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Emma had been moving in since we started dating six months ago, one little object at a time—a chartreuse toothbrush sprouting out of the holder in my bathroom, a pair of olive tights draped over my headboard, a candy-lime phone charger coiled up behind the couch—so that by the time we agreed to officially cohabitate, there was not much more to be done, as she had been living a peripatetic life, couch surfing with various friends she kept at a distance from me. No furniture, a couple of suitcases, some potted plants. Actually, she had a surprising number of these for someone who had never rented or owned a place of her own.  All of them succulents.  And all of them super adorable. “I’m a succulent person,” she said, shrugging. I had never owned a pet before, nor cared for a plant, but I welcomed the change. “They don’t really need any water or anything,” she told me. “Just sunlight. They pull all their moisture out of the air.” Which explains why they were spread out across the windowsill and my multipurpose table and crowding the side tables by the couch—the sunniest spots in our cramped four rooms near campus. But a few days later, when I was loofahing my naked body in the shower a shiver of revulsion ran through me upon noticing the Minion-like green domes ogling me from the shower caddy with the goggle-eyed nodules that beaded their bodies.  “I thought your plants didn’t need a lot of moisture,” I said, dripping wet in the doorway. “Hmm? Oh, you mean the guys in the shower? Not them, they’re super thirsty,” she said, glancing up from her laptop screen. The next day I dug a prickly globe topped with a scarlet floral bow out from beneath the dust bunny wasteland beneath our bed. “I thought these things need sunlight.”  “Well, that one lives off dust,” the succulent person said through a mouthful of wintergreen toothpaste. I returned it to its sunless dust bowl. Another one, my favorite of hers—sorry; ours —a bouquet of fanciful fluted tubes, was placed in the closet beside a pile of Emma’s colorful t-shirts, which I noticed after a time had started to fade from bright neon to pastel. “Oh, don’t move those, babe,” she said when she came upon me shifting the t-shirts away from the coral-like plant. I noted that all the unexposed areas of the shirt were still just as bright as before. “That little fella lives off color.” “Say what?” Her glasses flashed. “Did I stutter?” Then she laughed. I was living in a desert landscape of waxy leaves and luscious blooms and dusty tendrils, but it was by no means unpleasant—anyway, being surrounded by flora is supposed to be therapeutic. However, in this arid environment, my skin began to itch and flake. “Hmm, I wonder if I’m allergic to our plants,” I said, noting the squamous, angry appearance of my wrist. “Lemme see,” she said, setting her chopsticks down into a takeout Thai container from which every sliver of bamboo had been culled. “Ahh, yes. This happened to me at the beginning.” I coughed, from spice. “The beginning?” “The little guys are so thirsty, they just suck every drop out of the air. Strip,” she instructed, “and lie down.” As I obeyed she strode into the bathroom and returned with a large bottle of viscous liquid. “What are you doing?” “Aloe vera,” she said, straddling me, and with an obscene noise squirted a blast of cold gel onto my bare chest. “Extract from another succulent, natch. Fire with fire. Now be a good boy and lie still.” Then she leaned in and whispered into my ear, the back of my neck erupting in gooseflesh, “and after, I’ll let you rub it on me.” That night, my throat parched,I stumbled out of the bedroom and into the darkened kitchen for a glass of water, when I stepped in something mealy and cold. I leapt back and fumbled for the light switch. The ground was littered with coils and coils of orange tubes of Play-Doh, reminiscent of either fiddleheads or ammonites, I couldn’t decide which. I wet a paper towel and wiped the substance free of the arch of my foot and between my toes, then got down on my hands and knees, approaching the tight coils, sniffing. They had a fresh, sweet, medicinal smell, much like the aloe Emma and I had rubbed all over each other hours earlier. Now that I was studying them, I saw that the orange coils protruded from the nodules of the thick-leaved succulents Emma had spaced around the kitchen floor and counter. One of these tubes formed a line of communication between a nodule on one plant and the powdery lilac blossom of another. I can’t say why, but I found the substance revolting, so much so that I retreated back into the hallway, vigilant not to squash any more coils, and returned to bed without retrieving a drink. There, I lay awake for hours listening to the silent apartment, convinced I could actually hear the orifices of these plants evacuating the long tubes of this … stuff. “Take it from an ethnobotanist: It’s super normal,” Emma informed me in the morning when we ate our avocado toast in a transformed apartment. It looked as if someone had thrown a party in here last night, going hog wild with weird intestinal-like streamers, the coils and tubes festooning every surface. Prolific. Or, as it turned out, promiscuous. “They’re known as antherpods, just a means for the little ones to communicate and navigate their environment, and also an alternative method of reproduction.” “Woah, woah, woah. Two things. First, did you say navigation?” She nodded, smirking, and took a big bite of chewy toast, a dab of bright-green paste smeared along the side of her mouth. She hid her chewing with a hand. “Haven’t you noticed they move?” “Well, it’s hard to keep track of them all.” It had only been three weeks or so, but there must have been a hundred of these potted plants by now; when had she brought them all in? “But I figured you just hadn’t settled on their arrangement.” “No, no. The succulents decide.” She nodded sagely. “Okay. And two: these anther-things are— “Antherpods.” “Okay, right—antherpods; they’re part of the reproductive process?” “Don’t make that face!” she said, punching me jocularly on the shoulder. “Pollen is part of the reproductive process; so are gorgeous blossoms; so is yummy fruit”—another bite of toast here—“and yet those don’t gross you out.” “I never imagined quite how much I’d learn about plants when we started dating.” “Just wait, babe. Ain’t seen nothing yet.” “In the meantime should we clean up all these coils?” “Wait till this evening. They’re still in the active cycle. After a few more hours, the eversible proboscises will have become detached and turn powdery, then we can just sweep them up. Ooh, gotta hop to it: teaching an 8 am class today—mwah.” She gave me a gooey kiss. “Be back for lunch.” Though I wasn’t teaching that day, I went into the lab to do some edits on a paper, work I easily could have accomplished at home. For some reason, however, despite my healthy attitude towards pollen and fruit, I felt uncomfortable in our cramped apartment surrounded by the succulents’ antherpods; the things struck me as creepily lecherous. Emma and I arrived home only a few minutes apart, and we found that the vibrant color of the coiling tendrils had faded, all of them now completely dried out, leaving behind brittle veils of whitish-gray that turned to dust at the faintest breath. I swept up and dusted while Emma made us egg and pepper tacos, a meal that later struck me as a celebration of fertility. After lunch we had another hour before Emma had to return to campus for a seminar, time we spent in bed doing the human version of antherpod exploration. I noticed for the first time a couple of quarter-sized scars right near the base of her scalp, one on each side. They looked surgical, and I thought it best not to pry. She would mention them in time when she felt comfortable. Still, I had kissed her neck so many times during foreplay over the past months, it was strange I hadn’t noticed them till now. I worked more on my paper when Emma went out. This time I stayed at home. Now that the antherpods had been cleaned up, I felt a bit silly about how weirded out I had been over them earlier. A few hours writing and reading articles, another hour jogging, the day was well spent. Emma texted around five that she was grabbing drinks with some colleagues. I didn’t want to come hang, did I? Thanks,   I get my fill of ethnobotany at home , I texted back.  Made a pot of puttanesca for us and when she came home humming and smelling of gin an hour later we fattened ourselves up and Netflixed till bedtime in the growing sageland that was our home. Throughout the evening Emma was constantly on her phone, texting with “no one important.” Before we had sex that night, she put on a pair of green stockings I’d never seen her wear before. And even with the lights out, I noticed those scars on her neck. Also on the sides of her breasts, and secreted away on her inner thighs. I can’t explain how, but the small circular scars drove me crazy. I couldn’t stop ... attending to them, and Emma, her body slick with sweat, had never been more vocal, never seemed so feral. After she had fallen asleep, and I was lying there, my inner eye replaying exquisite scenes from the evening, my phone lit up in the darkness. I reached for it, focused on the screen, then furrowed my brow at the unusual background.  Duh, it was Emma’s phone. The text from someone named Steve, telling her that he would leave his spare key in the mailbox.  And also that he was super-excited.  That was all, and despite all the missing pieces in the conversation (no, I did not open her phone and read the entire text thread) I knew that Emma was moving on, moving in with another guy.  I collapsed back on the bed, my mind reeling, my eyes pulsing in time with my crushed heart. Steve? Who? It was too sudden. How could she? What had I done? I thought we were so good together, laughing, loving. We had a life together, a horde of hundreds of little green children. I had to wake her up, hear it from her own mouth, convince her she was making a mistake.  But I didn’t get the chance. I felt a sharp pinch at the base of my neck, then my chest and groin. I couldn’t see anything in the dark, but I reached towards my nipples and felt the tubes, the antherpods burrowing into my flesh, exuding a cooling aloe-like substance at the puncture marks. To numb the pain, apparently. Whatever it was doing, these proboscises numbed more than the pain, for suddenly I felt no sense of regret about Emma and I, nor did I panic at the sight of all these tubes coiled over my body. If anything, I felt I wanted to reach out and squeeze Emma’s hand, to enjoy this euphoric experience with her. *** In the morning, Emma was gone. So were her toothbrush and tights and phone charger. So were the lion’s share of the succulents.  She did leave me a couple, and it’s a good thing too, because one thing I’ve definitely taken away from our time together is that, like Emma, I’m also a succulent person.

I buried my mom last week, and her first leaf emerged this morning. The green limb blinked out of the dirt bed. The directions on her packaging dictated the watering routine. In an auburn pot, I interred into the dirt a single seed, sort of a kidney bean or fetus, which was not the typical size, but bigger. Correct soil and proper pH gathered in this earth womb, my grow-light adjusted to the optimal distance (10 inches as per my 30-watt bulb) from the tentative green tendril. I hadn’t cried when my mom passed. My family chalked it up to shock. True, her death diverged from the way I anticipated. Too soon, fast, and not enough weepy, hospital-sentimental hand-holding. Scientific advancements proved literally fruitful for this issue. I enfolded a sample of my mother’s DNA, a lock of hair and 1-centimetre square of skin salvaged from the corpse, and mailed it to Morsanito™. Within a month the seed arrived in a bubbled pouch in the post. She germinated in a baggie with a moistened paper towel while I sculpted her nest. I watered my mom twice a day and sat each morning with a steaming tea watching the baby leaf wobble gently. Thin green fingers pointed up and leaves stretched out and branched into elephant ears. Yellow flowers yawned on the vines between the leafy continents. The fruit grew resembling a melon-sized bean, and kept going. When my siblings came and saw the thing coming from the pot on the table they said what the fuck, and I observed yes, I know I need a larger table. The fruit and the vine of the mother-plant grew too fast, and I didn’t think I wanted to put her on the floor. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable with that. The enormous mother of baby fruit took up most of the dining table. The DNA was good and the face forming beneath the phylo-film resembled not a child, but my dear mother as I remember her from faded photos of her youth. The organic bag around the GMO baby then sucked directly to her veggie flesh, adhering to her and becoming her skin. When her skin started to go pink, her eyes opened. She didn’t cry. Wastefully, though, I had to reject that one. She had no hands and a blunted nose. You know how when you grow produce, some will go to the chickens or compost because of lumps? The first couple mom-children went that way—my mom but wonky, like a Roma tomato with bruises, warts and blotches. I didn’t have chickens. I knew others with veggie kids that came out lousy. They leaked and smelled bad after a while. Some grew a fine fuzz. Cheeks too large, eyes too tiny, arms a funny length. I composted each until I got a pristine mom, receiving packages and trying again, again. I raised this young girl, who was my mom, but I couldn’t wait for her to be my mom. I needed her advice—should I buy or rent? Should I get married to him ? Should my taxes go into the interest-free saving account, or something? So I told the young girl all the things I remembered my mom telling me, because then she would be on the same page when she finally was mom-age to give me advice. Her skin glowed a greenish undertone. Her voice sounded like wind through the leaves of trees. Her eyes were wrong, but with too many moms composted already, all fermenting into fertilizer, I kept her. The bright, cold green orbs departed from the warm tree bark hue of my mother’s eyes. This one’s resemblance to my mother, and, I guess, by extension, me, was otherwise perfect. She grew with leaves on her head, which needed plenty of sunshine. They were thick and veined. She enjoyed sitting and soaking in the warm rays, and I read her favorite books to her, American Dirt, Where the Crawdads Sing and All My Puny Sorrows. She asked me for paints, and I told her no. My mother never painted, in fact, she held painters in contempt, preferring musicians. My new mom nodded. She nodded. I woke up on a Wednesday, saw the dull sun on the floor, and I finally felt her death. That woman who died, who fell one day, she  was my mother. The plant mom in my kitchen, watching as I taught her how she used to cook Kraft Dinner exactly the way I liked, that was someone else. None of the experiences my mom actually lived through would be contained in this young girl. She couldn’t be the star piano player at school; she couldn’t meet my dad, John Mackenzie, in 2015; I couldn’t put her through the pandemic as a teenager. The logistics would be impossible. My mom was dead. I laid on the couch watching plant-mom. She held the umbilical vine, connected to her belly button. Her long hair clung, creeping on her shoulders. She would soon be the age she died. Crows-feet dabbled about the corners of her eyes, and her lips pursed like two raisins. But this creature was too quiet, too uninterested in celebrity gossip, apathetic to my poor dating choices, bored by Deepak Chopra and the divine feminine. I winced and I winced again. I kept wincing. I took a shower and I got out hot and relaxed, but the next moment my head throbbed a dull pain like a church bell. Was I on the ground? I had fallen. I saw my mom looming over me mouthing words. My name? Her lips pressed into an M and opened and then again closed to another M. She cut the vine with a pair of shears. The ceiling changed colours and the sun spun fast making all the shadows whirl. I got out of the hospital with my mom holding my hand. The next couple weeks I couldn’t do anything. My mom turned out great at motherhood—she came into herself again, a new harvest. Vegetable mom wasn’t meat mom, but she brought me food. I couldn’t get up much. How wrinkled, shriveled and rotten I had become. I checked the mirror, like surveying the fridge. Week-old produce dripping and shrinking. But mom takes care of me. She brings meals. With dumb serenity, she brought me to bed. Mom tucked me in with studied action, a perfect reenactment of when I was a child. She stood at the door frame, looking at me, silhouetted against the light of the hallway. She held the frame. She was like a child holding the hem of her parent’s coat. Then she left, and the light flicked off. Florence Bews [she/they] is a trans writer from Treaty 7 land, near Longview, Alberta. She grew up a rancher, got an MA from the University of Calgary in English literature, and works at a bookshop. She’s reading “The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis” by Lydia Davis, and is online as @catmilkremedies

During those first awful weeks in March, when rumors swirled that the city was about to go into lockdown and the wealthy clogged bridges and tunnels, headed for second homes in Vermont and the Hamptons, Myles and Nora decided to adopt a dog. “What do you think about this one?” Nora asked, tracing a polished fingernail across her phone. Two wine-stained glasses rested on the coffee table. Myles glanced up from his own screen. He’d only been half-listening, scrolling through the Times  in a futile search for answers about the virus. A photo of a dog with anime-big eyes flashed in front of his nose. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want.” Myles’ hand lay on Nora’s knee, caressing it absently. Since the calendar flipped to March, he’d spent his days in a state of permanent distraction, his mind on other things. Flattening the curve. Super-spreader event. Zoom fatigue . They didn’t even know how  the virus spread, by what mysterious means it had managed to circumnavigate the globe and bring the entire world to a grinding halt. Myles and Nora had decided to shelter-in-place at his apartment in Park Slope because he didn’t have a roommate and his place was a palace compared to the one-bedroom Nora shared in the Village. The stay-at-home order would only last a week, two at most, they had reasoned. Now they were entering their fourth week of endless breaking news alerts, of shuttered offices and restaurants, of having nowhere to be and no one to see—all demands and constraints on their time utterly, magically erased. Nora wanted a project, something to distract them from the world falling down around them. “I looked into it,” she said. “There’s this shelter in Williamsburg that does this foster-to-adopt trial. The whole thing’s only three weeks. And then, at the end, you can keep the dog or return them if it isn’t working out. The application’s on their website.” “You think we’re gonna be locked down that long?” Myles asked, though the answer seemed clear. A pervading sense that things might not so readily return to normal had crept into their lives, taking up residence on their crumb-littered couch like an unwanted guest. At first, lockdown felt like an unexpected, welcomed vacation. They slept in, remaining in bed until two or three in the afternoon, camping out as if it were a snow day and they were eight years old. In the evenings, they screwed, drank wine, and ordered Chinese, because it was the only place willing to deliver. They binged Tiger King , 30 Rock , Parks and Rec . “As long as it’s nothing too girly,” he declared. “Like a chihuahua. One of those dogs that fits in your purse.” Nora moved her knee, dislodging his hand. She lifted one finely plucked eyebrow, bringing the full power of her narrow, dark eyes to bear. God, she could have melted glass with that look. Her freckled complexion and red hair, the flush that got into her cheeks whenever she got worked up. The effect was terrifying and sexy at the same time. Myles wasn’t sure what caused him to make that crack about chihuahuas. Maybe it was the wine or the fact that he had grown up in the Midwest, where dogs only came in two sizes: big and bigger. “Well, what do you want then?” she asked. That was a larger question, one Myles wasn’t prepared to answer. He barely knew what he wanted when they ordered from #1 Asian Kitchen, which they’d had three times that week. Maybe that was why he’d said yes without even checking to see if his building allowed pets. It was easier to go along with what Nora wanted than try and decide things for himself. “I signed us up,” she said. “We should be getting a call from the shelter in a day or two.” Myles suffered a flicker of hesitation. Normally, he wouldn’t have said anything. Would have let Nora have her way. Maybe it was the wine. “It’s just…” He tried again. “Do you really think it’s…wise? Letting someone into our apartment with everything that’s going on?” “There’s a whole section on their website dedicated to safety and all the precautions they’re taking,” Nora said, not missing a beat. “I can show it to you if you’re worried. Okay?” It sounded like a challenge. “Okay.” Outside, the high keen of a siren screamed past, its lights momentarily turning the tree outside red. “Fire truck? Or ambulance?” “Ambulance, I think,” Myles said, straining toward the window. It was the fourth or fifth they’d heard in the past hour. It was getting hard to keep track. Nora poked her phone again, reached for her glass. “If nothing else, a dog’ll give us a legit reason to get out of the house, right?”    * The shelter worker who appeared at their apartment a week later wore beige socks with his Birkenstocks. Despite the latex gloves and mask that covered the lower half of his face, he bore a remarkable resemblance to Frank Zappa. Nora had wrapped a scarf around her face and Myles wore a bandana like an outlaw in a bad Western. A carton of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes waited on the counter. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said, leading a black, floppy-eared dog by a short leash into their apartment. “This is Roxie.” Myles and Nora shared a look. The dog was muzzled. “Don’t worry—she’s not dangerous,” Zappa explained, a smile lifting his mask. “It’s just, when presenting them with a new environment, we find it’s better to go slow and easy. Let ’em get acquainted. Do you mind if I show her around? Let her get a feel for the place?” “Sure, sure,” Nora said, making a small, fretful motion with her hands. “Wow. Nice place,” said the worker admiringly. He walked to the window. Across the street, the heads of trees were still bare, the sidewalks empty. “Your own little slice of heaven, am I right?” “Th—thank you,” Nora said, shooting Myles a who-is-this-guy?  look behind the man’s back. Myles shrugged. While his building had a doorman, it wasn’t much compared to the lavish apartments his co-workers rented in Chelsea. Not that he would be seeing them, or their apartments, any time soon. Overnight, New York had become a centrifuge, spitting friends far and wide, back to their parents’ basements in the suburbs. He followed the worker and Roxie into the hall, feeling oddly like a guest in his own home. “So, do you know what kind of dog she is?” he asked, hoping to distract the worker. “Oh, not one hundred percent, but she’s got some Rottie in her, that’s for sure.” They headed into the kitchen. “Maybe some pit bull.” “And has she been fostered before?” Myles said, brushing past the worker, whisking an opened cereal box from the counter. “Roxie here is one of our long-term residents. She’s been adopted a few times. Looked like the last one might stick, but then the owners wound up bringing her back.” The worker opened and closed one of the gleaming white cabinets, nodding appreciatively. Roxie’s long, whip-like tail was folded between her legs. She cowered behind Zappa, only agreeing to enter a room after he did. “Did the previous owners say why?” Nora asked. “Nope. They don’t have to, though it can be helpful if they give a reason.” “Have you been getting a lot of requests to adopt?” Nora worked as a food blogger and had been fortunate, like Myles, to continue her working life largely uninterrupted. Zappa shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe it. Busier than ever. Everyone wants to adopt now. You’re my second of six stops this afternoon.” They left the kitchen and entered the bedroom, Roxie’s nails clattering nervously on the parquet floors. “Being a no-kill shelter like we are, sure, it sounds great,” Zappa said, taking in Myles’ king-sized bed, built-in bookshelves, and guitar suspended on the wall. “But it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Sounds humane, but some of these dogs, they won’t ever get adopted. They have too many issues—from abuse and whatnot—and, of course, we can’t put ’em down. So, we have to pay to feed ’em and look after ’em the rest of their lives. All that, knowing they’re never going to have a home outside the shelter. It’s kinda sad, real— “Oops. Little accident there,” Zappa said, nodding to the growing puddle of urine on the floor. “Don’t worry. Totally normal. Just nervous is all.” “I’ll get some paper towels,” said Nora, disappearing into the kitchen. “She does pretty well off-leash—not that I’d recommend it,” said the worker, leading Roxie and Myles back to the living room. “We gave her breakfast,” he continued, dropping the leash into Myles’ hand. “She’s up to date on her shots, of course. Might be timid, real lethargic the first few days, ’til she gets used to her new environment.” “Sure, sure,” said Myles, nodding. “Is this your first pet?” Zappa asked, lowering himself to one knee and clicking the buckle that held the muzzle in place. “It’s mi—” Myles began. “But not mine!” Nora exclaimed, dropping a wet piece of paper towel she’d been holding pinched by a corner into the trash. “I had a dog growing up. In Jersey.” “Maybe just set out some water in a bowl for her,” said Zappa, gaining his feet again. Roxie’s tail remained firmly planted behind her haunches. “And don’t be surprised if she doesn’t show much interest in dinner. You have our number if you have any questions.” Zappa put his fists on his hips and fixed Roxie with a look. “You be a good girl now, ya hear?” “Thank you so  much,” said Nora, herding him toward the door. “We really appreciate it.” The worker gave them an it’s-no-problem wave before his frizzy mop of hair vanished behind the door. “That name,” Nora said the moment she replaced the bolt, “has to go.”    * Myles and Nora ran out of toilet paper several days into April. When she shouted from the bedroom that someone would have to go to the bodega, Myles bucked from his stool with such excitement, he nearly upset his tea. “I—I will! I mean, yeah…sure. I’ll see what they’ve got.” After six weeks, the apartment had begun to feel like being trapped in a car on a day with 100-degree heat. He had to get out, just for a few minutes—even if it meant possibly contracting the virus. By the time he gathered his keys, wallet, and mask, “Luna”—for Luna Park, one of Nora’s favorite places in the city—was already standing by the door. She waited while he snapped her harness around her impressively broad chest. Nora joined them, chewing a pen. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why the previous owners brought her back?” Nora had a point. Luna was so quiet, Myles sometimes forgot she was there until he got up to use the bathroom or make tea and she would rouse herself from the floor and come follow him, curious. She showed no interest in tug or fetch, even when Nora got down on the floor in her leggings and sweatshirt or bowled a tennis ball down the hall. When Nora performed her daily Yoga with Adrienne , Luna sat like a sphinx at the edge of her mat, watching, calmly waiting until she was done. “We adopted the most boring dog in the world,” she announced. “I don’t think it’s that strange,” Myles said, shrugging on his coat. “There are a bunch of people out of work right now. And a lot of people have left the city. Maybe they couldn’t afford the extra expense.” “Yeah,” said Nora doubtfully. She pushed her wide-frame glasses up. “What do you want for dinner tonight? Text me.” “All right,” said Myles, ushering Luna through the door. And then it happened, the words just rushing out. “Love y—I mean, uh, yeah, I’ll let you know.” He stopped as suddenly as if he’d stepped on a nail. “Okay. Bye.” The door swung shut behind him with a disheartening clank. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Myles descended the loud, echoing stairwell, Luna bouncing down the stairs at his side. All right. I love you? What had he been thinking? And was that even what he felt for Nora? Love? Up until five months ago, he loved everything about Nora: her eyes (big, brown), her laugh (infectious), her passion, and many causes (racial justice, reproductive and LGBTQIA rights, the environment, canvassing for third parties). She had joined the Women’s March and Occupy before it was broken up by officers with shields and billy clubs. Once, when he asked if she really believed in all those things, she leveled him with a look. “Why? Don’t you?” He supposed he did, and didn’t. Not enough to take to the streets. Not enough to march, to risk life and limb. Not enough to forsake his $4.50 morning latte, 401(k), and health insurance to join the makeshift camp of students and anarchists he passed each day on his way to Wall Street. Outside, the parked cars and sidewalks were glossy with rain. Unoccupied Ubers drifted past the park, one or two slowing until they saw he had Luna with him. It was only eight; still, you would have thought it was three or four in the morning. There was no one out, and those who were crossed the street to avoid him. During the mornings and afternoons, the world outside his apartment’s south-facing windows played like a silent film. But now that he was out, that he was part of it , everything moved and thundered around him. A hard reset to his senses. It was a joy to be present in his body again, to feel his tendons and joints moving congruously, blood sloshing through the tunnels of his veins. Was the intensity he felt because, for the past month and a half, he’d spent every waking minute with Nora? His only other human contact being work and his weekly calls to his parents back in St. Paul, assuring them he wasn’t dead? Was it because everything in his life felt tenuous and uncertain, the future turned slippery, and Nora was the only solid thing in his life? Or was it something else? Was there any way to tell? Maybe asking someone to move in after six months was  too soon—but then the pandemic had happened, and everything was moving so fast. What choice did they have? Myles considered himself a bit of a catch: He was thirty-four, a nice enough guy with good credit. He had a reliable job at a major bank whose ethics he repeatedly questioned, but nonetheless provided him with an ample salary and the promise of a comfortable retirement. If that weren’t enough, it wasn’t like he was un attractive: There was his height, his lithe, lean swimmer’s body and well-defined jaw. But he wasn’t striking in the way Nora was. They’d matched on Tinder a year after he moved to the city. They both promised the other they weren’t looking for anything serious. After a few casual hookups, she began inviting him to accompany her on random errands around the city. A trip to Home Depot or the Upper East Side to retrieve a dresser. Myles wasn’t sure when they crossed that porous line between convenience and dependence. Nora didn’t discuss her dating history other than to once remark that, during college, she’d been “kind of a slut.” “Really?” Myles fell back in his chair. He was decently drunk, just short of sloppy. “I mean—hey, no judgment. You do you.” “You didn’t sleep with every girl in your dorm?” Nora asked, loud enough that she could have been heard in Times Square. Her roommates were out. She’d thrown one of their T-shirts over the lamp, so the whole room was enveloped in a red glow. Myles scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean, no, I   didn’t. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.” “It’s—fine. I mean, I get it. You’ve got this whole”—she waxed a hand in his face—“pretentious-sad-boy thing going on. Of course—of course, you wouldn’t understand.” “Well, explain it to me then,” said Myles, leaning forward again, trying to hide his hurt. Nora, he was discovering, was full of unprompted, incisive remarks. She swirled the wine in her glass. For a moment, Myles was sure the night was over. That they’d spoiled it by bringing up something neither of them wanted to talk about. “I was pretty wild for a few years. Prone to ‘risk-taking’ and ‘dangerous, reckless behavior,’ according to my therapist. She was convinced I had a latent death wish. But I wouldn’t say there was anything latent about it.” Brown plants lined the fire escape. “Now, I realize, I was acting out because I didn’t care . If I got picked up at a party or someone pulled up to the curb while I was walking home. Did I want a ride? Sure, why not? Oh, you don’t have a condom? Fuck it. Who cares? Someone I never met until tonight offered me blow, or I went shoplifting, or took my girls on a drunken joyride? What did it matter? What if I took one too many sleeping pills just to see if I could do it? It was almost like a dare, you know? To see how far I could go, to see how much I could get away with.” All at once, Myles’ pleasant, buzzy-headed drunkenness became too much. He set his wine down on the crowded coffee table and didn’t touch it again. The apartment was too warm, the corners too dark. His mouth was suddenly cotton-ball dry. “Why?” Nora shrugged. “Fear drives us to do things we might’ve never considered doing, you know? Or to become someone we didn’t plan on being. And I didn’t like my life or who I was, anymore.” She drained the last of her wine. Her teeth were dyed red. “And, anyway, my dad, I told you he worked for the Transit Authority, right? He was downtown on 9/11. He was evacuating the South Tower when it collapsed. I was a junior in high school. That fucked me up pretty good, I’d say.” *** Toward the end of April, as Myles and Luna were leaving the park, a window across the street flew open, then another. By the time the light changed, the neighborhood was swollen with raucous applause and boisterous shouts. Someone somewhere down the block blasted an air horn. Children on stoops screamed at the top of their tiny lungs. The echo of pots rung with spoons, clanging bells, and cars laying on their horns completed the ensemble. Luna’s ears went flat. Myles instinctively led her to the curb and placed a calming hand on her back. During their daily excursions through Prospect Park, crisscrossing its sloping lawns and rolling woodlands, she often plowed ahead, straining at her harness, or trotted gamely at his side. Only when a sudden noise startled her—the slam of a delivery truck’s rolling door or the honk of an impatient driver—did she draw close, plastering herself against his leg as if she were trying to crawl inside his pocket. Myles may not have had Nora’s childhood know-how, but he had learned to read Luna’s moods like a twinge in the knee. “It’s okay, girl. It’s just seven o’clock. That’s all.” Within minutes, the last of the die-hards closed their windows and doors and went back inside. The cacophony faded. “That wasn’t so bad, was it now, Loon?” Myles cooed. Luna’s head bobbed with each stride, but her ears were still pressed against the side of her massive head. “Almost home, Luney-Tuney. Almost there.” If Luna sensed she was nearing home, that she recognized the trees stuck in the sidewalk like candles in a cake, the stoops and garden apartments that lined their approach, she showed no indication. She pulled at her leash, drawing Myles’ arm taut, like a bloodhound with its nose to the ground. He had to jog to keep her from dragging him along. A thought flared in a dim corner of his brain: As much as she kept him sane and he kept her safe—from raccoons big as boulders, cars barreling through red lights, four-year-old daredevils on scooters—she was still an animal, with animal instincts. The tension in the leash was a stark reminder of Luna’s awesome strength. It came to him, perhaps for the very first time, that if he truly needed to control her, he wasn’t sure he could. She was over a hundred pounds of pure muscle and confused breeding. They were less than a block away, the crosswalk beckoning them with its solid WALK signal. Coming toward them was a woman in a billowing skirt, tote slung from her shoulder. Myles barely registered her, concentrating as he was on getting Luna home. After they passed, the woman spun, giving them a startled, uncertain look. When Myles returned to this moment later, just as he was slipping down into the dark waters of sleep, he couldn’t decide what it was he saw. There were too many variables: it was dusk; he was distracted; they were both walking quickly. Still, he couldn’t dispel the uneasy sense that Luna did exactly what he feared she had. Snapped at the woman’s skirt, catching the flapping parachute of fabric between her bared teeth for an instant before letting go. *** The George Floyd protests began in May. Police helicopters boomed over Flatbush, Fort Greene, Barclays, the unmistakable thwup-thwup-thwup of their blades stretching from afternoon into evening. They hovered over the park for hours at a time and Myles began to feel, in a small way, what people in a war zone must feel like. Nora paced the apartment like a caged cat, her outrage compounding with every shaky cell phone video of the NYPD pepper-spraying bystanders, attacking people with their hands up, pulling women down by their hair—undeterred by the presence of journalists and hundreds of smartphones recording their every move. The next morning, she joined Myles at the kitchen island in a Mets baseball cap and running shoes. “I need you to watch Loon today,” she said. “I won’t have my phone with me.” He glanced up from his own phone, from images of last night’s demonstrations. Police with shields. Young men in beaters galloping down an empty avenue, bandanas knotted over their faces. An overturned, fire-scorched police cruiser on Flatbush. “There’s another protest today,” she said. Myles hadn’t had his morning tea. The world was still coming to him in slow-moving waves. “Do you really think going to a protest is”—he fumbled for the right word—“a good idea? There was looting in Midtown last night. And now there’s a curfew.” He splashed his spoon into his cereal. “Besides, aren’t you working today?” Nora smirked and, in that instant, he glimpsed something—a look of such revulsion—you would have thought he was the one battering protestors with his bike or chasing people down with a billy club. “I’ll have my mom write me a note, so I can play hooky. God. Are you for real right now? Do you not see what’s going on? The world is going up in flames and you want to sit on the sideline!” Luna’s ears, hearing the anger in Nora’s voice, rolled back, but she didn’t move her chin from her paws. “What I   see is that we’re in the middle of a global health crisis,” said Myles, surprised by how defensive he sounded. “There’s civil unrest. The idiot just tweeted he’s ready to deploy the military—” Nora and Myles had begun referring to the president exclusively as “the idiot,” as in “You’ll never believe what the idiot said now.” “But the economy!” they would cry whenever the idiot did something indefensible, an almost daily occurrence. It had become a shorthand between them, an inside joke they began to use for everything. “I just mean, do you think it’s—safe? With COVID and everything else?” What he really meant was, did Nora think she would be safe among a writhing, roiling press of angry strangers who might find themselves subjected to tear gas, rubber bullets, and sound cannons? Whose exercise of their constitutional rights could descend into a melee in a matter of seconds? There would be other women there, certainly, but men, too, to say nothing of the officers looking for any opportunity to mete out their brand of justice, regardless of sex or size. “What choice do we have?” she asked. “It’ll be fine. I’ve been reading message boards. As long as you keep your mask on, the risk of transmission is relatively low.” He guffawed. “What about the police ?” “I’ve been reading up on that, too. The ACLU says not to bring your phone—or keep it on airplane mode. And if you’re arrested, not to unlock it.” Myles shrank in his stool. He was awed by Nora’s courage, and his own cowardice. “No, you’re right,” he sputtered, glancing down into his bowl, unable to meet Nora’s eyes. “Besides, someone should be here, to keep an eye on Loon. And I’ve got work, a big presentation actually— “Besides,” he said, unleashing a grin, “someone’ll have to be here to post bail.” Nora lifted her arm, shot back her sleeve. A string of digits were Sharpied to her wrist. The number for the local legal aid office. “Don’t worry. If I only get one phone call, it won’t be you.” *** When Myles exited his building’s marble lobby with Luna in tow, he discovered a day laden with sunshine. The prospect of an hour or two away from the apartment—away from his laptop, away from the ceaseless dinging of new Slack messages and emails about things he really didn’t care much about—filled him with a vague sense of promise. True to her word, Nora had left her phone and so he hadn’t heard whether she’d made it to the protest safely, if she still was safe. Nora could take care of herself, he knew. She’d be fine, or she wouldn’t. There was nothing he could do about it now. After a brutal winter that lingered on through April and into May, the day was shaping up to be one of the nicer ones they’d enjoyed all year. Luna appeared in agreement: she cantered at his side and they traveled down 7th at a robust clip. It was pleasantly, shockingly warm and, after only a block, he unzipped his sweatshirt. A block later, he took it off altogether, hurling it over his shoulder. He wondered if Nora had thought to bring water, if she’d remembered to bring sunblock. Myles was sweating beneath his T-shirt and it helped distract him from his guilt, as well as the ugly, unmistakable truth: namely, that Nora was far braver and more principled than he would ever be. He couldn’t explain, even to himself, why he’d been so hesitant to join her at the rally. He was afraid, sure. Of the virus. Of the simmering unease and potential for violence. But there was more to it, he felt. Did his hesitancy stem from the fact that he was secretly a bit…racist? Not only racist, but the worst kind of racist: the progressive kind? Nora, for her part, believed everyone was racist—Judge Judy, Beyoncé, even her father. In our society, it was impossible not to be. It was what you did  about it that mattered. He supposed, in the final analysis, that he hadn’t taken to the streets because he didn’t  need to. That alone spoke to his immense privilege, didn’t it? Demonstrating in support of another’s civil rights was optional, a luxury—not a matter of life and death, as it was for so many others. Without having meant to, Myles had arrived at the scene of the protest. He heard the rally long before he saw it. There were hundreds of people, perhaps thousands—more people than he had seen in any one place in months. The promenade was filled, spilling into the avenue and intersection. Endless bodies, a great roaring of voices. Some people held up signs. Others were chanting. On street corners and in bike lanes, people were drawn in the direction of the crowd, the din rising in the afternoon heat. “Does anyone need snacks?” someone shouted. “Water? Hand sanitizer?” Myles could feel Luna shrink beside him. He tightened his grip on her leash, keeping to the edge of the crowd. He felt like a lurker, an intruder. All these people who’d shown up for a cause larger than themselves. It simultaneously flooded him with hope and despair. There were some white people in attendance—more than he expected—but not enough. Not nearly enough. Myles felt Luna stretch to the very end of her leash, ready to cross the avenue when the light changed, but it didn’t matter. There were far too many people in the street for any vehicles or bikes. Instead, Myles turned toward the endless succession of faces and tried to glimpse Nora—a flip of red hair beneath a ball cap—tucked into the crowd. He waited, scanning the roiling, seething froth of humanity for her before giving up and heading home. *** Myles was slumped against the headboard, the shoebox where he kept his stash of weed cracked open beside him, when Nora appeared in the doorway, laptop riding on her hip. “You mind taking Loon out? I forgot I’m supposed to FaceTime with Nathalie at nine.” “What time is it now?” he asked. “Like, eight-fifty. I won’t have time before—wait. What are you doing? Were you smoking?” Myles made an exaggerated effort to nod toward the box, but wasn’t sure his head moved. Nora’s eyes narrowed to killer slits. “What have I told you about doing that in  bed? I hate when you smoke in bed! Our sheets and the duvet smell for, like, a week.” “…Do you have my phone?” Myles asked. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll just take her.” “No, no,” he said, uncrossing his ankles with forced concentration, then swung his feet to the floor. “I’ll do it.” “She pooped at lunch,” Nora said, her voice already floating down the hall. To Myles, it sounded as if it were coming to him from a distant mountain peak. It took him five minutes to fit Luna’s harness over her head and another five to figure out how to clip the leash to her harness. Luna stood by the door, waiting and watching him with infinite patience. By the time they got outside, there was a soft blush over the city. That fuzzy time between daylight and nightfall, just light enough that the streetlights haven’t come on yet. It felt like a hundred years and no time at all had passed since the night he took Luna to find toilet paper. This was what weed was for, he reminded himself with a giggle. Normal life was like being on speed—he needed something to come down. These days, a bowl before bed was just about the only way he could get to sleep. But maybe, tonight, he’d overdone it. His head felt impossibly heavy on his shoulders, and every sound—the single blast of a delivery bike horn, the thunk of a car door—was over-heightened, impossibly distinct. He spent such an inordinate amount of time watching a couple stroll, hands held, to their car, then back out, that he couldn’t be sure whether Luna had peed or not. So they continued on. Walking was like moving through a waking dream and, in the time it took them to reach the end of 11th, Myles went from high—what he would consider a pleasant, three- or four-beer buzz—to out-of-his-mind blitzed. Maybe he’d gotten some bad  bud. This was the last of his stash, the weed he had before the city shut down. His dealer was in TriBeCa. First thing he had to do when he got back to the apartment was find a new dealer. A local one. His thoughts were so loud, he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t been speaking them aloud. Where was his phone ? He might need it if something happened. If he needed to call 9-1-1. Fuck. Did he tell Nora where he was going? When he’d be back? Up ahead, a door painted the most mesmerizing blue swung open and a man emerged, descending the steps. All at once, Myles’ skull felt like a sack of marbles or the ball in one of those snow-globe compasses you stuck to your windshield, spinning dizzily. The man was coming toward them. As he approached, he gave Myles and Luna extra berth. Myles cocked his wrist in a wave, or thought he did. He felt like he was made of bubbles, every square inch of him. “Hey, you,” said a voice that both was and wasn’t inside Myles’ head. He turned, slowly. The man—short, combative-looking—was standing ten feet away, his face shining like a spotlight. “Where’s your mask?” “Oh.” Myles reached for his mouth and, in a nightmarish moment of terror, discovered his nose and chin completely exposed. “I said, ‘Where’s your mask?’” the man repeated, his voice rising toward a yell. “Sorry, I—” Talking was an effort. The words turned to gum in Myles’ mouth. “I forgot it.” Luna had gone rigid—Myles could feel the tension in the leash. He gave her a little tug and started walking. “Where’s your mask, asshole?” The man was screaming now, his voice carrying down the block. “WHERE IS IT?” The man’s feet clattered behind Myles. “HEY, ASSHOLE! I’M TALKING TO YOU!” The man’s face appeared at his shoulder like a jack-o-lantern. “DON’T—HEY, DON’T YOU DARE  WALK AWAY FROM ME!” The man yanked down his cloth mask, so he could shout directly into Myles’ face. “THERE ARE PEOPLE DYING IN THIS CITY! WHERE’S YOUR MASK, HUH? HUH, YOU FUCK ?” Luckily, about halfway down the block, right before the streetlights ignited above them, the man unexpectedly gave up. He was there—and then gone—so quickly that, for a moment, Myles wondered if he’d simply hallucinated the entire event. Nora glanced up from her laptop when he opened the door. “Just a second, Nath,” she said, removing an earbud. “Myles? Your phone’s on the counter.” *** Sunday. Myles was up early. After killing an hour thumbing through the news, waiting to see if Nora would wake, he saddled Luna with her harness and pocketed his keys. The park’s off-leash hours were from five to nine, and to stumble upon the Long Meadow with dogs standing in packs, running this way and that while their owners gathered in small huddles, leashes tucked under their arms, was like stumbling onto a New Yorker  cover. Myles discovered off-leash hours purely by accident; the first two or three times he and Loon participated, he decided against releasing her to run free with the other dogs. What if she bolted like an inmate outside a prison fence, tried to tree a squirrel half a mile away, or, worse, escaped the park entirely, running head-on into a city bus? LOST DOG posters plastered fence posts and light poles ringing the park. The last time he came, however, Myles stood off from the fracas of the dog party and cautiously unclamped her leash. She didn’t bolt. She didn’t do anything. “Go on,” he encouraged. “Go on. Run, play!” After several minutes, Luna eventually wandered a few paces from Myles and sniffed something in the grass, allowing an energetic border collie who galloped over to them to inspect her sex. There was a fair-sized crowd in the meadow today, though none of the owners were standing together. Nearest them, a labradoodle and an impressively groomed golden retriever were rolling around on the ground. A German shepherd with a stick between its teeth circled the congress of dogs, trying to entice others into chasing him. It was a regular cornucopia of city-dwelling canines: a Dachshund, beagle, several terriers and huskies, a corgi or two, a very rotund bulldog, mutts of all kinds. Their raucous chatter—excited barks, happy yips and yowls—echoed across the park. “All right, all right, Loon,” said Myles, trying to release her leash from the harness. “Just a sec. Okay, go.” Luna made a tentative beeline for the pack and was greeted by two or three dignitaries—a Frenchie and Pekinese—before being quickly sniffed and forgotten. After checking to see if he had any messages from Nora, Myles casually inspected the other dog owners. Fifteen feet away stood an aging hipster sporting a Catskills-rustic-meets-Goodwill outfit, his hair knotted in a greasy bun. He intended to keep a close eye on Luna, but was almost immediately distracted by the arrival of another dog owner. A bottle-blonde in a neon-pink sports bra and biking shorts, apparel that left very little to Myles’ considerable imagination. He let out the mental equivalent of a whistle. She was a bombshell, a real knockout, and he could feel the other men’s gazes stray from their charges or phone screens. A California transplant. Venice Beach or Palm Springs, if Myles were to guess. You didn’t get that kind of healthy glow in Omaha or Ames, or an apartment on the park, for that matter. Unless you were up on the roof with a towel every day, and it had been too cold for that. Myles was carefully observing the woman in the neon sports bra, the exquisite curve of her calves, when it happened. One moment, Luna was standing nose-to-nose with a boxer who had circled the crowd of thundering paws and twitching tails to approach her. The next, she launched herself at the newcomer and bit down on the other dog’s neck as if it were a jam-filled doughnut, locking her considerable jaws around the boxer’s throat like the chew toys she normally disdained. The boxer’s owner—a spindly man in hiking boots and a pine-green Patagonia vest—gave a panicked cry and bounded toward the animals. Myles was only half-aware of what was happening. He felt as if his brain had left his body somewhere below. When he came to—heart frozen in his chest, legs loaded with cement—he’d reached Luna, the boxer, and its owner and threw himself at Luna in a flying tackle, trying to dislodge her jaws from the dog’s neck. “Loon—Luna, stop!” he gasped. “STOP!” The other dogs and onlookers shrank away, aghast. Myles attempted, with little success, to grab a hold of Luna’s harness, to get control of her and drag her away from the boxer, but she was so much stronger than he had ever dared imagine. Her teeth—the same teeth she consented to let Nora brush with an oversized toothbrush and cinnamon-scented toothpaste—were so deep in the boxer’s neck that both animals were flecked with blood and Myles was terrified of what might happen once they removed her jaws. All he could see was the eggshell-white of her eyes. There was nothing in them he recognized. She was all feral animal, locked in a life-or-death struggle. At first, Myles believed the other owner might be bleeding, too, until he saw that his face was shining with snot and tears, not blood. The man wept as he struggled to separate the two animals. Myles managed to swing one leg over Luna, so he was standing astride her like a tiger wrangler, while the boxer’s owner kicked Luna in the chest with his hiking boot, hoping to wedge himself between the dogs’ muzzles. Luna’s grip on the boxer’s neck tightened with each blow and it occurred to Myles, the thought flashing across the sky of his panic-addled brain, that Luna might very well succeed in killing the other dog. Unless Myles or the other owner did something drastic, and quickly. It was like being caught in a storm, a furious hurricane of snarling teeth, claws, blood, fur. Impossible to get a good grip. “Grab his—collar,” the man panted. This was what did it. Myles reached for Luna’s collar and it was like unzipping a coat. Her jaws came unglued; he felt a bizarre pressure on his hand, his arm transformed into a white-hot bar of agony. The other owner wrapped the boxer in a bear hug, springing the dog free, and staggered a few short steps before collapsing to his knees, shoulders quaking with sobs. The first owners began to approach him. The bottle-blonde was gone. The remaining strength ran out of Myles’ legs. His sweatshirt and shorts were gloved in blood. He glanced down at his hand, inspecting it for damage, and felt a terrible, wet warmth. Luna, still without her leash, had gone off to stand by herself, like a pariah, head low, blood and saliva hanging in ribbons from her muzzle. Although he was in shock, Myles was able to wobble to his feet. He stumbled-shuffled toward Luna, who didn’t move, and snapped her leash onto her harness, unsure what he would have done if she chose to attack him or run. To his amazement, no one said anything to him as he trudged away, blood running in a torrent from his wounded hand, Luna’s leash lassoed around his good arm. Everyone was too shocked, too cowed, by the sudden, casual violence they had all just been witness to. He didn’t think about what he’d have to do. He wasn’t thinking at all. Only when he arrived outside his building and stupidly patted his pockets did he realize he’d lost his keys in the scrum. “Oh, my god—oh, my god! You’re bleeding!” Nora cried once she buzzed him in. Her face went white as bone. “You’ve got blood everywhere!” She darted down the hall and returned with a dish towel. “Jesus fuck. What happened ?” “There was a—a fight. With another dog.” His back and arms were one solid ache. Now that it was over, that all the adrenaline had drained from his body, he was utterly spent. “Here, here.” She took his wrist. “Hold it up. Elevate it. We’ve gotta—fuck—go to the hospital. Another dog bit you?” “No—not exactly.” Nora stopped, took a step back from him as if he were infectious. Did his mask come off? Had he put it on? He couldn’t remember. “ She  bit you?” “I was—no—she attacked another dog, and I was trying to separate them. I don’t think she realized what she was doing—” Nora placed a hand to her forehead, her color starting to return. “Luna bit you,” she said slowly. “No”—Myles felt as if he never expressed anything the right way—“it was an accident.” “An accident ? Dogs don’t accidentally bite someone! What about the other dog? The other owner?” “I—I don’t know.” Myles hand had soaked the dish towel and was dripping on the floor. “You left and didn’t—? Oh, god.” Nora turned in a small circle, her hand still pressed to her forehead. “Oh, god. They could sue  us. Oh, oh, that’s it! She’s going back to the shelter. Today.” Myles said the word so gently, he wasn’t even sure it came from him. “No? No, what?” “No, we’re not—we can’t bring her back.” Nora’s eyes bulged. “Look what she did to you! To your hand! You’re probably going to need stitches.” Nora walked one direction, then immediately back the other. “No. No, Myles. Absolutely not. I am not living with that—that thing —that dangerous animal in my house. No. You hear me?” Luna was standing in the living room, ears back, alert, as if she knew they were discussing her. Her leash hung from her harness. Nora moved slowly toward her and picked up the leash as if it were poisonous. “It’s me or the dog.” “No, no. You’re right,” Myles mumbled, the whole awful mess—their entire predicament—crashing down on him like a load of cement. She was right. Of course, she was right. In fact, he felt stupid for not having seen it before. “Come on,” she said, herding Luna toward the bathroom. She complied, her nails clicking on the floor, tail tucked between her muscular haunches. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she cooed. “Everything’s gonna be all right.” Once Luna was inside, Nora closed the door. Luna’s glistening black nose floated in the doorjamb, then vanished. While they waited for the Uber, Myles realized he wasn’t sure whether Nora had been talking to him or the dog. *** Later that summer—after everyone who fled the city has returned—Myles is walking along Van Brunt when he glimpses a halo of red hair beneath a Mets cap. No, he thinks, that can’t be Nora. Can it? She’s sitting outside a restaurant. She spots Luna first, then Myles, attached to her leash. “My god, Myles!” she cries, her face opening with surprise. “How are you?” She sets her margarita down and Myles suffers a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he is living a scene from his old life. Nora here, in his neighborhood. She asks how he’s been, her friend’s eyes—Nathalie, he remembers suddenly—flashing between the top of her Ray-Bans and the rim of her straw sunhat. “Have you been back? To the park, I mean?” Nora is wearing a navy jumper with pink flowers he hasn’t seen before. It looks good on her, he thinks. She  looks good. “How’s your hand?” “Oh—better,” he says, twisting it around for his own inspection. Although it’s been a month, the bruises on his arms and chest—continents of purple, ringed by yellow—haven’t fully faded. Luna pants in the heat. Once it becomes clear they won’t be continuing their walk, she drops her head onto her paws. “Does she have to wear that thing all the time?” she asks with a jut of her chin. “Only ’round other dogs.” He wedges a finger beneath the nylon muzzle and gives Luna a scratch. “How about you? How’ve you been? Seeing anyone?” Nora’s cheeks pinken. She’s been on a few dates—outdoors, of course, or on Zoom—but nothing serious. “Good for you,” he says, and means it. He has never felt all one way about their breakup. His feelings are a miasma, a confusing swirl of remorse, guilt, relief. “How’s work?” she asks cheerfully. The horn from the ferry carries over the row houses, the rusted, rambling warehouses several blocks distant. “Have you been back to the city?” “No. Quit, actually. I’m teaching now.” “Teaching? Really?” she says, unable to hide her surprise. “I never knew you wanted to teach. What subject?” “ESL,” he says with a long, embarrassed look at the ground. “Pays practically nothing, but…” “Long as it makes you happy,” Nora says. A dial of sunlight glints off a passing bus. For a single instant, everything—the sidewalk, Nora and Nathalie, Luna and Myles, the city, and everyone in it—seems new and sweet, etched in stark relief. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it does.” Joseph Pfier is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and holds an MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. He teaches fiction at Brooklyn Brainery and is the fiction editor at The Boiler Journal.  His work has appeared in publications such as Oyster River Pages, PANK, Juked,  and X-R-A-Y.

Remember Charlie Bischman? Ponytail science geek, used to watch us from the bleachers? Well, Stacie, guess who drunk-dialed me in August? And know what’s weird? I thought he was dead! Didn’t someone tell us that? Drove his Vespa off a cliff or into a tree or something? Anyway, it’s like 3 a.m. and I’m thinking I’m talking to a ghost, saying, Wow, Charlie , how are you? and he’s like, Stacey I ’ ve worshipped you since high school even though you were so cruel to me - and he’s completely wasted, right?  And then he says, So would you, like, have my baby?  I had to teach a Comp. Lit. section at 9 a.m., so I say, Gosh Charlie, that ’ s sweet—let ’ s sleep on it and you call me sometime, ‘K?  Next night he actually calls back—totally sober—and gives me this crazy pitch!  Turns out little not-so-dead Charlie is doing quite well for himself, and he says if I go through with this, I get a hundred and fifty grand plus medical expenses, no strings. So now I’m listening, right? He’s going on about options and contingencies, and I’m Googling him to see if he’s for real. No kidding, Charlie Bischman is totally famous! He patented these robotic surgical micro-tweezer things and now the guy’s loaded! I know! And how ’ re you planning to explain to people how you suddenly have a baby?  I say, kinda stalling for time ‘cuz my mind is really jammed up over this. And all business-casual, like he’s already thought of everything, he says, Oh, I ’ ll say I hooked up with a beautiful mysterious lady at a bar, we had consensual sex, and unbeknownst to me she got pregnant. One day I go out to my Tesla and there ’ s this baby strapped in the passenger seat, with a note, and so of course I do the right thing and raise it as my own.  Smart, right?  And I tell you, it started making sense—like, dollars and sense, you know? Hey, my thesis is totally stalled out—my advisor barely remembers my name, and how am I supposed to get a teaching job without his stupid recommendation? A hundred and fifty grand could even shut my parents up; What ’ s that Dad? What was I doing all year? I was growing a rich man ’ s child in my womb, Dad, that ’ s what!  Two nights later we’re having dinner at Charlie’s mansion, drinking this really nice merlot, and next thing I know we’re going at it in his ginormous bed! He looks so much better, by the way—the ponytail kind of suits him now—very entrepreneurial. And he definitely  got a personal trainer. And those teeth of his? They’re like, perfect now. Fertile Myrtle here gets knocked up on the first round!  Then a couple of weeks ago, at my eight-month check-up with the OB Charlie’s having me go to, who waddles into the waiting room but the rest of the Cooperville cheerleading squad! I hadn’t seen them in like twelve years, and suddenly there’s Marnie, Brenda, Haley and Francie, coming at me like a bunch of Bosu Balls, and we’re all, What the fuck?  The receptionist hands out fat new legal contracts—the original ones were just downloaded from LegalZoom, apparently—and takes us to this room where Charlie’s Zooming in on this huge screen. He reveals he’s making us each the same deal: the hundred and fifty grand tax free, but only one of the babies gets to be his heir. He’ll choose based on its Apgar score, cuteness potential and his own “visceral reaction” to its cry. The mom of the chosen kid gets a bonus hundred grand, a fat monthly stipend, and the suggested option of becoming Mrs. Charlie Bischman. Losers keep the babies, and a consolation trust fund, unless they opt for the lump sum buyout.  So I’m super pumped, because Marnie just had these scrawny little twins, which disqualified her (the contract excludes multiples-duh), and honestly, Brenda and Haley’s babies were pretty, well, meh. Francie is due any day, but with her weight gain, it’s gonna come stomping outta her like Big Foot. So I’m thinking I’m about to be a gazillionaire, and both Dad and my advisor can bite me.  And honestly, Stacie, I don’t know if I’ll marry Charlie. I mean, get real— he’s such a geeky little twerp, right? I do have standards for fuck’s sake.  R. C. Barajas’ writing and photography have appeared in such places as The Washington Post, Cleaver Magazine, Fatal Flaw, and Hole in the Head Review. She was thrilled to be a finalist in the Not Quite Write and Bath Flash Fiction contests. One of her favorite places on earth is a darkroom. But she likes the ocean, too. Especially the Pacific. R. C. is a Californian by birth and temperament, and a Virginian through transplant. She lives with her husband and two loopy dogs.

I’m five, holding my scooter in position at the front of our house. I’m staring down the driveway that stretches to the gate near the street when I hear the boom buzz of an airplane taking off. A new race begins. I push off the concrete and go, go, go . The wheels rumble over crackling leaves as the wind sends my hair flying behind me like a cape. I scream past scarlet flowers as I look up at the sky then back at the pavement – I’ve still got the lead. Push, breathe, push, breathe . I’m more than halfway when I glance up and watch the plane soar past me and I know I’ve lost. I screech to a stop. My heart kicks as I gulp down air. Then I turn around, walk the scooter back to the house, and ready myself for the next round. I will never tire of this game, even though I’ll never win. * I’m forty-one, sitting at my computer as I type the street name into Google Maps. I find Santa Monica Airport and I know I’m in the right area. I scroll left and right searching the virtual neighborhood until I find the fairytale house we all bought into. The Tudor construction of pointy roofs, dark frames, and white panels. The turreted column of windows along one side that spanned three stories – the mysterious attic at the top I was never allowed into, the second-floor bedroom where my parents slept next to an altar to foreign gurus, and the downstairs living room where my father sat in his cloth-bound recliner, a brown hooded robe draped around his body as he wolfed down the business section before work. I think of other memories. When I got a packet of carrot seeds in my McDonald’s Happy Meal and poured all of them into one hole I’d dug into the grass. I wondered for weeks why nothing ever sprouted. Or when I got roller skates from Santa, but spent most of the time breaking in my wrist guards as I crashed onto the pavement over and over. Or the evening Mom asked me to collect flowers for the dinner table, and I clipped some fuchsia blossoms from the bougainvillea bush that turned out to be all color but no fragrance. I’m trying to make this house about something other than that morning in March when Mom and I carried our suitcases down the driveway after a weekend trip up north. We opened the front door to a hollow echo. Stay here , Mom said in the entryway as she flicked on the lights one by one, the clack of her boots and swoosh of her skirt the only sounds piercing the thick quiet of the house. I remained frozen as instructed, but curiosity lured my eyes left into the living room. That’s when I noticed things were missing: the rosewood coffee table where I ate cereal before school, the Persian rug where I cuddled our Siamese cat until she was hissing to get away. And in the far corner, by the window next to the lamp, four tiny carpet indentations marked the place where my father’s recliner no longer stood. * I toggle back and forth around the front gate on the screen. I can’t access an angle to view the driveway. But in my mind I see the stretch of pavement, the curve right and then left, the side-lawn of flowers with no scent. And I imagine I’m there skating in circles and pulling up carrots because we didn’t move out in May, and my father stayed, and I won the race against the planes. Becs Tetley is a nonfiction writer and editor in Wellington, New Zealand. Her personal essays have appeared in The Spinoff, Reckon Review, Vagabond City Lit, Headland, and elsewhere. She is a member of the New Zealand Society of Authors and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Auckland University of Technology. She can be found online: @BecsTetley.

I’m eleven. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped. “Uncle Brendan? Are you up there? Sister Claire says now that you’re in heaven you can be my guardian angel.” I’m pretty sure it was drunk driving that sent Uncle Brendan to heaven, but I did not tell Sister Claire that part.  I go, “Sister Claire says you can look down and see all.” Which I think about every time I go to the bathroom.  “I have a birthday coming up. I’ve been pretty good lately. You may have noticed last Christmas I let the poor kids have the toys I didn’t want anymore.” I unclasp my hands. I get up off my knees. I suspect the angels, drunk or otherwise, never hear the likes of me. I yell downstairs, “Pop! Pop! For my birthday…? Do you think I’ll get a new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair?” Pop yells upstairs, “It’s nice to want things. Now go to bed, Bobby.” It’s nice  to want  things?  *** For my birthday, I get, a  slinky. A spaldeen. A board game called Diplomacy. Diplomacy ? You know what I think? I think we should give this  crap to the poor kids. Ma and Pop study my face. For reasons I cannot fathom, they did not expect me to be disappointed. I say, “But what about the new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair…? and a beard…? and kung fu grip?” Ma says, “G.I. Joe glorifies war.” “But on the box at Roy’s Toyland, it says G.I. Joe can go on scuba missions, jungle missions, he can climb the mountains of Nepal.” I pronounce it Nepple. ” “It also says only four dollars and ninety-nine cents.” Pop says, “If you really, really want one…” If ? “… you can earn  it.” Earn it? I know what that  means…  *** Scrubbing the toilet. Ma hands me a big fuzzy brush. I’m scrubbing that toilet bowl good when my little sister Maggie sticks her head into the bathroom. She goes, “I wanna help!” “Scrubbing the toilet is for smart  people!” “I’m smart!” “Scrubbing the toilet is for big  people!” “I‘m big!” “No, you are not ! I will always  be bigger than you and you will never be a man !” *** Two weeks later. I got a pocketful of quarters. Roy’s Toyland opens at 9. G.I. Joe waits on the shelf.  Lifelike fuzzy hair. And a beard. So he cannot possibly be mistaken for Ken. I grab the box and float up the aisle to the register, Roy accepts my pile of quarters, and I float back home, the boy who invented the world. That morning is a blur of scuba missions, jungle missions… kung fu grip… A quick break for Fluffernutters… But after Fluffernutters… I look for G.I. Joe. He’s not on top of my dresser, he’s not anywhere in my room, he’s not anywhere upstairs, he’s not anywhere downstairs…  “Maggie! Maggie!” She hollers, “I’m doing my chore!” “Where?” “The bathroom!” I walk down the stairs and down the hall and the closer I get to the bathroom…  I hear scrubbing.  I hear Maggie singing, “He’s got the whole world in his hands…” She’s on her knees in front of that filthy toilet. “He’s got the whole world in his hands…” She’s scrubbing. “He’s got the whole world…” She’s clutching G.I. Joe by his legs, scrubbing the toilet bowl with G.I. Joe’s lifelike fuzzy hair. I reach for G.I. Joe. and I guess I scream because now I’m being restrained and Ma tries to pry G.I. Joe out of my kung fu grip and then I’m writhing on the bathroom floor watching Ma deposit my beautiful brand-new hard-earned shit-covered G.I. Joe into the garbage.  I go, “Ma? I think I’m having a nightmare. Like that time I dreamed my dead turtle rose from the grave and tried to bite off my tinkle?” Maggie stands there looking down at me.  I go, “Maggie? I want you to know something. My life was much better before you were born. Every Saturday morning Pop used to walk me to the bakery to buy crumb buns. The day you entered this world, the crumb bun buying came to an end.” It crosses my mind that Uncle Brendan may be seeing all. But if Uncle Brendan has the power to intervene in human affairs, he’s clearly chosen not to. I open the garbage can, and take one last look. The lid slams shut. *** Ma says, “Bobby? We have a surprise for you!” “A surprise?” “Your godmother is here to sit for you. You always have fun with fun Cousin Mamie.” My godmother is anywheres between thirty-five and sixty. Fun ? I go, “I thought Cousin Mamie got married.” Ma says, “Hush now, Bobby.” “I thought Cousin Mamie sailed to Ireland.” “ Hush  now.” “I saw  Cousin Mamie get on a ship and sail away. We waved goodbye to her.” “We don’t talk  about that.” Now my godmother appears. She bellows, “Raaaaaahbit…” Don’t ask me why but that’s how she pronounces Robert . “Remember me? Fun Cousin Mamie?” We especially don’t talk about the fact that ever since fun Cousin Mamie sailed back  from Ireland, her head tilts all the way to one side. She says, “Your mommy says you lost your wee dollie.” I go, “He was more of an action figure…” “Well, you are lucky your godmother is here.” She’s got a big bag slung over her shoulder. She slaps that bag. “We are going to make  a wee dollie.” “That’s really  not necessary.” But now Cousin Mamie is sitting cross legged on the living room carpet, unpacking her bag. What can I do? I join her. Yarn. “Cousin Mamie, did you happen to bring this yarn back from Ireland?” “Who says I’ve been to Ireland?” “Nobody. Actually everybody . Scissors.  “Cousin Mamie, did you get married? “Who’d marry me ?” Thread.  “What happened to your neck?” “Never mind my neck. My neck’s always been like this.” “No it has not . Why would you even say that?” Scraps of cloth.  After a while, she says, “Now I  have a question for you . Do you know how to handle a bully?” “Do I know how to handle a bully?” “I’ll tell you how to handle a bully.” Stuffing.  “How do you handle a bully? “Kick him in the hiney.” “Kick him in the hiney?” “In the hiney. Fast. And hard. They never see it coming. And it can do a great deal of damage. Never forget that.” I will never  forget that. Between the two of us, me being eleven and Cousin Mamie with her crooked neck, it’s a miracle my rag doll looks anything remotely like a human being.  Buttons for eyes. Paint.  Cousin Mamie paints my rag doll a little smile. She paints a heart on his chest.  She says, “When you see that rag doll heart, you’ll always think of your godmother. And you’ll always remember the best  day.” The best day? She says, “Bobby? What shall we call him?” “Whatever.” She raises the rag doll’s arm, like he’s saluting. She says, “G.I. Patrick, reporting for duty.” *** I take the ugly thing outside. And God forbid any boy in the neighborhood walks by our front yard to witness this. G.I. Patrick. Climbing the mountains of Nepal on the front stoop. After a while, Cousin Mamie calls, “Raaaaaahbit…? Soda bread fresh out of the oven!” I bolt up the stoop to the kitchen and demolish a plate of warm buttered soda bread that Cousin Mamie may  have learned to bake from the family of her apparently vicious ex-husband in Ireland but that’s pure conjecture. But when I get back outside, here comes this older boy up the block. He’s got a long, pointy stick. He gets to our mailbox and smacks it a good one, then he stops. He spies G.I. Patrick lying in the front yard. Then he does something so strange that I still think about it. He takes that stick and stabs G.I. Patrick through his heart. He picks up G.I. Patrick and parades up the block, my rag doll on the end of a stick. When I’m pretty sure he’s out of earshot, I holler, “You’re a rat!” Cousin Mamie steps out on the stoop. “Robert, what are you screaming about?” “An older boy stoled my rag doll and he stabbed him through the heart with a stick and walked away with him and he is a rat !” “An older boy? Who was it?” I think about that. “Raahbit? Who was it?” “I think it was…” “Who?” “I think it was Jimmy Gannon.” Cousin Mamie whistles like Pop whistles when I tell him the Mets are down ten to nothing in the bottom of the ninth. “Jimmy Gannon? Of the thick-headed omadhaun Gannons up the block? Robert, are you sure?” Am  I sure? Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with Jimmy Gannon. I go, “Yes.” Now Cousin Mamie is strutting up the block. Apparently she’s gonna mess with Jimmy Gannon. *** By the time I reach Jimmy Gannon’s house, Cousin Mamie is having a little chat with Mr. Gannon. Mr. Gannon goes, “You mean to say…” Cousin Mamie goes, “I don’t mean  to say. I’m telling  you what your Jimmy did.” “Jimmy don’t steal little boys’ dollies. Your little boy’s got a sweet little imagination.” Cousin Mamie is waving a fist in Mr. Gannon’s face. “I’ll show you  a sweet little imagination.” “It’s threats, is it?” “It’s promises.” Mr. Gannon hollers, “Jimmy! Get over here!” Jimmy Gannon appears out of nowhere. Jimmy goes, “Yo, what’s up?” Mr. Gannon says, “Lemme ask you something. What did you do with this little boy’s dollie?” Jimmy’s looking at me. He goes, “Bobby’s dollie?” I go, “It was my sister’s  doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s  doll.” Jimmy goes, “Bobby, what are you talking about?” Cousin Mamie is waving that fist again. “What did you do with the wee dollie, you thick-headed omadhaun?” Jimmy’s all cool. “I didn’t do nothing. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Now Mr. Gannon is waving a fist. “Jimmy, if you’re lying…” “Why would I lie about something so stupid? Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with me. I don’t need to steal little girls’ dollies.” I go, “Jimmy, you know what you did.” “I don’t  know what I did. I swear to God, Bobby. I didn’t do nothing .” “You’ll go to hell for this.” I wish my voice wasn’t trembling. Mr. Gannon comes for me with that fist in the air. “Don’t be prancing around my house saying my Jimmy is gonna go to… Uuuuuuuugh. ” Mr. Gannon drops to the sidewalk. Apparently Cousin Mamie kicked Mr. Gannon in the hiney. He’s lying on the pavement. “ Uuuuuuuugh. ” Mr. Gannon stands up, slow, Jimmy hauling on his arm, Mr. Gannon all hunched over.  He limps up the front stoop into the house. “ Uuuuuuuugh. ” Jimmy gives me a look. The walk back to my house is ridiculous. I look for my rag doll on the sidewalk, in the gutters, in everybody’s front yards, I open garbage cans. He isn’t anywhere . Cousin Mamie says, “Raahbit, are you sure it was Jimmy Gannon?” Then I’m not  sure. I see the older boy’s face and it isn’t Jimmy. It’s some other boy stabbing my rag doll. *** That night. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped. “Uncle Brendan? Are you still drunk driving up there?” I climb into bed, close my eyes. But all night long, rag doll commandos invade my room — they pour through the window, march across my floor, scale the side of my bed, whisper in my ear, “It was my sister’s  doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s  doll.” *** Morning. I know what I have to do. Even if it means getting punched in the face, which it probably will. I walk to Jimmy Gannon’s house. Here’s Jimmy sitting on the front stoop, like he’s waiting for me. But when I get closer, I see Jimmy’s cheeks are wet. He goes, “I’m gonna kill  you!” “Jimmy, what’s the matter?” “My mommy and daddy just left in an ambulance. It’s my daddy’s hiney. He can’t stand up straight.” Jimmy reaches into his pocket. Now he’s got something in his hand. “Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade ?” “What? Why wouldn’t  I have a switchblade? You think I don’t know switchblade people?” “I was just making polite conversation.” “‘Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade?’ is polite conversation? You think I’m a thick-headed omadhaun?” The blade flicks open. “No, Jimmy. Only an omadhaun would be a big enough omadhaun to call another omadhaun an omadhaun.” “That sentence had the word omadhaun  in it like five times.” “Actually, I think it was more like four.” “That lady who kicked my daddy in the hiney called me a thick-headed omadhaun.” “Jimmy, that’s actually why I’m here. I want to apologize. For three things. And number three is the most important.” “Okay. Number one?” “Number one. I’m sorry I accused you of stealing. I know you didn’t take the doll.” “Thank you, Bobby. I swear to God I didn’t. Number two?” “Number two. Who would’ve thought somebody as little as Cousin Mamie could kick somebody as big as your daddy in the hiney so hard he’d have to go to the hospital?” “Is that an apology?” “Yes. People can’t be going around kicking other people in their hineys.” “Thank you, Bobby.” “No problem.” I start backing away. “Yo, Jimmy, I’ll say a novena for your daddy.” “You said there were three  things.” “No, just two.” “You said number three was the most important.” “Well. If you must know. Number three. It wasn’t Maggie’s rag doll. It was…” I sniff the air. “Jimmy, do you smell something?” “I don’t smell anything. What’s number three?” “Number three. It wasn’t Maggie‘s rag doll. It was…” I sniff. I sniff again. By“Jimmy, are you sure you don’t smell something?” “I don’t smell anything.” “I think I smell smoke. I think I smell smoke coming from your backyard.” We run around back, and here’s the Gannon family’s rusty old barbecue.  My rag doll lying on the grill.  Smoke.  Flames. “Jimmy. What. The…” He goes, “I want my daddy  back!”  That switchblade glistening in the morning sun. He goes, “I want  my daddy  back!” Our eyes meet. We stand there. I go, “Jimmy, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day, I remember something Pop once said to me. It’s nice to want  things.” “What did you just say to me?” “I said, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day—” “No! Not that  part. I heard that  part. The part at the end.” “It’s nice to want things, Jimmy. It’s nice  to want  things.” We stand there. Jimmy wipes a tear from his cheek. “Thank you, Bobby. It is  nice to want things, isn’t it?” Jimmy flicks his switchblade shut. “Yes, Jimmy. It is  nice to want things.” We stand there for a long time watching the smoldering remains of G.I. Patrick. Button eyes. Painted smile. Rag doll heart. Smoke curls up, up, up into the morning sky. Robert Firpo-Cappiello (@RobFirpCapp) is a two-time Emmy nominee (for Outstanding Achievement in Music Direction and Composition for a Drama Series) and a Folio-award-winning magazine editor focusing on travel, hospitality, and health. His creative writing has appeared in Roi Fainéant and Cowboy Jamboree Press, and he has performed his short stories, novels, and songs at Rockwood Music Hall, St Lou Fringe, Dixon Place, Irvington Theater, Spark Theatre Festival NYC, Urban Stages, and Bad Theater Fest. Robert holds a Master of Music degree in composition from the San Francisco Conservatory, a BA in English from Colgate University (where his mentor was novelist Frederick Busch), and he made his show-business debut at the age of five on WOR-TV’s Romper Room. Robert is represented by Jill Marr, at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency.

Tulips on Mars I. Closing Me and Kiefer were closing the shop when Bossman called to say we better clean up extra good since Aero Puffs was coming in for a promo the next day. “No fingerprints on the bong case,” he said. “And set up a dabbing station.” Usually, I would be annoyed with his tone, but we were all stoked to host the hip-hop legend. Everything needed to be just right. When we finished cleaning and counting the tills and drooling over top-shelf tulips, we locked up and hopped the Mars rail to the barracks. I shared a B-Pod with a couple of sanitation workers and was pretty sure they’d still be up drinking, so I took a detour and stopped off at the view park. I sat on a patch of AstroTurf and looked out into space, homesickness waxing with each breath of pumped-in air. A lot of us working-class colonists tried to forget about Earth. About our choice to settle.  I smoked a gram-joint of Purple Peony, my go-to strain for spacing out to the nothingness, Aero Puffs lyrics running through my mind:  T-t-t-tip toe, Tulips on Mars So high, so far  I’m t-t-t-tip toein’  Tulips on Mars II. Opening Even though it meant I couldn’t sleep in, I signed up for the opening shift so I could be here when Aero Puffs came in. I put on my collared shirt with the zig-zag pattern of tulip buds and glittery smoke tendrils, the shop’s Tulip Town logo embroidered over my heart like a badge of honor.  Besides all the colonial brainwashing, slinging Martian Tulips was a decent gig. I’d been a weed head back on Earth and had more than a passing appreciation for these space hallucinogens. I felt like I was doing some good out here.  When Aero’s new single dropped it went double-platinum on Earth and was on repeat throughout the colony. Across the forty-acre settlement, colonists were humming the catchy hook and attempting the overly-auto-tuned effect on the chorus. It was like free advertising. I got to the shop ten minutes early, enough time to spark up with Kiefer. He was wearing the same shirt as me, but he had put his lip ring back in. “Dude,” I said. “Bossman’s going to make you take that out.” “Nah,” said Keifer, passing me the jay. “Not on Aero Puffs Day.” Maybe he was right, I was thinking. Maybe the song had some truth to it: F-f-f-freedom on Mars High among the stars No earthly bounds Just that sweet sound Freedom on Mars III. Meeting Your Heroes It got time for my lunch break and we were still waiting for Aero Puffs. I ate my colonial-issued box meal and hurried back to my station, not wanting to miss out. Customers kept asking stupid questions. Not that I wasn’t used to answering them, it’s just that the visitors to Tulip Town were out of touch with Tulip culture and reality itself. A middle-aged woman in head-to-toe gold lamé wanted to know if she could over-night a dozen Tulips to her daughter in Jersey. And a spoiled man-boy insisted on sampling thirteen different strains before deciding he would rather have a Space Beer down the street. Someone I thought was Aero Puffs turned out to be a tourist who was only here to snap a photo as proof he had been to the first and only Tulip dispensary on Mars.  Everything on Mars is the first and only , I was thinking. What is the point? Even though Aero Puffs was running late, the store stayed busy. I felt comforted by the shop’s four walls and the bright buds glowing behind the glass case. I marveled at the variety of Martian Tulip products, all priced for the uber-wealthy space tourists. Without my employee discount, I couldn’t afford a measly gram of the stuff.  “Never meet your heroes,” Keifer was saying under his breath as he walked by with an armload of Martian Garden edibles.  I saw him then: Aero Puffs. Walking through the front door, decked in designer labels and flashing a diamond-encrusted grill. Folks swarmed the star, arms outstretched for a touch. I kept my cool with the aid of the Peonies, my mind mellow and my pulse regulated. When Aero came around the counter, I thought he smiled at me, so I smiled back, offered my hand. He must have been distracted by all the fanfare. He barreled past me and into the breakroom, his voice booming above his own hit single pumping overhead.  “Yo, I’m about done with this space schtick,” he was saying. “Somebody get me a blunt of that good old Earth Weed.” I must have been up here too long by that point. Must have been as disillusioned as Kiefer even though I didn’t know until that moment. All I could think when I saw the living legend was that he wasn’t all that special. So what if he wrote the line: Rags to riches,  Bitches and cars,  Gonna get me as far  as Tulips on Mars. Uncommon Toil As he prepared for the hunt that morning, he thought of the way his family looked at him each time he came home tired with nothing to show, and he resolved not to return empty-handed again. He had woken before the sun or his children had risen, but not before his wife. She was sitting in the rocking chair on the porch. Every morning she bid him farewell with a smile.  “Good luck,” she said. “I believe in you.” He reached the forest by sunup. He’d been tracking the beast’s movements for months and would follow his worn trail as far as the birch grove where he planned to veer north. There had been nothing toward the south but a set of fading footprints that led to an abandoned den and bovine bones.  Reaching the birch grove, he was emboldened by a new feeling of hope. The patchy white trunks were a break from the blur of green. He sat on a nurse log, host to a clump of huckleberry bushes, and set his satchel on the forest floor amid crawling insects and banana slugs. His wife had been teaching the children her ways of making strained resources go further and ingredients stretch and had packed baked goods for his journey. He had grown used to odd combinations: rosemary-mint rolls, apple-potato fritters.  Today’s savory morsel was his daughter’s invention. She had leapt toward him the night before, carrying a basketful of hand pies, her cheeks rosy and hair tousled from a day of culinary play.   “For you, Daddy,” she had proclaimed.  As he chewed, he swelled with her love and yearned to return the favor. The feeling of being loved through being provided for. Guilt crept up his throat at the thought. What kind of father could not catch a beast for his family’s well-being?  He had brought the bow and poisoned arrows, doses strong enough to stun a black bear. This beast—he had seen it before—stood eight feet tall and weighed four-fifty; a single shot could do the trick. His colleagues laughed when he shared his plan. Their full bellies rippled with amusement. None believed he would succeed as none believed in the very beast he sought.  Spend your time working, they’d said. Not chasing this so-called beast. No one can subsist on imaginary meat.  He had tried to explain that he did not plan to eat the beast. But the concept was one they could not comprehend, their imaginations gone dormant from the dullness of common toil. For the men who worked their lives away for others—bodies laboring in fields—there was no understanding his impossible dream.  He kept an image of the beast in his mind’s eye as he trekked onward. The trail gained in elevation, switching back through old growth and fernery. Flickers chattered overhead as though reporting the man’s advancement through the woods. He spotted a grouping of bent-over saplings and picked up speed, his heart thumping with hope. A musky, overpowering odor traveled the breeze, coming from the north—he was right to have changed direction.  A rock flew across his path, eye-level. Then another. He pulled his collar up around his neck, as though it were a viable defense, and yelled out. It was a yell he’d practiced—a beast call—to the shock of neighbors and his own wife, who, though she supported his endeavors, did have limits. That howl was beyond them.  He had felt bad that day months back when he came into the house from the yard after having nailed the call perfectly. She had dropped their dinner on the linoleum floor, the dog licking up the labored-over meal of potatoes and carrots and a roast of whatever meat she’d managed to talk the butcher into giving her at half-price—her husband was a hero after all, sacrificing for the community to achieve this discovery. To solve the mystery of the murdered cattle. A rock thudded against his shoulder, the sound a satisfaction, the pain a promise. He sped toward the rock’s origin. A squirrel scurried above, and fir needles rained down like nature’s confetti. His mind was racing with scenes of triumph. Of vindication for the naysaying he’d endured.  He pumped his aging knees, creaking with every lunge as he navigated the forest floor, avoiding roots and rocks, leaping over logs. He readied his bow and arrow, anticipating that magic moment of opportunity. He wasn’t looking where he was going; he didn’t have to. He’d been plodding toward that destination his entire life. Now, here he was, about to achieve his dream of capturing the beast. He tripped on a root then, tumbling to the ground. He felt a sharp stab in his side as an arrow pierced his body, poison rushing into his veins. The sleepiness was instant. His reflexes dulled, then ceased, and though he saw the ledge approaching, there was nothing he could do to stop the force of inertia, the weight of gravity.  His limp body fell into the ravine, landing with an underwhelming thud. The beast hovered over him, all matted fur and cow-flesh-breath for no one to witness. For no one to capture.  Perhaps the beast felt guilty then for the man’s unnecessary death. There wasn’t all that much difference between them, but for the hairlessness and weaker constitution. What a soft species , the beast thought. Hiding behind walls and fearing life’s meaning . Still, he would honor the man. He would carry the body home and find his own vindication among the other beasts in the forest. They would forget about the night he found the cows but left his footprints for the man to discover. They would forget his failures and call him the pejorative Bigfoot  no more. September Woods Garland hails from the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys taking long, romantic walks through haunted houses and feeding Bigfoot peanut butter & seaweed sandwiches. She works as a freelance book editor and serves as editor-in-chief at Weird Lit Magazine. September’s work has appeared in The Sprawl Mag, Idle Ink, Black Sheep Magazine, and elsewhere. www.septemberwoodsgarland.com

The first time Audrey flies a kite     from a tweet by Audrey Burges                                  Across a tract  of wireless sky  she and her son have lofted it together. It’s like walking a dog who flies! he says, offering up this  brilliant, seedling truth there along the shifting edge of land and sea. In its jig of freedom and restraint the kite throws itself against the concave clouds. She grasps  its cord, feels it tug against her, can almost hear it, crying free me, set me loose, let’s find out how much farther we can be apart from each other She holds tight, the sun comes down to earth and is polarized, the blowing sand drifts around  plastic pails and lifeguard stands, flies out over the ocean. Face framed between her hair’s wind-whipped strands, Audrey looks high up into the lenticular sky and she is as unprepared as we all were for the joy.  Last night                                                                               when she fell asleep she lay there with her thumb traced up against the line of  my jaw with her fingers resting across my throat, like they would on a trumpet’s valves, rising and falling with my every swallow and breath. And then the hooded cat is there, throaty, insistent, pawing at my hip until I reach across to take her head in my palm, cup her ears, mold my fist almost all the way around her neck,  so that then we were three of us, grappling there in the slender light. The first time your first child bleeds                                         End of the day, and the thin strip of hallway light  has fallen across his closed lids.  Underneath them, though, the restlessness  in his eyes has become mine, remembering again that he bled today. Blood, thin, trickling line of it, from the lip, thought I was so familiar with his  each and every small trauma, everything I’d prepared myself for, but not this. Bled, and I was partner in something that could actually bleed. Bled, and the flow was like my own, that I had to stem, bleeding from across the room, I have never bled this way before. Brian Baker (he/him) is a London, Ontario poet who began writing back in the late eighties, publishing in such literary print journals as The Lyric, Canadian Author & Bookman, the University of Windsor Review, Dandelion, and The Antigonish Review. Now, in his first re-imagining, he is back to writing, with work published or forthcoming in such online and print journals as Cathexis Northwest Press, Synaeresis, Sledgehammer Lit,  High Shelf Press, Roi Fainéant Press, Vast Chasm Magazine, and Stanchion Zine. As well, he is a two-time winner of the Antler River Poetry (fka Poetry London) Contest.

Wes Anderson’s leaning forlornly at the edge of a deserted gravel road, but instead of doing anything about it, Josh is getting his drone ready to fly. I’m fixing my hair and refreshing my makeup. Dark clouds are building and one of our sponsors gave me some waterproof mascara. This might be a good time for a Josh & Siobhan Sponsor Showcase. Josh calls out over his shoulder: “Maybe get those new Arc’teryx jackets. Looks like a chance to give them a plug.” Great minds, right? On the one hand, this is the challenge of travel vlogging. It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with a flat tire in the emptiest part of Saskatchewan when you’d expected to be soaking in the vibes on a butte in Grasslands National Park. But before you can fix the tire, you have to record it all for the vlog. Hence the drone, which admittedly does add a certain high-production-value gloss to our content. That shot of poor, disabled Wes Anderson surrounded by a sea of grass will look great.  Mind you, if Josh hadn’t bought the drone we could have picked up a set of new tires. Or maybe bought a better van than a 20-year-old Westfalia, which Josh named for his favourite director. As I’m digging out the new rain jackets, Josh climbs inside. He’s got the drone airborne, and he’s getting some establishing shots of the stranded van and the lonesome prairie as the drone circles like a vulture. “Do you think maybe you’ve got enough? You can start changing the flat?” He’s focused on landing the drone. “Be better if you  changed it.” “What?” He turns to me. “It’d be more on-brand for you. Female empowerment.” Sure, I talk about empowerment on our vlog, but usually, when I’m doing yoga at some carefully selected scenic viewpoint. I consider refusing, but I realize that I’m not certain that Josh knows how to change a flat. I put my hair in a ponytail and step outside while Josh digs out the jack and tools. He places them by the flat and peers underneath the back bumper. I don’t like the puzzled look on his face. “You don’t know where the spare is?” “I’ll look it up.” He pulls out his phone to reveal what I already knew – there’s no service here. “I’m sure they said it was under the van.” He checks under the front and calls out in triumph. “Bingo! Over here.” I get there and he hands me a wrench. “You just loosen a couple of bolts and the spare drops down. I’ll get the camera.” I’m not going to lie on my back on gravel just so he can capture all the excitement for our followers. I tell him I’ll change the tire, but crawling underneath the van is his job. He replies that we want to show a strong, resourceful woman who can do things for herself. It would be dishonest for him to do part of the job. And he refuses to be a dishonest filmmaker. I point out that he’s a vlogger, not a filmmaker. Then I remind him of the times we arrived at a destination too late for sunset, so we just shot at dawn and pretended the sun was going down. So don’t give me that “honesty in filmmaking” crap. Once again, we’re beset by artistic differences. With a mighty sigh, he hands me the camera. He rolls onto his back and I hear grunts and heavy breathing and the sound of metal on metal and Josh cursing Wes Anderson and the German factory workers who built him and the engineers who designed the spare tire assembly. But eventually, he eases out from underneath, and I see that he’s managed to free the spare. He holds his hands out to show me a thin trickle of blood, and I realize I’m expected to play nurse. I get out the first aid kit and take an alcohol wipe to the cut. It’s more of a scrape, really, along his knuckles. “Is my tetanus shot up to date?” I hope this is a rhetorical question. We’re not at the keeping-track-of-one-another’s-vaccinations stage of this relationship.  After I wrap a bandage around his hand, Josh tentatively practises opening and closing his fingers and I notice that we’ve got company. A pickup with a truck camper is approaching, and in the cloud of dust it throws up, I can see at least one other vehicle. As they pull over about ten metres from Wes Anderson, I notice Quebec licence plates. “This is great,” I tell Josh. “Maybe they can help.” “What about empowerment?” “Sometimes, Josh, expressing your vulnerability is the greatest form of empowerment.” I think that’s from Brené Brown; Josh said I should quote her on the vlog to boost engagement. I wave as the first driver steps out of his truck. “Is everything okay?” he asks. “We had a blowout,” I say. “I think we hit a pothole too fast.” In a chorus of door openings and closings, the first driver is joined by two others. They all approach the right rear tire, and the first driver squats to get a closer look. “She’s dead, this one,” he says, working a finger into the rip in the rubber. The others agree that it’s beyond patching. “You have a spare tire?” “We were just going to put it on,” Josh says, launching into a long explanation about capturing all the experiences of travel, the good and the bad, on our vlog. “Vuh-log?” one of the men says. Josh starts to explain, but they’re not listening. One of the three brings the spare over, while another places the jack in front of the flat tire and begins to turn the handle. “Get in there, Siobhan,” Josh says, placing the camera to his eye. As the other two get started, the first driver introduces himself and his group. They’re brothers travelling with their wives on a cross-Canada trip to see the mountains and the Pacific. I look back at their vehicles and see three women setting up lawn chairs. They smile and wave, and I wave back. “I said last Christmas, Helene and me, we go west this summer and Marc says he want to go too. And then Gaetan says ‘me too!’” Gaetan, the brother with the jack, turns his head at this and smiles. “I work on the oil rigs a long time ago. I tell André and Marc I want to see the mountains again. So we do a big family trip.” Gaetan gestures for me to watch what he’s doing. “See where I put the jack? So it’s lifting the van by the frame, eh? Remember that. Now, you turn the handle; feel how the jack helps you lift.” I give it a few turns. It’s surprisingly satisfying. “Okay. Now before we get the tire off the ground, we loosen the bolts. Here, you try. It might be hard.” I place the tire iron on one of the bolts and turn. Nothing happens. I put more weight into it. Still nothing. “She’s tight,” André observes from above us. Gaetan takes a turn. I see his muscles flex and the cords of his neck stand out with the effort. He puts the iron down and heads off toward the convoy of Quebecois vehicles. Marc picks up the iron. “Maybe he loosen it for me,” he says, with a wink. It doesn’t budge for Marc either. André turns his attention to Josh. “When is the last time you change the tires?” “These tires were already on when I got it in the spring.” “You want maybe a whole new set.” He puts a hand on Josh’s shoulder and leads him on an inspection tour of the other three. Gaetan comes back with a bottle, which he explains contains penetrating oil. He sprays it on all the nuts. “Now we wait.” He rises and wipes the dust from his pants. “Come, I introduce you to my wife.” Gaetan, Marc and I walk back to the convoy. I notice that the women have set up a table with cheese and crackers and one of them is pouring wine. As Gaetan and Marc are introducing their wives – Jocelyn and Nathalie – a plastic goblet is placed in my hand by the third woman. “And I’m Helene, André’s wife. I look at all the work you’re doing, and I think you might need a drink.” Gaetan and Marc leave us and head over to the back of the pickup truck. The women tell me in brief about their trip west and their lives and grown children.  They ask about me and Josh, and I tell them we’ve been together for two years, and this year when I started to tell him I wanted to break up, he told me he had bought a van and wanted to take me on the road for a new adventurous life where we’d live fully every moment. It’s more than I intend to say. I insist that I enjoy making videos about our travels and finish my wine as Marc and Gaetan return, heavily loaded with tools. Marc has a four-foot metal rod in his hand. “In case the oil doesn’t work, eh?” Soon, I’m down on my knees beside Gaetan, holding a long-handled socket wrench in place on the rusted nut while Marc slips the extension rod on the end. The more exertion it takes, the more Quebecois the brothers sound. As Gaetan struggles to hold the socket wrench in place, I hear a “tabarnac” slip from his lips. It’s still not budging, so André helps Marc balance on the extension rod to put his body weight into the task. Marc looks worried, as if any moment he’ll snap the bolt right off and plummet to the ground. “Esti de calice de marde,” he grunts. Finally, with a blast like an out-of-tune trumpet, the nut moves a half turn. I squirt another shot of penetrating oil on that nut, and the guys repeat the procedure with one of the others. By this point, I’ve realized I’m just getting in the way. They get each nut moving, then hand the tire iron back to me to finish the job. Under Gaetan’s guidance, I remove the old tire and slip the spare into place, tighten the nuts until they’re all snug and lower the jack. The brothers are laughing and patting me on the back when Josh interrupts to ask them to sign waivers so that we can use the video he’s shot.  “It’s going to look great,” he says.  Gaetan looks at me, and I say, “please, if you don’t mind” and he shrugs, and the three of them sign. The wives are packing up their picnic and I accompany the men to say my farewells. “I’m sorry about interrupting your travel today. I hope you aren’t too delayed.” “The boys had fun,” Jocelyn says. “They all get a little nervous without tools in their hands.” They all kiss me on the cheek and wish me well. Helene writes down our website address and Twitter handle and promises to watch. I wave as they depart and Josh keeps shooting as they disappear in a cloud of dust. “Damn. Wish I’d got the drone back up for that exit.” We continue to Grasslands and drive straight to a hiking trail so I can walk up a hill and do tree pose while the evening sun sets the grass on fire. I’ve been standing on one leg for a couple of minutes when Josh comes in for a close-up.  “What’s a pose that says gratitude?” he asks. “What?” “Like maybe, the lesson should be about gratitude, not empowerment. So, what’s a gratitude pose?” I try sitting with my eyes closed and my hands together at heart centre and I hear Josh say “perfect.” I hear the wind in the grass and prairie birds call and the sound of Josh walking around me to do a 360-degree pan and then he breaks into a closing narration. “When you’re living on the road, you’re living off the goodwill of others. You have to learn to accept gifts of food or drink, of information or assistance. In a spirit of humility, you accept the gifts bestowed on you by the universe. Today, three beautiful souls from Quebec helped us get to Grasslands National Park in time for this spectacular sunset. We joyfully accept and honour their generosity. And who knows, maybe tomorrow we can give back to somebody else. Keep watching Vanlife with Josh and Siobhan to find out.” He lets out a breath that tells me he’s finished. I open my eyes. We’re losing the light. “Tomorrow we’re buying a replacement spare,” I say. “What?” “You said we might do something generous tomorrow for somebody else. Tomorrow we need to find a tire shop where we can get a new spare – otherwise, if we blow another tire, we’re fucked.” “I’ve got a better idea,” Josh says, packing up his camera and tripod. “Tomorrow, we find a place with cell service, and I find us a tire company as a sponsor and we get a set of all-season radials.” We head to the campground and cook up Kraft Dinner with salami chunks. The fridge has been acting up, so we don’t chance it with anything that needs to be kept cool. The rain that was threatening on the road hits so we have to eat in the van, windows shut tight. Six weeks of van life and Wes Anderson is getting pretty stinky. What Wes will be like when we get to our wintering grounds in Southern California, I don’t want to know. It’s raining too hard to go to the washroom, so before bed I make Josh turn his back and I use my pee bucket. Something else the video never captures. It’s been a long and exhausting day, and Josh is soon snoring beside me, but I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of Josh’s meditation on gratitude. Then it dawns me. I nudge Josh’s shoulder. When that doesn’t wake him, I elbow him in the back. “Huh? Wha?” “The three guys today, what were their names?” “Their names?” “Their names.” “André.” I nod. That’s one. “René? Pierre?” I roll over and close my eyes. Josh is asking if he’s close. “Can you give me a hint? Do they share names with politicians? Hockey players?” I make a mental checklist for the next few days. Tomorrow, we get a new spare tire. If it’s sunny, we set up a clothesline and air everything out. We buy ice for the cooler, so we can eat something other than Kraft Dinner. And we get data service somewhere so Josh can look for a tire sponsor and I can check flights home.   Bob Armstrong is a novelist, speechwriter and occasional comedian from Winnipeg, Canada. His novel Prodigies (Five Star/Gale) won the Margaret Laurence Prize for Fiction in the 2022 Manitoba Book Awards. Find his travel misadventures on Substack @wanderingwriterbobarmstrong.

You wake to your husband’s fingernails digging into your shoulder blade. Swallow a wince as Jimmy squeezes the skin on your back. He grunts, pinching harder, before flourishing a black and white feather in your face. Lays it on top of the pillows stacked between you in bed. As you stare at the feather, the alarm clock starts to scream and scream until the baby wails from her crib and the kids bang at your bedroom door begging you to turn it all off.    What the fuck , Jimmy says . You grew another penguin feather. Same like the one I pulled out yesterday. Gross.  You twist your arm behind your back. Rub your fingers against your shoulder blades. But you can’t feel any feathers growing in your skin.  Don’t joke, Jimmy. Jimmy shrugs. He slaps the pillow hard.   The penguin feather rises into a high patch of sunlight just out of your reach. Floats down to land on your belly.  Jimmy’s been throwing  What the fucks  at your outfits, your cooking, your books, more than usual. Ever since he tagged along with you and the baby on last month’s trip to Costco. As you’d lifted the carton of 48 Great Value Skipjack Chunk Tuna  onto the check-out counter, the cashier winked at you. Hey! How’s it going? Still enjoying that tuna, I see.    What the fuck ?  That’s my wife , Jimmy told the cashier, his words six icicles. When the young man's eyes dropped to the floor, you picked them u p.  Sorry , you whispered  as you leaned across the counter to slip him his eyes before Jimmy noticed. On the car ride home, Jimmy’s tone was accusing.  Dude was staring at your boobs. They look ginormous in that breastfeeding shirt.  Jimmy turns off the alarm clock on your side-table. Your phone rings softly. It’s your old school-friend Violet calling again. The only one who still does. You can’t answer. Not since Violet had come to the house while you were out to try to sleep with Jimmy, stripping down to a pink thong in the living room, telling Jimmy she wanted to fuck him. Jimmy of course kicked her ass to the curb. Says he’s known plenty of women like Violet. It’s hard to believe your best friend would do that. You thought Violet hated Jimmy. Tried to convince you to leave him last year. But she’s been going through her own stuff since her husband got sick. Maybe she’s lonely. Jimmy’s always been easy on the eyes. Fighting off the ladies all night again , he laughs when he rolls in from The Crafty Drake every Saturday at 2am. The kids are outside the bedroom door whining for their morning cuddles. Jimmy heaves up to unlock the door and let them in. Waggling his eyebrows, he shows them the penguin feather he plucked from your back. Gets them to line up so they can run their fingers over its smoothness. Their eyes widen when he shows them a speckle of pink at the feather’s base. That’s   Mommy’s blood , he tells them. I had to yank like crazy to get that sucker out. The baby starts crying again and you want to escape with her for some fresh air but you stopped going for strolls when Jimmy said the neighbors were complaining. They say you look like a homeless person , waddling around. They’re such snobs with their precious manicured lawns .  Jimmy is trying to help. Explains it’s not your fault you haven’t lost the baby weight. Or that you smell like sour milk and sweat because there’s barely time to shower. He still loves you and doesn’t care if you’re fat and stinky. Says don’t worry what the stupid fucking nosey neighbors say. To just stay inside from now on. Stop accepting meal drop-offs from your so-called friends.   Jimmy gets the baby from her crib and gently places her on your breast where she stops crying. The other kids pile onto the bed. Jimmy stands at the foot of the bed grinning and clapping to get attention. Throws his arms up like a circus master, startling the baby off her latch to stare up at him. Guess   what kids.   Mommy’s turning into….a penguin! , he announces, as if surprising them with a trip to Disney World. We’ll move to that Galapagos place with the other penguins. Just our family.   No-one will laugh at us there . I’m so goddamn sick of everyone judging us . You know you can’t be a penguin. But the baby hormones are messing up your brain. Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re dreaming or awake. You’ve been scratching yourself raw ever since Jimmy told you that Violet tried to sleep with him. There’s a stirring beneath your skin, like an egg cracking open and spilling through your blood.  The kids giggle at Jimmy’s words and the oldest boy leads the others in a chant, Penguin Mama !  Penguin Mama ! He pumps his fist in the air as he chants and the others follow along, pointing at you. Jimmy joins in. Their laughter rises into the storm clouds forming in the bedroom. Freezes into hailstones. Falls hard, piercing your skin. Jimmy opens the window and a gust of icy wind blows in. You gather up the downy bed blankets. Pull them around your shoulders like a cloak of feathers. Hunching over your penguin chick, you use your body to shield her from the sudden cold.  Lisa Alletson was raised in South Africa and the UK, and now lives in Canada. Her writing is published in Roi Fainéant Press, New Ohio Review, Gone Lawn, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, among other journals She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, and Best MicroFiction, and appeared on the Wigleaf Top 50 Longest. Her debut chapbook, Good Mother Lizard, won the 2022 Headlight Review poetry contest. She’s on Twitter @LotusTongue  and Bluesky @LisaAlletson . You can find her published work at www.lisaalletson.com .

When we arrived in Paris, and before driving to our home in Saint Jeannet on the Côte d’Azur, I thought we would enjoy a couple of days in the city, as I wanted to see the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. “Since when do you like his work?” Jane asked. “I believe we should expose ourselves ....” “Even if we don't particularly like Bacon?” “Yes, Jane. I hadn't thought much about Rothko before I accompanied Robert in the MoMA.” “And, did that exposure convert you?” “No, but at least I have a basis for whatever opinion I now have about his work. So, I say we should go.” The following day we went to the Grand Palais to view the retrospective exhibition of the paintings of Francis Bacon. “I can’t say I really like his work,” Jane said when we were standing in front of a large canvas whose subject was Pope Innocent X. “It says here in the catalogue that Bacon painted the portrait after one by Velázquez. Look, Jane, there’s an illustration of the one painted by Velázquez,” and I handed the catalogue to Jane. “I don’t like it either,” Jane said, handing the catalogue back. “I don’t understand what Bacon is doing. Why the distortion? To me, it doesn’t make any sense.” “I’ll read you from the catalogue. ‘At the time (when Bacon was painting the portrait) Bacon was coming to terms with the death of a cold, disciplinarian father, his early illicit sexual encounters, and a very destructive sadomasochistic approach to sex.’ ” “And that is supposed to explain why he painted the pope the way he did? Perhaps he should have seen a psychoanalyst first, and then painted the pope.” “Had he, we probably wouldn’t be standing in front of this painting,” I told her. “I have learned — and not from our friend Irmgard who would probably disagree with what I am about to say — is that in all the arts — writing, music, architecture, as well as painting and sculpture — one should separate the artist from the work, and not judge the work prejudiced by one’s knowledge of the personal life of the artist.” “Are you saying that what you just read to me from the catalogue should not influence my opinion of Bacon’s paintings, like this one here?” “Yes. Forget about what I just read, and look at the painting itself. Then decide whether or not you like it and ask yourself, why?” “Eric, I said I disliked it before you told me about Bacon’s personal life … and I still dislike it. To me, it’s a distortion of reality that I don’t understand nor appreciate.”             *** As we were driving down A7, Jane turned to me. “Why don't we stop at Beau Rivage, in Condrieu?” The restaurant/hotel was part of the Relais et Châteaux association, and whenever possible, we stayed — and ate — at hotels in the group. “Did you enjoy the exhibition?” Jane asked when we were seated at a table on the terrace overlooking the river flowing by. For dinner, we both ordered grilled loup de mer and drank a local wine from the vineyards surrounding the town. “Yes and no,” I told her. “Bacon's technique is unusual and unique, and I can appreciate the mental activity going on to paint the way he does ....” “But?” “... but they remind me of looking out of an eye affected by wet macular degeneration, and do I want to see the world blurred and distorted?” “How do  you want to see the world?” “You mean, which contemporary artists' vision excites me and makes my heart beat faster? The Fauves, for the most part. Remember the Derain view of the Parliament buildings in London?” “And his other London paintings. It was as though the paint came off the canvasses. They were pulsating.” “That's what I mean. A painting can't be simply unique or different ....” “Chagall is different,” Jane said. “Yes, but he's also possibly the foremost colorist since the Fauves, and his subjects take you into the supernatural. Whenever we go to their home, I hope Vava asks to sit on the couch under his painting Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel , because as I enter their living room, I feel my eyes glued to that painting, so by sitting under it, it can’t distract me and I can partake of the conversation.” I smiled when saying this. “I never tire of looking at a Chagall.”             *** “Bonjour, bonjour,” Vava greeted us at the door of La Colline. “Marc will join us in a few moments,” and she led us into the now familiar living room. “You've been in Paris?” she asked. “Marc will be interested to know what you did. Ah, here he is now.” “Bonjour, mes enfants,” the artist smiled as he walked in from his studio. “Jane, assois-toi ici,” and he took Jane by the arm and brought her to sit beside him on the couch. “Et bien, tu étais à Paris? Qu'est ce que tu as vu là-bas?”  Jane told him we had been to the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. Chagall's expression, on hearing the name of the artist, resembled a question mark: arched eyebrows, mouth turned down. He did not look at all interested. He shrugged his shoulders, and finally said, “English painting.” E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, 48 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.

Rough grass tickled the backs of her bare legs as Naseem lay on her back, watching the chinar leaves dance in the zephyr.  Aslam lay next to her, whistling tunelessly. Suddenly, Aslam said, “Close your eyes!”  “Why?” “I want to give you something.” “What?” “Close your eyes first!” Smiling, Naseem followed Aslam's instructions.  Lifting her hand, Aslam placed something round and cold on her palm.  Naseem opened her eyes to see a polished black stone.  Answering her look of surprise, Aslam gave her a gap-toothed grin.   “So that you never forget me,” he said. Naseem rolled her eyes. “Where are you going? You are my brother. We will always be together, lying under the chinar tree, watching the leaves dance.”  ****   Naseem carefully wrapped the hijab around her head, making sure no wisps of hair were visible. Securing the loose end with a pin, she stepped back to check her reflection. A shapeless form covered from head to toe in black blinked back. She turned away to pick up her bag when her eyes fell on the black, polished stone on the windowsill. Her eyes lingered on the stone for a few minutes before she walked out of the room into the living room.  The bright threads of Kashida embroidery cushions contrasted with the dark of the walnut wood walls. But Naseem was oblivious to the beauty of the room. Her eyes were on the woman. Wearing a brown wollen  pheran , her grey hair covered with a  daejj , the woman knelt on the cushions, staring out of the bank of windows that covered one wall.  How many women like her , Naseem wondered,  stare out of windows in Kashmir, waiting eternally? Naseem walked across the room on the floor covered with soft, woolen carpet. She lightly touched the shoulder of the woman and waited as the woman turned away from the window. The woman's eyes slowly lost their faraway look as they focussed on Naseem.  “Naseem?” she asked, her voice soft. Naseem nodded.  Once, Zeenat had been a strapping, ruddy-cheeked woman whose laughter had boomed through the house. Now, a shadow of her former self, like a waif, she would spend hours staring out the window, waiting for Aslam. Some days, even the fact that Naseem was her daughter would slip from her mind.  “I am leaving for school. There is  haak  and rice in the kitchen for lunch. I will be back by four.” Zeenat gave a slight smile, acknowledging she had heard Naseem before turning back to the window. Dropping a kiss on Zeenat’s head, Naseem walked away. Locking the front door from outside, she walked down the narrow stairs to hand over the keys to Khan Chacha, the owner of the  kandur  downstairs.  “Beti, I think you should hire a caretaker for Zeenat Bibi,” Khan Chacha advised, taking the keys.  “Chacha, you know how difficult it was to get this job. The salary is barely enough for necessities. A caretaker is beyond my pocket. But after last week, when Ammi wandered off into the forest looking for Aslam, I can’t take another chance and leave her alone,” replied Naseem.  He sighed in reply. “Aslam should not have taken the wrong path, putting all the burden on your shoulders.” Naseem flushed at the censure and pity in Khan Chacha's words. Without replying, she walked towards the taxi stand.  Boarding the shared taxi to Lal Chowk, she swallowed a sob as memories of Aslam, which she kept caged in a box in her heart, threatened to break free.  Aslam, with his cheeky grin and a permanent twinkle in the eye. Aslam, with an idealistic streak everyone had been unaware of. Aslam who, unable to understand why his beloved valley was changing, slowly grew morose. Aslam, who one day disappeared from their lives forever.  Later that afternoon, Naseem walked through Lal Chowk to board the taxi back home, lethargy making her steps slow. She was exhausted after struggling with high school students the whole day. Today, once again, more than half of the children were absent. The ones who did come to school were angry and uninterested. They did not want to learn about Shakespeare when there was no future to look forward to. Jostling for space inside the taxi, she wondered if the children of the valley would ever have a normal adolescence.  As the taxi careened past Nishat Bagh towards home, Naseem remembered the simpler times when the whole family would go for picnics there. Laughter was a constant in those days. Like how fear was now. Lost in her thoughts, Naseem didn’t notice the taxi slowing down before coming to a stop.  A soldier was dragging a roll of barbed wire to block the road.  Murmurs of dismay filled the vehicle as Naseem felt her heartbeat grow faster.  One would have imagined that after so many years surrounded by violence, guns and barbed wires, she would be used to seeing soldiers in army fatigues. But who gets used to violence and bloodshed? An army officer came to talk to the driver. Naseem, seated just behind the driver, leaned forward. A roadblock could mean a delay of a few minutes or hours. Worried about Zeenat locked alone in the house, she tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.  Noticing her actions, the officer raised an eyebrow. Flushing, Naseem looked away. She knew officers usually had a short fuse. She couldn’t afford to get into trouble with them. She had to think of Zeenat first. Always.  The officer stood by the taxi as a convoy of army trucks passed them on the other side of the road. Full of soldiers dressed in fatigues, they looked menacing with machine guns cradled in their arms, their eyes expressionless. When the last of the trucks had passed, the officer walked away. Noticing his swagger, Naseem couldn’t help but feel a spark of resentment. How would it feel to have power?  she wondered, before chuckling to herself. As a Kashmiri woman, power and peace were two things she had no experience of. The taxi moved again, and everyone sighed in relief.  “Thank God, it was a brief delay,” said a young woman, bouncing a plump baby in her lap. “This one is going to get hungry soon,” she said, grinning at Naseem. Naseem gave a polite smile in reply. After so many years of fending for herself, she had forgotten the art of making inane conversation.  The clock hands showed six when Naseem unlocked the door to the house. Zeenat was still sitting on the same cushion, looking out from the window on the darkening street below.  “Ammi, I am back,” she called out, bolting the door and sliding the safety chain in. There was no answer or movement from Zeenat. She continued to look out, softly humming to herself.  Naseem sighed. Sometimes she wondered how Zeenat would have behaved if instead of Aslam, Naseem had disappeared. She scoffed. What a fanciful thought. Where would Naseem disappear? Her dream had been to marry and raise children. She had no wars to fight.  War was for men, who had the freedom and luxury to fight for ideals. For women, surviving was more important. Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. Naseem frowned.  It was too late for someone to be visiting them.  Feeling uneasy, she peeked through the peephole. It was Aslam’s former best friend, Afroz.   **** “ Kahwa ?” she said, offering a cup to Afroz, who sat next to Zeenat, trying to converse with her. Zeenat continued to ignore him. “ Shukriya ,” he replied, his hands brushing against Naseem’s.  Looking him, she realised that the touch had been deliberate. She fought the urge to wipe away her hand as she sat as far away as possible from him.  “I am glad you followed my advice about hijab,” Afroz said, his eyes lingering on her.  Seeing the blatant desire in his eyes, Naseem nodded despite the shiver of revulsion.  “How are you, Naseem? I came to check on Zeenat  Khala ,” he said. Naseem noted he no longer added aapa  after her name as he used to when they were young. Naseem shrugged. “She has good days and bad.” “I heard about her being lost in the forest. I wish you would stop being stubborn and take help from us. She needs a caretaker,” Afroz said. Naseem wanted to scream, “She deserves the son she doted on. But you filled poison in Aslam's mind by showing him videos and giving him incendiary literature. You subtly pressurized my sensitive brother to join the rebels. You are the reason she is alone in her old age. You are the one responsible for our suffering.” But she didn’t. Lowering her eyes, she sipped her kahwa. “She is the mother of a  shaheed . You know we want to help,” he insisted. Trying to keep her tone even, she prevaricated, “Aslam’s actions made it very difficult for us to survive. I got a government schoolteacher job only because the principal was Baba’s friend. If I take help from you, the government will suspect me.” “Aslam gave his life for the cause. Please don’t be called a collaborator,” Afroz replied.  Naseem felt fear run up her spine when she heard the underlying menace in Afroz's words. She glanced towards him. His eyes reminded her of the snake she had seen once in the forest. Hooded, they were waiting for the correct moment to strike. Naseem knew she couldn’t afford to make an enemy out of him, not if she wanted to survive in Kashmir.  She nodded once before bowing her head again.  “I will ask if we need anything,” she said softly, hoping her submissive action would placate Afroz.   “Aren’t you Afroz, Aslam’s friend? Is Aslam at your home? Tell him I am waiting for him,” Zeenat spoke, startling them both. Naseem rushed to Zeenat’s side. “No, Ammi, Aslam is not there. He will come in the morning,” she soothed. Realising further conversation with Naseem was not possible with Zeenat in this state, Afroz left. Re-bolting the door, Naseem felt her shoulders slump. The roadblock and mental games with Afroz had exhausted her. She lay down on the cushion next to Zeenat, who had turned back to look out of the window into the darkness again.  She waited a long time for Zeenat’s hand to caress her hair like she used to when Naseem was a young girl. When a caress from Zeenat's hand would make her troubles disappear. But Zeenat kept whispering, “Aslam, Aslam.” Naseem swallowed a sob, her chest threatening to burst with unshed tears. Slowly, Naseem got up and walked to her room. Taking off the abaya, she threw it on the floor, resisting the urge to stamp on it. She started unwinding the hijab, her chestnut tresses sighing in relief at the freedom. With her fingertips she massaged her scalp, hoping to soothe the headache that had started throbbing between her eyebrows, when her eyes once again, fell on the polished stone.  She picked it up. It felt heavy and cold in her hand, just like her heart. She wanted to scream and hurl it through the window. But she did neither. She placed it back on the windowsill.  Turning she bent down to pick up the abaya from the floor where she had flung it when the sounds of boots stomping on the cobbled streets reached her.  She rushed to the window to see soldiers marching into their street.  No! Not today!  Her mind screamed. She just wasn't strong enough today.  A few minutes later, there was a peremptory knock on the door.  Hastily re-draping the hijab, Naseem ran to unbolt the door.  A group of men in army fatigues stood outside.  “Please be seated for search operations,” a soldier instructed, gesturing for Naseem to sit next to Zeenat on the cushions. Zeenat looked wide-eyed at the men who filled their small room as they rifled through closets, emptied tins, and upended mattresses.  None of this was new. As Kashmiris, they were used to such violations of their privacy. But Afroz’s visit had agitated Zeenat. She stared at the soldiers, muttering under her breath. Naseem rubbed Zeenat’s back, trying to calm her, but it was futile. Seeing a soldier, lift and throw the floor cushions, Zeenat shouted. She started raining curses on the soldiers. Pointing to their muddy boots on the carpet, she demanded if their mother hadn’t taught them shoes had to be removed before walking indoors. Naseem wrapped her arms around Zeenat trying to control her. But fueled by fury, Zeenat wrenched herself free. She launched herself at a soldier, her frail hands beating a tattoo on his chest as she called him Aslam's murderer. “No!” shouted Naseem, trying to help Zeenat, but another soldier held her back.  The first soldier caught hold of Zeenat’s wrists in one hand, raising his arm to control her. “Please,” Naseem pleaded, struggling to break free from the soldier who held her. “She is mentally not well.” Oblivious to the surrounding drama, Zeenat continued to rain curses. Finally, just as suddenly, her energy ran out.  “Aslam’s murderer!” she shouted one last time before her eyes rolled back, and she slumped on the floor.  Her breath coming in shallow pants, Naseem stared at the soldier as he picked up Zeenat’s frail body and placed her on the cushions.  He stood staring at her impassively before his body softened infinitesimally. His finger touched Zeenat's cheek before he looked towards Naseem who stared at him, fear burning in her eyes.  He gave her a curt nod, half-raising his hand in salaam before gesturing to the other soldiers.  The wooden floor thundered as the soldiers marched out of the house, leaving a stunned Naseem alone with Zeenat.  Amidst their belongings strewn throughout the room, Naseem kept a vigil through the long night, whispering  dua’s  for God to spare Zeenat’s life. The sky was turning orange when Zeenat’s eyelids fluttered open. She looked around the devastated room and then at Naseem. “Naseem?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “Yes Ammi,” said Naseem, kissing Zeenat’s hand. “Can I have some  chai  and  roth ? I am hungry.” Naseem gave tremulous smile. Later, as she sipped her tea, Zeenat asked, “Why is the room messy? Did Aslam come home?” Naseem ignored the pain in her heart as she replied, “No ammi .” “Maybe he is studying in the library. That boy loves his books,” she said, taking a delicate bite of the  roth . Ignoring Zeenat's words, Naseem asked, “Would you like to go for a picnic to Nishat Bagh?” Without replying, Zeenat turned to look out of the window. Naseem felt the clouds gather around her again. Shoulders slumped, she gathered the teacups. She had almost reached the kitchen when Zeenat said, “I want to wear my red pheran  for Nishat Bagh.” Naseem smiled. **** The rough grass tickled their bare feet as Zeenat and Naseem lay next to each other under a chinar tree. Naseem lightly held Zeenat’s hand in her right hand. Clutched in the left hand was the polished black stone, its smoothness contrasting with the fragility of Zeenat’s skin.  Nearby, a teenager strummed his guitar, crooning, “ashtyan any ti gatshun gatsey Pakun gatshey dyanm kyov raath.” (Ceaselessly we come to ceaselessly go, Relentlessly moving on is all we can do. )* Naseem let out a soft sigh.  Naseem was a simple woman caught, between two sides of a conflict, trying to survive each day in a world full of senseless violence.  But today, under the chinar tree, with Zeenat by her side and the stone clasped in her hand, watching the Chinar leaves dance in the zephyr, for a few minutes, Naseem was at peace.      ***** Glossary    Pheran:  A long dress, like a kameez worn by Kashmiris Kashida:  Kashmiri embroidery Daejj:  A plain white headscarf  Haak:  Collard greens Kandur : Bakery Shukriy a: Thank you Khala : Aunt Aapa : Sister Shaheed : Martyr Dua : Blessing/Prayer Kahwa and Chai:  Traditional Kashmiri teas Roth: Sweet Bread   * A verse by Lalla Dyad ( Lal Ded), fifteenth century Kashmiri Sufi and mystic. The translation has been taken from “Lalla Dyad, The Mystic Kashmiri Poetess”, By Shafi Shauq. Harshita Nanda is an author, blogger and book reviewer based in Dubai, UAE. She trained as an engineer before changing tracks to become a full-time writer. Her stories have a strong emotional quotient with a streak of feminism. Avoiding unnecessary drama, she focuses on the universal appeal of human emotions. Her stories, Rain and Anoymous were a part of the flash flood in 2023 and 2024.