“So you weren’t joking. What kind of bloody name is Moth Sausage?”
An asinine one.
Tanner appears booth-side. “House special.” With a disinterested sigh, he sets down an oval platter piled high with fries. Somewhere under there, presumably, is a sandwich. It smells unbelievably delicious.
“And?” Red Beard glares up at Tanner.
“And . . . enjoy?”
“What about the coffee!”
Cameron holds his hands up. “Hey, it’s okay.”
“It is not okay.” Red Beard’s nostrils flare. “Our customer ordered a black coffee, did he not? Get on it!” Then he turns to Cameron. “Sorry.”
Tanner sulks off toward the kitchen, presumably to prepare a cup of coffee. Cameron hopes the kid doesn’t spit in it.
“Well, coffee will be on the house, too. I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch.” Red Beard slides out of the booth. “Best of luck tracking down your old man.”
CAMERON SQUINTS IN the grayish light as he leaves the store. How can it be both overcast and blinding white? He fumbles in his pocket for his Ray-Bans, which might be why he doesn’t notice something wrong with the camper until he’s halfway across the Shop-Way parking lot.
It’s leaning to one side.
“No. No, no, no,” Cameron groans, hurrying around the back of the camper to find exactly what he feared: the rear passenger tire completely flat. “Shit!” he shouts, and gives the hubcap a hard kick, which jams his big toe.
Wincing, he sits on the curb. His remaining money won’t last long after paying for a tow truck and a new tire. He checks his phone again to see if JoyJet has called with an update about his luggage. There’s nothing but a text from Elizabeth: How’s it going up there, Camel-tron?
“Horrible. Beyond horrible,” he mumbles the answer to himself. Then, humiliated, he sees Red Beard standing in front of the store, staring across the parking lot with his hand aloft on his forehead like a visor, his reddish beard fluffing in the breeze.
“Looks like you could use a hand, eh?” Red Beard comes strolling across the lot. He stops in front of Cameron and offers a literal hand. “By the way, name’s Ethan.”
“Thanks, man.” Cameron shakes and follows him back toward the store.
Day 1,322 of My Captivity
I ENJOY FINGERPRINTS, BUT THIS IS A BIT MUCH.
She has not come to clean in three days. The glass has become thick and rheumy. The floors are dull and caked with footprints. It is not good.
You know I have three hearts, yes? This must seem strange, considering that humans, and most other species, have only one. I wish I could claim a higher level of spiritual being on account of my multiple vascular chambers, but alas, two of my hearts basically control my lungs and gills. The other is called my organ heart, and it powers everything else.
I am accustomed to my organ heart stopping. It shuts down while I am swimming. It is one reason why I generally avoid the large main tank: too much swimming. Crawling is much gentler on my circulatory system, but the main tank floor, while rife with delicacies, is patrolled by the sharks. Swimming for long stretches tires me, so I suppose you could say I am well-suited for life in a small box.
Humans sometimes say my heart skipped a beat to convey surprise, shock, terror. This confused me at first because my organ heart skips beats, many of them, every time I swim. But when the cleaning woman fell from the stool, I was not swimming. And yet it stuttered.
I hope she heals, and not only because of the mess on the glass.
The Green Leotard
It was a Wednesday, the night Erik died.
Back in 1989, Wednesday evening meant Jazzercise at the Sowell Bay Community Center, and Tova rarely missed a class. Under her sweatpants, she wore an emerald-green leotard, which hugged her trim thirty-nine-year-old waist. Will loved that leotard; he always said it matched her eyes.
This particular Wednesday, she came home and began to shed her exercise clothes, ready to draw a bath, as usual, but Will intercepted her. The last of the day’s sun filtered through the bedroom window, bathing their lovemaking in a giddy glow. Just think, Will had said, grinning at her as they laid on the bare sheets, the quilt scrunched at the foot of the bed. Soon, we’ll have the house to ourselves all the time.
Erik would’ve started at the University of Washington that fall. Where was he that afternoon? Tova still doesn’t know. The police asked her repeatedly, but all she could tell them was he was probably out with friends. He was always out with friends, naturally; he was eighteen. Tova had stopped keeping tabs on the intricacies of his social schedule a couple of years ago. He was a good kid. A great kid.