2 // ALLOY PIRRIE

MINUTE ONE: YOU ARE INSANE, MAN, IN-INSANE MAN. WATCH THE SKIES BLEED EVERY MORNING ON YOUR WALK THROUGH THAT PARK OH- LISTEN AS CROWS CRY THEIR SPIRITUAL CRY AT DAWN, CRICKETS CHIRP COUNTDOWN AT DUSK; ALL YOU REMEMBER IS THE TIME YOU GOT BETTER. ALL YOU KNOW IS now AND then,

ALL YOU'LL LEARN IS HOW GRIEF ENDS. IT RUNS, IT SIMMERS, AND THEN DIES BEFORE IT CAN BURY YOU ALIVE. AND ALL YOU REMEMBER IS HEALTH. YOU HEAL, CHILD- TURN ON THE LIGHTS.

MINUTE ONE: REBORN.

Here's the message about found family: it's a game, a round of hide and seek until a person peeks their head into a life not theirs, never there before. Perhaps it's tag, and people who aren't 'it' have to wait for those who are, skin and hearts untouched and tucked away for safekeeping. Lonely, perched up in the darkness. Awaiting, just awaiting a knight to clash armor with, for a prince to share the crown; awaiting a friend, in every warm sense of the word.

It's a person- breathing and grinning and alone- walking up to Alloy in the middle of the night, and leading him somewhere nicer than the playground he'd been staying at. The boy had forgotten all about Amelia the nurse and his night light. Three years had passed, possibly more, and his clothes were dirty all the same.

He was older, now. Mia had disappeared from his memory entirely- well, until she returned to him at midnight, speaking of early dawn. Her hair fell in different ways then when she was at work, and alloy recognized her skin and eyes beyond the age they showed now. He tilted his head. And she climbed up the ladder to sit by him at the top of the slide.

"What's up?" she asked. It was if they'd been friends forever- Alloy grinned as if they had.

Because nobody had talked to him since he let go.

MINUTE TWO: THE COUNTDOWN NEARS THE END- YOUR END- THE END OF ALL THINGS. IT'S BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL- BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL INSANE MAN! I CAN SHOW YOU, BOY, WHAT IT'S LIKE TO run INSTEAD OF walk.

ALL YOU REMEMBER IS HER, YOUR NEW FRIENDS, SLIDING DOWN THAT SLIDE BY YOUR DARK AND WEARY SIDE- WIND- WOOD CHIPPED GROUND- GRIN, OH MOONLIT GRIN.

MINUTE TWO: RENEW.

Soon, Alloy began to grow like his roots had taken to the soil. Rather than a plug in the wall, he learned to illuminate beneath stars. And rather than plastered lining and perfect square tiles, he played in the sands, wary of strangers because he was one, though so very aware of the history left up that slide and down, oh rapidly fallen down.

Amelia, that first night, took him home. Home. There was a bed for him in the den and an extra dinner plate set out for him- his mind was too faded to recognize himself as some kind of charity case, so he didn't care. Perhaps he wasn't one, and Amelia simply loved the boy as a son, the younger brother maybe she'd lost in her youth.

He thought- maybe she's let go of something too. Maybe I'm not the only one.

With nothing but sheltered time in their hands, the boy and girl became friends, two people who truly had no one else. She went to work and left him be; Alloy wandered when alone, no longer seeing Eurelia in his reflection. Her ghost showed up once- he laughed at that now- and sometimes he dreamt of her. But it was okay. He was just a child- they were just children. Everything was going to be okay.

He wasn't quite at the top of the mountain- still climbing out of the valley- but the light was there. The sunlight was there. The countless hours stretched out before his rebuilding mind, so effortlessly and prominently there.

Grief doesn't sit- it manifests. And Alloy had been its victim for far too long, but not anymore. Today, he adventured with a mind clear and brave; today, he stopped wishing for his night light back, blinking and understanding those split-seconds of darkness more than ever before. The sun rose the following morning and he even sang with those birds outside Mia's window- the boy smiled, not yet whole, but laughing as love filled his once vacant chest.

minute zero: humanity stirs inside you, moving on. you are allowed to move on. live, breathe- be grief's and misery's exception. be the child who escapes, the child who can recount his memories without burning beneath them- all you know is now and then. let go.

all you are is man.

minute zero: all you are is that boy under the slide. relive.

~~~

3 // ELLIOT KROLL

"The roots of your hair—they're blond."

"No." Heartbeat. "Why would they be?"

"Your hair is dyed, isn't it? You're naturally a blond, aren't you?"

Yes. "No."

-

Dorian hastily runs his fingers through his damp hair, breaking apart the clumps stuck together with a cold moisture. A sigh falls from parted lips as his hands are lowered to rest on the countertop, fingers curling around the edge. The mirror is slightly foggy from the hot shower he's just taken, but he sees blurs of colors through it, and the outline that somewhat represents him. He raises a hand to the mirror, gently rubbing the surface clean. It feels cold against his palm, and a sort of moisture crawls through his palm, forcing the dryness in his skin to recede.

Teeth biting into lips, he stares at himself in the mirror.

His hair is dark—but it's too dark; he knows in his heart that Elliot's hair is a shade lighter, but he decides that it's concealed enough. He misses his own blond locks—the ones that were as pale as snow, but the kind of snow tenderly touched by the sun; he misses the soft locks on his fingertips more so, since the dye has turned his hair rough and dry. His eyes are green, and though shadows dance across them, they're still his.

A frown tugs at his lips as his fingers graze the contacts on the counter, and he picks up one up carefully, the smooth, curved piece light in his palm. A deep breath blows between soft lips, and then his fingertips press against the skin around his eye, stretching it a little bit. He places the contact onto his eyeball delicately, nimble fingers trembling only slightly. His hands drop down to the countertop, the ends of long, overgrown nails making quiet noises upon impact. He blinks, the contact settling on his eye as it adjusts to become more comfortable for him, and then looks back at the mirror. A brown eye stares back at him, light and shallow, and so fake.

He grinds his teeth in his mouth, breathing hard. He looks away, reaching for the other contact and shoving it into his eye a lot harder and without as much carefulness. Wincing slightly when a soft pain blooms in his face, he blinks a few times before looking back into the mirror. The brown is faded, not even close to the dark shade of Elliot's eyes, but it's brown, and it'll have to do. Dorian hates the color; it's far worse than the natural green of his eyes, but he tolerates it because he knows it'd be far worse to wear Elliot's color. It'd feel wrong.

But Dorian has done a number of wrong things recently.

Ever since Elliot had been disposed of, collapsed lungs soaked with his blood, Dorian has felt out of it. No, it's been since the moment he held the gun to his face. It felt wrong in his hand then too—too cold against his palms and too hot at his fingertips. His heart has ached every moment since, and his lungs have felt heavy. Each breath is torture, pain hugging his lungs too tight and making his throat too dry. His fingers shake too much, and he stumbles over his words. Worst of all, however, are his hands. They feel too dirty all the time, and even though he scrubs them relentlessly for hours at a time, it seems he can't get them clean; they're stained with too much blood.

He knows it was wrong to dye his hair, and he'd felt the guilt tear his heart, but he'd done it anyway. When he'd gotten the plastic surgery on his face, his heart had been shredded, and even now his chest feels heavy. All he's done is wrong; becoming Elliot is nearly the worst of it all, but now he's done something far worse: he's come home. Not his home, no, that doesn't exist, but it's possibly the closest he's ever had to a home: Elliot's home.

And God, the guilt is heavier than ever.

It sits on his shoulders, pressing down harder and harder until they ache. It pulls at his feet, tugging them towards the earth until each step feels heavy. It darkens his eyes and sweeps over his hair, scattered in the cold air that seems to always encompass him. It doesn't leave him—not once—and it only gets heavier.

There's a knock on the door and Dorian scrambles to hide the contacts in the cupboard, and he turns the faucet so that the sound of the water can hide the noises.

"Elliot?"

Dorian turns off the faucet, stepping towards the door. He coughs, clearing his throat so he can force the pitch of his voice higher.

"Yeah?" He tries to breathe, but his lungs feel too heavy. Each breath is ragged and weak, and it's too obvious that there's something troubling him. Too much of the force think it's because of depression from losing a lifelong best friend, but it's not like Dorian can correct them. Dorian wonders if Elliot's mother thinks the same.

"I—I just wanted to tell you breakfast is ready. El, darling, it's been a while, and I—I really want you to come eat with us."

Dorian rests his head against the door, nose pressed up against the wood until it's squished. He closes his eyes, biting into his lip slightly before parting his lips to reply.

"Give me a minute."

He can hear Elliot's mother exhale sharply, and then he wonders if she'll reply. She doesn't though, and he lets out a breath as he hears her footsteps become quieter and quieter.

Blowing out another sigh, Dorian turns around so that the back of his head is leaning against the door. He glances sideways at the mirror again, trying to unfocus his eyes so he sees a blur of dark hair and a splash of brown where his eyes are supposed to be.

It'll be alright, he tells himself, I've fooled them before... I can fool them again.

Taking in another breath, Dorian's fingers reach for the handle, the metal cold against his skin. His fingers brush the edges for a moment, and then they curl around it as he turns it, pulling the door open.

Breathe.

He licks his lips, trying to keep them from going dry, and swallows a gulp forming in his throat. Keeping his gaze on the floor, he moves forward in a series of steps.

Right foot. Left foot. Right. Left. Right—

"Elliot?"

Dorian looks up to see Elliot's father. He has the same dark hair Elliot had—similar to the kind Dorian has now—and brown eyes that are far deeper in color than that of Dorian's contacts. Dorian tries to smile, but it comes out lopsided and wrong.

"Dad."

His is slightly agape, slightly yellow white teeth showing from behind his lips. His eyes are wide too, though only slightly, and Dorian shifts his feet uncomfortably at how Elliot's father is looking at him.

"What?" Dorian asks quietly, trying to look anywhere but at the man.

"N-nothing. I was just surprised you came. You've been holed in your room ever since you came back." Then, a nervous chuckle. "Almost like you're a teenager again."

Dorian doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He just stares at Elliot's father blankly, wondering if that's what Elliot would've done. It's a poor joke, isn't it? Why should he laugh?

Elliot's father looks away. "I'm sorry. Come on, your mother has the table all set." He turns away, walking towards the kitchen, and Dorian reluctantly follows, eyes continuing to stay on the floor.

"Elliot!" Elliot's mother is a lot more cheerful than her husband. Her hands are on a pan handle, but she gestures to the table where a couple of plates stacked with pancakes lay. "I made pancakes—your favorite!"

"That's not my—" Dorian blinks. "Right. Thanks..." There's another pause as he looks away, speaking quieter as he continues hesitantly. "Mom."

Elliot's father is already sitting at the table when Dorian pulls out his own chair. As he sits, however, Elliot's mother speaks up again.

"I washed some strawberries too. They were—"

"Dorian's favorite." Dorian interrupts smoothly. He looks up to Elliot's mother whose eyes are wide like a deer caught in the headlights. "I know, Mom."

"I'm sorry, honey. It's just—"

"I don't want to talk about it." Dorian turns back at his pancakes, picking up his knife and fork.

"But I do."

Dorian looks up to see Elliot's mother standing right beside him, confidence building up in her eyes. He places his silverware back on the table as he lowers his hands to his pants, where he can hide the tremble of his fingers. His feet shake under the table too, anxiety clear in the sweat on the back of his neck.

"I—I'm sorry, Elliot. It's just that... ever since Dorian died... you've been different..." Her voice quavers.

He grinds his teeth nervously, wanting only to shut his eyes, but he forces himself to keep them open, though he stares only at the pancakes in front of him as he avoids eye contact.

"I know that Dorian was like a brother to you. He was like a son to me too..." Dorian looks up, eyes widened by the slightest. "To us," Elliot's mother corrects as she gestures to her husband as well. "And I know his death is painful for you... and that you need time to heal."

Dorian bites into his lip as he realizes that Elliot's mother hasn't figured it out. His fingers slow their tremble as he meets the woman's gaze. Her eyes are distraught, he realizes, and he feels something—he isn't sure what—shift inside of him.

"But I—I can't do this." There's another pause as Dorian realizes that she's crying. "Elliot, baby, I love you. And I can't watch you hurt from afar. I want to be there for you... I want to help you heal." She holds out her hand between tears, and Dorian barely hesitates as he takes it.

"I know it's hard for you, Elliot, honey. I know how much you loved Dorian... but please, baby, don't make me hurt because you're hurting. Let me in, darling... just let me in."

There's something that overwhelms Dorian in that moment. He doesn't know what it is, but it splashes over his heart and makes it ache, but not painfully so. It's different—it makes him feel calmer. And it lifts some weight off his chest—not much, but a little. He wonders if Elliot's mother can do more for him like this—make him feel better. He wonders if she can numb his pain and calm his mind.

He wonders if he can love Elliot's mother as his own.

And in that moment, with sobs racking Elliot's mother's body and tears threatening to fall from his own eyes, he knows in his heart that he can.

"It's okay to cry, baby."

And Dorian does cry. He cries for Elliot, and he cries for all that he's done wrong; he cries for every sin he's committed. And most importantly, he cries on Elliot's—his—mother's lap.

And slowly—slowly—he can feel the guilt weighing him down begin to lift up.

~~~

4 // ROBIN LAVERNE

Snapshot:

Somewhere Lost in the Decade, Dubai Poolside

There's something in the air of foreign cities that makes me crazy- perhaps it's the lights, chasing down the seas and illuminating night and day. Or perhaps it's the sounds of cars honking and slamming on the brakes as people rush along crosswalks before its their turn to move, rushed and in a hurry, picking up a phone call to handle business I'll never know. Possibly, it's the air, pollution or salt or smoke from cigarettes tapped over apartment porch railings, causing my thoughts to roam. To adventure, to weave in and out of stranger traffic.

It's likely that my experience in some cities is not representative of the land as a whole- I spend most of my time locked away in hotels, bartering with the bartender for half-off drinks and sleeping poolside with a martini olive drowning in liquor. Often, I find myself with a man; and often, I kiss him, my lips holding no intention of speaking their name, only learning their taste to forget it by morning.

And right now, across the water, sitting leisurely in the spa with eyes burning into mine, is Dante from last night. Perhaps his name is something else entirely, but I remember the gusto of those vowels and the passion of concrete fire in his consonants leaving traces of saliva and sweat on my neck. He stands, shaking off hot water, beads and droplets tracing his calves and chest- he knows I'm staring. He knows.

I'm then blinded by some shining lights coming in from the windows, the splashing of tourist kids and ignorant parents too loud, too boisterous. A book lays folded in my laps, its pages old and tattered and torn from too many dog-eared corners and trips from plane to plane. I tried reading- perhaps I've read this novel three times already, but I can't get myself to focus- all I recall is that man's stare, lava mixed with brine as steam arises from our touch.

I find myself wandering towards the sauna. And guilt forms beneath my breast as Perry, he flutters around my mind. Six years has healed nothing, yet chains pull me towards this unnamed man in a heated room, the walls painted by wood and rocks meant to melt the air alive. So I open the door, and pretend the man is no one I know, no one I've met, no one I love..

Then I leave. Board a plane and fly away to somewhere I've never been. Repeat the days and hours, repeat the trysts and whispers deep in the night.

Then I leave. Like my father always had.

And then I leave.

Snapshot:

Beirut Beachfront, Lebanon, Winter 2011

There's a point in time when the bottom of the ocean feels a lot like where you're standing in the now. Regret looms in the abyssal zone of your chest- don't disinter it, or you'll swell in its ache and sorrow- and the past attacks you on the seafloor. You won't breathe very well, only because you can't, and everything in the world feels as dysfunctional as your lungs a million feet under the water.

I make the mistake of calling Perry in winter, when the air around me freezes the beach salts together into snowflakes on my skin. Shivers I deserve, chapped lips and blue skin, heart screaming for warmth. I bury my feet in the cold sands, toes bare and crinkling against loose pebbles. There's a flicker in the air, something icy. And my phone shakes in my hand.

Ma found the number for me. When I asked her, she didn't hesitate in giving it to me, her words sweet and tone cautious- I find myself missing her more than anyone, her wrinkled lips in a smile, her hand against mine in that popcorn bowl during movie marathons- she'd always let me stay up late on school nights- and having a guaranteed embrace every night, every morning, and every time I saw her.

It's easy to miss those people that had always said 'I love you.' Upon every meeting, every departure, a force of habit born on the ties between two people. As mother and child, we still say it all the time, but there's something divine about hearing it in person. Perry laughed it; my father whispered it. But ma said it.

Somehow, it was different.

"It's been forever," she'd said. "Don't be surprised if he holds time against you."

And so, I'm expecting it, I guess, when the man I no longer know answers the phone. Just the name- "This is Perry."- is muttered in a way I'd never heard before. Is his voice deeper? Or is memory treating him wrong, giving him a higher pitch in my head, so I believe it's deeper when I hear him? Perhaps a combination of both, but I can't think of that now, my voice just as strange.

"Hello," I say. I don't know what should come next- the lapping of waves crashes against the beach, the dim moonlight pushing foam and rock. My toes dig further- a car approaches behind me, its headlights bright against the dark horizon, but it's gone just as fast- a bird overhead flies away and leaves a fleck of white from its body onto the floor. Everything moves. Except us.

"It's been six years, Robin."

It's all he says. And he knows immediately that it's me on the other end of the phone. Perhaps his memory has treated me well, or perhaps he's simply tortured himself by never forgetting me. I'm only details, I think, but he still knows it is me.

Pause.

I let out a breath- does he recognize the sound? "I know," I say. "I know. How are you?"

Pause. This is the worst part about drifting to the bottom of the ocean- when everything moves slowly, and you begin to realize you cannot breathe.

"Lonely." I repeat the word in my head. "Marcus passed away last year. Not that you'd know." I repeat the news in my head. "Or care."

I repeat the pain in my head.

"I miss you." I know instantly it's the worst thing to say, and water rushes in from every side and I can't see through the dark night. It's selfish, I think, to miss another when you're the one who left. I think, this is why father never said goodbye. Perhaps.

He laughs. It's a breathless chuckle, one he didn't prepare for until it came. "Robin Laverne, you are fucking stupid," he says. I'm startled- I'm stolen of air, his immense laugh fluttering by as if nothing had happened. "I miss you, okay?" he continues; I can't see him, but I remember how his throat used to bend when he was uncomfortable, and how his eyes used to bleed starlight when vulnerable, flickering from place to place in a vain attempt to hold back tears. How his hands used to tickle me mad after raising his voice, as if to apologize to the woman he- "What do you want?"

Another thing about being buried in the sands- all you want is to see the light again. But nowhere can you find the sun. "Do you love me anymore?"

Pause. I hear some of his breaths trickle past, teetering. "Yes."

"There's been other men." I close my eyes and listen to wave after perilous wave. "All this time." Why do I choose now to say this? Seconds pass, and I feel the burn of guilt on my tongue, the thoughtless shame of hurting the one you love most in the world.

He sighs, a choke laced in a cry. I can hear his sleeves rustling against the phone, wiping away what tears had escaped, breaths suddenly weighed down by an immeasurable ache. The ache that had once settled, now breathing once more. "Robin Laverne," he finally says, "You are really fucking stupid."

Pause- what is it about love that slows conversations down, forcing moments of silence between replies, as if the next few words will break everything down? What is it, then, that prevents me from speaking? "I know," I answer. Do I? Do I see myself wrapped in these mistakes, drowned to the bottom, and called stupid for the lost decade after us? Do I know I've messed up the world, or is it unclear that it's my fault? I don't know anything. Perhaps I left too soon, and these feelings are born of regret, but I can't wonder that now, so close to the inevitable end. "Goodbye then, Perry."

For the last time, he laughs. It's dark, full of teeth and cracking bones- it's a desperate sound, mad and ignited. "You should have never called me."

There's a pause, and then he hangs up, his laugh hanging between the lines. I know.

Snapshot:

The Tides of Beirut, Lebanon, Winter 2011

At least I said goodbye.

But perhaps I am fucking stupid, and the thing about the bottom of the ocean is that nothing will help you back up. Nothing, and you're left in darkness to breathe water into your lungs.

Nothing, and you're left alone to swim back up to the surface.

~~~

7 // LILIA GINGERFOOT

Four Years Prior, Lilia's Home in Kennett, 2:47 pm

Sixteen years of Kennett left its toll upon Lilia. The fashion everyone wore was her fashion--their ideas, her ideas. Life for them was life for her. Everyone was their own person, but in a way, no one had their own real identity, for those that did distanced themselves, talking about leaving Kennett, going away from their small town. Those people didn't understand what Lilia understood--they couldn't grasp her mindset. The past year, Susan had moved away, and Patrick spoke of leaving often.

Their friendships remained, but Lilia wouldn't, couldn't, understand them.

That was why she'd made other friends, keeping herself social, always finding a way to have a good time and a good laugh. Kennett was great for that, she knew. Finding people with nowhere to go and a good night to spend.

Most days before a test, Lilia would be studying. However, with her study partner being a hot boy that she'd wanted to kiss for awhile, studying had easily become the last thing on her mind. As the two sixteen-year-olds gave way to their desires, Lilia's heart beat fast, excitement shaking through her body. Warmth filled her lips as she kissed him, the two quick to let their books drop and fall onto the bed. While it wasn't her first make-out session, it certainly felt like it. Nervousness bit through her like ticks in the woods.

"Keith," she whispered, her eyes flirting between him and his lips, "should we...?"

He nodded, leaning in and kissing her again.

When his hand went under her shirt, she gasped, kissing him harder and letting him pull it off her, the two giggling slightly as they kissed, unable to contain their excitement. Oh my god! Are we going to do it? Though she'd had several boyfriends, and a few flings with scattered makeout sessions, doing 'the deed' had yet to be done. At Kennett High, 'the deed' was the biggest deal, and she knew it had to be with a really cool guy like Keith, otherwise, her friends would totally laugh at her. Sleeping with nerds and lame guys only came after the initial 'the deed'.

That was before the door opened, however. With a creek and a shudder, it flew open, and Papa stuck his head in. "Hey, you two--" A pause, the door nearly closing again, and then he cleared his throat. "One second, stay right there. I need to get your father, and the four of us need to have a talk. Stay right there!"

And he was gone. Awkwardly, Lilia pulled her shirt over her head, the entirety of her face red. "Oh my god, I am so sorry!"

"No, no," Keith said, his voice deeper. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing up the dark curls. "Well, uh, your family is...friendly?"

"I swear, he normally knocks! It's just because you're here." She sighed into her hands. Why me? Why does this always happen to me? Can't my family just be...normal? It's just a guy, not a crazy orgy. Jeeze.

A few seconds later Pops and Papa were inside the room, sitting down with a small box of condoms and talking about the dangers of 'impromptu sex' and how both of them need to be careful not to get anyone pregnant, not to get hurt when doing it, and that doing it while they were in the house was a little weird but if the children had to do it, then to put on music, a sock over the door, etc. Pops did most of the talking, leading with his beard, and Keith and Lilia nodded to everything they said as though it were the most simple thing in the entire world.

"Okay, well, uh, I think that's everything!" Papa stood, pulling up Pops with them. "Okay you two, remember that dinner will be done in half an hour. Shannon's coming, Liliabear, so if you two are going to do anything make certain to ferbreeze your room, you know how crazy she can get about all that."

"Yeah, thanks, Papa." Standing up, Lilia ran over to her door and opened it for them, beckoning for them to leave the room. They took their sweet time about it and all she could do was tap her foot, nearly biting her lip off in the process. "Come on, will you two just go be gay elsewhere? I'm fine on my own, thank you very much."

Pops held up his hands with a cheeky grin. "Aw, Lilia, you know we love you."

"Whatever, just go!"

And then they were gone again, the quiet almost worse than the box of condoms still sitting there. Sucking on her lips, Lilia walked back over and sat down on the bed. Oh god, what do I say? What do I say? There was so much she could explain, or maybe they'd kiss again, or maybe anything. The realm of possibilities was wild and free, open to interpretation by everyone.

"Studying, yeah?"

Oh. A few words had completely shut down Lilia. Meek, and uncertain, she picked up her textbook and stared at its contents. Reading didn't exist. Understanding? What the heck could that be? A few instances of pain pricked at her face, warming her nose and watering her eyes, but Lilia didn't cry. Oh, well. Next time I guess. Though, there were only so many Keiths in Kennett, Missouri. Perhaps he wouldn't think too little of her later on? But perhaps was never anything to go on, so Lilia didn't let herself get her hopes up.

Downstairs, potatoes, green beans, and fried chicken waited for them. Shannon was there too, reading some book in an armchair and snacking on a banana. Oh my god. Keith, I'm so sorry. If he had received her telepathic message, he never said anything. Instead, the two of them found a seat at the table, their hands still damp from washing, and waited to be served.

As Pops gave her a plate, she nodded, setting it down without looking at him. Ugh. Why must they be this way? Come on. Lilia ate anyway, and beside her, Keith did too. When Shannon took her place, carrying a large glass of wine--oh god--Keith even smiled at her, laughing a little bit.

When they told stupid jokes, he laughed, telling his own too.

When Lilia dropped her fork on the ground, he picked it up for her, wiping it off with a grin and trading her forks. "A lady deserves a quality fork," he'd said, grinning near ear to ear.

When Shannon began her questions, Lilia wanted to bury her head inside the mashed potatoes. "So, he kinda looks like a Frog, Lilia."

"He's not."

"Well, does he act like a Frog?"

Stabbing the mashed potatoes may have earned an eyebrow raise from Papa, but it was well worth it. Oh, come on. This is worse than that awful slasher Thanksgiving flick. At least that wasn't so awful. Can someone die already? Can I?

"No, Shannon."

Underneath the table, Keith took his hand in hers. He's not...upset? A flutter in her heart reminded her that maybe she was being too harsh on her family. They were, after all, just looking out for her.

~~~

8 // VERENA IGNOTUS

The smell of gingerbread and pine wafts through the house, potpourri decorating each doorway to make a glorious mix of Christmas no matter where in the house one was located. It was a barrage on the senses, and the tinkling Christmas music and the wreaths and garlands that lay decorated on the walls and bannisters meant no one could walk within five feet and not find evidence of Christmas. For Verena, this meant hiding away.

She's fifteen now. She's just almost outgrown her need to run from her problems, but when it comes to family, there is still that sliver of apprehension. Christmas is overly celebrated in her house, the one thing her parents seem to take joy in. The presents aren't even that good, but Verena thinks they just want to have that mystical air around that shoves away all the negative thoughts about real life.

Her room is a shade of purple, which isn't all that interesting to note except for the fact Verena hates purple. She sits on her bed and stares at the wall. She's wanted to paint her room since she was nine, but her parents never let her. They were well and fine to decorate and paint other rooms of the house, but never receptive enough to let their daughter make a decision for herself. Perhaps that was why they'd never get along: they had birthed and raised someone without a personality. They had done a good job of it. Her parents were singular personalities, and yet for Verena, she never developed anything of worth or use. Perhaps underdeveloped, even. She knew she liked to go outside, she knew she liked the people she hung around, but what did others think of her?

Verena stood up and walked to the kitchen, where her mother was standing over a pot.

"Mom, what type of personality do I have?"

"What do you mean?" she said, not turning away from her boiling potatoes.

"Like, if you think of a word to describe me, what is it?"

There was a pause.

"You're headstrong. And you don't like to take no for an answer."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Well, sure, there's plenty else. You're polite most of the time, you like a good laugh."

"Is that it though? Silvia is nice and smart and funny and thoughtful, but it's like, I have the personality of a q-tip."

"Oh, come on Verena," she said, finally turning away from her potatoes. "You have an introverted personality, and she's more outgoing. That just means your personality is on the inside. I don't have time to deal with these silly questions."

"Okay."

Verena walked away. Inner personality? Sure, she could think that. Heck, she could live her entire life content in the act she must have an inner personality somewhere that others couldn't see. But when she looked inside herself, where was it?

On the way back to her room, she passed her father, who was on his way to the kitchen. They didn't speak. They rarely did. After all, he was barely around and he and Verena never saw eye to eye on any matter. She didn't even know if he knew what grade she was going into, which seemed overdramatic, but they were so distant from each other to him it must have seemed like Verena was a tenant rather than his daughter.

He never sought her out, wanting to hear about her day. Wasn't that what a father was meant to be like? Caring, wanting to know about his daughter? She was sure he knew about Silvia, but what was it about her that prevented that line from being broken? Verena had battled that question for many years, and resigned herself to never knowing the answer.

Back in her room, she slumped down on her bed, staring at her speckled ceiling. It was such a lonely existence, even when it ought not to be. She had a family who sheltered her and fed her and cared for her. She did well in school, but not overly so. She had enough friends that liked her back. And she was never abused, but the loneliness and neglect felt like something was missing.

She picked up her phone. No notifications.

Christmastime brought out the melancholy even more than normal. Verena saw all the happy families and all the joy that came from the holiday but never could she ever experience the same emotions, no matter how hard she tried. It was like she was a failure of a human. She was a half-human, unable to function at the same level all the other humans could. It was exhausting.

After a while, she took off the pyjamas she had been wearing for the last several days of Christmas break, and pulled on some pants and a long-sleeved shirt. She walked to the hall, and then to the front door, and pulled on her winter jacket and boots.

Her mother heard the commotion and stood at the door of the kitchen. "Where are you going?"

"For a walk."

"Supper will be ready in a half hour."

Verena opened the door and let the cool winter wind entangled her hair and caress her face.

Her feet padded down the half-inch snow of her driveway. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to go. In the cold, her senses were enhanced, more fine-tuned. Perhaps she could gain a sliver of understanding if she took a walk.

As she walked, her boots left impressions in the snow behind her, the only trace she would have ever walked there. That was another skill: she had a knack for hiding and disappearing. All the times she had ran away in her youth, she had only been found when she returned home.

But, she realized, perhaps she was never found. Perhaps they had never looked for her in the first place. She was frustrated with herself for such a revelation. Couldn't she just live her boring, unexciting, life in peace? What was it that compelled her to torture herself endlessly with these visions of disgust and uselessness?

She walked with more purpose, taking roads she wasn't quite familiar with, passing cars and traffic lights until she was in a neighbourhood she had never heard of. She wasn't running away, or, at least she didn't think she was going to, but the further she walked, the more she realized there was so little of life worth living back home.

When was she going to experience heartbreak? Love so much she couldn't stop smiling? Giddiness at an event waiting to happen? So many things she knew she was missing out on but could never seem to grasp. She came close, but as soon as she nearly had them in her hands, her apathy returned, taunting her once more with jeers that she would never experience such things.

She was so empty. She was so alone. In the biting cold, she fell down onto a bench that lined the empty roads. Why was she existing when existence had no meaning to her? Running away, wandering from home, those were the times where she could finally think, where she could feel, but even then she knew they were muted. She wanted to scream.

Her family was neglectful. They made her a person without a personality, without desires, without worries or fears or emotions. Who was she but a reflection of those she was around? And when she was alone, there was no one there to reflect. Alone, she knew who she truly was.

If not even her family cared, if not even her friends cared, what was the point?

Perhaps there was none. But still she existed. Still she continued, even if she did not know why/

~~~

9 // MISTER SMITH

A powder white haze billows into the room. Minuscule snowflakes stick to the to the cackling generator, the grime encrusted oven, and the breathless cheeks of Mister Smith and Keegan Little. They melt on contact and turn the layer of dust on everything, briefly, into a layer of mud. Evaporation then takes place, and dust, once again, coats.

"You've outdone yourself, Keeg. You've really outdone yourself."

The camera is pointed outwards from the refrigerator, showing their giddy faces swirling in spine tingling smoke, but not their topic of conversation. It's slightly disconcerting, that omission. Nothing can be put past the two characters, and the show's penchant for scathingly dark humour does little to slice through the suspense.

"Today's gonna be nuts."

*

Ackley Spader feels uncomfortable. Most of the kids coming in to pitch shows do. Ignoring the fact that their career, their livelihood is on the line of a convincing performance, and the whims of a few old men, they still feel out of place. They're writers, used to having heads of hair like gnarled bonsai bushes, to having faded ink imprints on their foreheads after falling asleep at their desks and using pages of drivel as pillowcases, to having bolder ink imprints, professionally scrawled, of their proudest phrases stamped on their forearms. His slicked back navy blue hair tickles his ears and scratches at his neck. The suit he's wearing in his favorite color - black - but a professional and demure black rather than the twisted teenage poet black he prefers. About two tones too bright.

Behind the two panes of corrugated glass that work together like a puzzle box to form a door, is a solid and ornate table stretching to the horizon, where it underlines the setting sun. That sun is the back-lit ABC Family logo. The camera is flung toward it until only the subscript is in frame.

Family, it says, with an accompanying instrumental flourish.

"Ackley Spader?" The boy nods, pressing the man to continue. "Well go on then, convince us."

"Ahem, yes. Will do," he disembowels his attache onto the mahogany slab and shuffles his notes around, picking on up to read from. "...It's about people, and sympathy, and judgement, and the hypocrisy of it all. How every man, woman, and child in America - heck, the world - feels they are qualified to choose who deserves to life or die no matter how much they know them. I call it The Circle," he says. "We're dark twisted beings, Mr. Ascheim, and people love hearing that."

"Ah, you know my name, you've done your research. Perhaps somewhere in their you managed to see that this is ABC *Family*, but obviously not," Ascheim, president of the company, says, throwing his arms in the air to mock the boy's lapse in logic. "I watched your pilot, and frankly, you could replace everyone with cartoon ponies and we still couldn't air it. A game show where the viewers vote to kill people off? No way."

"Obviously nobody is killed off, they're all actors." Ackley feels the need to clarify this, because it isn't true, and he's covering for the crimes he's going to commit.

"You think I don't t know that? Next you're gonna tell me Santa Clause doesn't exist."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Look kid, you got a good product here. It's fresh, edgy, and you're right, edgy is trending in television whether we like it or not, but it's not for us. Have you tried to get in a base ABC?"

"We approached them," Ackley tucks a spike of gel soaked hair that had sprung awry behind his ear, "they saw aliens and puppy-dogs and suggested we talk to you," he laughs.

Ascheim laughs too, a forced and nasal chuckle. "I'll put a word in at the vanilla headquarters, make them watch the thing before poo-poo-ing it, 'cause let me tell you, this has the potential to be a perfectly middling and forgettable drama for their six o-clock slot."

"Thank you. Thank you all for your time." Ackley starts scooping up his paper into a manila folder taco.

"Spader, even for the adults, you gotta tone it down. I mean the alien storyline for example. You gotta make the show a little less 'I love killing dogs', and a little more "I Love Lucy.""

"I can try," he laughs, "but I'm not sure if that kinda vibe would really be the best fit for the project." Really his qualms come from the fact that the people whose lives he's documenting don't and can't know that, and suggestive reasoning is the extent of his directorial pull. Until he gets them in his circle, that is, then he can do whatever he wants, within the public broadcasting guidelines. But patience, as they say, is a virtue, and first he must let them run free like roaches under a microscope.

"Then I guess you'll have to manufacture it."

*

"Y'know this wasn't the best week. You know, Calv and all - gash honestly - but this, this has got me right made up for tonight. I'm telling you, Keeg, this is gonna be nuts."

The fridge is stuffed with bottles of Lucozade, packets of Haribos, and bags of Taytos. The crisps and sweets are being chilled because Keeg was too lazy to separate the ingredients for the perfect night from their cellophane plastic casings. There are five bags of the snack, each one with the name of the supermarket Mister's misery still stems from embossed on the front and back.

"Haha," Keeg pulls two out and over to the counter they've been using as a table since somebody crushed their good one, "it's certainly gonna be better than some dusty old funeral. It's proper tragic that that bodies always go back to their families. Calv didn't want to die with his family in some sad moany church. He'd have wanted to be here tonight, burning away on the stove-top, watching us enjoy ourselves one final time." Walking over to the radio, which is the topper of a tower consisting of a toaster oven, dirty dishes, and magazines - also dirty, he continues. "He'd want some decent tunes pumping, not god-dang "Amazing Grace." Did they play "Amazing Grace?""

"Aye," Mister says.

"Of course they did. They always do." For three years the radio has been tuned into ROC 104.3, punch the power button and 'the maddest beats, played unapologetically' plays... unapologetically. The station is DJ'd by two tough as nails old ladies who smoked their lungs out during their younger years and now talk like punk rock robots through their throat holes. It's infamous for pumping abrasive ear-breakers into the airwaves, and for being blasted by dopeheads with bad taste. Today though, it's playing "Palisades Park."

"This 104.3?" Mister says.

"Aye," Keeg responds after sneaking a second look for himself.

"What's it doing playing this sentimental tripe?"

"Don't look at me," Keeg says. Mister hasn't heard of this phrase in all of his studies, so he averts his eyes. The lack of a hearty but patronizing chuckle means Keeg hasn't noticed this.

By the end of the song their heads are bobbing to the pompous beats and the kilted cascades. It plays rough a second time without them even noticing, but as the third round opens Keeg rushes over and twists the dial. To his horror, 101.7 is playing it just the same. 98.4, 96.9, and every decimal in between is playing "Palisades Park".

"What in the world? The radio's gone jammy, like!"

"Leave it!" Mister shouts over the blare, twisting on shag carpeting and dribbling sloppy slurps of Lucozade all over the furniture. "Come dance with me." That's what he does.

They join hands after rushing together. Mister jumps on to the couch, dragging Keeg with him. "Up!" he shouts, singing along with the song. Then together, "Down!" They are back at ground level.

"Fast!" they race around the tight and jutting landscape of the flat, almost knocking over everything left of value in the place after party after party for a few years now.

"And around!" they twirl and twirl without a care in the world. Then the run back to the couch, hop over the back, and land on the worn out seat cushions in a poof of smoke. Laughter fills the room, bouncing off the antenna television, the last table in existence, and each other's giddy grins. "Ahh that was fun," Keeg summarizes, implicitly ending said entertainment, not because he is lying through his lips, but because he is quickly tiring, a point he accentuates with a run of heavy heaves.

"What a great song," Mister says.

"Ehh it's alright." Keegan goes for the television remote and mashes the power button. After a longer than usual blare of static, the picture flicks on. It's some old timey backwash. Insipid trash, he thinks. People must've been just as creative back then, but the rules, both written and unwritten, set so many limitations and criteria that it was impossible to make anything real. Laugh tracks and petty problems, that's what was left. Some people like it, right swear by it, like, but it's definitely not for him. He changes the channel.

"Now why in the world is BT Sport running sitcoms?"

He goes to the guide and Jesus Christ this Lucy lass most have a harem or summat. St. Valentine's Day comes around and the Cadbury CEO wets himself at all the sales coming in, and then he wets himself harder when Lucy herself comes in and takes his job from under his piggy snout after her lovers buy the company for her. He'd still love her though, just like everyone else. Up and down it's layers and layers of "I Love Lucy." Scrolling through is like taking an entire magazine from a machine gun. A few of the music channels are playing "Palisades Park" instead, but that is no help at all!

"You'd want me to go out and check on the dish?"

"Nah this is for Calv. Stay and hang. Even bad television is good if you got great snacks." Keeg gets up and fetches a bag of food, tossing it over and divvying up the riches. Meanwhile the content of the television programme catches Mister's eye in the way where he wants to look away but can't. Would he even be able to change the channel?

The kid walks in with a puppy, a wee scruffy thing. His mind twists the pixels like a kaleidoscope, loosing the original scene in synaptic translation. Now the kid is instead those two mourning kids cussing out their father, and those kids aren't even those kids, but rather his own kids. Krizon beats his tiny fists into Mister's back like a drum soloist. Polla berates him with the tongue of an astronaut; the girl couldn't even say 'Papa' when he left her (to be fair, the martian word for Papa is pronounced similarly to 'Bosztodorczyk' and it's quite the mouthful). Yelp, his wife, is sat unfazed at the table; apathetic towards the death of the dogs, but immediately and fully disenchanted with the husband she settled with.

Now the dog is barking, waking up the entire complex. Mister breaks away from his 'mare and is pleased to see the pooch portrayed poorly. "If I ever came across a dog like that, I'd kick it's head into the ground without a second thought. Without a second thought. Wouldn't you?"

"You know mate," Keeg squints at him, "I think that's the most messed up thing I've heard you say, and that's *you*, like. Like that's some proper competition."

"What do you mean messed up? Haven't you ever heard of the Koreans?"

"The Koreans?! What do they have to do with curb-stomping little puppies?"

"Well they eat the critters, you know," Mister says.

"That's just a stereotype."

"But it's true. Look, I'm not saying it's an universal practice over there, but there's no denying that they do it, among others. So what? Are we supposed to hate the ones that do? We don't."

"Well I wouldn't go looking at the Koreans for inspiration, considering we felt it necessary to go over and shoot the crap outta their country," Keeg says.

"Sounds like we're the ones I shouldn't be taking inspiration from."

"Great shout."

"So did I convince you that killing a dog isn't so bad?"

"What? No!" Keeg fists a handful of crisps down his throat, reverting from conversing to munch munch munching.

"Oh."

In the show, the parents are having trouble breaking bad news to their kid. Their real problem is that they keep delaying he issue, shirking it for another day, it was Mister's problem too. The job, the one he's sorta doing right now, was offered and accepted a martian month before departure. His kids were told the day of launch. So they cried, and have been crying ever since. Maybe they understand now, maybe they've swelled with pride and the prime ribs his paycheck purchases. He doesn't know, and that's the problem, so he has to assume they're crying.

"I like this Mister Stewart guy, he's got the right idea, and a boss first name by the way," Mister says.

"That dude's supposed to be the villain, you weirdo," Keeg says. See look at that," he points at the box, "he just got booted haha."

"He did not get booted. He left on principle."

Another handful of crisps disappear from the bag. Keeg can hardly enunciate. "Whatever."

Not whatever, Mister thinks, there's a difference. Fact is, everybody is a villain, just depends how much they let it on. How desperate they've become. Everybody, martians or earthlings, will always say selfish things and commit selfish acts, and all they can do is pray that their selfish desires are more socially acceptable than the next organism's.

"You ever think that Calv kinda got in the way of our relationship?"

"What? No! You can't honestly be saying that now. Of all times? Now?! The lad just died, Mister. You can't go around saying things like that about a guy who just died!"

"I don't know, I thought that's why were doing this. To avoid all the sentimental tripe and the 'oh, he was the best man I ever met, and literally everything about him is perfect in every way' rubbish."

"Calv was family, man. You," he says in a general sense, "you just talk about your family like that all the time. You just do."

"I have an actual family though," Mister says.

Eyes the size of hard boiled eggs turn to him. "What? Where are they? What happened?"

"I can't tell you."

~~~

11 // CAMDEN FISHER

Linum usatatissimum; A flax flower represents home and family.

*

Camden had never celebrated Christmas before. Not really. With his Dad, it had been pretty much out of the question. With his Grandfather, it had been a small and intimate occasion - a little tree, if they had one at all, and a few presents underneath it. Nothing big.

With Violet Fisher, Christmas was a proper affair. She went all out with the decorations - holly was spiraled around the banister, Mr. Crawley from next door helped set up the lights around the lawn, and Violet herself recruited Camden's help in setting up a toy train to roll around the base of the gigantic tree.

On his second Christmas with Violet Fisher, much remained the same.

"Bonaparte! I'm going to step on you one of these days, then you'll be sorry." Violet's not-so-threatening voice wafted from the kitchen along with the aroma of freshly-baked cookies. Soon it became evident why, as the woman stepped out precariously balancing a platter stacked high with baked chocolate chip goodness.

"Th-Thanks," he took the one she proffered and set it on the page of the book he was currently reading. It was a historical fiction novel - Violet loved those, he'd come to learn. He'd also come to learn that he loved them even more than she did. "Your baking's getting better."

"You haven't even tried it yet!"

"Yeah, but it doesn't smell burnt."

Violet pouted and tried to peer over his shoulder at the words on the page. Camden subtly shifted to block her view, and she relented, stepping around him to set the plate of cookies on the table. "I invited Jay and his family over for dinner tonight. I think I mentioned that yesterday. Did I mention that yesterday?"

"Yes, and it's on the f-fridge." The fridge was a good place for sticking notes, the two of them had discovered. It was mostly Camden who'd discovered it, in order to help Violet remember what had to be done, or bought, or tended to. While she had an excellent memory when it came to the past, she often forgot about events in the future.

"Ah. Thank you. I'm going to make dinner, and we're all going to like it." She paused thoughtfully. "And if not, we'll just buy take-out."

"R-Really?" Camden raised a somewhat skeptical brow, his eyes finally leaving the battlefield of World War I to glance over at her.

"Yes, really. What's wrong with take-out?"

"It's not very..." he searched for the proper word. "Formal?"

"Since when have we done formal?"

Camden's eyes roved around the living room, the extravagance so evident that it threatened to burn his retinas. "Well..."

"Shut up." She said it playfully, though, and instead of recoiling as he was so prone to do, Camden smiled. Violet smiled back. Their smiles sat there for a while. Bonaparte, jealous of the scene, took advantage of their stillness to clamor onto Camden's lap and knock the cookie aside with an air of indifference.

The doorbell rang.

"That must be them! Oh, I haven't started dinner yet."

"What t-time is it?"

"Um..." Violet drew her cell phone out of the pocket of her apron. She threw her arms in the air. "Oh, shoot! It's six-thirty already. Well. Take-out it is, I guess."

"They won't mind." Over the past year and a half, Camden had had many dinners and sleepovers at the Galluccios', and Camden was fairly sure that they were second only to Violet in the ranking of "most easygoing people in the world".

Camden carefully adjusted his crumpled shirt anyways, and then tried to smooth his hair with one hand while setting an annoyed Bonaparte back on the hardwood floor with the other. Polite greetings and holiday wishes were exchanged once the door had opened, and what nerves had sparked up within him were calmed at the sound of Jay's voice - "Camden's here, right?"

"Right, right. Camden!"

"Yeah!" He used the fallen cookie as the marker in his book and set it on the table just as Jay came into view. He looked just the same as ever - black hair as messy as Camden's, brown eyes glowing, dimples on his cheeks when he smiled. This time he was holding something, though. A rectangular something, wrapped in the funny pages.

"Hiya, Cam! Boy, you sure do go to town with those decorations."

"Yeah, it's V-Violet mostly. But I helped with the t-train. And the t-tree."

Jay's laugh was contagious, and Camden found his mouth quirking up before the other boy had even uttered his sentence. "Yeah, of course. Of course you helped with the tree. Where should I set this?" He indicated the rectangular something in his hands.

"Oh, um. What is it?"

"It's a gift, of course. Where should I set it?"

"A g-gift?"

"Yeah. For you."

He wasn't sure why he was so surprised. It wasn't like Jay had never gotten him a gift before. But he'd never wrapped a gift before either, and somehow that made Camden feel even guiltier about his own empty hands. "I d-didn't get you a gift."

"It's from all of us. You should open it!"

"N-Now?"

"Yeah! Come on, you'll love it."

"It's not Christmas yet."

"Eh, Christmas Eve. Close enough. Come on, open it. Please?" He extended his 'please' until Camden agreed, fearing that his friend would run out of breath. They both crouched down near the flickering fireplace, Camden with his gift and Jay with a cookie he'd nabbed from the table on his way over.

Carefully, Camden removed the paper. He was the type of boy to take precautions with it; gentle hands tore at the tape and did their best to not rip the comics that laid beneath it. Slowly, it became evident what the gift was and Camden couldn't contain a soft gasp. "I-It's the entireAcademia Jones set!"

Academia Jones was his favorite book series - it was a series that simultaneously got his heart pounding and managed to calm his nerves. It was where he escaped to when he was feeling particularly happy, or sad, or bored, or... well, when he was feeling. The crime-solving, time-travelling detective most often found himself in the past, confronting famous figures such as Jack the Ripper or Billy the Kid. Camden often checked them out from the library at school or borrowed them from Jay himself. He'd never actually owned the series for himself before. Until now.

"Well?" Jay waited with expectant eyes, crumbs dusting the corners of his mouth. "Do you like it?"

Camden fiercely hugged him in place of a response, and both of them giggled when he nearly toppled right over.

Still, the Academia Jones set was somehow not the best present he received that night.

Once Chinese takeout had been consumed and Jay and his parents had left, Violet meandered the kitchen for a bit. This was normal, as Violet was a meanderer by nature. She was not, however, a murmurer. When she had something to say, even to herself, she said it loud and clear - clear enough for Camden to pick up on even when he was facing her with his bad ear.

This time, however, her voice was low and her words difficult to pick up on. Not that he was eavesdropping, or anything. He was just curious as to what could have her in so much of a tizzy as to be pacing the floor and retracing her steps and mumbling to herself all at the same time.

"V-Violet?" He finally gathered up the courage to ask the name, the word, the question. Something about her seemed off, and it was beginning to make him nervous, too. "Is ev-everything okay?"

She stopped, took a deep breath, and then: "Camden, I'm adopting you."

Silence.

"I mean, if that's okay. I didn't know how to... how to ask you if that was okay. But, you're like a son to me. You're the only family I have - other than Bonaparte, that is, and I just felt like you deserved a family, too. Not much would change, I promise - just your last name, and there wouldn't be people checking in or anything anymore. But you can still say no, if you want. I mean, I'd be heartbroken, but I'd under - "

Her ramblings were interrupted by the second fierce hug that Camden had distributed that day. He wasn't used to this - to hugs, to initiating hugs, to this warm and fuzzy feeling glowing inside of him. Tears had sprung into his eyes, and Violet hugged him back like the world would end if she let him go.

"Is that a yes?"

Camden could scarcely do more than nod against her chest, too overcome with happiness to even think about speaking.

Fisher. Camden Fisher.

He decided he loved the name as much as the mother he would share it with.

~~~

14 // SAGA STRÖM

It was two years before Saga met Oscar.

Even then, she saw Oscar's house before she saw Oscar Lundgren himself. The structure was massive, two hulking, white pillars supporting the second-story balcony and a polished oak door facing the street. Linnea nearly dropped her duffel bag when she laid eyes on it.

"Oh, Lord," she breathed, her mouth falling open like a fish's. "What the fuck does Oscar do?"

"He's a surgeon," Saga replied coolly, leading the way toward Oscar's disgustingly large porch. She didn't know much else about Oscar, except that he was "very nice" and "more than happy" to welcome two seventeen- and sixteen-year-old girls into his home. Linnea had made a snide comment about that, but Saga had attempted to ease her nerves before they'd set out for the Karlstad coast. Mamma wouldn't have married a man who was perverted; she had good sense, regardless of what Pappa muttered at their empty dinner table.

What struck Saga about Oscar's house was that it was so modern. She reflected on it as Linnea rang the pearl-white doorbell, as a large dog barked from inside the mansion. No one's Farfar had labored over Oscar's house. The building seemed less of a story than a snapshot, not an annal of years past but a portrait of the present. This was who Oscar was right now. In Saga's house, many people had been many things over many ages; she wondered what Oscar could be in this pure-white behemoth of his own design.

The oak door swung open. Standing in that glowing space was a beautiful woman, her blonde hair a feathery sheet around her shoulders and her lashes rimmed with black. The wrinkles at the edges of her eyes only added character. She wore a navy blue dress, tied at the center; Saga concluded that this could not be her mother, because her mother would never wear a dress. The pearl earrings were missing, and the golden bracelet, and the locket with the letter C. No, this was not Saga's mother.

The woman blinked rapidly, eyes shining. She held out a shaking hand, as if out of habit, then let it drop. "Oh, come here," she said instead, high voice quavering, then stepped over the threshold herself to embrace Saga. Saga fought a wince—she smelled like cinnamon, why did she smell like cinnamon? Her old perfume had been lavender, her room had smelled like lavender for weeks, Pappa had just sat there on the edge of the bed without driving to work or cooking dinner or cleaning their decaying home and Saga had crept into that lavender room to tug on his hairy wrists and cry but he wouldn't budge—

"How are you?" said the woman with her mother's face. Saga blinked the tears away as the woman withdrew; she couldn't have this woman—Elsa—thinking that she was weak, that her heart at all bled for Elsa's plight. She was her father's daughter, only her father's, and she would not betray him by taking again what he never could.

"I'm fine," Saga replied, and said nothing else.

After Linnea and Elsa had had their introductions, Elsa led the girls inside. The interior was even more striking than the house's outer facade, the floors tiled with black-and-white marble and a crystalline chandelier dangling from the inlaid ceiling. Chess pieces seemed to be everywhere—a dog-sized black king and white queen stood on a table just before the entrance, surrounded by fabric roses, and chest-high rooks and bishops peeked out from corners and alcoves. "Gimmicky,"Linnea whispered in Saga's left ear.

"Just put your bags down here," said Elsa, gesturing to the foyer floor, "and Oscar's waiting for you in the parlor."They did so, and Linnea murmured, "Ooh, the parlor," as Elsa led them further in. Saga held a finger up to her lips but stifled a laugh.

The room in which the girls found themselves was large, filled with white sofas and ornate black chairs. Seated at the back in a plush, red chair (the only one of its color, Saga noted—like a drop of blood on a handkerchief) was Oscar Lundgren. His head was bent, pointed toward a magazine in his lap, but his stare lifted upon the women's entrance, and he rose to his full height. This time, Saga gasped.

Oscar was young. His face was handsome, the slightest bit of stubble framing his jaw, and his nose was angular and defined, set beneath a pair of steel-gray eyes. His complexion was a deep brown color, his hair was a messy black, and he was absolutely beautiful. Saga spared a glance at Linnea to note that her cheeks had turned rosy red.

"Good to meet you girls," he said. "I'm Oscar." (That voice! How had her mother found this man in Karlstad?)

"I'm Linnea," said Saga's friend, and here she stepped forward to hold out her hand. Saga barely bit back a reproof."It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister...?"

"Lundgren," said Oscar, immediately clasping Linnea's hand in his own. He laughed and added, "Nice grip! And you are not Elsa's daughter, is that correct?"

"No, that's Saga." Linnea glanced back at Saga and pointed, causing her to flinch where she stood. Oscar's gaze rose over Linnea's head and met Saga square in the eyes; the effect was paralyzing, but Saga held her stare and said nothing.

"Saga," said Oscar. She hated the way her name sounded in his mouth, all solemn, clipped vowels. "I feel like I already know you."

He couldn't possibly. What a disgusting, presumptuous man, thinking he understood a girl whose life he had singlehandedly dismantled. Saga felt a ripple of contempt wash through her, and her jaw tightened.

The mood had changed in a matter of seconds. Oscar easily could have lightened it—addressed Linnea again, shown the girls a place to sit—but instead he continued to stare, and Saga's loathing deepened.

"You live on the west side of town, correct?" said Oscar.

The poorer side of town. "Correct," said Saga, enunciating the consonants just like Oscar had, her tone becoming almost mocking.

"With your father?"

Saga nodded. She refused to blink. If Oscar said one nasty thing about Pappa—

"And how old are you?"

Thank God. "Seventeen."

Then Oscar smiled, thin-lipped, and he said, "Well, Saga, I hope you enjoy your stay."

And that was all Oscar said to Saga for an entire day.

Saga expected him to confront her, the way he'd stared that evening, but after she and Linnea left the parlor, Oscar never sought her out. As soon as Elsa gave the directions, Saga fled up the winding front staircase to her guest bedroom, the anger bubbling and twisting inside of her. Her fingers curled with it; her breathing became heavy, labored. She could barely speak to Linnea, who busied herself reading a novel on top of their canopy bed, seemingly unbothered.

Saga had been invited here to interact with Elsa. She understood this; it had been the unspoken clause in their phone call, the reason behind the entire visit. Maybe Elsa wanted it, craved it, even—perhaps Saga was that one missing piece from her otherwise pristine world—but Saga could not perform that terrible task required of her. She could not look at that woman in blue without seeing her father in gray, cradled in darkness, his skin unwashed, his beard unshaven, his eyes glazed over with regret and the endless need to forget. She could not breathe the sterile air in this house without breathing the filthy air in her Pappa's house, that house the sun hadn't touched in years, the house whose exterior fooled every passerby but continued to rot and fester within. She could not see the beautiful woman her mother had become without also seeing, on the insides of her eyelids, the ghosts she had created, the people she had buried in order to glow the way she did. This house, and all the trappings that came with it, had been paid for with that house. Saga understood sacrifice.

She did not talk to Oscar until the next day, when the sun had barely risen over the blue-gray sea and Linnea had tucked her novel back into her bag and begun to snore. Saga had barely slept. Bleary-eyed, she tiptoed from the room in which she had been trapped for hours and crept down the back staircase. She didn't know how to locate the kitchen, but her stomach ached, and Pappa's pantry had been near-barren the day before.

When she found the kitchen, she found Oscar. He stood with a mug of coffee in hand, facing the rock path to the seashore through his floor-to-ceiling bay windows. He didn't turn when Saga entered, only gestured toward the oaken refrigerator door behind him.

"There's breakfast stuff if you want it," he said, voice low and gravely. "Bread and cereal are in the pantry."

Saga stopped in the middle of the floor. Rather than open the fridge, she gazed at Oscar, the plaid pajama pants he wore, the ill-fitting T-shirt that pooled around his waist.

"You don't want food," said Oscar. It wasn't a question. He turned, slowly, to stare at Saga with those long-lashed eyes. His face was just as handsome, if not more so, than it had been the day before. Saga lifted her chin in a silent refusal to speak.

Finally, Oscar sighed. "Saga," he said, "what do you want from me?"

Saga blinked.

"Whatever it is, I can't give you," he continued. "I am what I am. Elsa is what she is. If you're interested in a mother—which I know you're not—Elsa is here to provide for you. She's ready; we both are. But you're interested in your mother, aren't you?"

Saga's chin wavered, but she said nothing.

Oscar took a seat at the kitchen table, turning the chair to face Saga. "I'm not sorry, if that's what you want," he said."Elsa is planning to apologize to you at some point, but that's not for leaving your father. It's for choosing wrong in the first place. And me—I have nothing to apologize for. You were hurt, and I understand that. I commiserate. But I won't say I'm sorry, because I'm not."

"You're a dick, is what you are," said Saga.

Oscar smiled. It was a real smile, not the fake one he'd shown to Linnea and Saga the night before. "Maybe," he said. "But you know I'm right."

Saga's fists clenched at her sides. She could not break in front of Oscar, but her face felt hot, and her mouth had gone dry. She couldn't decide if she was about to cry or explode.

"You think she should have stayed, is that it?" said Oscar. Saga took a step back, shocked. It hadn't crossed her mind that morning, but it was true—those were the principles Saga espoused. Elsa should never have left, not in the way she did.

"She ruined us," said Saga. Her voice had begun to saver, and her eyes were suddenly wet, oh God, she was about to cry in front of Oscar Lundgren. "She ruined me and Pappa and, and Tove—"

"She followed her goddamn heart," said Oscar. Something in his gaze was intense, something that almost scared Saga. "She couldn't have lived like that forever."

"Yes, she could—"

"No, she could not." Oscar sighed, then said, "There's a part of Elsa that needs to be chasing something. That house was killing her, Saga, you have to understand. She was dying every day she was stuck there. Sure, you can buckle down, keep trying, 'stay determined', but a part of you dies when you do that, Saga. You can't be happy like that. You have to move on."

"You fucking asshole," Saga spat, turning on her heel and running.

She sprinted up the stairs, past all the stupid chess pieces and back into the guest bedroom. Her heart pounded in her chest; finally, finally the tears could come, here, pressed against the bedroom door, arms hugging her knees.

The worst part wasn't that Oscar had said it.

The worst part was that he was right.

~~~

17 // EVA KNOTT

NO ENTRY

~~~

18 // BARTHOLOMEW HAROLDSON

The house looked beautiful in the light of a cold, December morning. A fine layer of snow lay sprinkled on the ground, crunching beneath their feet as they walked around the perimeter of the building. All the windows were dark, all the curtains were drawn, but warmth seemed to pour out from the house in all directions. Wooden lattices climbed the sides, promising beautiful ivy vines that would explode with flowers in the coming spring. The house had received a fresh coat of paint, its soft blue exterior and pale shutters like a baby bird learning to take its first steps. Everything about it was perfect. The concrete walkway and the little-fenced gate, the evergreen bushes that lined the sides of the home, even the warm yellow porch light that promised to protect every square inch of the garden they hoped to plant together.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, pulling the sides of her coat closer together. Her breath warmed the air, sending wisps of white trailing into the space around them. Max pulled her closer, hands intertwining until he could feel the cold metal of her engagement ring pressing against his fingers. "Think about the life we could have here. There's enough space for all of us." Even without going inside, she was already enchanted by the home. The potential was in it, and the memories it promised to make were everything they wanted. "You could have your own studio, Max."

He didn't need convincing. You could see it in his eyes that he wanted this too. This little house, with its For Sale sign standing upright in the yard, was where he needed to spend his life. A few years down the road, and it wouldn't be hard to imagine a family living there. A little one running through the grass in the summer or snuggled up in blankets, watching the snowfall in the winter. "I can't believe we found a place like this," he told her. The siren's call of the house had lured him in. "But--" There was hesitation in Max's eyes, a moment of worry, a moment of hope. "That ivy grows all around the property. It'd be impossible to get it all out."

"So what?" Harriet linked her arm with his. "I think it's beautiful. Like our own magic cottage."

"Barth is allergic. That pollen will flare up his asthma. And if he gets an attack while we're not here--"

"Baby." She turned to him, putting her mittened hands against his cheeks. "This is the home of our dreams. We'll never find another place like this, especially for this price." Her smile was gentle and sad like he was trying to rip the world from her fingers. "Don't give up on this for Barth."

It's hard to hear a conversation from behind a pane of glass. But I could see the looks on their faces from that little car window. I could hear their strange human words from over the radio they'd left running. I knew what happened when she squealed with delight and threw her arms around him. When they danced in the falling snow and left me in the backseat of the car. I knew what it meant for my little family. I was Max's dog, but Harriet was Max's person. Even if he was mine.