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Raven

Raven lives an hour and forty minutes ahead of Michelle and it makes parties difficult.

“You’re going to be late,” Raven hisses into her phone, trying to be inconspicuous.

“I’m not! I’m getting dressed,” Michelle lies.

“I guarantee you are going to be late. I live in your future. In your future, you are late.”

“GOD. Don’t let them light the cake yet?”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

And upon hangup Michelle breezes in, perfect, greeted with delight and laughter. Her eyes and Raven’s slide past each other, and there’s the old ache again, for this woman whose present she’ll never know.

Amy

Here’s what you’re left with, when it’s over: crap neither of you bought and nobody wants. Amy cleans and bags and cleans and bags and makes him pick it up when she’s not at home. She is shipshaping. She is fixing what she can fix.

Sleeping alone is cold on your body and weird with your dreams. Exhausted but awake, one false dawn, she takes tea out back and watches the recycling pickers. She’s exchanged more satisfying goodbyes with homeless people than they got from each other, she and Jake. The trouble with love stories is they only have one author.

Atesh

He’s long since passed terminal velocity, and the shielding glows day and night with air-compression heat. This far down the pit it’s the only light. He is still falling.

Cramped into his tiny cabin, he measures the radio lag in seconds. “You can still turn around,” pleads HQ. “You’re not past the retrieval horizon yet, Atesh.”

“I dive until I stop,” he says, checking the gyroscope status lights. “That was the mission. This is the deal.”

“Everything we know about physics—it has to end sometime. It can’t actually be bottomless!”

But what if it is. What if it is?

Calypso

Other people’s dreams keep showing up in Calypso’s dream diary and it bugs her. It’s one thing to have people you don’t know show up in your imagination; it’s another to have them fill your notebook with horse imagery, Batman and French. She doesn’t know French. It isn’t even her handwriting.

She locks it but they sneak in anyway, letters stretched and gray from squeezing between the pages. Some of it is disturbing stuff about her parents. “I can wake up from this whenever I want to,” she says aloud as she stares down at spindly capitals, but it doesn’t work.

Reading By Starlight

There’s no such thing as time, to a photon. There’s no such thing as death. There’s no such thing as the first gasp after the start of the universe, when this one left a blooming star for what would someday be Earth.

Without time you can’t show up or leave again. Without time you can’t miss anyone, even if you try.

This photon has always been traveling; it always will be. It has always been darting through the atmosphere, bent by the air. It has always been ready. It will always be touching the page, and touching your eye, and gone.

Carrigan

Like most people, Carrigan spent kidhood skinned into tigers and foxes: it takes puberty to know for sure that his birth body isn’t right. Too tall, too light, rigged with dubious external plumbing. He’s older, for one thing, and heavier, more centered. These things are certain.

So when he’s ready, at fourteen, he steps into the chamber and skins the aspect of a white-haired woman, eyes sharp and bold of nose. She loves it. Everyone claps when she comes out. There’s nothing magic about Carrigan’s new body–just time and care and chemistry–but, as with glass footwear, fit matters.

Genji

She’s captured her dreams in a Mason jar, boiled and sealed. When Genji holds it up to the lamp she can just make out shapes: distortions, birdlike, beating against the glass.

“I can give you seventy dollars,” says Genji, and the woman across the counter tightens.

“You can’t do eighty,” she says, unable to make it a question.

“Seventy,” says Genji, as gently as she can.

They trade. Genji opens a low cabinet to stack it with the others.

“I’ve got thirty days,” says the woman, “to buy it back?”

“That’s right,” says Genji, but they never do, they never do.

Giant Nut Head

Giant Nut Head does not have a nut for a head but this crush is treating him like a shell between levers. It’s not a crush, it’s a smash: a glass underfoot, a thumb in a car door.

It’s important that everybody knows.

“It’s bad,” he sighs, “really bad.”

“Yup,” says Kent.

“I wish I could tell her,” says Giant Nut Head, with deep mystery. “I can’t. But if I could…”

“Uh huh,” says Maddy.

Giant Nut Head chuckles. “Well. Thus always ’twere love!”

“Mm,” says Kent, looking at Maddy, who is desperate to fuck if this kid would just leave.

Index

MULDOON, Texas, 223.

MUNCIE, Indiana: abuse of power of legal system in, 23; author’s car defacement in, 18; author’s detention on false charges in, 22; border fuzziness, see SELMA, Indiana; disputed jurisdiction at border of, 45, 67-68; escape routes from, 90-91; human rights / dietary preference abuses of alleged escapees redetained by, 121-148; personal hygiene of law enforcement officers local to, 30-44, 46-67, 68-89, 92-120; rates charged by even purportedly affordable attorneys based in, 121-155; rat infestation of, 156-171; rat infestation metaphor explained, 172-220.

MURFREESBORO, Tennessee: lack of bars in, 222.

Mobley

They ride pitchforks, not broomsticks, and their pointy black boots are toed with steel. Mobley watches seven of them skid to a stop, striking sparks from concrete.

Selene dismounts first, yew wand in her shoulder holster. “Thanks for coming,” Mobley says. “I didn’t know who to call–”

“Nobody ever does,” says Selene. “It manifested downstairs?”

“Through the kitchen,” says Mobley. Selene raises a fist, and her band makes ingress at a military trot.

“You’re not going to–hurt it, are you?” Mobley adds in apprehension.

“Do you know what the collective noun is,” she asks, “for witches?”

“A coven?”

“A hammer.”