breathe!” they say. “Mom, do you want anything to eat?” They get their mom a huge plate of food. Both Ellie and Julia are taking avidly with friends, catching up and accepting congratulations and showing off the pictures, but Ellie stops to devour her food. “Loren, did you make this quiche?” she says? “It’s marvelous.” Loren, one of her friends from knitting, chuckles. “It’s my great-uncle’s recipe. Though I’m not sure a hungry pregnant woman is the best judge of taste.” Other people chime in to tell Loren that his cooking is absolutely marvelous. Julia holds up a hand. “Everyone, we need to thank Ms. Fellis for letting us use her house. Ours, I’m afraid, is completely covered in stuff for the baby.” There’s a round of laughs and appreciative claps for Ms. Fellis. Ky loads a plate with food and stands by Julia’s chair to eat. “What are you going to name the baby?” someone asks. “Oh we’re not telling anyone. It’s a secret.” Ky swallows their mouthful of brownie and smiles smugly. “I know, but I’m not telling anyone.”

The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back Allie claps their hands. “Oh, that’s one of our games! Do people want to get to the games?” After a murmur of assent spreads across the room, Allie gets pens and paper. “Everyone’s going to guess the baby’s name. Write it on paper and put it in this jar. Once the baby is born, whoever is right wins.” “What do we win?” Matthew calls from the back of the room. “Bragging rights,” says Julia. “And our appreciation of your smarts.” “And who knows, if we like the name you write, we might even change the baby’s name after they’re born,” Ellie says wickedly. Everyone laughs. “That’s not true!” Julia protests. Everyone begins to debate names with the people around them, writing on the slips of paper. Ky has a thought. “If the baby wants to change their name when they’re older then we could keep the jar as options.” “Rupert? Mom, that’s a terrible name!” Allie shrieks. “Never mind,” says Ky. “I’m not having a sibling named Rupert.” The party continues, with more games and talk—eventually they break into the cake which is from Merrin’s Bakery and thus fantastic. At around four o’clock, people start to peel off to catch trains to the city, to go back to their neighborhoods. Ky’s exhausted, but cleanup isn’t too bad, especially since the last few to leave helped out a bit: took out the trash, or gathered up some plates to be washed, or helped pack the gifts into a bag for Ky and their moms to carry back to their house. Ellie slumps into a chair. “We can open those tomorrow. Let’s order dinner.” They order food from a nearby restaurant: the person who delivers it is one of Ky’s classmates, and they exchange a few words as she hands them the food. They sit down to eat. After a few minutes of tired silence, Ky speaks up. “Was everything okay at the checkup, really?” Ellie sighs. “I’m not that old. Yes, everything was fine at the checkup.” Ky looks a little chastised. “Everyone was really worried at the shower— they were pretending not to be, but I could really tell.” Julia puts her head in her hands. “We told them to go ahead with the shower so they would stop worrying!” “I feel like it did help,” Ky says. “People had fun, I think.” “I forgot how obsessed people are with ultrasound pictures,” Ellie says. She grins at Ky. “Yours were many years ago.”

EIGHTEEN

Ky’s baby sister is born on the day of the summer festival, two weeks early. Ky and their friends are in the city, helping set up for the celebration. Ky and Brian, one of their friends, are in the middle of helping an elderly person set up a fruit stand when Ky’s phone rings. It’s Julia. “Mama?” Ky asks. “The baby’s coming.” Julia is breathless, and in the background is the sound of engine and wheels. “We’re on the way to the hospital.”w Ky’s heart hammers. Two weeks. “I’m on the way.” They look at Brian. “It’s your sibling?” he asks. They nod. He makes a shooing gesture. “I’ll finish this, and tell the coordinator where you went.” Thankfully, the train schedules have been fixed, and they run smoother than they did before the disruption. Ky is on a train to the hospital, the city below them turning into a blur beneath the quiet clicking of the highspeed train. Once there, they tell their name to the man working the front desk, and are shown to a room. The nurse asks if they’d like to gown up and see the birth—Ky nods. Ellie is in the middle of a contraction when they come in. When it subsides, they hug her sweaty shoulders. “How’s the setup for the festival?” she asks, breathing heavily. “Mom, it’s fine. I’m sorry you’re missing it.” She gives a little shrug. “There’s one every year.” Another contraction begins, and she groans. “It’s good luck for it to be your sibling’s birthday,” Julia says. A doctor comes into the room and checks in with the nurse, who is about to administer the epidural. As she leaves, Ky follows her. “Two weeks early isn’t dangerous, right?” “Sorry?” the doctor says. “I mean, for the baby. It should be fine, right? That they’re born early? Not—dangerous?” Understanding flashes across the doctor’s face. “No—two weeks early is a perfectly healthy window. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Ellie labors for hours. Eventually, Julia urges Ky to take a walk. They decide to go get her some food. As they’re looking over the map of the building, they ask the man at the front desk a question.

The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back “Why was the hospital built on top of a library?” The man laughs. “Other way around, friend. Even when I was young, they hadn’t cured so many diseases. Now all the wards are smaller—they only really need room to treat emergencies and childbirth. Guess they thought they’d make use of the space. My dad was on the committee that set up the library, you know.” Ky thanks him and makes their way to the cafeteria. Along the way they try to use his words to reassure themself. They’ve read books about the past, and written in the past, where people died in childbirth, where babies did. Babies still get hurt though, a nasty little voice whispers in their ear. They do the breathing exercise they were taught in elementary school. Rarely. It’s rare. When they come back, there are several doctors in the room, talking quickly and quietly. Julia is standing by Ellie’s shoulder, stroking her head. “Mom? Mama? What’s going on?” Ky sets the food down and hurries to stand next to their parents. Julia takes their hand and squeezes it. “We don’t know, honey. They’ll tell us in a sec.” The doctor Ky spoke to before hurries over. “Friends,” she says. “We’re going to have to do an emergency C-section. The baby has turned, and the umbilical cord has wrapped around their throat.” Two nurses are already wheeling Ellie out of the room. Ky feels their mother’s grip around their hand tighten. “Doctor Ephram, will—” Julia can’t finish her sentence. “We’ve had these cases before, and they turn out fine most of the time,” the doctor says. Ky meets her gaze. “Most of the time?” “We’re going to do our best,” says the doctor. They’re shown to a room to wait. All in all, it takes maybe thirty minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. Ky is gripping Julia’s hand just as tightly as she’s gripping theirs. Dread like acid drips slowly into the pit of their stomach. “Mama,” they say. “What if—what if it goes wrong?” They see Julia swallow hard. “It’s not going to come to that,” she says. Ky feels like a child again, when every question was serious. “But what if it does?”

EIGHTEEN “Ky, stop asking.” Julia closes her eyes. “If—at least—they’ll still be— contributing to the community. They won’t—be in pain. The ones who—they aren’t in pain.” After that, they wait in tense silence. The door cracks open and there’s the sound of a baby crying from across the hall. Ky’s shoulders loosen, just a fraction. They and Julia hurry, nearly run, across the hall. Doctor Ephram stands there, holding a tiny, screaming baby. “We ran scans,” she says. “She’s healthy.” A sob issues from Julia as she takes her newborn daughter from the doctor’s arms. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Ky stands by Ellie’s bed. Her eyelids flutter, and she murmurs wordlessly. “She’s waking up from the anesthesia,” says Doctor Ephram. “She’ll be ok.” “Ky? Want to hold her? Support her head, remember.” Ky takes their sister, a tiny scrap of humanity, supporting her head in one of their hands. She’s quieted in Julia’s arms, so she just stares up at them with big brown eyes. Ky knows that she’s too young to really focus on anything, but they still feel like her gaze is focused intensely on them. Distantly, they hear Ellie waking up, and turn to give her the baby. The doctor asks what the baby’s name is. Ellie answers. “Evelyn.”

As summer turns to fall, Ky sends Larkin university an email. They won’t be attending the engineering program. They get a polite reply from their counselor that there’s always space for them in the future, and that Larkin has other fields to explore if they’re interested. When their parents ask why, Ky just says they’ve reconsidered, and want to spend more time near home. Julia nods understandingly—she didn’t start her job as a street sweeper until she was twenty. Now, of course, she and Ellie are both on parental leave. Ky helps with Evelyn, and with all the laundry she produces, and the neighbors are always coming by to bring them food and help with household chores. When Ms. Fellis hears about Ky’s decision, or really lack thereof, she approves. “Good for kids to change their minds,” she says. “Take your time to figure it out.”

The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back Plenty of Ky’s friends have stayed in the community too—they often go together to work. Sometimes it’s sanitation, or they join the street sweepers, or repairing buildings, or painting murals. Once, they help an artist, who turns out to be an old friend of Ellie’s and inquires how the baby’s doing, to put together a stained-glass window for the library. On days when they’re not working though, Ky often goes to the basement of the city hall. Beneath the place where regularly elected committee members meet to discuss the workings of the city, how to best help its people. They walk along the rows of beds. The room isn’t so big. Not many are born to spend their lives here, but enough. Ky is not permitted to touch, of course, and they don’t want to. Hands at their sides, they walk the length of the room and back. White-robed caretakers give them polite nods that Ky doesn’t return. The caretakers are used to that, though. At home, Evelyn begins to be able to coo and smile. They give her “tummy time,” where she lies on her stomach to strengthen her muscles. Ky will crouch down by her crib and make funny faces at her during tummy time. They help out with her feeding as well—Julie and Ellie worry that Ky will feel like a parent, but they don’t mind. Ky argues that they’re younger, better at staying up late, so they can feed her from a bottle while their mothers get much-needed rest. A month passes, then two, and she can laugh, and baby-talk. Ky likes to monologue at her, talking about their day, about her, about nothing, just an endless flow of words, which seems to fascinate her. “Are you considering child-care as a job?” Julia asks one night as they eat a mean, this one from Mr. Chen next door. “You’re so good with Evelyn.” “I hadn’t, actually,” says Ky. “But—I was considering training to be a caretaker. Under City Hall.” Ellie’s eyes widen. “Really—I mean, it’s a valuable job. But so difficult.” “I know,” Ky says. “I’ve been thinking about it for the past couple months.” They look down at their plate. “Since Evvy was born.” “Oh,” says Julia, quietly.

Ky starts training, part-time, so they can be at home to help out with Evelyn. Ellie and Julia protest, once again not wanting Ky to be a parent, but seeing Ky’s joy as they hold Evvy helps calm them down, along with Ky’s simple insistence.

EIGHTEEN The training is a lot like nurse training—at first, Ky does train alongside nurses, but then they and the few others who are training with them, split off. Learning things like how to maintain the specific machines that are used, how to monitor the electrodes. Ky gets to know the people in their class. There are only three others— Christine, Aanika, and Naod. Christine is an older woman who wanted to change jobs. “I’m not that great with people,” she says, “but I like to care for them.” Aanika is just trying this out, like they’ve tried out a handful of other jobs already. Naod, like Ky, doesn’t say why he’s there. Their teacher is a bright, jovial person named Sasha. They seem to enjoy their work, and Ky suspects that’s part of the reason they were chosen to teach. Sasha’s a good teacher though. Ky isn’t great at hands-on work, but Sasha is patient with them, reminding them what the readouts mean, how to position the wires on the dummy, how to monitor levels of painkiller, and Ky learns. Training only takes a few months. They’re still considered in-training after that, but they get to work, under Sasha’s supervision. The weekend before, the four of them go out to have drinks. Christine and Aanika go off to dance, so Ky and Naod sit together in the booth. “My brother’s in there,” says Naod, seemingly out of the blue. “What?” Ky stops, their bottle in mid-air. “My brother,” Naod repeats. “He’s one of the…patients.” That’s what they all call them, patients, though always with a pause before it. “Oh,” says Ky. “I’m sorry.” Naod brushes it off. “Why’re you here?” “What?” “I told you why I’m here. Why are you?” “I didn’t realize—that this was some sort of—exchange.” Ky struggles for the word, for the concept. Naod backs off. “Sorry. I’m a little drunk. You don’t have to tell me. It’s just—a hard subject, you know.” Ky lets out a breath. “Yeah. Sorry, I shouldn’t have been—accusatory. It’s okay. My sister—she’s not one of the patients, she’s more than six months old, but—we were afraid she would be one. My mom was old when she had her, which—y’know—increases the chances, and there were complications with birth—and it just hit me, I guess.” Naod takes a sip and swallows. “I get it. We’re doing what we can, right?”

The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back Ky’s careful not to drink too much—they need to feed Evvy when they get home. Every place that serves alcohol is required to be near a train, so it’s an easy ride home. They transfer from the train to the tram, where they’re one of a few passengers. One of them turns out to be Allie. Ky makes their way over to them. “Oh, hi Ky,” says Allie. They gesture to the seat next to them. “You can sit, if you want.” Ky sits. “Why were you in the city this late?” Allie waves a hand. “Oh, you know. Just kind of didn’t realize the time. What’s been new with you?” Ky takes the hint. “I was out getting a drink with some friends. We’re officially starting work next week, so we wanted to celebrate.” Allie nods approvingly. “My mom mentioned you’d settled on something. For the moment at least—no pressure. She didn’t say what you’d chosen though.” Ky bites their lip. “I’m training to be a caretaker.” Allie pauses. “Oh. Um, can I ask why?” Ky’s a little tipsy, but they still consider the question. “Sorry, it’s private.” They make a dismissive gesture. “No worries! You don’t have to explain. Um—though, I was visiting City Hall tonight. The basement, I mean. I just—I don’t know what to make of it. What did you do, when you learned?” Ky doesn’t really know how to avoid answering. “I cried, I think. For like, a day. Then I think I got over it.” Allie looks at them searchingly. “Did you—can you really, get over it?” Ky realizes they don’t know, but they don’t know how to say that. “Why are you on the train to my neighborhood?” Allie tenses, then relaxes. “I’m going to see my mom now, hang around for a couple days. She says she’s lonely for her kids, even with all you lovely neighbors, and I can’t refuse. My brother says he might come back for a visit.” The tram comes to their housing cluster, and they get off and bid one another good night. Ky goes inside and picks up Evvy, who’s just waking up for her feeding. They sit on the couch and feed her, rocking slowly. She grabs their finger with one of her tiny hands and waves it around. They wonder when Ellie and Julia are going to tell her. They told Ky when they were eight, so they’ll probably do the same for Evvy. She’s growing so fast, and yet it seems an awful long way off.

EIGHTEEN

Aanika leaves the basement of City Hall for good after the first week. “I just can’t do it,” they say. Sasha tells the remaining three that it isn’t uncommon, that they won’t begrudge them from doing the same. Ky feels the urge to leave, but they quash it. They turn, wash, move unresisting bodies. Replace catheters. Monitor painkillers. Read and chart outputs. For the first month they ask Sasha a lot of questions, unsure of themself, but they grow more confident and experienced, able to adjust subtle levels themselves. Naod and Christine are doing much the same. Until, two months in, the machines in front of Naod start to whistle and beep. He stands back, frozen, as Sasha rushes over. They fiddle with the controls, adjust some of the stimulant electrodes, and the beeping stops. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Naod is saying, over and over. “Take a deep breath,” Sasha says. “With me.” They start a deep breath, an inhale then an exhale, and Naod follows suit, his shoulders loosening. “It’s alright,” Sasha says. “Everyone makes mistakes, yeah?” Naod nods. “Just remember, our patients are delicate. Every increment is smaller than you think. Do you want to take a break?” Naod nods again. After a moment, he turns out the door to the break room, stripping off his gloves. Ky’s finished with the patient in front of them, so they follow. Naod is sitting on a chair, head in his hands. “You okay?” Ky asks. “Can’t believe I was so stupid. I don’t even know if I can do this crap. How have you never fucked up.” “Naod.” Ky puts a note of sympathy into their voice. “Everyone makes mistakes. I’ve made them, they just never made the machines beep. It happens.” Naod covers his face with his hands. “I want to quit.” Ky sighs. “If you really want to. But one mistake doesn’t—make or break you.” “I really can’t do this. I can’t. What if—what if the one I almost—what if that was my brother? I could have murdered my own brother.” The word murdered comes out as a sob. “Hey, hey. Can I give you a hug?” Naod nods, and Ky puts their arms around him. “You’re caring for them. For your brother. I bet you know which one he is, don’t you? Or have a guess?” They can tell skin color, sex,

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The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back and often that’s enough. “You can be extra careful with him. You made one mistake, that didn’t end up going badly.” They release him. He straightens and looks them in the eye. “How would you feel if it was your baby sister, huh? Evelyn right?” Ky’s response is a stammer. “You care for her right? Feed her. But she’s gonna grow up.” Ky is speechless, their chest constricted. After a moment, Naod shakes his head. “I’m going home.” He takes his coat and stalks out the door.

On their day off, Ky decides to take Evvy on a trip around the city. The doctor recommends it, to get her used to more lights and sounds and people. They carry her on their chest and take her to the library, the parks. They introduce her to some of the people they know, who are absolutely charmed. They’re walking to the train, to go home, and then they turn, and walk a different route, and find themselves in front of City Hall. They go around the back, take the stairway to the basement. Evvy is too young to understand, but the want her to see it anyway. When they go down the stairs they see a man and a little girl, maybe ten. They don’t notice when Ky and Evvy come in. “Some kids are born wrong,” the man says. “Not like you.” He’s crouched down, meeting the girl’s eyes. “There’s something wrong with them. And the doctors know that—” “How?” the girl interjects. “With scans, and with medical knowledge. If you become a doctor you’ll learn. But listen, this is important. So important I don’t want you to tell anyone, okay? Remember, It’s not a secret—your friends know, but they don’t talk about it. But some kids are born wrong, and when they are, they come here. They get cared for by the caretakers”—he points to someone in a white robe—“and they’re very valuable.” “Why?” The man starts to explain, but he doesn’t really know. Ky didn’t really know, before they started caretaker training, and they still feel as though they’re missing something, like something inside them is shrouded in darkness. The outputs, the wires, it’s all so complex.

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EIGHTEEN “They keep us happy,” the man says, finally. “They’re the reason we live in such a happy place, and are always healthy and safe and cared for and respected.” The little girl’s lip begins to tremble. “How? Baba, I don’t get it.” “Come look at one,” the man says. He straightens, and leads her to one of the beds, the thing that lies on it. The spindly legs, the slack mouth, the closed eyes, the sunken chest. The thousands of wires that feed into it, the electrodes across its body, the beeping machines around it. The little girl bursts into tears and buries her face in her father’s side. “Make it go away!” she wails. “I want to go.” The man picks her up, though she’s a little old for it. “Zahra,” he says. “It’s okay, let’s go home. We can have ice cream with dinner.” She doesn’t stop crying, and he carries her out of the room, nodding politely at Ky. They stand still, looking at the bodies on the beds. Evvy, prompted by the sound of another child crying, has started to cry too, and they take her out of the carrier and bounce her, as they walk up the steps and into the sunlight. Outside, they make faces at her until she stops crying. They board the train and transfer to the tram home. When Ellie and Julia ask where they and Evvy went, Ky just tells them the park, the library, the market. They tell them about the friend who was so charmed by Evvy—her tiny feet!—and don’t mention the basement of City Hall.

Naod doesn’t come to work the next day. Or the next. Ky asks after him. “He walked away,” Sasha says. “He quit?” “I mean, yeah, but he walked away.” Ky catches the words, their meaning. Walked away. Left the city, the neighborhoods, the farmland around it. Not on a train, not for another city. Simply walked out, to a place no one knows. Ky nods quietly, and puts on their gloves to begin work.

Ky becomes a full caretaker, no need to be watched by Sasha. Evvy takes her first steps, and says her first word—“Ky”doesn’t count—which is “train.”

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The Ones Who Leave Will Come Back Ellie decides to switch jobs, easing out of her role as an architect and into a new one as an artist. “Architecture is just regimented art,” she says. She illustrates book covers for the printing press of the city. Ky moves into a house with some of their friends, but they’re still at home all the time, to see Evvy. They’re eating cookies Julia’s made for dessert, and Ellie suggests taking some to Ms. Fellis. Ky puts them on a dish and crosses the yard to Ms. Fellis’ house. They stop short when they see both her and Allie standing on the front stoop. “Um—my mama made cookies,” they say. “Do you want some? Or are you going somewhere—should I put them inside?” “That’s nice of you Ky,” Ms. Fellis says. “But maybe offer them to Mr. Chen, or Natalie and Wren. We’re leaving.” Disquiet rises in Ky. “You can just—put them inside for later?” They see the purpose in elderly mother and grown child. Holding the plate of cookies, they back away slowly, as Ms. Fellis and Allie cross their lawn, and the tram tracks, and walk away. “Are you okay?” Ellie’s voice is worried. Ky sets the cookies down numbly. “They walked away. Ms. Fellis, and Allie.” Their chest heaves and they sink onto the couch, not quite crying, but not calm. “Ky, shush, you’ll wake Evvy.” They’d already put her to bed for the night. Julia sits next to them. Ky puts their face in their hands and tries to breathe. “I can’t—I can’t bear it. Can’t do it.” Ellie sits on their other side, and a note of fear has crept into her voice. “Ky, don’t—” “Mom, no. I’m not going to leave. I just—I don’t know what to do. I just feel like this and I can’t stop.” Their parents embrace them wordlessly, and Ky falls silent, their shoulders still heaving. When their breath—if not their mind—calms, Julia says, “How about you take a few weeks off work? You can stay with us, if you want. Get a break.” Ky nods. “Okay.” Their break is good. They spend a lot of time with Evvy, watching her toddle around and giggle and talk in her strange baby language. She adores

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them, and loves screaming their name when she sees them every morning over her baby food. They spend time with their friends too—play games with their housemates, go swimming, see a concert in the park. Their plan of university feels so far off—they like where they are. They’re happy. And so, when they’re ready, chest mostly light, they go back to work. They take pleasure, comfort in it—the turning of the bodies to prevent sores, the washing, the adjusting of painkillers. They feel as though, in caring for the things—the bodies—the people on those beds, they care for the city.

Years will slip by. Evvy will get so big, so fast. She will start school. Ky will force themself not to hear about anyone else who leaves, and so they will live happily. They’ll take the night shift. Someone has to, and someone always does. And it isn’t too bad. There’s not much to do, since most of the care gets done during the day. So Ky will be standing by the bed of a male with the same brown skin as Naod when a harsh voice will whisper from the darkness. Ky will turn, startled, and Naod, a little dirty, his clothing different, less polished, will walk out of the shadow of the stairwell. “Naod,” Ky will whisper. “How—where—why are you here?” “I didn’t know it would be you,” Naod will whisper back, even though there is no one around to hear him. There are no cameras, no police here. “What do you want?” “I will not hurt you,” Naod will say, no longer whispering. “But I will not hesitate to push you aside.” “What?” Ky will be bewildered. “We’ve come to free them,” Naod will say. “Care for them, really. Not the way you do.” “We?” Ky will simply parrot his words. Naod will walk up the steps, open the door. Faces stare in—Allie will be there. So many Ky doesn’t know. All will be a little dirty, a little worse for wear, but stand with straight backs, clear gazes. “What—what is this?” Ky’s tongue will feel heavy.

The Ones WhoEIGHTEEN Leave Will Come Back “Ky, please, for me. Think about it,” Naod will say. “For Evvy.” That will get Ky’s attention. “A world where people suffer—that’s no place for her to live.” Ky will swallow. “They don’t suffer. We give them—painkiller—” “Suffering is not only pain.” Naod will take a step toward Ky; they will take a step back. “Imagine it was her, on that bed,” Naod will say. “Look at it, imagine.” Ky will look at the bed and try—try their hardest, and Evvy, her chest sunken, her legs like sticks, her mouth dribbling drool, will stare up at them, and they will recoil and blink, and it will be Naod’s brother again. They will fight, still. “This keeps her safe—happy—secure,” they will say. “Says who?” Naod will respond. “You know how it works—they are not responsible for everything. We—you and me and so many before us built this ourselves.” Ky’s chest will constrict, try to step out of their body. “I don’t know that we can do better,” they will say. “Not on our own.” Naod will hold their gaze. “Any world, without this, will be the better for it. Tell me it isn’t true.” Ky will not be able to tell them it isn’t true. Naod will continue. “We”—he will gesture to those behind him—“are building a world like that. We may look dirty, we may look less. But we do not have this.” And he will stare at the body behind Ky. Ky will take a step to the side. “You want to—free them? Take them?” Naod will nod. “We have the equipment to safely carry them, to wake them up, to teach them to live. To stop the process forever.” Ky will stare at Naod hard, and the thing in their chest will begin to blossom. “Promise me,” they will say. “Promise me we can build a better world. For Evvy, for my moms, for my friends, my neighbors. For everyone.” Naod will promise, and he and Ky will begin to unplug the machines.

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Title of Story

I brainstormed this letter while playing the game Celeste. Some IRL

Celeste lore: some trans people played the game and went “hey, the storyline seems kind of like it’s about being trans.” At the Summit, the final level of the base game, the clouds that propel you—and the part of you that you’ve been running from and fighting against—are blue, pink, and white, for goodness sakes. Soon after the game’s release, the lead developer Maddy Thorson came out as trans. The things we make are so personal. Every little bit is an inside joke, a detail no one else will ever see or care about, something deliberate that seems effortless. Maddy Thorson came out as trans, and confirmed that the main character of Celeste, Madeline, is trans. How much of the game was deliberate? How much of the transness was something she put in there deliberately, and how much was simply there? I’m not trying to speculate about the personal life of someone I don’t know. My point is: what is it to make something, something that represents

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EIGHTEEN you at a point in time, a place where your world turns on one of its vertices to reveal a new facet, and have that mean something to other people? Very few people are going to read this—even fewer are going to read this note, probably. If you are reading this, hi. I appreciate it. This book represents a space in time. The space before I turn eighteen, before I’m an adult. Will I look back on this volume? What will I think? “Witches of the Night,” which holds up despite the fact that it was written when I was fourteen. The only good thing to ever come out of my ninth grade English class, unless you count my burning rage at the whole of high school. So lesbian, so tragic —the story, not the school thing. “Dragonfly,” written at fifteen, maybe sixteen. The story that could allow me to call myself an award-winning author. Kind of shallow, in my opinion. Not bad, a nice device used, but a sort of dull critique of capitalism. “Sk8er,” written for a dear internet friend, and “Death, Unreversed” written for a podcast that never happened. Both a riff on fantasy tropes—what if a faerie talked in skater-speak instead of thee-thou-medieval talk. What if you drew the Death tarot, and instead of just heightening the tension of the climax even though the tarot-person said it didn’t actually mean death, you actually fucking died. “Those Who Leave Will Come Back,” the last 5000 words of it written from the hours of midnight to 4 am, something produced in this first year of college because “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” and its pastiches and responses will not leave my brain. How will I remember these things—ninth grade, the summer of 2020, this first year of college? When I graduate, at a mere two decades, I will likely be my only audience. The year 2024 is both so very close and very nonexistent. I cannot help but muse about the way the things we make are a frozen version of ourselves. Others may see them, but they won’t know them like we know them. There’s a beautiful kind of privacy in knowing that not many people will see this. I get to be my main audience, and I get to write exactly for myself. There is a countably infinite amount of numbers—natural ones, that is. And we can’t count infinite amounts of them but we can count a lifetime. What will come after Eighteen?

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