New Cthonic 9.3

The smell in Best Breakfast was thick with grease from food dunked in oil long months past its change date. Today’s raucous atmosphere had the kitchen churning, belching forth waves of hot air unaffected by the ancient and rattling HVAC system. Clinking cutlery and clashing conversations bounced off the classic steel and checkered-tile aesthetic, blending together into unintelligible noise that rose and fell in irregular waves as more and more came to fill the booths and tables. The dusty jukebox was long broken, the space instead filled by ambient gossip. From the staff to the customers, there was not a man or woman whose attention was not in large part occupied by the irritable blonde at the far end of the restaurant.

Marina huddled over the diner payphone, eyes locked on the reflection in the old-fashioned metal chair rail, making sure no one was close enough to listen in. She couldn’t say why she was so nervous. Her hushed tones were lost in the Sunday brunch rush, and she doubted any of the locals would be able to decipher what was being said if they did eavesdrop.

“Are you sure? If I’m wrong—”

“Then I’ll have spent a relaxing week or two in the mountains. Spring isn’t coming to Rhode Island for another month at the earliest anyway.” Dr. Morris’s voice came in crisp through the wired telephone line. “But if we’re right, and I don’t come, then I’ll have ignored a rare call to adventure. Those are few and far between for almost fifty-year-old academics. And you must agree, it’s terribly intriguing. If the boy does live, then he may represent a truly unique case, the first Bridge to be stuck straddling both dimensions.”

“What about your classes?”

The professor laughed. “That’s what sabbaticals are for, my dear. What’s wrong, Marina? You sound almost afraid of what we might discover. What happened to the girl who would talk my ear off about her theories until her mother kicked her off the phone?”

“Dr. Morris…” She licked her lips, thoughts going to the abandoned ghost town she’d encountered on the flight over and of the potential master magician overlooking this very diner. “The area around Salem’s Cave is not stable, politically, economically, or,” she lowered her voice, “spiritually.”

“Marina,” said Morris patiently, “you’ve described the majority of this country. Why, half the political science department at Brown believes the United States collapsed three years ago. A bit like how recessions can be declared retroactively, they say.”

“Do you think they’re right?”

“Does it matter if they are?”

“Professor.” she chided. “This is serious. From what I’ve seen, this region is primed for catastrophe. There are barely any functional roads left, no satellite for most of the day, and the power and telephone lines in Dudlin run above ground. We’re not looking at a few relaxing weeks. If things go wrong – and it wouldn’t take much – then they go wrong for months, maybe years.”

Morris sighed. “Marina, listen to me. On the other side of the world is a man who can split atoms with his mind. Down the hall from my office is one whose bones were turned into living diamond in a chemical accident. His wife is my hairdresser. Most of us are but ships at sea drifting on invisible currents. I cannot change those currents. Perhaps you might turn the wind for both of us for a time, but ask yourself: for how long, and at what cost?”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying to leave the tides to Neptune. You are in Dudlin to save the drowning Salem Cooper, my dear. The two of us together are uniquely qualified in regard to his situation. Our focus must be there, if it is to be anywhere.”

Marina put her arm on the tiled wall of the diner and rested her weight against it, Stecyk’s embroidered tornado catching her eye. It looked brighter under the white fluorescent lighting. “Yes. Of course. I was more referencing your safety, though.”

She cared immensely for the woman. Rebecca Morris had been with her in one form or another since she was fourteen. Without internet access and only her nearby libraries for help, the scientist had been everything to her then. In the first months of their relationship, before her father had politely pointed out the time difference between Eugene, Oregon, and Providence, Rhode Island, she'd called Morris nightly before bed, keeping the poor woman up well past midnight on the East Coast.

“Ha! My, this is a turnabout, isn’t it? What was it you said to me when you went to get your LSR license? ‘Whether or not it’s wise is irrelevant. I am an adult, and the decision is mine.’”

Marina cringed. She’d known she would regret that line from the moment it had left her lips all those years ago. “Fair play, professor. I’ll book a room for you at the BnB.”

“Thank you, that would be lovely. And don’t worry too much about my safety, Marina. One of America’s most capable young women will be watching over me, you know?”

That managed to pry a weak smile out of her. “I’ll see you soon, Dr. Morris.”

She hung up the receiver and returned to her booth, more anxious now than before their conversation, the opposite of what she’d hoped for when she made the call. The researcher had been her primary source of reassuring guidance for over a decade, but she was as perplexed as Marina. She couldn’t even begin to speculate on Moose’s miraculous new power without more information. Lateral growth in superpowers had been observed in the past, but no single case had much in common with any other. And though she’d affirmed Marina’s wild theory as a possibility, even agreed that it was a more likely fate for Salem than death, that only magnified the LSR’s stress tenfold.

A strange, hopeful idea had come to her while she sat over her coffee after reading through the folder for the second time. Troyer had included reports from the locals along with Moose’s thorough account of his time in the Cave, and a few things stuck in her mind, demanding attention and thought but not yielding any firm conclusions.

Farmers and woodsmen had seen the mottled stone-colored bats cleaning trees and plants of invasive parasites and fungi. It was unclear, but from the consistency of the reports and from how many different people had seen the behavior, Marina was led to believe that the bats might only eat invasive species. That seemed so – how to say it? Purposeful? If Salem had simply opened a gate into another dimension before his death, then what were the chances that beneficial bats of all creatures would have been included in the Cave? How could any such animal even come to exist naturally?

And the crabs, well, those were obviously a joke. She chuckled out loud when she first read Moose’s description of how they’d chased him up the tree. Crabs that flawlessly worked together to climb? It was as if a mad scientist had heard the phrase 'crabs in a bucket' and been struck by a paroxysm of parody – which could also explain the sacks of flying napalm that were the fire-flies, come to think of it. It was all within the realm of coincidence, she supposed, and happenstance had produced stranger in the past, but her gut was telling her that the creatures had been intentionally placed in the Cave.

The natural follow-up question was then, if the Cave or Salem was very deliberately and somewhat boyishly calling forth those particular monsters, then why the vicious tunnel wolves? Among their first actions had been to eat two dogs alive; that was an unbelievably menacing way to introduce yourself.

To which Marina would have said, exactly, the tunnel wolves were among the first monsters, positioned at the opening to the Cave. Naturally, if there was some intelligence guiding its development, the initial action would be to ensure protection. Within the underground ecosystem, the beasts were apex predators, kings of their environment. There were no finer guards – they made a man fear every crack in the stone, every shadowed divot. What better way to keep people out?

It was all speculation, of course, and it made her feel a little insane just considering it. Why would a cave need protection? She was probably just clinging to the idea because her fragile psyche needed some explanation for why this wasn’t her fault.

Salem Cooper being alive, perhaps stuck on the other side of wherever he’d Bridged due to his inexperience with his powers, would be extremely convenient for Marina. If the Cave was the boy's way of interacting with Earth, and he was still out there to be saved, then suddenly, her role was no longer that of an accidental villain. She was sure before she called that Morris would gently tell her she was being delusionally hopeful out of guilt, but the woman surprised her. Was it any crazier that a boy displaying the upper end of shock responses would have just died unexplainably? She'd asked. Cooper should have rivaled a Satrap in strength with his pre-Bridging symptoms – could Marina really imagine Nasramin being killed by tunnel wolves seconds after Bridging to the Air? The creatures were slow, methodical killers from all accounts, preferring to let the crushing stones exhaust and suffocate their prey. Their method relied on the quarry's instincts to panic and trap or injure themselves further. Said instincts in Nasramin would have erased everything for a hundred meters in a tornado.

Marina banged the back of her head against the padded back of the booth’s seating, not caring at all how she must have appeared to the dozens of locals surreptitiously gawking at her. The thought of the young Bridge’s death had left her depressed and melancholic. The thought that he might still be alive was going to give her a heart attack. This was now a rescue mission.

The clock was ticking, and there was so much to be done. She messily pushed half a slice of pie into her mouth and washed it down with the remnants of her coffee, waving to the waitress as she did.

There were nothing but vacancies at the Babbling Brook Bed and Breakfast. The Victorian-style boarding house sat on a low clearing near a creek, surrounded by crabapple trees and tall grass that swayed gently in the breeze. Its owner had done her best to lovingly preserve the home, carving out cute, winding lawnmower-wide paths through the grass lawn and freshly painting what could be reached by stepstool, but she was losing the battle to time. The gutters needed repairs, the shutters hung crooked, and the roof was a patchwork of mismatching shingles that wouldn’t survive another winter.

Mrs. Applegate was overjoyed to have her, treating her more like a distant relation come to visit than a customer. Marina wasn’t sure if the woman even remembered that she ran a bed and breakfast since she only seemed to recall the fact when it was brought up in conversation. There had been some trouble convincing her to accept payment, too. It was only after Marina explained that she’d be eating as much as six grown men that Mrs. Applegate was forced to relent, and she had a suspicion that every dollar she spent would be going toward groceries.

She left the folder and the GPS/phone in her room, happy to get the brick out of her jacket pocket, and was back down shortly. It was no longer a question of cowardice to go to the Ennis’s before the Cooper’s. The possibility that Salem was alive gave her an obligation to investigate further before giving false hope to his parents. With so little information and so much on the line, Marina wanted to know anything and everything Ginny could tell her. What were his visions like? How had his personality changed in his final days? What kind of make-believe games did they play in early childhood? Any of it could be the clue that established which Meta-Plane Salem belonged to.

Applegate confirmed that the Ennis Family lived next to the two thirty-foot tall radio antennas on the edge of town, gave her directions to get there by car, and asked if she would like to borrow her station wagon - confirming that the woman had no idea who she was, and had offered the free stay just for the company. Or perhaps she was senile and genuinely believed Marina was a relative. That was quite heartbreaking if she thought about it, so she resolved not to. There was enough of that in her brain as it was.

"Goodness! That's handy, isn't it?" the elderly woman called out on seeing her lift off for the first time.

"I may be back late and somewhat muddy from Salem's Cave, Mrs. Applegate," she said down to her from about ten feet in the air. "I've left my window ajar, so feel free to lock up."

“Don’t be silly, dear; the lock to the front door hasn’t worked since my husband died. Do give Salem Cooper my regards. He’s a tad queer moving into a hole in the ground, but that’s young men for you, hm?”

Yes, very sad, said her brain, before swiftly moving on.

At the top of a lonely hill on the northernmost edge of Dudlin stood two metal towers, grand only in comparison to the meager buildings around them. The Mountain Prophet, both its printshop and radio station, was but two buildings of four on the hill, along with a small two-story home and a barn. The compound had been wrapped in a tall, barbed wire and electrified fence on all sides – a necessity, she imagined, for surviving in such relative isolation. Dudlin was a long drive down a treacherous gravel road away.

She circled the property once, a cautious habit from her firefighting days, and was about to make the polite move of landing outside the gate to ring the buzzer when a voice called out from below. A redheaded girl who'd been in the middle of loading a pickup truck waved her down. She wore a pressed khaki button-up tucked tightly into high-waisted equestrian breeches, which were, in turn, tucked into tall leather boots. In spite of the rifle holstered across her back and the large knife on her belt, the outfit managed to look like a costume on the short, slender girl, better fit for a comic book cover than rural Appalachia. This could only have been Ginny Ennis.

Ginny clutched her chest as she descended and yelled out in a bizarre Transatlantic accent, “Gods, does my heart still beat!? Is that not a yonder Valkyrie, I see!?”

Marina grinned, always fond of a little flattery. She cut her flight and let herself drop down from about six feet up to avoid the chance of flinging gravel into the girl’s face. “Hello. Are you Ginny Ennis? I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

The Bridge held out her hand to shake, raising an eyebrow as the girl took it, bent down in a sweeping bow, and laid a kiss on her knuckles. Babs’ words replayed in her mind, ‘She’s gone a little weird since his disappearance.’

“And you must be the illustrious Lift-Off. Charmed to make your acquaintance. I must say, your beauty is more enchanting than your flight.” Ginny wore a rakish smirk and shot her a wink. “I might have to finagle your morning routine out of you,” she wagged her eyebrows, “one way or another.”

Marina's mouth opened, but no words came out. She was at a complete loss. Many people had flirted with her over the years, of all genders and ages, but an eighteen-year-old girl doing her best impression of a hundred-fifty-year-old swashbuckling adventurer triggered absolutely no response. For some reason, her first inclination was to blush demurely and look away – her brain's way of fitting the theme, maybe.

Ginny barked a loud laugh and slapped her good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Ha-ha! Just a bit of ribald humor, old girl! You’ll have to forgive me.” She twisted her torso and tapped the rifle on her back. “The coming hunt has me all worked up. Raring to go! But please, ask away, ask away. You may have me any way you want. I am at your service,” her voice grew lascivious, “unless you’d prefer the opposite, of course. Oho! There I go again!”

Marina coughed into her fist, using it to obscure her blush and buy her time. Her heart was fluttering – this couldn’t possibly be working on her, could it?

She had to get this back on track. “When you say you’ll be hunting, you don’t mean—”

“The tunnel wolves? In a sense, yes, but more broadly than that.” The girl bent down and picked up what looked to be a fairly large packed-away tent and threw it into the pickup’s bed with ease. “There was a bit of misreporting on the Prophet’s part – sorry, I take it you’ve read our work on Salem’s troubles?”

Marina nodded. “Your blog as well. It was riveting, very well written.”

Ginny gave a slight bow. "Thank you. But yes, as I was saying, we misreported Zachariah Troyer's bounty. He wants the whole animal, not just the pelts, first to donate and then to sell for-profit to various institutions and private companies. That leaves me having to bag my own beasts if I'm to get any research done. You know," she said, a spark lighting in her eyes, "the tunnel wolves have a remarkable cartilaginous skeletal structure. Their entire spine can compress to less than a centimeter in diameter. The mind marvels! I might not have an immediate use, but imagine the industrial applications for such a material. And, we have but to wonder then, what else might lie within Salem’s Cave, something, perhaps, for this intrepid reporter?”

A sinking sensation was coming upon her. The girl's accent hadn't slipped once, and that fact tugged on an uncomfortable memory buried deep within her mind – of a face at a café, of fresh horror, of fates worse than death. She crushed the feeling and buried it away; there was no time for that.

Marina rested her hand on the edge of the truck bed. “I see. So, then all of this is for your…hunt?”

“Heavens no! My dear woman, if I’ve misrepresented myself, then I apologize. The hunting is to satisfy my curiosity, but it is mere hobby. There is some journalistic foresight involved – I hardly trust the government-contracted labs to release all of the information they gather – but that’s a distant priority. This,” she slapped the truck, “is for my grand expedition! I am, you see, called to the unknown. In truth, I was quite disappointed by my last visit to the Cave. Having to return so soon in order to exit with the tunnel wolf specimen was a shame, but necessary so that I might fund further exploration. What you see here are early preparations: shelters, secure storage, coolers, ropes, specimen containers, traps, and even two oxygen tanks. We will be depositing these in the Cave today.”

“We?” She looked around at an otherwise empty compound. Walton Ennis was likely busy broadcasting.

Ginny's eyes twinkled. "We: you and I, of course. You mentioned you had questions for me, and while I am happy to answer, I am also otherwise engaged. There will be quite a bit of lugging heavy items back and forth today, and I'd like to be out of the woods by dark. Today is one part porting and one part investigating a little further in to see what else might be needed before the great push. It is no trouble for you, though, is it? Certainly, you intended to inspect Salem's Cave at least once before sunset. And for a woman of your talents, this is a light load, is it not?" She quickly added, "Do be aware that I shall be going whether or not you accompany me."

Marina tilted her head to the side. She had been finessed, clearly, but the girl had managed to frame it all in a way that made it feel impossible to argue against – and wasn’t that odd? Never in her life had someone managed to talk her out of an argument before she at least got a word in. Marina argued frequently and pointlessly all the time, often to the detriment of her personal relationships. It wasn’t even about winning to her; it was about making the other party acknowledge her feelings, no matter how illogical they were. And, also, sometimes because she was bored, but that was beside the point.

She pushed through the foreign sensation that she should agree readily. Again came that sinking sensation, this time with a sense memory of acute vertigo. Marina shook her head to clear the thoughts. A biting cold filled the vacuum they left behind, like an icy drip of water down the back of her neck.

“Ms. Ennis,” said Marina, crossing her arms, “I have no intention of babysitting—”

Ginny held up a finger, but it had been her confident grin that halted Marina’s sentence. “On the wood of the barn behind me, Lift-Off, there should be around four hundred knots that you can see from where you are, some as small as my thumb, others as large as my head. I want you to pick any of them, of any size, and stare hard.”

Her eyes stayed locked on the short redhead. Marina could sense that something was about to happen to make her lose her argument, and she didn’t like it. She started to respond with a scowl, ready to ignore the request entirely and continue what she was going to say before the interruption.

Ginny was faster. “Oh, oblige me, won’t you? As you’ve probably guessed, it is a practical refutation of your argument, but if you don’t appreciate it after, then I promise to acquiesce to whatever your demands.”

Marina let the silence hang petulantly between them for a moment before turning her gaze to the barn. She wouldn’t allow whatever this was to work, but she needed the girl to be cooperative if she wanted any decent information. She picked the first knot she noticed and drilled a stare into it, projecting all of her frustration upon the sun-bleached red siding.

Ginny looked hard at the Bridge's face for a second. Time seemed to still as the girl relaxed the muscles in her upper body, and then, in an instant, she spun on her heel, drew her knife, and threw – all in one clean motion. Marina's eyes flicked away from the target for just a moment, watching as the blade spun end over end to bury itself an inch deep into her chosen knot with a thunk and the hum of wobbling steel. It had landed dead center, a flawless throw.

She sucked in a sharp breath. That had all been done at human speed, but it was at the upper limit, and the skill required was inconceivable. “Damn,” she whispered. She could no longer ignore the obvious conclusion. Marina would have to make time for this.

Ennis turned around, hands on her hips, beaming with pride. Her formerly absurd outfit looked dashing and appropriate now, and seemed to hug tight to her body in a way that cotton was not known for, accentuating every line. “Well? You were saying something about babysitting?”

Marina licked her lips. In an ideal scenario, she would not have picked herself to have this conversation with the girl, but it needed having, and the only other person who could do it was Zachariah Troyer. Actually, that raised some red flags. Surely, as the lord of Dudlin, he would have seen to this.

“Ginny, just curious, but did you meet with Troyer when you delivered the tunnel wolf?”

She scoffed. “Gods, no. I try to have as few interactions with the snake as possible. The man is a born manipulator. No, I left it at his door and told an employee to forward me my reward at his master’s leisure. I like a bold opening gambit for social engagements, you see. Keep him on his toes, that’s what I say.”

Oof, the strategy sounded much dumber when explained by someone else.

"Sure." Marina ran a hand across her face, feeling older by the minute. It was funny; a part of her had mused on becoming a mentor to Salem Cooper when they'd first corresponded, as Dr. Morris had for her. Reflecting on it, and on her skills and personality, it may have been for the best that he'd disappeared before they met.

She chased that thought from her mind; the vacuum it left behind was all-encompassing, but at least the cold was no longer biting. It was numb now.

Marina continued, “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you some questions that might sound strange, but, er, oblige me. And please just answer honestly, no jokes.”

Ginny perked up, curiosity her drug. “By all means. You have me intrigued.”

“Your accent is very distinct. Is that a recent affect?”

Marina watched her confused reaction. It appeared genuine.

Ginny huffed an awkward laugh, clearly taken aback. "What do you mean, old gal? I'm sure I must have an accent, we all do, but if it's distinctive, that's news to me."

“And you haven’t noticed yourself speaking or acting differently recently.”

"Acting, of course! My dearest friend in this world has—" A flash of pain arrested her mid-sentence. Her breath hitched. "Salem is…missing. If I didn't begin acting differently in reaction, then what sort of monster would I be? But, speaking differently? I suppose there are moments when the night grows long, and I let my fears creep into my speech. I'm sure my father is quite tired of listening to my anxious hypotheticals."

Marina mentally checked off ‘inability to recognize changes’ Jesus, it had progressed pretty quickly. She had to hope it was only because the effects aligned with Ginny’s existing personality. If not, then…

She couldn't bear to finish the thought and refocused on the present. "Ginny, do you know what Platonic Embodiment is?"

“I’m not familiar, no.”

Marina envied her. "It's a grab-bag power, though I think most would consider it a degenerative condition that happens to come with a mix of superpowers. Sometimes – we don't know why – someone can get empowered by an Archetype within humanity's Collective Unconscious."

“Like a Mantle?” asked Ginny.

“No. A Mantle is worn; the burden of wearing it can change someone, but Platonic Embodiment is very different. It comes from within someone. It’s like a…psychic cancer.” Marina grimaced – perhaps not the best language to use here. “People with it, they can get all sorts of wild abilities and skills, but it comes at a cost. The more they Embody their Platonic Ideal, the more they can pull on the Collective Unconscious, but the Archetype sticks around. It replaces what was there before – they become less person and more concept.”

Ginny nodded with sudden understanding. "Ah," she said with a laugh, "I see. Your implication is extremely flattering. The knife trick was quite impressive, but it is just that: a trick. You see, all I did was deduce that as a flyer, your gaze would be toward the open hay door, then I interpolated the angle of your eyes based on your height and placed the location of the knot in relation to my many childhood memories of the barn." She blushed. "I once tried to impress Salem by drawing it exactly, but, well, a story for another time. Anyway, the accuracy of the throw was a result of my excellent kinesthetic sense, recently developed through daily yoga and Chinese moving meditation! Many mysteries of the Orient can come across as magical to the uninformed, but I assure you, there is, usually, an explanation rooted in human ingenuity."

Fuck. The girl needed a powerful mentalist or genius psychologist, and all she had was Marina.

She found herself reaching for and lighting a cigarette without thinking. Huh, she didn’t even realize she’d copped Troyer’s lighter.

“I’m going to tell you a story, okay, and I want you to think about it. Not just today, but tomorrow, and the day after, alright? Just think about it every once in a while. Don’t forget it. Promise me that.”

Ginny shrugged. “Very well.”

Marina raised her voice and sharpened her stare. “Look me in the eyes, Ginny Ennis, and fucking promise. I did not suffer Los Angeles for six years just for you to waste this fucking lesson. Got it, you brat?”

“I—“ Ginny hesitated and, for a moment, her accent left her. “I promise. I won’t forget it, miss Lift-Off.” She shrank in on herself, looking and sounding like a child caught playing with her father’s gun.

Marina took an angry hit off her cigarette – stupid, goddamn Methuselahs. What was the point of cigarettes that didn’t burn your throat? The pain was a damn important part of it. Goddamn rich fucks had no sense of taste or style.

"There's a man who is pretty famous in LA, the Platonic Embodiment of the popular conception of a 'French Waiter.' I met him before his fame. I wish I didn't. Paul, from Seattle. He used to go to the same little café I did in the slums. Was relatively together for a while – enjoyed his ability to conjure thin cigarettes and fresh-pressed tuxedos from the ether and his comprehensive knowledge of wine. Paul was…friendly and real – you can’t imagine how refreshing that was in Los Angeles. Whenever he was around, he was with you, totally present, just happy to be there.”

Marina paused, the words catching in her throat. This shouldn’t have hurt so much to talk about; they had barely spent any time together outside of the café. Their friendship had just begun.

"But he wanted to push it, you know, got tired of how weak his powers were. He could teleport himself to French restaurants at the start of a shift and insert himself into the schedule and payroll when he wanted. I thought that was a pretty crazy ability, but I guess to Paul, it was just a gimmick. It didn't help that he still had to live with roommates – that can chafe on you, make a crowded city feel suffocating. He wanted out, had this brilliant idea to try and work at two restaurants at the same time; said that he was pretty sure he could do it, that time felt fuzzy when he was at work anyway."

Two paychecks, one night, he’d told her. What was there to hate? Don’t worry, Marina – he would just do it until he could afford the move to Hawaii. It was high time for him to get out of LA – and, of course, she was welcome to come along. Wasn’t she always complaining about the city?

Marina sighed, sick of thinking about this. "Anyway, long story short, he works at every fine dining place in LA, anywhere that serves French cuisine and expensive wine; kind of manifests himself in all of them at once. People love him. He's one of those fun quirks about the city. But if you knew him before—” she shrugged, voice hollow. “He’s dead. There’s nothing there. Goes by Pierre now. Doesn’t remember me, or Seattle. Thinks he was born in Paris. Do you understand?”

The memories rushed in to fill the void in her mind. Marina was back in LA, on her way to pick up groceries. She saw Paul seated as usual outside their café, reading a newspaper and smoking a cigarette as always. He looked haggard, his clothes formal but messy, as if he'd just finished a shift, and he gave her only a thin smile when she'd said hello, but she thought nothing of it; he must have had a long night, she figured. Then, just a block away, she turned the corner, and there he was across the street, walking back to his apartment with a baguette under his arm. Hell, I must have had a long night, she’d thought. But he was there seated outside the coffee shop near the grocers as well, and then again, exhausted and perusing the wine aisle. She grabbed his arm to check if he was real. He didn’t recognize her. He didn’t recognize his name. He introduced himself as Pierre.

They were never going to Hawaii.

"This is important, alright?" she emphasized, jabbing her finger into the girl's chest. "We have to remember Paul, okay? Me, and now you, we have to remember Paul. Never forget about Paul."

There was a flicker of real fear and genuine understanding that passed across Ginny’s face.

Then it was gone.

The smaller girl put her hand on Marina’s shoulder, her grip firm and determined. “Don’t worry, Lift-Off. No matter what happens, I will not let you push yourself past your limits for me. On my mother’s grave, I will die before I ever burden you in such a way.”

“Hah.” She felt sick, worse than a gut punch. She didn’t have time for this. “Yeah. Thanks. Want me to get your knife down?”

Ginny’s cheeks pinkened with chagrin. “You know, I completely forgot about that part when I threw it. Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”