ONE PARTICULARLY HOT JULY DAY, Marisol and I are restless. No matter what we do, we can't get cooled off.

Dahlia is off at a rehearsal that Marisol didn't need to attend, and Ezra is napping on the couch, an episode of that show he likes, House Hunters, playing dimly in the background.

We spend the morning at the beach, but the water is so warm it's practically boiling, and the sand is so hot that even if we sit on three towels it still burns our skin. So we go back up to Dahlia's house, but even with the AC on full blast, the heat still seeps through the windows and underneath the doors, this constant oppressive force. Frustrated, and hot, we go out to the pool, but even that water is boiling.

Finally, we go back inside and Marisol runs a bath of cold water, dumping a tray of ice cubes in. We sit together in the water, both of us still in our bikinis, the warm chlorine and saltwater from earlier rubbing off into the fresh tap water.

"Ahhhhhh." She tilts her head back against the wall. "Just the way mama likey." She speaks in English, and though it takes a second for my mind to connect the dots, I can understand her almost perfectly.

"You're weird."

Not only that, but I can respond to her.

"What?" Her leg rubs against mine, icy cold. "It's not weird. You're weird. What's weird?"

"Calling yourself mama."

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes, sinking deeper into the tub. "So I've been thinking."

"Oh, wow. Congratulations." I tap my knee against hers. "What about?"

"Shut up, you little smart-aleck. I've been thinking that you should meet my parents."

"What?"

I've already met Dahlia's moms, briefly, two sweet, plump white women, largely indistinguishable from one another. The only way I can tell them apart: the one that called Dr. Boivin is a brunette, and the one called Dr. Rot is a blonde. They both wear glasses and ponytails and eat frozen vegan lasagna and swing their heads when they talk. They move as a unit, always by each other's side, one soul in two bodies. I swear they can read each other's minds, or at least that they understand each other beyond the metaphysical level. When they came in, without looking to make sure there was a seat to land on, Dr. Rot sat down, and Dr. Boivin moved the chair behind her. Whenever one of them trails off, the other will pick up right away, as if finishing the first's thoughts.

Back in ancient times, humans had four legs and arms, two sets of genitalia, and a single head with two faces. (The genitalia could be a penis and a vagina, or two vaginas, or two penises. The ancient world was not as heteronormative as you've been taught it was.) Fearing that these beings would be able to overthrow the gods, Zeus split them in two, condemning them to a lifetime of misery and sorrow as they searched for their other halves.

This story has never sat well with me, though I know it to be the truth, as all myths are. I do not like the idea that I am not whole, that on my own I am not enough. But in those brief moments that I saw Dr. Rot and Dr. Boivin together, I think there is something fundamentally beautiful about it. It is not that on your own you aren't whole, or that you need another person to complete you—it is simply the idea that two souls could coexist together so peacefully, and effortlessly, because while they might now be two complete souls on their own, at one point in time, they were one.

When I met them, I kept my head down, and my answers simple. They asked me where I'm from—Greece. How I met Dahlia—the plane. What I'm studying, or thinking of studying—the English language. How I'm liking America—just fine. How long I'm staying—a while. The conversation was so quick, before Dahlia and Ezra ushered me outside saying sorry gotta go talk later, I didn't have the chance to slip up.

For obvious reasons, I haven't met Ezra's mom.

"Yeah, I mean..." Marisol gestures emptily around the room. "I feel guilty enough, hiding everything about you from them. I want them to at least meet you, so they know who I've been hanging out with. I do always tell them—when I leave, I always tell them I'm going to hang out with Dahlia, Ezra, and Antigone. I mean, obviously they already know Dahlia, and they've already met Ezra, he came over a couple nights ago. And they know I'm bi, so they've been thinking we're, like, a thing 'cause I hide you from them. So they're always, like, teasing me and asking about you and reminding me about safe sex practices which, like, oh, my God. And it's, like, Dad, oh, my God, just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm into every girl I'm friends with. But anyways. They've been asking to meet you, and I think your English has gotten pretty good, good enough for them. I told them you're a foreign exchange student here for the summer, by the way. So they won't question your accent."

"I have an accent?"

"Duh." She rolls her eyes. "Please say yes. I already told them you'd come over for dinner tonight, and they're going all out. My mom's making japchae. She only makes japchae on holidays or when she really wants to impress someone. And my dad's digging through his old performance videos, so you know he's really excited to meet you."

"What's japchae?"

"Oh, it's this Korean thing. It's got glass noodles and a bunch of yummy veggies. And pork for you meat-eaters."

"There's glass in your food?"

"Oh, my God, no! Glass noodles are just, like, normal noodles. I think they're made out of sweet potatoes or something. And they're almost completely see-through. You'll like them, don't worry. There's no actual glass in them. I promise. Are you saying yes?"

"Yes?"

"Great! Just a fair warning: my mom's a huge gossip, so don't tell her anything you don't want her thirty-two closest friends to know. And my dad's weird. And my brother's even weirder."

"Right. You have a little brother."

"Jaden. He's twelve and literally has never drank anything other than Mountain Dew in his entire life. And—lookit this." Marisol grabs her phone from the spot on the floor it had taken up and taps it a few times, leaving little water drops on the screen. I recognize what she's showing me as an Instagram profile, that social media app she uses all the time. The profile doesn't have a photo attached to it. The name reads Jaden Moon. Beneath that, his bio: Gamer and dank memer. "He's such a loser. He literally just sits in his room all day playing Fortnite, and then he does stuff like this. It's a wonder he has any friends." She reaches into the tub, claws an ice cube, and pops it in her mouth. Chewing, she adds: "Anyways, he's the worst of my brothers to be stuck with. Sometimes I wish it was him that died instead of Kennedy. Is that a bad thing?" More chewing. She flicks her toes in the water. They're painted a shimmering blue and flash like sunlight on a rippling stream. "What do you think happens to us when we die? I mean, I guess you know, don't you? So what does happen?"

A dull ache in my lungs. So many people have died—so many people have died that I have known. My friends, my compatriots, my own kin. Some that I have even watched bleed out. "Marisol."

She looks at me and nonchalantly pops another ice cube into her mouth. "Don't even @ me. I'm staying hydrated."

"Ewww, no, I wasn't going to even—I was going to talk about your brothers.You lost one. But you still have Jaden. Don't take him for granted."

Her cheeks flush. She looks down at the water. "So what does happen when we die?" she insists. "Will I get to see Kennedy again?"

I want to tell her—it's best not to dwell on the what if's. That it's better to focus on the family she still has than to place all her expectations into possibly reuniting with her dead brother. That life is more than just the absence of death.

Except I find myself at a loss for words. The English language falls flat against my tongue. In my heart my mother language whispers to me, reminding me of all the deaths I've witnessed, all the carnage I've seen. Reminding me of all the death I've caused, and all the subsequent pain. Reminding me that I'm not going to be able to stay in this bubble forever, that sooner or later something will happen, and I'll have to kill one of my friends, or my mother will die. And that even if somehow neither of these outcomes occur, there will still be one death—the death of a god.

I want to be soft, and gentle, and kind. I want to do good for the world, and the people in it. I want to leave the earth a better place than I found it. I want my scars to disappear, to never have shed so much blood. I want to forget the way a sword feels in my hand as it sinks into flesh. I want the sight of blood to scare me, the thought of death to unnerve me. I want to exist the way that Dahlia, Marisol, and Ezra do—a life without war, without battle.

But when I was a little girl, a sword and spear were forced into my hands, and I was told that life was war. It seems that ever since then (and ever onwards into whatever my future will hold) death, and carnage, and bloodshed, have followed me.

So, instead, I answer her. I tell her about Hades, and the Asphodel Meadows, where all the insignificant souls reside and where her brother was likely sent. I tell her while it's possible she could see him again when she dies, that he'll be a shell of his former self, and she, likely, the same.

She splashes me and erupts into nervous giggles.

"What will happen to us?" she asks.

"What do you mean?"

I know I'll make it to Elysium, the land of the heroes' souls. I'm a warrior, and a good one at that. Maybe I'll decide to be reborn and try again and eventually make it to the Isles of the Blessed. Maybe I've already been reborn twice before and am only one good death away from eternal paradise.

Marisol, on the other hand, has lived an insignificant mortal life. Nothing particularly good, nothing particularly bad, sheltered from knowledge of the gods. Her soul would be welcomed into the Asphodel Meadows with her brother. Possibly, in helping me, and if she's lucky, she could have earned a spot in Elysium.

Except—she's a good person, the best person I've ever known—how could that be fair? That because she never wielded a sword or led an army, she'll miss out on the benefits of the afterlife? That because she never did anything harmful, or hurt another living being, she'll be punished?

"Now that we've angered the gods. Will we go to hell?"

"We only angered one god. One that has nothing to do with death. We'll be fine. Besides, I don't even beliebe in hell." It's one of many mistakes I've made, but the first one that Marisol seems to find any humor in.

"Antigone, hun, it's believe, not beliebe," Marisol corrects with a smirk. "But you're absolutely right. Everyone knows you can't beliebe in hell. All Beliebers go to heaven."

"What?"

"Never mind. Having to explain the joke kills the humor. Are you sure we're gonna be fine?"

"Angering one god does not mean that we have immortally damned ourselves. For all we know, Apollo could have been in the wrong. The gods aren't always right. They make mistakes, just like us."

Marisol thinks this over. "Yeah. They're pretty much immortal assholes, huh." She sinks deeper into the water so it covers up to her eyes and blows bubbles through her nose. When she comes up for air, she asks: "Are you scared of death?"

"Yes."

"Oh." She lets an ice cube float into her open mouth and chomps down on it. "Well, I'm not."

"Then you're either a liar or a fool." I stand up abruptly, and water sloshes over the side of the tub, soaking the white towel Marisol laid out to keep the floor dry. I've had enough of her ice-eating shenanigans. "You've crossed a line. It's getting gross now."

She winks up at me. "Your loss, babe."

"Before I go," I ask, "what is a Belieber?"