A
WOMAN
NAMED
BARTHOLOMEW

a novella by Vane Vander

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

The header font used in this work is "Moonlit Flow" by GGBot. It is licensed under the SIL Open Font License.

1

I think

the wind

stopped.

Wherever I left off.

It's not in here,
that's for sure.
I'd feel it in my armhairs.
I'd hear
it whispering.

Perhaps I'm

packed in snow?
It's so cold
wherever my body
is.
But it's too far in spring.

A table?

No, a chair.
A chair that's seated somewhere.
Am I

at the dentist?
I thought that my appointment
was in June.
Did I inhale too fast
the laughing gas
and pass
out?

No, their skylight is blue,
and beyond my eyelids
it's the orange of a sunset.
And anyways, laughing gas
doesn't knock you unconscious.

Am I

in a hospital?
Did they pump me full
of drugs?
Did I coma? Did I die?
Did they take out my lungs
to donate to some other fool?
I took good care of them;
I never smoked, I hit the gym
two times a week, I stayed inside
when the smoke levels were high.

Am I

still alive?

I can't open my eyes.
Maybe I'm missing
all my organs,
already severed and harvested.
Maybe this isn't a chair but a coffin.
No, not a coffin

a morgue!
A morgue, the cold place the doctors keep
dead people until time for autopsy.
That's it!
That's got to be it!
Oh, they must have left my brain,
because I sure am feeling intelligent.

But that still leaves the question:
how did I die?
I've got to figure this out.

"Visiting hours end at nine."

Hey, B.
It's

tough to see
you like this.
Last night
you were so full of life.
I mean, crowd surfing?
You never do that.
That takes balls, man.
I guess now it's like

thinking back,
you were being washed to sea.
I was playing the soundtrack
to your last voyage.

Bro

I hate to say this

(That's my arm.
So I do still exist.
I'm still alive enough to feel.)

but from the little I could get
the doctors
to admit
you won't be better
in time to return
for the rest of the tour.
They didn't give me

any timeframe, really.
B-but don't worry!
We got a cute girl to take
your place while you're

away.
Wicked at the keyboard.
Hot blonde.
Legs for days.

It's no fun
having a one-sided
conversation.
I don't even know
if you have enough brain
left to listen.
(I'm right here, Luke. Blab away.
I'm just glad I'm not the only
person stranded in purgatory.)
Are you in there, B?
(Yes! Yes, I am!)
I should have paid more attention in class:
I can't interpret any of these screens.
Well, they're not scream-
ing alerts, so that's good, right?
Stable

stable is good, right?

I got to get going.

You poor thing. Like a flower
left inside to wither.
Let me turn you towards the light.

(Well, there's the rest of my body.
Could have also used a blanket.
Hey, isn't this a bit bright?)

Electro-
encephalo-
grams
are reading normal on all tracks.
Standard circadian rhythms.
(Cicadas? Am I

infected?
Is my brain full of insects?)
You're awake, aren't you?
And aware of your surroundings?
(A sliver of cold runs down my cheek. A wedding ring?)
Do you get to move around in your dreams?
(I

)
The rest of your body is still functioning.
Look at-
well, I guess you can't.
Nothing spectacular about urine
once you've worked here long enough.

Sorry. I've been condescending.
(Nah - the most interesting
thing that's happened
since I woke up.)
I'll return in an hour for rotation.
Will you try
to open your eyes
in the meantime?
Do it for me,
please?

I've returned as promised, and I'm also not sure why
the doctors who admitted you thought it proper to set
up your room with an examination
chair
instead of a proper bed
with all the time you'd lie there.

Katya, now is not the time for speculation.
Arm under legs. Arm under shoulders. Don't knock out the IV.
Got him secure? Now lift on the count of three.
One

two

(I didn't know I was so heavy.

I didn't know the length of my body.
I spill over both arms. Floppy.
Spaghetti.

But now I know your name.
And now I know your skin is warm.
I hope you're pretty too.

Not that it matters
since I can't exactly see you.)

Blasted
contraption.
Who would design
a chair that can go back but not upright?
Katya, that bench. Set him down there
for now and help me with this damn chair.

The monitors-

Yes, keep him attached.
What a stupid question to ask.

(Gentle- gentle-
ow! a metal bench?)
Look at the monitors. He's in distress.
(That sure smarts!)
Come quickly before another
nurse decides to be nosy
(And I can't even grimace
to get rid of it.)
and peeks
in and sees.

I need this part
here to go back
like setting up for a back massage

(Are my parents going to show up at all?
Father always hated hospitals.
Mother

would probably thank
her god that I'm quiet.)

Why did that nurse say
I've got cicadas in my brain?

Perhaps it was a

metaphor?
But why would insects inside
my head mean I'm awake?

Well, maybe if I try
to get some sleep in this place,
they'll throw a wild party
and I'll feel them all fly
around, looking
for an opening
to escape.

But if it's a metaphor,
that means the insects aren't real.
That's just the way it feels.
So what's really going on?
Have I

got some rare disorder
that's eating away at my brain core?
'Cause that's what they do to trees.
Find a nice branch
and cut a long gash
and dump inside all their babies.
We've lost a lot of young trees that way
at the orchard. The elders
care never,
would just put up flags
at the end of their branches
and then discard once the crisis had ended.

Ah, who am I talking to?
I'm not a tree.
I might be dying,
though. Or going crazy.
Or having a wicked stress dream.
Honestly,
I think I'd prefer
the ones where I'm naked in school

or on fire

Miss

Bartholomew, is it?
I'm Dr. Paglione.
(A pleasure to make your acquaintance.)
All signs point to consciousness.
I know
that someone's
home.
(And I mean it, I really do:
you're a doctor, so you must have a clue
why my body won't listen when I ask it to move.)
My imagination's
a bit limited
in this case, but I know
it must be torture
to not be able
to speak, to ask what's going on.

Your parents
couldn't make it
just quite yet to visit

(Just as I predicted.
No problem getting a private jet
to seal
a business deal,
but for your own son? Why give a shit?)

but they're on their way. In the meantime,
we're going to do a CT scan. We'll put you
on a long table inside a metal loop
and it'll take some pictures
so we can get a clearer
idea of what's going on inside.
(Like the cicadas? I'm terrified.)
It's completely painless.
No need for sedatives.
And your parents have very good insurance.
From there we can possibly
form a diagnosis
and find a way to get you back to healthy.

I

wish there was a way we could get your own consent
for this, but given the current circumstances
we can't afford to hold our breath.
Miss Bartholomew, although I am a woman of science,
I pray
you will grace
me with your forgiveness.

I'd rather be snoring,
lost in yet another dream,
and maybe I'm already a cheat
in refusing to set an early alarm.
Were you thinking of my neurotype
when you set out to prescribe
the path back to what lies
within? The warpath
back home that most lack-

What is that rubbish
you're torturing my son with?
(Mother. It's about damn time.)
Set that down. This isn't
kindergarten. He won't be amused
by such simplistic rhymes.
(Actually, I was having quite a good time.
And besides,
the doctor prescribed
something to stimulate my brain
to stave off any decay.
She could read me the phone book and I'd find a way
to make it fun: let's make a guess
how many sevens will be in the number next?)

May I ask who I'm speaking with?

I'm the patient's mother. You are dismissed.

By Dr. Paglione's orders I'm to stay by
the patient until his CT scans arrive-

You ran

scans?

Well, I didn't.
It was the technician.
I'm just the nurse who performs maintenance.

So you've seen my son naked.

I've seen thousands of patients
in the nude. Oh, the doctor approaches.
(I don't think I'm gonna like
what's about to happen.)

Thank you, Katya. You are dismissed.
Mrs. Sitz.
I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.

(Mother must be pissed.
But I haven't done anything this time.
Living outside
her surveillance
has been my only crime.)

I've looked over the results of your son's CT.
Physiologically, your son is fine.
Neurologically, we

we can't see anything-

Then hand me discharge forms.

We can't see anything because - here, observe
for yourself - some kind of metal implant
is warping the whole area. Starburst effect.
Mrs. Sitz,
what kind of device is this?
The closest matches
have not yet passed
animal trials. All subjects have died.
But on his scalp we see no signs
of recent surgery.

So your machine
is malfunctioning.
Where are my discharge forms?

Your son is not stable
for travel-

You said he was fine.

I said the injuries must lie in his mind.
But the extent
of whatever happened
we cannot fully gauge
because this

metal thing is obscuring his brain.
Based on observation, I can estimate
whatever it is is in his brainstem
due to the paralysis but normal bodily rhythms.

So why isn't he wearing a neck brace?

Imaging shows no injury to neck vertebrae.

Then I want to take him home. Today.

Mrs. Sitz-

Oh, don't give me that!
(Mom, let her finish!)
I know what you'll ask-

I'll ask you to consider
the patient's future.
You only have medical POA
because his condition
prevents him
from being able to say
what he wants for his own treatment.
He's a legal adult. Save the silence,
anything and all would be his decision.
Based on our monitoring, we have cause
to believe the patient
has full consciousness.
Hospital protocol dictates
we make every possible attempt
to give him the chance to self-advocate.
So no, I will not authorize a discharge.
No ethics committee will adjudicate
in your favor.

We would greatly appreciate
if you could track down the facility
where your son received this neural implant
so we could send in a document release.
If we know what it is, we could connect
a brain-machine interface.

(Don't explode. Don't explode. Keep it together)

I'll start making calls.
Starting with his father.

Listen,
Donovan,
if not for your son's sake
then for the balance in your bank
account,
get your ass
down here right now.

(Mother, can you please
move away from the window?
You're blocking the breeze.)

I don't give a shit.
There won't be conferences
in jail. And you're not buying tickets
if you're dead broke from getting sued
for breaking the non-disclosure agreement.

Yes, I tried! And some ethics
committee says he's trapped in this
room until you can bother
to open his skull and wire
him to your computer.

(I wish I was wading in water.
Especially that placid river

cuts like a snake through the orchard.
Dang, how am I so tired?
It's not like I've been running marathons.)
Your layover better not take that long.
(Is that my heartbeat?
So fluttery

like it has wings

Mother, can you open
my rib cage and let it free?)

Are you here to rotate me
again?
Maybe I'm not a patient;
maybe I'm a rotisserie
chicken
in oven's torment.

No, you're too silent.
Katya would bumble
in and knock something over
and cause other trouble.
Your footsteps are muffled.
Am I

losing my hearing?
No, the machines
are still beeping.

And I can hear your breathing.

Lmama? I should have guessed!
You know, because the first M's silent,
like you are. Aaand
that's my hand.

Mute-deaf, meet mute-blind-
paralyzed.
At least as long as I'm like
this.
Two peas in a pod, you and I.

Well, I've got nothing better
to do with my time
than listen.
Ah, shucks. I'd "listen" anyway.
My palm is ready for you to trace.

Your father

Kyle

Fistfight

Broke agreement

Broke nose

Wrong hospital

David more knows

Of course he'd walk away
with all the deets and unscathed.
Man always wanted to be a spy.

Glad you didn't die

Ever better again?

Boring without your presence

I'm trying my damned hardest.

Lmama, did they tell you I'm
a cyborg? That they did a scan
and couldn't see a single thing
because my brain was full of light?
Father put it in a damn
long time ago, so long that they
couldn't see any scars or outward signs they'd messed with my brain.
It's not like in the sci-fi stories:
I'm not insanely genius
and I've no special abilities.
In fact, it's probably the main reason I'm stuck like this.

Well, that's what I've gleaned
from listening to Mother
every time she comes in here
to scream.

Do you think they'll

open up my skull?
Cut a hole in my head
and hook up some cords?
Maybe it'll be to an inkjet
printer.
Pages will
spill
out with all of my words.
Wouldn't it be something
if my head had better drivers
than Kyle's orchard's library's computer?
Nothing to install from the Internet.
No popups that leave you with viruses.

Or maybe I'll just end up infected.
In multiple ways. A wound that runs deeper.
No option to backup and reinstall.

If this is a voyage,
I'm in to be keelhauled.

Son.

(Father!
The man of the hour!)
I can see you're excited.
(Oh boy, am I ever!)
Your heartbeat is elevated.
I

had some delays,
so I couldn't arrive
until now.
(Take a stool. Sit down.
Just don't scrape- never mind.)
I'm not sure
how much you've overheard.
But in your skull is an earlier
version of my whole life's work.
Twenty years ago, your mother
brought me an infant
the others
presumed dead.
But you weren't. You were perfect.
Except for a flaw in the brainstem.
The youngest recipient ever;
the adults were still in trials,
but what had we to lose?
We operated, and after-

(It must be bad if you've started to cry.)

-you opened your eyes,
and you took one look at me
and, like all babies, you screamed.
It was the first time in your life.
As far as I cared, it was a symphony
to humankind's achievement
over God's delight in defects.

(No wonder
I don't remember
any of this.)

Based on the notes in your chart,
I think it experienced a panic
in the kernel.
It should be fixable with a reboot.
But in order to get at it
we have to open up
part of
your scalp.
The port is external,
so
a craniotomy
won't be necessary.

My god, you're so still. Twenty
years and I'm an old fart and
you've grown into a young man.
And I can't even enjoy this reunion.

I love you, my son.
All the way to oblivion.

I'm to take you to the operating room
in a few minutes. Not the theater
most sons want to go to with their fathers,
eh? I'll be with you.
I have to.
Have to guide the

doctors
and surgeons
so they don't make things any worse then.

Katya. A sight for sore eyes. Please
help an old man deliver his baby.

That's a cedar waxwing.
There's a bird in the operating
room. Who let a bird in?
Perched on my heartbeat
monitor. We're both singing
just slightly off-beat
from each
other.

And the surgeons
are speaking a different
language.
One full of slides and clicks.
The syllables

too slick
to grab on to.

Hey, there's a tube
in my throat. That's a first.

Did they

make me worse?
Maybe I won't ever wake
up. Maybe this is
the afterlife.
A sheet over my body and a ghostly aqua light.

"'Bathrooms near campfires
leave much to be desired:
most of the ones I've come
across lack a mirror, for one,
and heating, for two.
Especially for two.'

She said to keep reading
until the blue line steadies
out. That would mean
you've fully awoken.
I hope I'm not a bore 'til then.

'I've done many things in my life
that are repulsive, but cuddling
in a single stall with slime
on the concrete
floor
is where I draw the line.'"

I've done that before.

(Yeesh! Must be a huge tome!
I just hope the spine's not broke!
One more thing to add to the hospital bill.)

"You... you spoke."

I

I did?

"And you flinched!
Not much, since you're still strapped down,
but I saw your fingers straighten out
and your face grimace
and your arm muscles flex- and-
and-
oh! This is wonderful! I've got to get your dad!"

Katya

don't leave

Like trying to plead
with the wind.

(Still can't open my eyes.
Could reach to wipe-
no, she was right:
I am strapped down.
Why'd they do that?
If I can't-)

"Son!"

Yes-
Oof! That smarts!
Let go- let go- you're crushing my chest.

"I

will restrain myself. Or make an attempt.
You're alive. I haven't lost
my child or my life's accomplishment.
I'll undo the arm straps. Let your muscles breathe
before I take you home.

Can you see?"

It hurts if I try.

"You've got a mass of mucus in your eyes.
Where are

here, a wet paper towel.
My god, you've grown up beautiful.
Do all the girls drool over
you every concert?"

They prefer the singers.
I'm just background decoration.
Luke's probably gonna run off with my replacement.
Ow! Too rough. Too

bright?

"You've practically been blind
for the past week. Give it time.
Give everything time. Seeing,
walking, talking, eating.
You were at the cusp of death."

(You could use some time to shave.
How bad did Mother rush you?
How much did it cost, that jet?

Well, at least you came.

Do nails really grow that long in a week?)

"Tell you what. I've got a big chunk
of vacation days all saved up.
If you're freed of your touring obligations,
I'll take you back with me to be monitored.
And after you're all recovered,
we'll go camping somewhere remote. Our little vacation.
What do you say?"

I don't want to be a test subject.
(Oh, don't give me that face.)
I don't want to be a case study.
A success story.
A linchpin for some

political campaign.
I don't want to be a part of whatever
you and Mother
are planning.
I don't want my whole life
to be mainly defined
by something that happened when I was a baby.

You know why I chose the keyboard
as my preferred instrument?
Nobody cares who plays it.
My persona is of no consequence.
I show up, I play up a storm,
I get to go to sleep at night
without fear of the public changing their minds
and demanding my blood in the streets.

So thank you. For saving my life,
I mean. But I'll remain here for recovery.
And then I'm going back to Kyle's orchard.
Even if that means I have to hitchhike
or camp along highways or sneak aboard
trailers.

"And if this ever happens again?"

What the hell kind of life is it
if I'll be forever dependent
on machines?
(Ah- ow- stiff shoulder.
Yep, bandage is there.
No longer bleeds.)
Did you leave the port exposed?
Give me the cord.
And a copy of the software.
"You know that's under copyright-"
I don't give a shit. It's my life
we're talking about. If you give
me this, as long as I'm with
someone I trust, we won't have to do this

hospital thing again.

Donovan.
(Has it been long enough since
we last saw each other
that I have first-name privilege?)
I'm asking this as your son.
As the child you should have fathered
instead of dumping me on Kyle.
You can't go back and make up for my child-
hood, so at least grant me my own future?

2

Hello, wind.
It's nice to feel you again,
waving your hands all over my skin.
A good marker of progression:
so many trees
lined up to infinity
it's hard to tell on this road if
I'm going
anywhere at all.
To-do list
in my breast
pocket,
scrawled in Kyle's hieroglyphics:
the royal groceries
I've got to be inviting
to spend with us the week
between
now and the banquet
he's throwing for charity.
Between you and me,
I'd prefer instead
he held it gently

like a bird egg
so I don't have to worry about it getting broken.
And then mail some actual invitations.
I've got extra cash for postage.

I wonder, now that I'm recovered,
if Luke would let me back on tour

or if I'm banned
from the band
forever.
That would suck. It's not my fault
I had a seizure.

It's not my fault Father
put that thing in my head.
Maybe it saved my life as an infant,
but what was he thinking,
letting the port be hidden,
grown over, by my skin?
Now I've got this small
bald
patch on my head
I have to keep covered or people'll start laughin'.

Ah, shucks, I'm ruminatin'.
Sorry you had to hear all that, wind.
The hair will grow back.
And the banquet'll be swell.
And Luke will let me back in-

That'll wake the birds up. What the hell?

(Was there a

crash?
A hit-and-run, perhaps?
Didn't think it possible
in my corner
of the world.)

Hey,
you okay?
(What a stupid thing for me to say.
Who lies in the dirt face-down
for fun?
Check her lungs.
Check her heart.
No bones seem to be broken apart
in huge ways.
No visible signs of scrapes or spilled blood.

Would it be more safe
to backtrack to the orchard
or continue to the city
where they have an ambulance?
Which is closer?)
Breathing's steady. So is your heartbeat.

But it doesn't look like you're just sleeping.
And I think I'd find Sleeping Beauty
in a castle, not a backwoods dirt road.
Let's let the doctors do the pricking.

I'm going to lift you on the count of three.
I'm pretty strong, so don't worry.
One

two

(I know the feel of this metal ring.

You're like me.)

Okay, change of plans.
(I should keep talking.
If I'm right, she can understand
everything that's happening.
I know I was terrified.)
I'll be right back.
No more than a stone's
throw
away.
(Sure am glad I took the motortrike
today
with the big trunk in the back.
There's my cord. There's my laptop.
Let's hope enough battery remains.)
I'm right here. Gotta turn your head to the side.
Feel this hole?
Kinda cold?
I've got a cord that's a perfect fit.
After my laptop boots,
I'm going to slip the narrow end
into your head
and hopefully that'll make you alive again.

Okay, here goes.

Can I

take your hand?
This might feel kinda weird.
(But how would I know? I was asleep.)
But don't worry. I'm right here.
(Okay, on the other count of three
I hit the enter key.
How nice of Father to only program
a system reboot and no other function.

How nice that she can't hear my sarcasm.

Script exited without output.
Is that

good?

Oh, she's making noise!)

"Serves me right to leave my camp
without my 'had a seizure' pack."
You

have them too?
"Ever since they put this in.
Once a year, I go missing
and have to pray
my gang
can locate
me before I die from dehydrating.

How long have you known?"
About a month or so.
About the thing in my head, I mean.

Hey, where do you live?
I'm headed to the city.
I can

give you a ride, if
you want.
There's enough space for two of us.
You can use the helmet.
"Yes, a ride, please.
I've got business there in any case.
From there I can find another ride to hail.

Oh, and here's your cord back. Before you forget
and I steal it
still hanging
like one of those nasty
rat's tails."

(Heart like a mango that's been drenched
and a voice like a storm
that forms
in the distance.)
Come to think of it,
I never asked your name.
"Why? Are you gonna drag
me back
to that
laboratory
for another 'check-in',
another data point for their long-term study?
Or maybe you'll just give them my description
and that's all they'll need to judge efficacy.
In either case,
my name
is not something you need."
Okay, okay, point taken.
(Who shoved a stick up your ass?)
I guess we'll part ways in
a few minutes, then.
Say, if you ever need anything,
there's an apple orchard a few miles past
the highway. Just stop by and ask.

Oh, and my name's Bartholomew.
But that's a bit of a long name to chew
every time, so you can call me 'Bartz' for short.
The first three of my first
and the last two of my last.
Just in case we ever again cross paths.

(It's okay to say "thank you", at least.)

(And there she goes. I watch her walk off
in a supermarket parking lot.
Man,
she's beautiful.
And

I'm lonely.
Just-off-season, none of the friendly
workers
are yet at the the orchard.
And Kyle

he's not a bore,
just always busy.
And so are David and the other three.

Well, these groceries
won't invite themselves.
Take heart, princesses
of the tomatoes and cabbages!
I come to rescue you from your castle
of dreaded prices and ad-filled aisles
guarded by the dragons of self-checkout machines!)

(Cart wheels? Or thunder?
Maybe the computer
that runs the planet
is thrashing the hard drive.
In any case, I better
head back
as soon as I can.
It'll be really bad
if I get caught in the rain,
what with the river
being so dang high.

Oh! And those letters-)

"Excuse me, miss,
but may I ask your assistance?
I need to replace my windshield wipers,
but I only have one set of hands
and my daughter
doesn't want to lend any of hers."

Um

sure!
Let me set down my bags.

Okay,
what do you need from me?
"Just sit down in the driver's seat.
See this lever?
And the little crank?
Twist it towards you
one notch
and hold until I say
to stop.
On the count of three.
Ready?
One

two

and see?
Like catching a fish from a stream.
Off of the hook I twist this blade
and

hey!
Let go of the crank!

Ah, I should have known that
the fish would keep wiggling."
(If you ask me, it's more like the rod
itself got possessed by an angry demon.
Maybe a minion
of the fish god
come to curse you with low visibility.

But wouldn't that mean I need to be exorcised?)
Sorry

spaced out for a moment.
Listen, I gotta go. I'm sorry.
I'm on a strict budget of gasoline and time.

(Empty
swingsets that rock
themselves to sleep
when tousled, tossed,
or teased
by a gentle breeze.

A lady
uses a port-o-potty
but leaves the door ajar
so she can keep hold of the leash on her dog's collar.

A hill that holds my memories
of a child unattended
while
Kyle
went all by himself
to get the groceries.

I would think it difficult to leave
even this on-the-smaller-side city
to live in a place more isolated.
That city,
if any,
a facsimile
of either the urban or the image
of a friendly small town which pr'y never existed.
At the very least, you need a library.

I guess that makes me lucky.

Is any town)

Hey, clown!
You almost ran me over!

(Is any town ever quiet?
The choices for ambience
are usually either traffic
or some kind of maintenance.
In the orchard, where the roads are private,
off-season when the big trucks are gone
I get the bubbling river,
the birds' chatter,
the wind's song.)

Oh! Yeesh!
Almost blew past my turn!
I've got to stop ruminating.
(What's gotten into me?)

Yeah! Browsing at the speed of light
with my half a gig of RAM
and a whole hundred kilobytes
up and down either way!

Would be nice
if Kyle could set aside
some money for an upgrade.
Doesn't even have to be
a monster gaming PC.
Just something where the fans don't scream
the moment I glance at the power button.

Luke, in the space of an entire month,
into how much trouble have you yourself gotten?
How fares you since you left me behind?
Oh! I'm Sherlock, and I've got me a spy,
and the power of the Internet my own crystal eye!
Where

But that can't be her.
They're still on tour.
And that stadium's several states away from the orchard.

Maybe she has a sister?
An identical twin?

Internet,
what do you know about Lara Evince?

Oh!
Yikes!

It's a

centipede?

Come here, little creature.
I've got a cup.
I'll toss you outside.

You're in luck,
really. Anyone else
would have crushed
you without a second thought.

Aha! I've cornered

that was a loud crunch.

I broke my promise.
You moved too fast
and I broke you in half.
I can still bury you outside,
if you like?
Rest eternal in the sunshine?

"I sure could do with
cooler weather.
It's too darn humid
for early summer,
don't you think, B?
June should be
either heavy storms or nothing.
Hey! We've been tornado-less
for a while.
You remember
huddling in the wine cellar
curled around your stuffed elephant -
said it was your 'prized possession'?
And I had a glove eraser
and imitated you
because I didn't knew"
(Didn't know?)
"the weight those words carried?
Man,
I miss
those days
so bad.
B, I'm glad
you chose to come back.

Hey,
man, you doing okay?
Been awfully quiet since the rain."
Huh? Oh, no, David, I'm fine.
"Bull. If you were, you'd spout
a rambling paragraph with rhymes
about the injustice of needing to have out
all these banners before the sun has gone down.
We've got a whole week!"
But if we made the food early,
it'd spoil,
and I already sent out all the mail.
"When did you get so darn practical?"

David, I need to cash in a favor.
There's this woman I met when out for groceries.
She's got the brain implant too. The same one as me.
But she wouldn't tell me her name.
She acted like, if she did,
even if it was just a fake
so I could address her like an actual person,
something would get

triggered,
I don't know, exploded,
or the police would instantly descend
from helicopters and kill us where we stood.

She looks like the woman my band friend ran off with.
But I couldn't find anywhere any evidence
she has any family, let alone a sister.
(Whoa! Did I properly lock this ladder?
I could do without another
visit to the hospital.)
"You want me to play Private Investigator?
My favorite! I've been looking for an excuse
to avoid Kyle and his ever-endless
list of busywork to do.
I'll get you a name by the banquet,
I promise!

And also a phone number

if you want it?"

(I wish these breezy days could last forever.
With the wind rippling through the orchard
and tousling the grasses, a sleepy lover
calling for me
to lay down my body
and take a nap
that lasts
the whole afternoon.
But the world needs sunsets too,
I suppose.
Time to rest and to heal from the strains
inflicted on my body throughout the day.

I could sure use a nap,
come to think of it.
After I finish the tasks
I've been assigned, perhaps
I can

find a tree
with a fork in the roots
that won't poke my back when I sleep.)

Hey! Welcome to Campsite 14!
Marcia, Mercer, Mary,
and

Dean?
"Yup, all accounted for.
You the welcoming party?"
Just checking in on the volunteers
who came to help with the banquet.
Collect your paperwork, get you situated.
Looks like you got lucky
with the site by the stream.
"Sure did! We rent this same lot every year.
Figured I'd stretch out the budget
and wait a few weeks before dragging us up
so we could get lodging for free.
The wife had a few misgivings,
of course. You know how women are."
(Do I? And does "women" include me?
You might sing a different tune
if you knew.)
"I've got the papers for the four of us here,
complete with online confirmations."
Great! Right here's your go-day assignments,
complete with schedules. If you don't have a map,
you can grab laminated ones
from the side of the fisherman's shack.
It's about a ten-minute walk up that path.
If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ask.

"E-excuse me, young man?"
You're Dean,
right? What'cha need?
"Do you have

a p-pad?
My mom's out."
Sure thing!
Let me open my pack.

Looks like I've got three.
"That'll be plenty.
Thank you, young sir.
One for me,
one for Dean,
and one for Mary."
Happy to help.
And if you need more,
the map's the quickest way to the city.
There's a pretty good convenience store
about a block from the library.

Well, I'll be off.
Have a good trip!
And on Saturday, don't forget to wear your work outfits!

(I still need to check on the shipments,
and I need to stop by the kitchen
and pull out that chicken
to thaw,
and Kyle needs me to whack the satellite
since the Internet's down to even worse of a crawl-)
"H-hey.
You're Bartholomew, right?
The one who lives here full-time?"
Dean!
Yeah, that's me.
But there's quite a few residents.
'The one' - can you be a little more specific?
Am I

special or something?
I was never really
a celebrity.
"I just t-thought you were like me.
Since you thought nothing
of carrying pads.
No o-other man I know would do that.
A-are you

I mean, are you a

S-sorry, I'm at a loss
for words."
(Hot damn, he's terrified.
A circle

and a cross?)
Yeah, I'm a female man.
There's nothing wrong
with that.
I just have different plumbing inside.
Were you born like this too? Or did you decide
to chase that image later in your life?

Hey! It's alright!
You don't have to answer
if you'd rather
not say

(Oh, Kyle's gonna hate
me for that.
Wish I could know
why it's supposed
to be a secret.

Well, onto those shipments.)

(Isn't often that I get
the bathroom all to myself
for such a long stretch.
Usually right at this time
practically everyone else
living here forms a line
stretching
all the way to the kitchen.
You'd think we'd figure out a schedule
eventual-
ly.
But we can never seem to agree
who gets the hot water,
the little the old heater
makes before it shuts down
for the night.
If it were up to me,
it'd be the laborers
working outside all the time,
'cause man, am I exhausted!

If only I had a

bath bomb, or a fizzy,
then I could lay down in the tub
and take my sweet time.
But that'd probably hurt the plumb-
ing, all that water rushing
all at once.
And then we'd have to use the shower stall outside.
Everybody lined up naked,
taking showers in shifts.

Last time that happened, Kyle said to use the women's line.)

Ow! Ouch!
Shampoo in my eye!
Where's

there's
the towel.
Ah, sweet relief.

(Hey, period, can you wait 'til next week?
I'll have loads of free time then
to spend
curled up in agony in bed.
I've got a big event coming up in two days
and I don't want our donors thinking I'm some kind of freak.

Ah, who am I kidding? You never pay
attention to anyone's schedule not your own.
And I've got to go.
So off goes the faucet
and I throw back the curtain-)

Is that how houseflies have sex?
You just

buzz around and occasionally hit
each other? I think
if a woman ran up
to me and bumped
her crotch on my knee
and then ran off, I'd be pretty
thoroughly
unimpressed.
Or maybe this is your version of flirting?
Maybe you've made reservations
for the restaurant of my body
and you expect candles and a pretty waitress?
Where's the towel? I can't stand this.

Closet next door should have fly tape.
Ah! A brand new canister. Perfect.
I hang the little loop on the hook on the doorframe
and gently pull

Oh, for hell's sake.

"B! There you are.
Man, you look pissed-"

(Well, I'm sopping wet and naked
save for a towel
on my shoulders
and the fly tape got all tangled when it tore from the canister.

And I need a good night's sleep.
But I shouldn't take that out on David.)

This is the stupidest mistletoe I've ever stood under.

"Gee, man, I didn't know you felt that way.
But flirting's gonna have to wait.
Go put some some boxers on and meet me outside at the front gates."
David- wait-
(And he's gone.
How long
does it take a clean body
to start sweating
again?

Whoa, my hands! Why am I so shaky all of a sudden?)

(Three squirrels running around a tree trunk.
A swarm of gnats holding conference above
a metal bench. The ferns are flowering.
Nothing out of the ordinary in this scene.
Then again,
David said
the trouble's at the front gates,
and that's still a little walk aways.

Maybe they

crashed a truck into the fence?
Distracted driver misjudging
the entrance
opening?
But I'm not a mechanic.
I don't see why my presence
would be necessary.
Or maybe it's some douche
on a motorcycle -
the ones whose motors rip
so the whole city can hear 'em -
and he's mad 'cause he refused
to pay the camping fee
and he's ranting 'bout the right to wander on our property.
Man, I hated
that guy. Though it was fun
watching Kyle take him down a few notches.
And every other time he's shown his face
since he got banned

at least a decade ago.

No, this is worse.)

What the hell is that? Is it a

satellite?
No, it'd have burned up
and exploded more from the height
it would have fallen.
It looks pretty intact.
But still banged up.
David, you got here first.
Has it made any blips? Or blups?
Any flashing lights?
Robotic words?
Any sign of life?
"No, B, it's been

how'd you say? Inert?
I haven't told Kyle yet. Thought I'd let you see it first,
tell me
if it was likely
to explode
or try to hurt
someone if it came alive."

I've got an idea. David,
grab there. Help me turn it over.
On the count of three.
One

two

"Man, this thing's heavy.

You see anything
in the sky?"
Flight recorder. Do not open.
With a cradle of plane still attached.

David, can you get the ATV
with the big trailer hooked up behind?
We need to get this safe and out of sight
of visitors.
And

we'll have to call the police
later.

(Who needs alarm clocks
when you have cars screeching
a

handful of lots
away?
The banquet's tomorrow.
Most everything's in a row
already.
Oh, plastic stars on my ceiling,
grant me re-entry into my dream.

The thing in my brain's
making me hallucinate.
That's a mighty fine shirt someone left on my nightstand.
Silk and purple
with a deep collar
and buttons that glint like they're made of pearl.
The one that I wanted for my birthday.
It looks so real. I could reach out
and touch it, if I could find my hands.

Oh, why's my head gotta take a dive
every time I wake up and force myself upright?
The deep end of the pool of consciousness.
But I don't have a discount card for city morning swim.
I can't afford this, brain!

The shirt's still there. And underneath
looks like a good pair of jeans
I haven't managed to get all mud-stained yet.

Is this a dream?

What happens if I slip out of bed?

Well, no one's busted through my window
to shoot me, and there's no tornadoes
that chose this corner of the building to form,
and I'm not on fire, and I don't have four arms,
and this definitely looks like my home.
Nice and sunny beyond the curtains.
Not likely we'll get a storm.

No, can't summon one. Must be awake.
But then why give me this shirt now instead
of waiting a few months until my birthday?
If I save it for tomorrow, it'll just get dirty
in the kitchen. A

surprise? A mistake?)

"B! Are you awake?
We've got the banquet today!"
David! I thought-
"Aw, man,
I know I shouldn't have
left you alone last night.
You set your outfit out before bed, right?
Slip it on and meet us behind
the ballroom. They've got something special planned
for you and Lmama and me."

David,
man, can you imagine
trying to do this for a living?
We've been at this for barely an hour
and already I feel like my legs
are turning to jelly.

Did I

do something wrong?
You're looking at me funny.
And everyone else's mocking me,
saying they're all sorry.
"B,
Kyle says
you can take
as many breaks
as you need.
Take it easy,
man. I'll cover you.

We made a good call ear-
lier with the pitchers
of water.
The old farts won't need us waiters
for a while.
Though
I suppose
in a real restaurant
they'd have us wandering
to ask if they still need anything.

Hey, B, you ever wonder what it'd be like
to have a real job? Work all the time
and have to pay rent and worry about
performance reviews
and rude
customers?"
And dress codes where you have to tuck in your shirt?
"Yeah, you get it! I'd hate that.
And to only earn three bucks an hour."
Plus tips. "Yeah, plus tips.

You know, man, I feel real lucky to be here
and not have to worry 'bout the outside world's shit.

So, yesterday. Do you want to

talk about it?"
You were there, weren't you?
We found that bit of plane
with the flight recorder attached,
and we hid it in the garage, in the back,
and you knocked over that shelf
and got hit with an empty paint can,
'cept it wasn't quite empty,
and you got pink
all over your hair.
I can see it now. Faint, but still there.

David,
did the banquet
get moved up by a day,
or am I missing one?

If it's there, it's all a blank.

I'm getting waved down. We'll have to continue
this some other time.

(Do my best bow,
but not too far down.
Not beyond the line of their shoulders.)
And what can I get you fine folk?
"Oh, what a dapper young lad.
They don't make them like that
in the cities. May we have
another pitcher of water?
My husband seems
unusually thirsty-"
Whoa!
Are you okay, sir?
(Is he breath-
never mind, that's puke
all over his shoes.
Rapid heartbeat.)
Sir? Can you hear me?
"B, you're king of the sprint.
You go. I'll stay here. Get an ambulance."

(Kyle, of all the times to regret
building an orchard
in the middle of nowhere
with no cell reception,
I hope this doesn't become one of them.

Landline's in the garage.
Keys?

Still jangling
from my belt loop.
Come on,
just one more lot

The door's already unlocked.
David, you must've forgot-)

You! Y-you're that woman I saved!
Man, thank the stars! Can you watch
my back while I make this call?
I'd feel ever grate-
ful.

You might want to get down from there.
You could fall.

The line's dead.

All the cords seem to be connected.
Is there a

fault somewhere
deeper
in the line?
(Come on, think! Should I drive
into the city and hail
an ambulance there?
If this phone's not working, it might be quicker.

The garage door?

The flight recorder!

Oh, the bright light framing this day's destroyer.)

"One day I'll come back for you when you're ready to be free."
(How kind to salute.) "But until then

see you later, Bartzy-baby."

3

(Isabella. "The one pledged to God."
Gone like the wind before I could call the cops.
Not that I'd have any reason,
since all that you stole -
or all that's accounted for -
was the flight recorder
and we weren't supposed to have that to begin with.

Heads again.
But I forgot to ask a question.)

"B?
You got a moment? Or three?
Your dad's calling. He wants to speak
with you about something."
About what?
"Wouldn't tell me.
Says it's your business and your business only."

(What could my father possibly want?
It can't be for business. That all goes through Kyle.
And it's not like him to get sentimental
and call to see purely
how his son is doing.)
Hello?
"Bartholomew!
My beloved son!
It's good to hear you.
I'm calling to apologize.
I

misspoke when I saw you last time.
I didn't mean to imply
that I had any kind of 'studying' in mind
when I wanted to take you back with me
to the research hospital. I wanted you
at our facility
purely
because there are still some legal
issues left to be untangled
before that implant can be revealed
to the wider medical community.
I didn't want you to get caught up
in the crossfire
of a non-disclosure
agreement.
Will you forgive me?
Or at least consider it?
It'd make your old man very happy."

How could I have any legal liability
when it was put in as a baby?
I never signed anything.
No doctor looked at me all intense
and made sure they got my informed consent.
All this legal kerfuffle

sure makes me feel like a piece of property.
"You are not, and have never been,
anything other than a person.
I also wanted to say, last time we spoke,
you accused me of having forsaken
my duties as a father. Of dumping you on Kyle.
My beloved son, I gave you to him
so you could grow up as unaffected
by workplace politics as possible.
Most of the others were not so lucky.
You have been fortunate beyond imagining." The

others? What do you mean?
"I can't say over this unsecured line.
Would you be willing to accompany me
to a conference in the Twin Cities?
I have some data I need to present.
I would be most honored by your presence.
And with full confidence
I can promise
you won't be a part of any studies or experiments."

He said to pack clothes for a week.
So that means seven pairs of shorts
plus a spare in case it pours
and seven shirts, all freshly clean,
plus my new purple one if he
drags me somewhere uptight and fancy.
Seven pairs of boxers and socks.
My lucky charm. My worry rock.
Comb and brush and toiletries.

When he said there were others,
I wonder

what did he mean?
The others with the implant?
I guess that would explain
why Isabella was so adamant
she stay off the grid. But why would that

Oh! David! Come in!

"B,
I can't believe
you agreed
to go with him.
Although
I suppose
you were on tour long enough to know
all the shit that goes down in the cities.
Listen, man,
since you came back
from the hospital, you've been acting
like a piano one string out of tune.

Er, pianoes do have strings, right?
The big ones, not the electric ones
you plug in with all the lights?
Or maybe you're a china dish
slightly off-color
than the others
that you were packaged with.
A rubber band a centimeter too wide.
A belt whose holes are too loose or too tight-"
You think something's wrong with me.
"Yeah, man. Something ain't right.
With the way you walk, and your personality.
Keeps me up at night, wondering
if, when your dad hooked you up with those wires,
he tried to reprogram your brain."
That's not how it works, David.
All it does is facilitate
the normal electrical flow in my brainstem.
If there were something in my forehead,
then you'd have cause for worry.
I'm fine, really.
Just trying to
figure out what I want to do
with myself now that I'm no longer on tour.

And

my father
mentioned 'others'.
Other people like me.
He said I was 'lucky'
to be here at the orchard.
I need to go see
for myself what he means.

"I'm still worried about you, though.
I always did see you as my little bro.

Hey, since I can't go with to watch your behind,
would you at least take my jackknife?"
(The green one? But I thought your parents
left that to you as your inheritance.)
"Here's the clasp to unhook the chain
so you can loop it to your pants.
Keep it tucked in your pocket, just in case.

There, now you have to come back
so you can give it back."

(Were you afraid I was moving out?
I wouldn't do that.)

David?
"Yeah?"

Thanks.

(Every time I call you Father,
your arm hairs wrinkle with shivers.
Like you forget
every ten seconds
and then get excited
all over again.)

Father?
(See? Proven
right.) How much longer
to the hotel?
"Feeling exhausted? Sleep a spell.
I used to sleep
in passenger seats
all the time growing up.
Rest your head on the belt.
We'll be there before the sun comes up."

Father? Why did you rent
a beaten-down truck instead
of taking your jet?
"Would you have preferred to fly?"
No. I'm just wondering why.
I figured, if you hadn't been taking me
along, that's what you would have done.
"I suppose I did it for the sake of nostalgia.
And in your pocket of the world, to land a jet
would have been far too inconvenient.

Kyle tells me you don't like attention.
I would think a jet a spotlight on-"
I get the point.

(Would I find myself more romanced
by the glamour of the overhead streetlights
had I grown up with them throwing
their pollution into the night?

I can barely see the sky.)

Father?
What did you mean by 'the others'?
The ones that I'm luckier than?

"It all began with your mother-
Jesus on a cracker! Was that a deer?"
(A

buck,

it looks like,
from the antlers.

It always gets me when they bounce
and then slide down the road.
I half-expect them to explode,
or have their skin rip open
just the slightest amount.
Any sign of trauma to show
than just the broken bones.)
"I'll pull over and check for damage.
You stay inside."
(What? Because it's night?)

"Truck looks undamaged.
Thing's built like a tank.
Too bad it looks like we'll have to wait-"
You don't have to call the police
if there's no damage to property.
(But Kyle would, so he could claim the meat.)
"Good deal. I'll leave it in the ravine.
With any hope, it'll walk away
like it's nothing."

(And the lights in the truck fade.
Everything mere splotches until I regain
my night vision.

King of the forest, did you do it on a bet?
Did your friends watch as you lept in front of death?)

Father? Have you ever had venison?
"I don't recall having ever partaken."
Well, maybe sometime you could visit us
at the orchard when Kyle gets bloodlust
and needs to go shoot things in the woods.

"A very strange thing it is, manhood."

"Bartholomew?
Is that you
up so early
making all the rustling?"
I can't see
who else it'd be.
It's just the two of us in this room.
"Hmm. I thought it'd be housekeeping.
They always pick the times
most bitterly inconvenient.

You don't have to make the bed."
I

don't?
But Kyle always said,
when I visit someone, I should at least attempt
to keep the place neat
so it's less for them to clean
when I leave.
"He raised you right. But this is a hotel.
We're- I'm paying someone else for the trouble."

(And he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Looks like he left the room key
on the dresser.
Breakfast was downstairs,
right?
D'you think he'd mind
if I slipped out for a bit? I'm starving.

Turn the handle ever so gently.
Wouldn't want to wake up the old man.
And close

and close

There, it latched.

Man, this place is quiet.
Are most of the rooms vacant?
Or is it really so early?)

Oh

oh wow!
"This your first time around?
Help yourself to anything you please."
Oh, I sure will!
I think a donut, and some hash browns
with hot sauce, and a bagel,
and a big ol' glass of soy milk.
(And all for free? Maybe I like hotels!

I should sit someplace quiet. Away from the TV.
All the news ever blasts out are tragedies,
anyway.
Kyle was right when he refused
to get one 'cause it'd rot our brains.

Everyone else seems enthralled by screens.
The minute they sit down, immediately buried
in one: the TV, a phone, a paper-thin laptop.
Never alone for a single moment.
How do you think in such a busy world?
Where do you even get the time for a thought
not force-fed like a pig into slop?)
Hey, what the hell? Go get your own breakfast!
What kind of a creep steals food from a stranger?
"One who requires your utmost attention
but is too inept to break off your stare
any other way."
Um

okay?
Actually, it's not okay.
You're giving me the creeps. Go away.

That's the opposite of 'go away'.
"Hash browns with sriracha? At this hour?
You're a fair bit braver
than Evincent gave you credit for.
Mind if I take another bite?"
Yeah, I think I would mind!
(Not too close to the edge.
It'd all tumble and make a huge mess.)
"Oh, no need
to cause a scene.
I only came here for one thing."
(Oh stars, please don't let that be
a gun at the end of that chain.

What am I thinking?
Who keeps a gun on a necklace, anyway?)
Thanks, but I'm not the jewelry type.
And if you think I like crosses, you've got the wrong guy.
"It's a key."
Oh, to where? "That remains to be seen.
I was told to give you this, but not to explain.
I'm just a mere passenger in your story.
The meaning can only be borne by your name.
I'm sure you'll find a use for it during your stay."
Hey-

(He knows that hot showers exist here, right?
He looks like he hasn't seen the better side
of one in at least a couple of weeks.
And undressed scars, too. Man, what a skeeve.

It's a pretty nice cross, though. Got a good heft.
Could be a key: angled, sharp at the end.
But there's no notches or bitting or teeth.
Whatever it guards has as much security
as a dollar-store little kid diary.
Whatever. I'll keep it.
Could buy me some good entertainment
if I get bored of being at the conference.)

"You went to breakfast without me?"
I didn't want to disturb you. You were sleeping.
"You could have gotten kidnapped

or mugged

or attacked-"
Dad, how fragile do you think I am?

"That's the first time you've ever called me Dad."
Well

it was an accident.
It's not like it's a title you've earned.
"Did Kyle teach you to speak with such nerve?
You know, in my day
children obeyed
their parents,
and the ones who remained
insubordinate received
spanks on the butt until they said sorry."
Well, I'm almost old enough to legally imbibe alcohol.
So I think I'm a little past the point of corporeal
punishment.
You'll have to find a different
way of dealing with me.
"Okay.
For today
you'll accompany me
everywhere I need to go.
No breaks, no 'side quests', no hiding
in the hotel room when you get tired.
You're my son, and I'm going to make sure
that gets through your head
by the time we return here to go to bed."
(No

hiding?
What does he think I've been doing
my whole life?)
"I take your silence as assent."
You should know the only reason I came with
is because you promised to reveal
what you meant by 'the others'.
That's a secret I won't let you weasel
your way out of explaining to me
before you bring me back home to the orchard.
"I will explain. I give you my word.
But my presentation isn't 'til tomorrow.
Today will be spent calling on a few old
acquaintances of mine, cherished colleagues.
You will conduct yourself with grace and decorum
like I know you did for the banquet
and you will not make a fool out of me."

(Might as well have gone to Mexico
with the way things went south on this trip.
And it's barely been twelve hours since
I left the orchard. My only home.)

Father?
"Yes, Bartholomew?"
When I was a little child,
before you gave me to Kyle,
did I live at the laboratory?
"I said I would answer-"
I don't need a full backstory
right now. Just a yes or no.
The rest can be saved for later.
(Could there have been more things done to me?)

"Yes. We kept you for observation
until you were no longer an infant.

Did you remember to charge your phone?"
I don't have one.

"You don't have your own?"
No cell service at the orchard.
There's a landline, but it's in the main garage
'cause Kyle doesn't like to be disturbed.
(And David always fetched the daily
load of messages from the recorder.)
"Then let's tarry
no longer."

(Are you the seventh or the eighth
person Father's presented me to today?
I've lost count. I'm woozy.
And Father refuses me
an early lunch. Reserva-
tion at a fancy restaurant.
Doesn't want to ruin my appetite.

Good. I can sit down. My head feels light.)
"Marche. It's been a long time.
How have you been?"
"Oh, you know, Donovan,
sometimes we don't always get what we want.
I had high hopes I'd spend my career
restoring fertility so women could be mothers
when nature thought to decide
otherwise,
but nowadays I spend my time
trying to reconfigure the male torso
to try to shove a womb in there also.
I keep telling my superiors
it's a futile endeavor,
but nobody wants to listen.
Things have been long, lonely, Sisyphean.
Oh, but listen to me ramble on."
(I don't mind. You remind me of a grandma
who never gets asked about her childhood
and spills all the beans given
the smallest sliver of interest.)
"Who's this young man you thought to bring with?
I thought you preferred being alone on trips."
"He-"
Bartholomew Sitz.
I'm his son.
"Donovan? You have a son?"
(Oh, such pretty eyes.) "Is it fair
to wager
you're almost twenty-one?"
Yeah. Unless my father wants to bestow a revelation
about how all this time I've secretly been an alien.
(And were I any younger, that would have earned a spanking.)
"You're no such thing. You're one-hundred-percent human.

Is he from the embryo you gave me and I decanted?
He must be. He looks so much like his mother."
(If I had some food in my stomach,
I might be able to keep up with this woman.)
"Don't you dare-"
(Come on, brain!
Stay awake!)
"Don't make any protests. I'll speak as I want.
You're the one with the non-disclosure
agreement, even if it expires tomorrow.
I'm under no such restrictions.
And he's an adult. If he wants me to, I'll talk."
(Oh, my father looks about to raze
the whole heavens down for what she's said.)
Decant? Like you

grew me in a bottle?
"Something like that. But a whole lot softer.
A jar
would be pretty hard
to get you out after.
Oh, Donovan, you made such a pretty kid.
It's a shame his mother had to be who she is.
Will I see you both in an hour for reception?
They've got half the restaurant
cordoned off."
If I can make it that long.
(Maybe then
it'll settle in,
the shock.)
"Son, let's go. We've been here long enough."

(Ah, that does it.
I feel significantly better
with something in my stomach.
I guess doubly so
since I know
I won't be the one footing the bill,
or handing it,
or giving it an elbow
or knee.)
"Bartholomew? Pass the pitcher of tea?"
With pleasure.
(Were it not for him being an ass earlier,
sitting at the right hand of my father,
I'd almost feel like some kind of royalty.

How much is my father making
if he can afford to sit in
on this kind of opulence?

I must be some kind of designer baby.
Chosen after screening out
all possible
chromosomal
deficiencies.
If I was an early case,
they must have been exploring
exactly how far they could take
the new technology.

But that doesn't explain
what changes
they made.
It can't be super-healing;
I've gotten cuts and scrapes before
that took the normal week.
I can't fly or walk through doors.)
"The chicken parm - like some more?"
Yes. Thank you. Please.
(I can't lift a tractor with a single hand.
I can't see minor details from whole miles away.
I can't make flowers or other plants grow on command.
Maybe it's just something insignificant and mundane
like preventing me from being able to gain too much weight.)
"Son. You've been so quiet.
Say something intelligent."
(At least seven pairs of eyes
are feasting on me at this moment.)
Er

no such thing as a cup half empty:
where there's no water, the air lives rent-free!
(That got a few chuckles.
I'll live another hour.

If 'the others' Father mentioned
also had their genes edited,
then where are the superheroes?
The myth-makers? The legends?
Or was all this kerfuffle and secrecy
just to make rich peoples' children pretty?)

(Three, two, one.
Do you think-
No, it's empty yet again.

Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven.
And all the other numbers in delegation
to the heavy brass clock on the wall.
What kind of mad architect puts a door
directly across from an elevator stall?
Or, rather, what kind of engineer
allows to go to market an elevator
that keeps opening once a minute
without a single person in it?

Twenty, nineteen, eighteen.
The anticipation is killing me.
Can an elevator travel that quickly?
I thought it had to shake up your stomach
as payment
for the inconvenience
of having to transport
the lazy asses
and overfilled suitcases.

I don't remember
being this judgmental
living at the orchard.
What's gotten into me?

Do you think this'll be

No, yet again empty.
Come on, Father, how long does it take
to get a single bucket of ice?
I'm beginning to think
you abandoned me
to do whatever you did
instead of parenting.
Just like old times.

Maybe there's a kid inside
I can't see from where I'm standin'
who keeps smashing the hold button
because they got left unattended.
I wonder what it takes to leave
a child where they can be stolen.
Gone without warning.

Would anybody miss me?

Oh, what am I thinking?
Of course. David and Lmama and the other three.
Well, maybe not Luke, now that he
ran off with my replacement.

It's just going to be empty again.
There's no use getting excited.

Isabella!
What are you doing, showing your face
where you can be seen by multiple cameras?

Can she see my eyes through the porthole?
Never mind that - how did she know
I'm on this floor, let alone this room?

A knock.

Would my presence

disturb the wooden door's vibrations?
Can she hear my breath shudder with fear?)

"Bartzy-baby. I know you're in there.
Open the door. We need to talk."

(If I stay silent and don't move at all,
maybe she'll get bored
and look for
another target to pick on.)
"Bartz!" (That kind of thud
would wake the whole floor up.)
"I made you a promise. That I'd come back
when I felt you were ready to be free.
Vio held up his end of the agreement.
I've been watching over you all day through the key."
(The

the one in my pocket?
Oh, come on!)
"I know what he meant by 'the others'.
And you don't seem the kind to wait
for courage to visit your father
when you know someone else is ready.
Now come on! Open the door!
I've got big things planned! I don't want to be late!"

(Maybe I should speak.
If I keep the chain
in place,
would the door open enough
to let her force her way
in?

I guess I'll find out.)
Isabella. How am I supposed to trust
you're telling the truth
when the only two
times we've interacted
you thought I was a secret agent
and then you broke into my garage
and stole stuff?
Just spill the beans and I'll decide
if I want to trust you with my life.

(It must be serious
if she's got to whisper this.)
"You were raised to believe you're a special
kind of man,
but in fact
you're just a woman
missing pieces, made un-whole."
Okay? That's your big revelation?
I've always known that I'm female.
It's just always been easier
to let others
pretend, if they want, otherwise.
"That's easy for you to say.
The way your parents made
you, you don't have any
outstanding
health complications.
The others haven't been so lucky.
I'm talking about organs rotting
inside bodies
and bones breaking from the slightest of falls
and an explosion in intersex diagnoses
all over this blasted country.
I'm talking about suffering.
That your mother caused.
Bartz-"
(Oh, her hand is so warm.)
"Your mother
is trying to engineer
the concept of women
out of existence.
She's doomed to never succeed-"
Then why do anything?
It's an experiment, right?
Which means there has to be an end.
Some point where she will realize
it's all for naught
and bring it to a halt.
"If she were reasonable.
But she refuses to give in.
Which means more suffering children."
(And Father
had me sent to the orchard
to avoid 'workplace politics'.)
How do you know all this?
How should I know you haven't taken
a bunch of true things and put them in a box
and packed the empty spaces
with diagonal imagination?
True, I don't really know what my mother does.
But how could anyone hate women
so much they don't want them to exist?
Wouldn't the whole human race go extinct?
(Oh, the phone's ringing.)
Whatever you've planned, go do it without me.

Hello?
"Son. Good, you haven't wandered off.
Stay in the room until I return and knock.
If you see
anyone behind me,
don't respond
and keep the door locked."

(Back to watching the damn elevator again.
Isabella's gone. Left in a huff.
Looks like she forgot somethin'
downstairs, or maybe missed
whatever she had wished
to share with me.
And the elevator's fixed.
Now all that's left is the waiting-

And I eat my words,
and find myself left
with the bitter sting of indigestion.
Vio, was it? You

have a pistol.
Pointed right at my father's temple.
Knock knock, knock knock.
Do I call the police?
Do they already know?
Why isn't the hotel
on lockdown?
The security room - is anyone home?

Oh, stars, I'm all alone
in this one.)
"Son.
If you're listening,
I have a confession,
since it seems
I won't be
able
to give my presentation
tomorrow
as scheduled.
This should have fallen to your mother,
as she was the one responsible
for anointing herself the spider
and tangling us all in her web.

You have a medical condition
coded by gene manipulation
before your birth called
bilateral
congenital
amazia.
You will never develop mammary tissue.
That is the only thing wrong with you.
You are perfectly healthy otherwise.
Your mother and I

made you right before she
went off the rails and started playing deity.
So many broken babies.
So many opportunities
to stop her that I refused to take.
So much harm I will have to atone for
when I go to meet my Maker."
(Don't tell me
you're planning
on dying!)
"Bartholomew
Sylvain Sitz.
My only child, my son.
I love you.
Take the folio in my suitcase and run."

("The port is external,
so a craniotomy
won't be necessary."

How can a pistol
be so quiet?

Why didn't you fight?
Just

allowed yourself
to be snuffed
out like a candle?

Oh, gods, the door handle.
The folio.
The folio in the suitcase.
The suitcase beside Father's bed.
Oh, housekeeping,
please forgive me
for the nasty dirt streaks
the wheels left on your sheets.
The folio's on top.
The back of my backpack.
Sorry, clothes. Now's not the time to be soft.

Toss
the cross.

Vio shot the lock.
But the door's jammed.

The fire escape!

That's a long way down.

Okay. Breathe easy.
Take
the guard rail
firmly.
One foot in front of the other.
Listen to nothing
but the sound
of your feet on the metal stairs.
Let them guide you to the ground.
Left and right and left and right.)
I'm going to get out of this alive.
I'm going to,
I'm going to,
I'm going to.

(Shit! I left the keys for the truck
back in the room.
How am I going to
get out of here?

A bus
stop! On a route
with no fare!
Just up the street.)
Come on, feet,
just a little farther.
Just a few more yards.
That's all I require.

"Excuse me, young lad! Can you please
move to the second row of seats?
The first row has been reserved
for riders with disabilities."
Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.
(Maybe this'll be quieter.
I'm getting lots of funny looks
from onboarding passengers.

There's no way that this bus'll take me
all the way to the orchard.
All the way back home.
All I've got are twenty dollars
and a handful of quarters.
That's nowhere enough for a taxi.
Not even half for a motel stay.
Maybe

David could pick me up?
I think he's been to this city
a few times. More than me,
anyway.
The motortrike could carry us both.
I'm a little scared of that highway, though.
To be exposed to the elements
without a vehicle's armaments.
Something, something,
defensive driving.
Weaponizing
a windshield wiper.

That feeling.
A growing
gnawing
empty.
Is it hunger?
Did I have dinner?
I should stop somewhere.
Get something in my stomach
and find a payphone
and call home.

Here's to hoping I don't vomit.
Come on, body,
even if I'm floating
a few inches above,
you still have to obey me
when I ask you to move.
Stand up!
Legs straight!
Even with a jerky gait!
Go down the aisle
and down the stairs
and wander into that diner over there.
Good, there's a payphone.
Remnant
of what feels an ancient
world, my mechanical savior.
Put in a quarter
and dial the number
for the orchard.)

David, please pick up.
Please be getting the nightly hoard
of voicemails for Kyle to half-ignore.

"Hello?"
(What was I going to say?)
Oh

um

"B! Man,
I'm glad
you're alive!
I saw the news.
Sorry your dad died.
D'you need a ride
back home?"
Y-yeah.
Please come.
"Hey, no problem.
Meet me at that giant spoon
with the cherry
that hates gravity.
After you've eaten something."

The earth keeps record
of the contours
of my fatigued body
and finds no fault with me.
The grass accepts my weight.
The dirt imparts no shame.
The pewter clouds that threaten rain
offer no harm but instead sleep.
If I could just turn my head
to the side
a slight
degree
and close my eyes,
perhaps I'd find
the father that I left behind
whole, intact, waiting.
So many questions to ask.
And now all that remains
are crumpled in my backpack
yet flattened to the mere page.

"B-"
(David!
How long have you been sittin'
there?)
"-you ever
consider
a career
in publishing?
Now that you're not in your band.
You're awful good
at the writing
and all that."
That would be

too much attention.
Too many unsolicited
opinions.

"Pretty awful weather, ain't it?"
It's perfect
for what's happened.
"Well, rain's
on its way
just up the horizon.
I don't want you to catch a cold.

Come on, friend.
Let's get
you home."

4

(Slender threads from trunk to ground
that sway with the wind's delight
and only expose their existence to the human eye
when they dare to wave
out of the shade
and catch a shard of light.)
Unbothered spider,
how long have you been here
in this neglected corner?
Is there vacant space
in your brain
to become aware
of the impending harvest?
Will you wave
banners made
of mosquitos' corpses
and beg for mercy, pray for peace?
Or just accept defeat
and rebuild your weaving
elsewhere?

How much easier
it is to destroy
than to bring into existence.
(And what was the purpose of mine?
Purposes, plural? Touched,
assigned
by Mother and Father and Marche?
The implant works,
and the womb didn't hurt
any other aspects
of my development,
and I'm as good a man as any.
What do I do now with these epiphanies?)
Ack!
An ant
in my face!

Ugh,
now there's probably guts
smeared all over my cheek.
What a waste.

(Was it only yesterday?
I need to read
the papers that Father

that Father had me rescue.
All I need to do
is reach over
and open my backpack
and pull out the folder.)
Come on, I can do this.
I know that my fingers
still work. Mind, please.
Cooperate with me.
It's not a bomb and it's not a virus.
It's a stack of papers on which
words have been printed.

There you go. (How bumpy rips
the zip-
per.
How the noise tickles the air.
I sure do hope this isn't
symbology or an encrypted
mess
that's going to beg
that I go on a high-speed chase
tracking down secrets that have lain
in buildings
for several centuries.
But who knows? Maybe I'm
about to discover that I'm really
the last living descendant of Christ.
Okay, here goes.
Slip open the folio.)

These are just

presentation notes.
(How the implant works. Survival statistics.
Ooh, in-progress surgical footage!
That would've been cool to see.
Though maybe not. It'd be pretty gory.
More diagrams. Medical terminology.
Plans for larger-scale manufacturing.
Wait, go back. That paper
was faded and slightly yellower
than the rest.

A

handwritten letter?)

Son, if you're reading this,
it means I'm either dead
or you thought it would be hilarious
to go looking
through my things
while I was gone and couldn't notice.
In the second case I beg, I plead,
to not any further read
and put these papers back.

For twenty years your mother has
been hellbent on engineering
what she considers a "female man".
To her,
there is no cure
for this world's
deep disease
of misogyny.
Man refuses
to acknowledge
woman as his equal.
So she wants to create
a human female
indistinguishable
from a man but still capable
of reproducing.
I always thought it Sisyphean,
since men would just reinvent
oppression along the lines of who has not a dick,
but I loved your mother, and so I went along with it.

With the exception of you, your mother has mostly failed.
What she has to show for her efforts are a crowd of intersex
and/or developmentally disabled children from the clinic
for fertility and pediatrics
she runs and I help(ed) with as a side project.

Love conquers all things, including my conscience.
I gave you to Kyle
so you wouldn't have to be involved.
I did not plan on ever telling you.
You do not deserve to have to carry this weight.
No part of this is your responsibility.

For the executor of my will, I have named another friend.
But your name is on my bank accounts as 'payable upon death'.
As of writing I've at least five hundred thousand dollars
and no fewer.
If you ever decide to leave the orchard,
you will never have to work elsewhere.

If you love this world, then stay alive.
And if you grow to hate it
because of what was done to you as an infant,
please keep on living, if only out of spite.

"Hey, B. My bike's inner tube exploded.
I need to go into town real quick
to buy a replacement.
D'you want to come with?

Hey, man, are you listening?"
He said none of it was my responsibility.
"Well

yeah; it's my bike, not yours.
What's wrong? It's not like you to be sour."
Oh

sorry, David.
I was lost in ruminatin'.
What do you need?
"I wanted to know
if you were up to go
into town with me
for some supplies.
But if you're still mourning
and need time alone,
well, I know how that goes.
Is it anything you want to talk about,
guy-to-guy?"

If your father confessed
that he helped commit crimes
that ruined at least thousands of lives,
but he also said
that he'd taken steps
to keep you distant from all the mess,
and you don't have any real evidence,
what would you do?
I need to do something.
I can't just accept my inheritance
knowing
a great deal of it was gathered
by causing harm to others.
"Maybe

tell a reporter?
I think if you use the computer
you can send them a picture
of what you do have.
It's their job to dig out the facts, right?
Can't imagine,
if it's really that bad,
they'd let a story that big slide."

You're right.
Thanks, David. I'll try that tonight.

So how'd you manage to explode your bike?

This place is giving me the creeps.
"Aw, come on. We just got here, B.
Anyways, which one here d'you think
would survive
on my poor bike
the longest?
That one says it's heavy-duty,
and that one with the neon green
letters is full of 'miracle jelly'
to fix by itself any cracks or leaks-"
Don't get that one. The stuff rarely holds.
You'll just end up with a messy
job the next time your tire explodes.
"This one's got a lifetime warranty."
For yours, the product's, or the company's?
And in what conditions
will they honor it?
"Man, this is harder
than I thought it would be.
Can't there be, like, a standard
option? One with nothing special?
One I can trust
to hold
up?"
Sorry, no luck.
That's capitalism, baby!
All the same in trying to be unique.

(There's that sense that something's off
again. Like I'm being surreptitiously watched.
But not from the cameras overhead,
the bug eyes that bulge from the ceiling
and glint every now and then.)

"Every day's a new chance."
"A new chance to what?"
"To fuck it all up!"
(Cranky old men approaching.
One's in a power cart.
They'll probably say something rude
and then demand that I depart
from the aisle
under threat of running me over
in geriatric boomer style
at the deathly speed of less than a mile an hour.)
"Hey, Moriarty! Look at that!
It's Kyle Milagros'
charity cases!
The buffoon
and the troon!
How long 'til they kiss?"
Ow! David! My wrist-
"B, we're leaving.
I got what I need.
I'm not listening to some Trumper
babble on about nature."

(After all that, you chose the one with the jelly.)

(And please don't make me do any
interviews. I'm still in mourning
and, to be honest,
I've no desire to become a celebrity.
But my conscience says I have to do something.)

And

send.

(Hopefully that's the end
of my involvement.
I need the headspace for the harvest
next month.

I need a walk. To walk out the lump
in my throat.
I hate this feeling of yuck.
Every time I get caught in the yoke
of any kind of obligation.
Anything that could upend
this quiet life I've come to depend
on.

Is it senior
picture
time already?
Unsolicited
beauty pageant
to see which tree is most photogenic?
Maybe one day the scientists
will graduate from messing with the genes
of children and invent tree cosmetics.
Leafshadow, trunk liner, fake branches,
and all the other joys of microplastics.)

"Bartzy-baby."
On my home turf!
But I should have known
you'd find a way to harass me
no matter where I go
on this infinite Earth.
"Did you expect any different?
Your address
is a public
business."
Well, visitors are prohibited
from carrying guns on the premises.
Whatever website you cribbed my location
from should have at least told you that.
"Nah. Phone books rarely give a damn.
Now where are the papers
you're hiding for your dad?"
You mean, the one you assassinated?
It's just the notes for his presentation.
It was all intended for the public.
You could have fucking waited a day
instead of having Vio blow his brains
out all over the hotel hallway.
How the hell
are you not in jail,
by the way?
"I'm not the one who pulled the trigger.
Your anger
is misplaced.
Now answer the question."
You don't need them.
There's nothing he wrote
that you don't
already know.
Now just leave me alone!

"Hey-"
What did I just say?
I don't want to hear your manifesto.
You made me lose my dad
and the news is breathing down our backs
and my entire existence
so far has been dependent
on harm done to little children.
It's a bit of a heavy weight.
You're an awful cook
and my stomach's full
and I don't want anything more on my plate.

"But you have to do something.
You can't just hide and sit
on your privilege."
There's no part of it I can fix.
I gave what I could to a local reporter.
"You really think some backwaters paper
is going to crack a nationwide conspiracy?
I'll tell you what they'll do. They'll do an inch of digging
and then get threatened by some donor
or other
who threatens to pull funding
unless they pull the story.
It'll get picked up by some conspiracy
crackpot
who'll twist the whole thing into something it's not
and all you'll be known as is a mockery.
And if, by some miracle, it hits the news?
Nothing! Jeffrey Epstein?
Zilch! The Panama
Papers? Nada!
That Donald man admits on tape
and multiple times to rape
and sexual assault? They made
him the goddamned president.
All the world sees controversy
as simply a media spectacle
that gets dropped like a boring toy
the very second it fails
to continue to be exciting.
Only violence changes anything.
Nobody got their justified rights
by sitting nice and saying please."

Then you'll just have to fight for me.
Because I'm not the fighting type.

"B, is this lady bothering you?"
(David! Just in time.)
Yeah.

But let her stay.

Do you want to stay for dinner?
We can talk afterwards.

"For someone with such a decent inheritance,
I was expecting your bedroom to look a lot nicer than this."
Hey, what's wrong with my room?
And who cares if there's better?
The window latches shut
and the door locks properly
and the curtains give me a decent amount of privacy.

Though
I suppose
most rooms don't need
a space heater
in the dead of winter.
You'd think the heat
downstairs would rise.

You live in the forest, right?
"Camp
of nomads."
How do you survive?
"The best we can.

So you wanted to talk."
(Oh, please don't cross
your arms like that.
I don't like the way
it makes
me feel inside.)
"You hated my guts, but you changed your mind?"
I want to know why.
Why my father had to die.
He only helped because
he was blinded with love.
His heart wasn't in it.
So why didn't
you go after my mother instead?
Whatever this monster is,
you didn't go for the head;
you went for one of the little toes.
Maybe an arm at the most.
"You think we haven't tried?"
(A yawn. It is getting kinda late.)
"Wherever we strike,
by the time the arrow lands,
she's already two steps ahead.
We've been trying to hobble it.
I've got as many operatives
as I can spare trailing her,
taking out her assistants.
But the damn monster refuses to die."

And you can't bomb a clinic.
Not with people in it.
"Even if not a single one is innocent?"

The patients?
Would you also call them complicit?

So, my father?
"He was a collaborator.
A willing one.
Being in love doesn't absolve
a single blasted thing he did."

I would have liked to know him better.

(Be careful, Bartz, lest the son become the father.)
Hey, why do you trust me with all this?

"You didn't go to the police the first time."
The first?
"Don't you remember,
dumbass? The flight recorder!"
Oh, that. Well, I figured
I'd keep my mouth shut
and pretend that none of it happened.
"You keep doing that, you'd lend me lots of luck.
And I know I'll be in need."
(Oh

oh, stars! A kiss on the cheek!)
"Can I visit again tomorrow,
or will you still hate my guts?"

Spare me your "one kingdom",
your "peaceful unification":
I would rather there be a thousand stars in the sky
than a single sun to burn us all.

And if this means I must deploy the war drum,
then so be it: I'll tear apart the whole of the nation
before I let myself become subsumed into
a blindly-worshipping thrall.

"Then so be it, young lad. I see you are a student
of the notion that the sword is weaker than the pen.
Shall we put those ideals to the test?"

(Hey! Who brings a gun to a sword fight?
And why is my father
on the other
side?
Chained up and sullen and haggard,
like some kind of sacrificial prisoner-)

Oh!
Did I

get shot?

No wounds, no pain, no blood clots.
Here- lamp- there, some light.
I'm

in my bed.

I'm alright.
I'm alive.
It must
have just
been a night-
mare.
An emperor
made composite
from all the people at the conference.

(And I thought I said I wasn't the fighting type?

Well, I suppose I'd fight in self-defense.
Maybe that's what the dream-me meant.)

Oh faithful and virtuous night,
with your forgiving breeze and blanket full of lights,
will you keep my dream a secret?

David,
I think we're running low
on clothespins.

Hey, you know
you don't have to use
six for a single pair
of underwear,
right?
Just one at each edge.
Here, let me show
you.
It'll take
less space
on the clothesline, too.

Did Lmama get a new sundress?
It's undulating in the breeze.
(Like a dancer at the circus.)
"Yeah. When you were away
that one day
at that conference."
Sure is pretty.

"Bartzy-baby."
Isabella!
Didn't expect you to come by so early.
The gates are locked. How'd you get in?
"First off, call me Evincent."
(I've heard that name somewhere previous.)
"'Isabella' is for nerds
and my sister.
And if you must know, secondly,
if you walk around with purpose,
it's difficult for others to take notice.
You just blend in with the scenery.

For a morning, it's awfully sunny."
Don't you live in a camp? It's July.
Cool temperatures and a pure blue sky.
Looks like an average morning.
"So you also basically live outside.

I thought it over over the long night.
Even in your cowardice,
you can still serve a purpose.
If you can take up a correspondence
with your mother
under the pretense
of getting to know her better,
you might be able to gather
some much-needed intelligence."

This doesn't sit right in my stomach.
I'd be taking advantage-
"So what she's doing is egregious
enough
to tell a reporter, but not so much
to lie about seeking her love?
In her eyes, you're her star subject.
You are her one and only success.
You mean to tell me she wouldn't show any interest?"
Not a single birthday present
or greeting card
or present.
I've never known
her phone
number or email address.
Hell, if it hadn't been for
that seizure,
I doubt I'd recognize her voice at all.
(When I put it like that

sounds an awful lot like neglect.)
"You only share a genetic component.
I could see it as a betrayal
if I was asking you to kill Kyle.
But this lady brought you into the horrors of existence
purely to see if she could prove a twisted hypothesis."

Hey, David?
"Oh, sorry, man, I was mindin' my business."
Are you up for another mission?

"And that's it? You're just going
to lie down and go to sleep?"
I've no other chores to do this morning,
now that the clothes are hanging
out to dry.
David's got a tractor to drive
out to the garage on the far side
to prepare for the harvest next month.
As for me? Nothing 'til lunch.

There's plenty of space
under the shade
of this old maple tree.
Why don't you lie down too
and rest for a spell?
Doesn't even have to be by me.
You could go a little
further down the hill.
It's pretty unlikely
anyone will disturb you.

(A rustle in the grass
right to my right.
Do I

yeah, I still have David's knife.
Looped in the belt loop on my pants.
At this point it's a habit.

A zephyr brings with it
tales of impending harvest
as it plays with my leg hair.
Blanket of sunlight, segmented
by leaf shadows. Could be a quilt
like I saw hanging once at the county fair.

What would be like to have a grandmother?
Or any kind of extended family member?
Could I have

cousins?
Do they know of my existence?
Did either of my parents even have any siblings?
'Course, with my mother
it might be a tad harder
since I don't know her maiden name.
I'd have to owe David
a really big favor.

I could hope to get invited to Father's funeral.
The chances are good if I was his only child.

I get the feeling
that isn't something
most people have to worry
over.

Then again, most people
actually have to work
and a roof over their head isn't assured.
A life in a cubicle, severed
from nature.
By reasonable measures,
I'm living in luxury.)

Is that
a black-capped
chickadee?
I love their pudgy
little bodies.
So round and squat
when not
feeding.

(Is Evincent snoring?)

(Is that a dead bird in the water?

No, it's just a leaf darkened
and in the unfortunate
shape of an ellipse.
And another
cluster
lying in the grass.
Nobody's poisoned the river.)

Breeze,
could you come and absolve me?
I offer you the bare skin of my chest.
The river has claimed my lower legs.
(I finally found water shoes in the closet.

To make a stone skip,
I need to flick my wrist
just the right amount.
The stone needs to hit
the surface
with a spin
to carry it airborne again.
The water, of course, must cooperate.
Oceans are rarely good candidates.
Better to find a river or lake
on a day that is placid and not full of rage.

I've got enough bottled
inside to compensate.

Stones, the bullets of antiquity.
Crack a man's head
wide open with a sling.
An ancient curse: "May your life
coincide
with interesting times."
How dare you put me in this
situation! To not be able to decide
what I want to make of my life
but instead have a story thrust upon
my shoulders
without being consulted first.
Revolutionary or simple pawn.
Can't it fall on someone else's shoulders
to be the hero? I just want to enjoy nature.
I just want a quiet life sans drama.)

Lmama!
(Oh, I sure hope my Protactile
is up to snuff.) We haven't signed in a while.
How have you been?

Still my friend?

Of course. Nothing's changed
between you and me.

Your hands feel angry

My father died.
He got shot in the head.

I'm sorry.

It's not your fault it happened.

My life right now is quiet

Library frustrating

Can't find good books!

Go with me?

Right now?

Yes, please

Go to the main garage. I'll meet
you there
once I've dried off
and calmed
this anger.

(Others would kill for this quiet life.
Is tolerating Evincent's
influence

right?)

(What would a library be without some old
coot camped out at the computers whose phone
is set at full volume with an obnoxious ringtone?)

I see lots of cool books on these shelves.

You're looking at covers

Not plots themselves

What are you trying to find?
Must be something
the library at home
can't provide.

Not young teenagers

Not war fights

What about this one?
Lots of horizontal lines.
And a cool bird emblem on the ground.

Already tried.

Bad Internet vibes

Or how about this one?
I see no weapons.
They look pretty happy with hands intertwined.

The beginning?

(Oh- oh, just a fake puke.)

Promised lots of bad things

But by the time the book began

they were all in the past

If I want to hear complaining

I would just go find you

Oh, you're breaking my heart.
(And she blows a raspberry.)
How about this one?
I'll actually read the description
this time.
The protag's pretty young,
but I see no signs
of militaries or governmental crimes.

We could go look in the adult section?

Mostly just crimes and mysteries

Yeah, not a good selection, is it?
We could always put in a request
for a loan from the interlibrary.
But then we'd have to wait a few weeks.

That book in your hand

I'll give it a chance

(And I should go find myself some poetry.)

("This town
keeps me alive
then turns around
and shouts
of how it wants me dead.
Of how I only have worth
if I can be kept
as a pet.
Mom, don't lie.
You'd have me lobotomized
in a heartbeat,
have me declared personality-free,
were it still legal.
Bring forth fetii
just to inflict agony
on a mother who didn't wanna be,
fodder for the steeple."

Physiologically, the only difference
between me and any other woman
is that I don't have mammary tissue.
That is, if my father is to be believed.
And socially, what lies between
me and a biological man
is just that:
I could get pregnant.)

Hey, Lmama-
Sorry! Didn't mean to make you drop
your book. What's going on?

Mother made a daughter

The girl is immortal

First person who cannot die

Do they expect her to have babies?

After more growing time

(It's always about the damn reproduction.
So many others who see man carved from woman
choose that one thing to obsess over.
Maybe I don't want to be a mother.
Or a father. Or any kind of parent.
Why should my worth to humanity
be judged on whether or not I can have children?

Wait.
Mother did all this to try to make men
who could have babies. That was the whole purpose.
Is she expecting
anything
from me?
Am I going to wake up, kidnapped in laboratory-

No, too many people would miss me.)

David! How goes it?
"Not too bad, man. I've got a letter
for you, unless you know any others
who go by the name 'Bartholomew Sitz'.
I didn't recognize the name or address
on the return label, so I did some research.
I think that's your aunt on your father's
side. You think maybe it's about a funeral?"
Let me open it up and find out.

Yeah, it's an invitation.
And a note handwritten.
She wants to know if I'd be okay
with being picked up and staying
at her house for a few days.
It's in a relatively quiet suburb.
I've got a few days to decide.

I'm not sure if I'm ready
to yet again leave the familiar.

"Do you think you'll see your mother?"

(If I called my aunt and said yes,
and my mother came to pay her respects,
would that end this all sooner?)

(My body feels shaky again.
Like that day we found the flight recorder.
I don't have an anxiety disorder,
do I? I'm not on any medications?
I will admit, I'm terrified.
Come on, Bartz, just pick up the phone.
Just dial the number
she wrote on the letter
and tell her you'd like to visit her home.

Except it's not true.
I'd be perfectly happy
to stay
at the orchard
with only the occasional excursion.
Maybe not forever, but for the time being.
Like how life was before I agreed
to go on tour.

And I'm afraid to be witness to one more tragedy.

Come on, fingers.
Call the number.
Ask for Dympna Seeger.
It's not that hard.
Where's your verve? Your swagger?

If I squeezed my lucky rock
any harder,
it'd rupture.
If it wasn't a rock, and instead something soft.

It was easier to call
when it was only hypothetical.
When it was just a scenario
I could play with in my mind.
Now I have an actual aunt.
An actual family,
related by blood
and unsullied genes.

No, family is David and Kyle and Luke
and Lmama and the rest and me.
This is just a blood relative.
I shouldn't be expective.
Love isn't guaranteed.

And if she loves me,
I think she'd be alright
if I needed a night
or two
to make up my mind
on what I want to do.

No. If I let it simmer,
it would play upon me pure torture.
I have to do it now
and get it over
with.

How do I know this isn't
one of Evincent's tricks?

No, not even she would stoop that low.
Come on, fingers. Area code.
Telephone prefix. Line number.
Wait for the dee-tee-em-eff tones.

I'm going to die!
I'm going to die!

But what if I end up alright?)

"Hello?"

5

(It's too early in the year for it to be autumn,
for the wind to be wiping yellowed tears
from the eyes of tired trees.
The harvest is supposed to be
in about two weeks,
in the middle of August.
The month's barely born.
And yet it feels like neither of us
have had any time to mourn.)
"Is that her van pulling up now?"
I think so, David.
Will you forgive
me for holding on to your knife
just a little bit longer?
"Of course, man. And would you call
every night and leave a message?
So I know you're alive.

Er, sorry if that came off
as overly sentimental."
Haha, it's no problem at all.
You're my friend.
It's what I've come to expect.
Take care of Lmama and Kyle and the rest?

(The silent nod of man to man.
Nobody's in the van's
front passenger seat.
I assume that one's meant for me?

This is the dirtiest van I've ever seen.
Sandwich wrappers on the floor
and sticky stains on every surface
and DVDs without cases
stuffed into every compartment-)

"Bartholomew!
It's so good to finally see you!
I didn't even know
until a week ago
my stupid brother'd given me a nephew.
Or even had a wife, for that matter."
Yeah, things aren't

the best with my mother.
"Well, she's coming to the funeral,
so I have to give her some credit for that.
Oh, meet your cousins!
Say hello, Mat and Pat!
I made them sit all the way in the back."

(And they remain silent as a tack.)

"Could I give you a nickname?
Something with less syllables?"
Well, if you need-
"How about Bart?
That name holds good memories."

(This is going to be a long week.)

He sounds like some kind of

famous baseball player.
I'm not that athletic-
"He's a TV show character.
See this on my phone?"
Oh.

Why is he yellow?
And where is his hair?
(They snicker like I've said something wrong.
Oh, stars, give me the strength to survive this.)

(I think I've got these popular
songs down to a formula.
The intro hook,
the initial verse
expressing some grievance,
the chorus,
the verse second,
the chorus again,
then thrown off a bridge
before the final repetition.
Sure is a lot of slapping
right at the beginning
of so many. Were they

bought in bulk?
A few dollars for a pound of songs?
A small chunk of cash for a bushel?
Bake them like an apple crisp
for an instant bestseller album?

I bet Luke has abandoned all poetics
without me there to wrangle him in.
Pr'y gone back to his origins
of using beaten trash cans as instruments.
"Point of view: you're in Portland,
Oregon." But maybe Lara can write lyrics
too. Keep the band in civilization.)

"Bart! We're on our way-"
Let's get something straight
before this trip ends up crooked.
It's 'Bartz'. With a Z at the end.
The first three of the first
and the last two of the last.
It's also old German
if you prefer those origins.

"Bart, we're doing drive-through
at McDonald's. What do you want?"
(I'm too hungry to protest.)
Could I

get some soup?
It's an overcast day. Soup weather.

(Oh, bother.
It seems I've triggered
Mat and Pat's
laugh
reflexes.)

"Have you never been to a McDonald's before?
They don't have soup. You have to get a burger."
What kind of restaurant doesn't have soup?
"A fast-food
chain. I could pick for you."
(She has the money,
but I know I'll pay
for it eventually
in other ways.)
Something relatively healthy
and not drowned in grease.
If you please.

(What have I said
that's so hilarious?)

(Oh, my stomach feels awful.
Like I'd need to go to a temple
to have any chance at absolution.
Gods of the Burger, forgive my sins
and let diarrhea trespass on me not.
Or at least not on Dympna's van's seats.)
May I ask how much longer
until we arrive?
"A minute or two,
depending on whether
those whippersnappers
with their shiny kid bikes
decide to hold up the whole sidewalk.
No more than five."
(To be fair, that is a big playground.
And a baseball field, and tennis courts.
Way bigger than the town by home
could probably afford.

Every tree I've seen
since we crossed county limits
is non-fruit-producing.
Unless you count toxic berries.
And acorns are nuts.
What a strange place, where you can't just walk
outside a few steps and find a snack.
Do city people think foraging
is the act of going to the grocery
store?
How does one live in a land so sterile?)

"Since we ate, you've made barely a sound.
When I heard Donovan had a son,
I expected-"
An athlete? A jock? A meathead?
You're going to be pretty disappointed.
"Well, your muscles look well-developed."
I work on an orchard all year long.
I practically spend my whole life outside.
But there's no trophies. No competition.
"So you've never played sports?"
(Was that Mat or Pat?)
Unless you count tag as a child.
"Come on, you can't be that boring-"
"Oh, settle down now. We're almost home.
Bart, you can take the room at the end
of the hallway. To the immediate right of the commode.
Make yourself comfortable and unpack. I'll send
for you when supper
has been prepared."
Thank you, Aunt Dympna.

(A long house with no obvious upstairs.
Maybe an attic?
Hopefully a basement.
We're still in tornado territory.)

Sorry if I

came across as angry.
"You're tired and traumatized.
It's to be expected.
The visitation's tomorrow. Try to rest until then."

Hi, David. It's me,
your loyal joyfriend 'B'.
Isn't that a funny phrase,
'it's me'? As if I'd be anyone else.
You wanted me to call you every night
to let you know that I'm still alive.
Which I am. Unless I've been replaced
with a clone, or a computer program
that knows the ins-n-outs of who I am.
I don't think Aunt Dympna would get much use
out of my vivisected brain.

Not much happened today.
Ate lunch on the way
here, got mercilessly mocked
here and there
like spotty weather
about how I thought
McDonald's - that's a 'restaurant',
and I'm putting that in quotes -
would have soup.
It sounds like a farmer's name, you
know? A good farmer knows
the importance of a hearty bowl of soup.
Apparently not.

Dinner came out of a box.
But the box said 'fried rice',
and it tasted alright.
I'll probably pay for it tonight
when I get more of the shits.

Visitation's tomorrow.
From what I know,
that just means they put the casket
in the corner and we pay our respects -
just the family, so it'll be pretty private -
and then we eat a whole bunch of food
and then go back to our homes and brood
until the funeral the next morning.
You'd think the whole thing pretty boring.
Though
I dunno

since Mat and Pat -
those are my cousins -
are convinced I lack
something deep inside
'cause I'm not the sporting type.
You could probably rough them up.
I-in a sporting way. Not, like, drawing blood.
Heh. A-and I've got a queen-size bed
in the guest room all to myself.
Though there's not much room for anything else.

Take care of Lmama and the rest for me.

Please.

"I didn't know Donovan had become a father!"
(You're the seventh person so far
to make that exact remark.
And also the third aunt
after uncles
uncountable.
Father, how many siblings did you blow off?)
Well, to be fair,
I was also unaware
I had an extended family
until Aunt Dympna invited me
to stay at her house for a few days.
"Really? He never mentioned us? No names,
no photos, no memories?"
I rarely saw him in the first place.
Same goes for Mother.
"Were you fostered?"
No, no! Nothing of the sort.
He gave me to a family friend
who owns an apple orchard.
Who won't be coming, by the way.
He wanted to pay his respects
after the crowds left, in private.
"Well, his friend sure raised you right.
Strong and healthy and straight. Eyes bright.
Your teenage cousins in the corner
are destroying their backs, hunched over
their phones all the darn long day.
Talking about Internet celebrities
and trends where they destroy their bodies
and weird genders and being gay.
Gay this, gender that. Where's the personality?
I can't find any in your generation."

O

kay.
I must be excused. I've been afflicted
with a single-minded
and inexorable hunger.
(And our hero exits the stage.
Drop the curtains. Rearrange
the props to portray a kitchen.)
Aunt Mabel? Do you know if my mother
will make an appearance?
"Actually, she got here
just a few minutes
prior."
(She's

here?
Oh, Evincent!
What I know you would give
to be at this visitation
knowing this!

Though, knowing you,
you'd pr'y order violence.
Make a goon cook up something tasteless.)
"She's over by the casket."
Thank you. That's quite helpful.
(One redeeming thing
about elders in far-fetched family:
it's quite entertaining
to kiss them on the cheek.
They get all flustered.
Like you just performed a miracle
worthy of Christ
right in front of their eyes.

That sounds like my mother.
Down to the pissy tone.

Legs, why won't you move?
It's a family event.
We're in no danger.

I guess it feels wrong.
Like finding a final boss
in a game in an off-the-path tavern
instead of in the heat of battle.

I need to be able
to go home and tell Evincent
I tried to help, even a little bit.
Come on, feet! To the cas-
ket!
That's all I ask.)

Mother?
"Son. You're here. You found me.
As usual, you exceed
all expectations."

(Huh?)

Uh, with the exception
of those days in the hospital,
and maybe when I was really really small,
I think this is the first time
that you and I
have been in a room together.

"I've been busy.
And I don't have
a single
maternal
bone in my body."
But don't you work at a fertility
clinic?
(Yeah, good going, Bartz. Lead with the secret.
Hell, why not make it even worse?)
Father said you edited my genes
to make me androgynous to the point of passing
as a man. A man who could make babies.

"He told you that?"
(My knife's still in my pocket,
right? Oh, please don't make me stab
one parent by the other's body and make both lifeless.
Think! I've made her furious.)
Hey, I've gotten pretty good
at the cognitive dissonance,
haven't I?
I'm one-of-a-kind!
A female man!
(Show a grin to disarm. And then:)
Have you thought about making any others?
Since I'm such a huge success
who exceeds everything you expect?
(No luck. Face is still beet red.)
I just don't understand why you'd do it.
I mean, it clearly separates
me from the rest of the human race.
Were you scared that something will happen
to me that likely wouldn't
if I were a normal woman?

Tell me? 'Cause I'm your son? Please?

"No. The nature of my work is classified."
Will you at the very least confirm
that what Father told me was right?
That you meant me to be a female man from birth?

(If I can do nothing else, I can mimic.
With my own touch. In the literal sense.
You put a hand on the lid of the casket,
I'll put mine
beside
yours to force comparison.

Our thumbs and pointers make an upside-down heart.
Or an angel with its wings splayed.)
You're half of me, in any case.
I hope, whatever your life's work is,
you didn't bring any children to harm.

("Blessed are the aborted,
for they shall never know
the pains of existence -"

Who's that knocking on my door?)
Hello?

(Giggling, but no one to show.

"- Indeed, blessed are the unborn,
who will never from the void be torn,
were spared Nature's cruel indifference."
The howling of an ambulance.
Who could have possibly gotten hurt
in this quiet of a suburb?

Or maybe I eat my words.
The moment I sit down to read,
something comes up to disturb.)

Hello?
(Again, nobody. I'm all alone.

Could be worse,
I suppose.
One of the kids could start a fire
and, being caught as potential destroyer
of the whole house, seek the other
parent to be reassured
it was all a convenient little accident.

Knocking again. Will fate diverge?
Or am I getting ding-dong-ditched for the third
time in a row?
Is it even a dong if I have no
doorbell?

Well, not one I'd want
just anyone to knock.
Only somebody special.)

"Jade!
You were supposed to let me in!
Now I've been caught by the scary cousin!"
Barking up the wrong door, eh?
Seems you've been betrayed.
(And I fell victim to a six-year-old's prank.
Which one of us is really losing?)
What's your name?
"What's it to you? Mother says
the moment the funeral's over
you're just going to run away
with all the money and disappear."
Hey-

(And that was Jade's cue to appear.
And meet eyes. And slam the door
once more.

The eternal mimic strikes again!)
Hey, do you want to play a board game?
I think Aunt Dympna's got a buttload
in the closet downstairs.
"Why would we want to play
with things so dusty and old?
Just leave us alone!"

"Bart! We have room at the kitchen table!
I don't know what the routine was
on that strange little farm you come from,
but here we all sit and pray as a family."
(I was just fine in self-imposed exile,
since Mat and Pat don't seem to like me very much.)
I'll be right over. Don't want to spill my chili.

Is this by chance a family recipe?
(Oh, please don't say
this was pre-made
from a can you got at the grocery.)
"Yes! It was my great-grandmother's.
All the way from Germany.
The origins

she never did tell me.
Now let us pray."
(I fold my hands and close my eyes?
But how will I know if her god's arrived?)
"Oh Lord, for this food we thank
you. Please bless this family
and the guests that we keep.
Keep us safe through the night. Amen.

Bart? You look distressed."
Er

can I add my own request?
"Sure. Go right ahead."
(Maybe her god doesn't like being looked at.
I better cover my eyes to show respect.)
Um, god? I might not be good at this,
so I hope you'll forgive me.
But I think my mom's up to some dirty
business. And you sound pretty powerful,
so I'd like it if you could stop her,
'cause I'm a bit of a coward.
And if anyone's been hurt,
get them the justice they deserve.
Thanks in advance. Signed, Bartz.

Could you please pass the cheese?
I think I might starve.
(Chili works best with saltines
to soak up the liquids.
It's too runny otherwise. Sloshes in my stomach.
Like I'm a washing machine
with a big drum that rattles back and forth.
Mush settles better. It doesn't keep a score.)
The funeral's in the morning, right?
"Y-yes. Get up early and bright.
You'll have to make your own breakfast.
Be ready to leave at nine."

Hi, David. B again.
Day two of the shadow of the valley of death.
That's a phrase Aunt Dympna taught me
after dinner. Thought I was making a mockery
of her god when I asked her -
um

would a god be a girl
or a boy? I'd think the former,
what with the powers
of creation and all -
well, I asked her god to stop my mother
from causing any more harm to others
since it looks like
Evincent's
shaping up to be right.
And Aunt Dympna got pretty pissed.

Oh! And today was the visitation.
Closed-casket, for

obvious reasons.
Mother barely acknowledged me.
Though, in her defense,
I kind of on purpose made her angry.
I'm hoping tomorrow she'll be more talkative.
Do they serve alcohol
at funerals?
Not that I'm old enough.
Maybe she'll get tipsy
and spill all the beans.

Getting on kinda-sorta okay.
More cousins are here to stay
overnight for the funeral tomorrow.
I'm not particularly popular.
Partly because they keep making
references to parts of culture
I didn't grow up with and don't understand,
and partly 'cause they're jealous
about my inheritance.
But I've barely got any use for it.
I was thinking I'd let it sit
and only use it for emergencies.
That's not good enough for them, I guess.

Hey, after the first wave ends September
is the yearly county fair.
Were we going to try a food truck again?
Or did we wait too long to get a vendor license?
I could always apply to be a musician.

I'll either be home late tomorrow
or sometime the following day.

Love you, man. Keep everyone safe.

(What kind of crazy person put the word 'fun' in funeral?
The sermon hasn't started yet, and all we're doing is sitting still.
Filing into the pews one person at a time
with grace, despite there having been no rehearsal.
A graduation ceremony with only one student.
I suppose, in a way, when a person dies
they're moving on from the high school that is life.
Burying the idea of who you wanted to be
when you knew so little of the world. When you were three.

Is it appropriate to fold my hands like I'm praying?
Do I look dignified enough for those watching on livestream?

Is this church Catholic or Protestant?
Back in the meeting hall during visitation,
there on the wall was a flip-through collection
of centuries' photos of confirmations.
I thought that was a Catholic thing.)

Mother?
(I should whisper.
The sermon could start any moment.)
Father's family seems to see religion
as pretty important. And they look at me funny.
Like I've got horns and a tail like a demon.
Was I ever baptized as a baby?
("Ting, ting, ting,"
answer her earrings.)
"Why encourage
subservience?
I'd prefer
a world
sans that kind of coercion."

Do you think the world would be better
if there was only one gender?
If there was less difference
over which
to get mad?

"Ladies and gentlemen, today we have gathered
to celebrate the life of a great man."

(What would be the ideal
weather for a burial?
Sunny and warm, a celebration of life
with birds singing in the trees, oblivious
to the tragedy
concluding
before their eyes?
Or overcast with humidity's husk
as the world mutes itself to acknowledge absence?
Maybe one day scientists
will discover
how to control the climate,
and the rich will be able to order
custom weather
to match the event's aesthetic.

But for now, I'm wishing I had a jacket.

A concrete-lined hole seems overkill
for a plain polished wooden casket.
Decay will take us all eventually.
It's just theater for the rest of my family.
To pretend a body can be preserved forever,
that humans will always be separate from nature.
Nobody wants to imagine
flesh sloughing off their loved ones
to reveal a bare skeleton.

I'd like to be buried under a tree.
One life for another. To feel the breeze
and stand witness to the changing times.

Augh! Why do tears have to sting?)

"Bartholomew. Donovan's only descendant.
Is there anything special you would like to say
to commemorate
this final event?"

Nature
remains master
of forgiveness.
I think
no matter how we pretend
otherwise

we all return in the end.

Are you sure these
are meat
buns?
Because
if I weighed
the ingredients,
I think the butter'd outrank
all else. Like a whole fourth
of a stick
per bun. Personally, I think
whoever's handling the catering
wants to single-handedly subsidize
the whole dairy
industry.
Atlas holding up
a milk jug.
My gut sure'll be slick
after this.
The world's worst slip-n-slide!

Are you feeling alright?
You don't have to be here
if the grief's too much to carry.
I think there was a little library
as a side room over there.
You could disappear for a few minutes.
I doubt anyone will judge.

"They already think I'm a bitch.
What would it look like if I skipped
out on my own husband's funeral?
Make yourself useful
and get me another drink."

(Being drunk sure won't help appearances.)

My mother would like
another glass of wine-
Do I know you from somewhere?
"What? Me? No, I wouldn't dare
show up at a family function
if I were some kind of terrorist.
That would be cruel and tasteless.

It would be in your best interest
to give me the benefit of the doubt.
It'll help if the police come around."

Here you go, Mother. Another rose pink.
(Vio? What the hell's Evincent think-
ing? The same assassin
who caused all this sadness?)
Do you want to cheers? To all Father accomplished?

"What's the real difference
between alcohol and poison?"
One is socially sanctioned.

Mom, I don't think you should drink this.
Something just seems

suspicious.

"You're a coward."
Beg your pardon?
"You believe I'm doing something reprehensible,
and yet you stand here like an idiot, unable
to follow through with assassination.
You know I'm drunk.
It would have been so simple
to keep your spoiled mouth shut
and let me seal my own damnation.
Bartholomew,
what do you
believe in?
What values guide your actions?
What kind of desired future
justifies your whole existence?"

(Well, if I were to be honest,
I'd say so far my whole intended purpose
was to be
unwittingly
in your service.
A female man, unknowing figurehead.
I might be a coward, but you're the one who's selfish.
But I can't just say that. Think of my safety!)
I want a peaceful life with my chosen family.
"You don't want justice? You don't want world peace?
The world could go to hell, so long as you have what you need?"
What are you getting at? I'm not a superhero.
My life's the only one I can reasonably control.
Don't you think it's a tad unfair
to place the world's flaws
on my shoulders?
I know too little. I'd just make things worse.
"Not everything. Just what's within your reach.
I see you have a knife in your pocket. Go on, kill me.
Everything will fall apart without my leadership.
You could end this all in this very ripe moment.
Kill me and sacrifice yourself to the justice system
and ensure the safety of countless children,
or walk away
with your hands unstained
and I'll bring down the law on you for harboring terrorists."

(What would keep my friends the safest?
What minimizes our involvement
in this whole mess
I've been tangled in?
They shouldn't have to suffer
just because I'm a coward.)

Terrorists? Assassins?
Don't be silly.
This is a family
function.
I'm not trying to kill you. I just thought the second drink
smelled expired. The sweetness came off a tad funny.
But you know more about alcohol than me.
Let someone know
if you need a ride home.
You're in no condition to be driving.

"See the one with the tag marked two-nineteen?
Such a scoundrel. So dreadfully mean.
Here, take some bread
and poke it through the fence
and you'll see a catfight break out quickly."
(A catfight performed by deer?
What a sight to witness!)
Come here, agent of nature.
I swear I mean no violence.
It's just moldy bread.

Come closer. There, there.
Oh! Do deer have dentists?
Yours look so much like humans'.
So pearly white without toothpaste,
unless someone comes around and breaks
in at midnight to wrangle you with a brush.
Would you tell? Or just keep it hush-hush
and be grateful that somebody cares enough?

Miss two-thirty-nine,
if that ever happens,
be careful not to swallow the fluoride.
I hear the brain will get upset.

Oh, here comes trouble!
Take what you can before
you get kicked in the rump- oh,
that's gotta hurt. Hoof to the gut.
Miss two-nineteen, you know what?
For that,
I'm going to bypass
the fence. Air delivery!
(Dammit, I startled that buck.
Sorry!
Didn't mean to hit your butt
with a piece
of green
bread.)
You can stare at me
with wet eyes
all you please,
but either you share
or it's siblings and geese.

(The sky just shifted.)

Aunt Dympna? I predict
we'll get soaked with rain
within the next minute.
"You sure are one loony man."
Well, I'm going to the van
and getting my umbrella out.
(Unlatch feeding fence,
yank open door, retrieve.
Patterned green, like stained glass.
The banner over me
may not be love, but it sure is pretty.

Rain's opening salvo!)
"Augh! Well, whaddya know!"
Here, come close. I've room for two.

Do you think the deer miss freedom?
Or do they appreciate
having a carved-out space
in the suburb free from harm?
Utopia with no predators
and daily food from spectators.
Is it freedom to or freedom from
that takes up the weight in their brain?
Do they even perceive it as a cage?
Or does it merely delineate
the space entitled to them by birth?

"Bartz, I'm going to miss you greatly.
Will you come back and visit
under happier circumstances?"
I think that's the first you remembered the Z.

No promises. But not much would stop me.

6

(Temperature mid-sixties.
Scattered clouds, temperate breeze.
A speckle of rain forecast here and there,
but not so much
as to interrupt.
A perfect begin-
ning to harvest season.
Oh, I've waited so long!
For the nights to lengthen,
and the temps to drop-)

Evincent!
What a strange time to visit.
You won't believe this-

Ow!
Ow, what the hell?
"I had her in my sights!
She was incapacitated and vulnerable,
and you fucked it up with your little
display of affection!
This could have all been over,
and you wouldn't have even been at fault!
Make up your mind! Is she a saint or a demon?
Are you going to help, or just be an obstacle?"

"Hey, what's going on out here-
B! Are you okay?"
Y-yeah. Landed on my elbow.
Feel kinda funny in my ear.
"Don't get involved in this-"
"He's my friend, you bitch!
I come outside, and you've punched
him! You better have a damn good reason!"
D-David, don't say words like that, please.
(I'll be lucky if my cheek
doesn't turn into a grapefruit.)
Evincent, do you
demand activism
from every victim?
"You're not a victim. You benefit
from all this. From your parents
bringing inexcusable harm to others.
Nobody else got an inheritance.
Or even a legal settlement.
So it's your obligation to correct
it and bring things back into balance."
Yeah. It's so cool that I only exist
to be a data point in a few experiments.
I'm so privileged to be an artificial person.
Do you know what it's like to look at every other
woman
around you and see an unbroken chain
from mother to mother to mother
all the way back to antiquity?
Something about

bloodlines, and solidarity,
and sisterhood.
But I'll always be exclud-
ed from that. I'll always
just be an egg in a machine.
No amount of consolation money
will un-separate me from the rest of humanity.

You probably think disability
benefits
are also a marker of privilege.
(Do I still have the knife from David?)
How dare somebody be compensated
for the harm done unto them.
I just

I just want a quiet life with my friends!
So stop thinking you have the right to threaten
me
if I don't fall perfectly
into your ideological box.
Get out of here, Evincent. Before I call the cops.
"How? By running to the garage
so you can tattle
like a kindergartener?
You didn't do that the last few times I was here."
Just- just get out!
If you think killing my mom
will fix things, I won't move to block
you, but don't expect any help!
If I want to change the world,
I'll do it on my own fucking schedule!
"H-hey, that's my knife!"
(Thank you, David. Always the bright
one
of the bunch.)

"Watch your step now, Bartzy-baby.
If you make any moves to stand in my way,
consider it going forward your own grave."

(And she just walks away.

Have I been bleeding this whole time?)
"She got you pretty good. Let's get you inside
and patched up before we head to the fields."

"Hey, man, I need you not to flinch."
It's hard not to. It stings. And it burns!
"Well, if I don't clean it,
I think it'll get infected.
That's usually what happens
when big gashes
aren't treated,
right?
I don't want you to get worse.
You've had it rough
enough
this year."

(That's the cheek
where she kissed me.
But this time she was wearing a ring.
Was it

a diamond?
Aren't most of those mined
through exploitation?
Trading a whole country's misery
for one single person's jewelry
doesn't seem like something she
would do. At least not on purpose.

And the flight recorder.
Evincent
probably stole it
because it represents
a felled assistant.
A purged demon
from her holy war.
A trophy, a severed horn.

Oh, hell, what am I doing
trying to guess her intentions?
She cut my cheek wide open.
And I need to be ready in an hour
for the opening rounds
of the harvest.)
"You look kinda pale, man.
Are you sure you'll be well-"
I'm not quite that fragile.
My cheek will swell,
and I'll be in pain,
but I'll eventually be okay.

You'll stay
my friend even if I
don't do anything good with my life?
"'Course, man. Having a friend's
not about keeping some kind of score.
It's about having a good time.
Leave the golden stars to kindergarten.
I'll always be your big bro."

David? I might need a brace
for my elbow.

(Grab,
twist, snap, pull.
Into the stomach basket gentle
to avoid bruising.
For every apple
tree, start at the bottom
and work your way up
so you forget nothin'.
And when the basket starts to get full,
work your way back to the tractor
line and unhook the bottom of the basket.
Let the apples roll into the bushel,
whichever one's closer.
They're not too choosy.
They've seen enough seasons
to know better than to be judgmental.
When the trees in this section are bare,
we'll all pile into the back trailer
and I'll drive the tractor to the next section.
We'll keep going until it's lunchtime,
take a short break, then the rest of the line.
We're almost always done by sunset.

'Least, that's how I'd explain it
if we had anyone new
in our group.
The gaps've been filled in
with seasonal workers,
veterans to the orchard.

I think these faces are familiar.

People who know better
than to throw the whole woman-man shit
in Kyle's face.
My muscles work, and that's what matters.)

"B?
What did you dream
about last night?
I dreamed that Lmama and I were dating
and we were making
out in your bed,
and then zombies showed up,
and she hacked them to death
with my knife."

Well, we're not on the same wavelength,
because I didn't have guts on my floor.
"Yeah, and she's basically my sister.
Sorry we chose your room to get nasty."

(Thanks. I'll try to scrub that from memory.)

I was with my father on the hotel balcony.
We both had bowls of chocolate ice cream.
I dripped some on my shirt.
It was a heart-shaped
chocolate stain,
and my father got mad at me
because he thought I was speaking
in profanities.
He said I was better than that.
That what I lacked
in connections to humanity
I more
than made up for
with the miracle
of my body,
and I should act like it.

David, I could be a vegetable
and my parents wouldn't give a damn.
I could be a genius of math
and solve all the mysteries of science
and all they'd care about is that I don't have breasts.
I wish I could go back to how it was before

I abandoned you all for tour
and then had that seizure.

Oh! They're signaling for the tractor.

(I don't blame Kyle
for not wanting all
of us cramming into the kitchen.
Even with the banquet hall,
all those muddy boots
and shoes
times the four months
we'll be harvestin' -
afterwards
in the depths of December
we'd be scrubbing all winter.
I'd almost need
a degree
in archaeology
to safely remove so many layers.
The picnic tables outside are better.)

"So we sit here
until the bitches
in the kitchen"
(Why does everyone suddenly hate women?)
"finally get here and deliver
our lunch?
I'm starving. They could hurry the fuck up.
Hey, carpet muncher! What's got your pants in a bunch?"
(Ignore him, Bartz. He harasses
you every year.

Boisea trivittata. The eastern boxelder.
A red
wedge
with black markings like twinning lungs.
Why are you limping? Did you get injured
by someone more careless swatting you away?
Your very back right leg, squiggly line, drags-)
"You should know, dyke, when people speak to you,
they usually expect some kind of response.
And don't say you're a man. No one believes that dreck.
We just keep our mouths shut so we get a paycheck.
So tell me. What's got your pretty face so cross?"
What's it to you? I'm as hungry as the rest.
(Don't engage. Unless you want to test
Kyle's commitment to your father
that you'd always have a roof over your head.)
"What's it to me? Oh, well, I was
under the impression that we'd be
a perfect happy little family
these next four months.
Don't families share problems?
But Little Miss Castrate
refuses to reciprocate.
See? I talk to her, and she turns away."
(The animal gets hunted who goes and takes the bait.
I shouldn't respond. I should sit here and wait
for the kitchen crew to drop off our grub.
Stay silent. Stay calm. There are people who love
me. This, like all situations, will fade.)
"You think your immature ass
can handle being a man?
Well, good damn luck with that-"
"Hands off my friend.
Or I'll make sure you get blacklisted.
Kyle will never hire you again."
"Oh? Then I'd file a suit with the state
and claim religious discrimination.
It's my sincerely-held belief-"
Just- just stop! If it will make
you happy to say that I'm a woman,
then go

do it until you feel relieved.
This is just the way I was raised.
I feel more comfortable this way.
It's not worth fighting over.
But you need to stop with the slurs.
You said we were going to be family
for these months, right?
Families should at least try
to not blatantly antagonize
each other before it's even been
a single day since formation.

Hey, lunch on the horizon!
Anyone else starvin'?

(Maybe the son doesn't become the father,
but he sure takes after the guardian.
Another point of separation
from most others of my age.
I used to be so small I couldn't see over
the steering wheel unless you, Kyle,
sat me on your lap as you drove.
Flicked all the buttons'n'levers'n'showed
me each one
and in turn what it does.
And now I'm the one driving the tractor.
Maybe one day, if I have a daughter,
I'll do the same thing for her.

Maybe tonight I'll flip through baby pictures.
Back when "girl" or "boy" didn't matter.
He's got them all organized on the computer.
A scrapbook would be more romantic,
but that'd require time
and supplies
and a whole 'nother dedicated-to-crafting closet.
Aunt Dympna had full wall-to-wall shelves downstairs.
Sponges
and punches
and reams of paper
and whole cakepans filled with stamps.

Oh, here's the end of the section.
Should put it in park. Kill the engine.
Hook the keys on my carabiner
clip. Restrap my basket. To the thick of it!

Augh! Something on my arm!
Is it-)
"Hey, B, you also get hit
with a stray
drop of rain?"
Hey, as long as it's not mosquitoes, I'm game.

(It's always brightest during sun showers.
The earth would be into wordplay,
but its only language is the weather.
Would this be double entendre?
Or maybe a paradox?

No, it's clearly an oxymoron.)

David, you hearing police sirens too?
(Could I be arrested
for harboring a fugitive
if she's no longer here?
Would they take my wounds as evidence
I forced her to leave the premises?
Or tried to restrain her
so I could call the cops?
The only real phone's
in the garage,
and we don't have our own
for geotagging.
It's their bias against my testimony.)
"Should we go down to the gates?"
No. Stay here. Let's keep going.
They're probably just for the neighbors.

David,

everyone,
hold.
A manager just came in
on the radio.
Says we're to stay where we are
until we receive the all-clear.
"You got any idea why?"
He didn't say.

It can't be for reasons of weather.
Were it a tornado,
he'd say to book it back home.
"Tad worrying he didn't give any details.
Hey, you think it's 'cause of the police?"

(I'd rather not think about that possibility.)

"Well, while we're stuck here,
I need
to pee
on a tree."
(Thank you,
Matthew.
Very cool.)
"Maybe it's really an ambulance?"
"Perhaps
a neighbor reported
a sound disturbance?"
"A bomb threat?"
"Could be a routine check-in
and they don't want us to interfere."
"Have you never worked here
before? The police don't pop in
on a lark. They're too busy for that shit."
"Maybe this whole time
we've been a front for money launderin'."
"Nah, it's gotta be drug possession.
How do you think our boss has the moolah
to use the place as an orphanage-"
Stop! Empty speculation
is just going to make us feel worse.

(Someone's coming up the road.)

Hello,
officer. How can I help you?
"Are you, legally speaking, Bartholomew
Sylvain Sitz?"
The same.

Am I being detained?
"No-"
Do you have a warrant?
"Not yet-"
Then I do not consent
to being searched
or questioned
and I assert
my right
to remain silent.
(Maybe I should have said "invoke" instead.
Oh well. Now I just stand here
until the officer gives up and goes away.
Hands away from the pockets.
Don't want them to see I've a weapon
or think they're being threatened.
Being groped wouldn't improve today.
Hands, still. Stop tremblin'.
I need to practice being brave.

And there she goes, back down the tree lane.
Oh, stars, I'm a lightning rod for tension.)

"Hey, B. That was scary. You okay?"
What is Kyle thinking,
letting them through the gates?
Usually he hates the police.

(Mother,
are you declaring war?
All I ever asked for
was peace.)

David,
it's eleven
at night.
It's past most of our bedtimes.
We've got another day
of the same
tomorrow bright
and early
and I'm beat.
I'm only out of bed
'cause you're my friend.
What's so important
it's worth breaking sleep?
(Lmama, give me your hands. I'll translate.

So soft

so warm

like kneading bread-)
"Kyle's
in the hospital.
And I don't know if he's dead
or alive or anything about how he's doin'.
Earlier we got swarmed by police
because somebody called and claimed
he was holding hostages
in the basement."
And he wasn't. Because otherwise we'd
be trespassing on a crime scene.

David, that can't be right.
The police lady that came to us
said she didn't have a warrant.

If risk is too high, not needed

I guess that'd explain
how they got through the gates.

So what does this mean for us?
"I don't know, man.
My guess is that
one of the managers
will take over
until Kyle comes back,

if ever."

Scared for the orchard

Will we get new owner?

Might not like us

Might break all Kyle's promises

And get us evicted.
"And none of us really have experience
living in the world outside the gates.
Well, maybe you might, B.
You were on tour
for a year."
That's not the same as a standard
nine-to-five and an apartment.

Your hands are earthquakes

I just

I just wish I could know in advance
how all this is going to turn out for us.
For me. I-I can't stand
the uncertainty,
the possibility
that this idyllic life could end.
I could take the struggle if I could see ahead
and hold the knowledge
of victory in my heart.
Or I-I'd hit pause if I could and just spend
a damn long time
with you guys
and the breeze, and the bees, and the trees,
and

and

"Take a deep breath, B.
You're going to puke all over
Lmama-"
If I don't accidentally break her fingers
first.

Sorry. Are you okay?

No harm done

(I'd kill to keep that smile safe.

A strong thick hand on my spine.
Deep breaths, Bartz. Feel the slight
rustle of your nightshirt with
every exhale and tattered breath.

I'm still alive. I haven't lost yet.

Maybe I've already won.)

Listen, guys. I got an inheritance
from my father.
Half a million dollars,
at least.
If

anything happens to us
and we get thrown onto the streets,
I-I'll find a way to take care of us three.
We might have to work eventually,
and it probably won't be glamorous,
but we're not going to starve to death.

You would do that?

Well, yeah. You're my friends.
Have been
since we were babies.
You're the closest thing I've got to any real family.

"Gee,
B,
I

I don't know what to say."
'Good night' would be a good one.
Or 'let's hit the hay'.

(First break of daylight
slicing through the curtains.
Should probably get ready
bright and early
before anyone else is outside-
Ack! Never mind.
Maybe I can hope for 'late'.)
Come on, arm, I need you to cooperate.

Easy does it. Slow out of bed.
Okay, arm. I need you to brace
yourself. I need to lift you up
in order to get you through your proper sleeve.
It'll only be for a few moments,
I promise.
Ready? One, two, three.

How'd you get so stiff and sore?
It wasn't that far of a fall.

Thank you, mirror. I'm really quite handsome
looking like I'm cheeking a golf ball.

It's fine. I still have one good arm.
I have to keep going. I've got friends
who depend
on me. I've a tractor
to wrangle
and bushels
to fill.
(And I can't show any weakness to the new manager.
How would it look? Their first day on the job
and I'm demanding I be given a day off
for a flesh wound. If I can get to Sunday,
then I can rest with no guilt on my shoulders.
And maybe the rhythm of working'll make me better.
Come on, Bartz. One foot, then the other.)

One would think, while
my genes were getting shuffled
and rearranged by Mother,
she'd have made it so I'd heal
even just a little faster.
I mean,
all that technology
at her behest,
and all she does
is delete my breasts.
What a wasted opportunity.
That would have been more practical,
if the whole
goal
was survival.
But all I get
is a flat chest
and the angst of being artificial.
"Well, B-"
(Shit! Did I say all that out loud?)
"-being born ain't all it's cracked up to be.
I think in one of our biology
textbooks, it shows that the skull
has to crunch up to get through the hole
in the hips that the baby comes through.
And maybe your mom doesn't love you

uh, maybe I shouldn't say it like that.
Maybe your mom doesn't care to be one,
but lots of moms don't give an ass
about their children.
They put them up for adoption
or leave them on a doorstep somewhere
or keep 'em and abuse 'em.
And your mom's kinda evil, right?
Maybe it's a good thing
you didn't grow inside her."

I'm not sure that makes me feel any better.
But thanks for trying, David.
I appreciate it.

(On to the next tree.)

"Oh, and another thing!
So you got female parts inside,
but you look like a pretty guy.
Maybe

you're really lucky.
You can be whatever you need.
You're a blank slate
with no luggage or weight.
You get to decide
what you want to be,
and with all that money

what you do with your life.
See, Lmama and me,
we're both orphans.
We got barely any inheritance.
And our parents

weren't really people to be proud of.
We're kinda stuck at the orchard."
But I could leave if I desired.
Is that what you're trying to say?
'Cause I don't want to. I like it here.

(Empty my basket in the nearest bushel.
Go slow, arm. Take it nice and gentle.
Don't purposely bruise any apples.)

Sorry, David. We shouldn't fight like this.
"Nah, man. It's my fault. I should mind my business."

(I have to keep going.)

(Lamps keep flickering.
I'd hate to be tenting
in these conditions.
To wake up to a soggy sleeping bag,
tent being pelted by broken twigs,
nature's cop versus street urchin.

Does- yep, my cheek still stings.
No sleeping on that side
for a whi-
le.
Not even with an ice pack on my face.
Because that's what I need,
more sensory
troubles.

Lmama!
Here, sit down on the bench by me.)

Having fun watching the thunder?

(With a sky
the color
of faded paper.)
It matches how I feel inside.

Rumbly and far away

Like you for a long time

I guess you're right.

How's it feel to be a woman?

Not sure I understand

I mean, what does 'woman' feel like?
I've just been a man my whole life.
I'm not sure what I would do
if I wanted to try the other option.
Go buy a dress? Cake on some makeup?
Neither you nor Evincent do any of that schlup.
So that can't be it. It's not something one buys.
But then I'm stuck.

You don't have boobies

The only big difference between our bodies

Maybe you've been a woman this whole time?

(Oh, I hope that one didn't hit a tent!)

Woman or man

I hope you're still my friend

Why would there be any reason to end?

(I was going to do this last night,
but work left me way more wiped
than I thought I would be.
Oh well. What do I know?
And it's not like the photos
are going to grow
feet and choose to flee
from the confines
of the hard drive.

Let's go back to when I was three.
That was almost eighteen
years ago, huh?
There's me playing Monopoly
all by myself. For hours on end.
Rivalries in my head long forgotten
between the pieces, like stories
in some old-timey
Saturday morning cartoon.
I think the hat was always evil.
The dog was owned by a little girl,
I remember that much. And the winner
would keep their money
to carry
over
to the next round,
if nobody found
out that those bills were missing.

There's me at four in the library,
surrounded by all the second-hand fairy
books Kyle could scrounge up and have shipped.

Does that collection still exist?
I know some got destroyed in storage
that year the basement flooded.
I never thought to take inventory.

Well, never mind. The space now would be
better used by poetry.

The bubbles. Fuck that memory.
Luke
always used
that for guilt-tripping.

There's Christmas
when I was six.
Lmama's maroon velvet dress.
You hated the texture
and slipped
it off and we chased you half-naked
through the house for an hour.

There's haircut day.
We were eight.
All us boys got the same.
Neatly trimmed, short bangs.
It took until fifteen for him to relent
and let me keep mine a scruffy mess.

Baby Bartz, pre-puberty,
last baby tooth in front missing,
oblivious
to difference
in anatomy.
You stood in that line with the boys, so happy.

When did it get so cold in the library?)

(More sun today. My elbow's improved,
though my cheek still looks like
I grafted a prune
to it. Not the whole branch, just the fruit.
I've barely heard anything out of Matthew.
Can't say I miss the verbal fights.

Here's a good place to start the harvest line.)

"Hey, B?
I gotta confess something.
I've always thought of you as my little bro.
So when you talk about being a girl,
it makes me kinda

I don't know,
upside-down-feeling.
Like a rollercoaster looping.
Like I gotta hurl.
I can take it if it makes you happy,
but if I think of you
like I do
Lmama
it kinda
twists my gut into knots."

(What the hell?
That's not something you just spill
on someone you call a friend.)
So either I'm a guy or I'm repulsive?
Geezum, David, it's not like I said
I'm getting body parts cut and twisted.
My body's fine just the way it is.
Whether I call myself a man or a woman,
biologically, for me, there's no difference.
You said as much yourself yesterday.

Were you expecting me
to start dressing
in full drag?
To show up in a wig and an ill-fitting dress
and a face
with more layers of makeup
than a cake?
I'd look like a clown under duress.
It's just a word, David. That's the only change.

(Gotta empty my basket. This weight's a burden.)

"It's just a lot of changes all so sudden.
I'm having trouble copin'."
You and me both, man.
"I knew you'd understand.

B, if you start dating anyone,
could you try to warn me beforehand?
It's a scary thought, you in love."
I

sure, I can try.
But if I were you, I wouldn't worry.
I'd have to find someone
upfront
who's okay
with the weird way
my body
is.
And I can only think of two people who'd fit.
And Lmama's basically my sister,
and Evincent

killed my father.
"Can't think of any men?"
(So shaking my head still hurts.)
Nah.
In a better world, I think I'd be a
bog-standard lesbian.

(Dragonflies
barely the size
of my finger's
first knuckle.
Wings so fast
they're almost
invisible,
like small blue
tooth-
brushes
cleaning out the bushes
with their little bristles.

Everything in its place
with no need to second-guess
its purpose in crea-
tion.

What's the difference between me and Frankenstein?
Created to sate scientific curiosity?

Well, I guess I'm not made of dead bodies.
And I'm not meant to be
a whole separate species.
He needed his father
to go and create
a specialized purpose-built mate.
Me? I just need someone who can tolerate
my biological idiosyncracies-)
Ow!
What in the world?
(Getting hit by an apple
in the midst of an orchard?
How totally unthinkable.

Okay, Newton.
What's the situation
you're failing to consider the gravity of?
I'm alone for now.
The rest went out of town
for lunch.
I've plenty of time for contemplation.
Universe! Bless me with your genius!
What grandiose scientific discovery
have you decided that I'm worthy-)
Hey! Get your hands off me!
(One against three.
Pinning me down.
Just let me reach
my knife
and I might have a chance
of winning this fight-
Sweaty hand on my mouth.
Oh, stars, I can't breathe.
Don't let this be rape.
Oh, don't let this be rape.
I'd rather die than have someone violate
me
in the safety
of my own home.

There's a hand on the back of my throat.
Stars, I'm going to explode.
I'll burst, I'll rupture, I'll go boom

I can't move.
Body?
Don't forsake me.
You and I are a team.
Can you hear me?

Am I

having another seizure?
The sky's the same. There's no glitter
or pain
and my thoughts are the same.
Nothing feels any different in my brain.

The attackers
have pulled away.

Mother?)
"How convenient of Donovan
to include an 'off' function."
(You turned off my implant!)
"Boys! Into the van!
Make sure the cargo gets a seat in the back!"

7

(Even prisoners in jails get the luxury
of being able to mark the days passing
on the walls,
whether by chalk
or pencil
or splintering raw their fingernails.
They get to see light
at regular intervals.
Maybe even have a high-
up window with metal bars.
Fresh air and breezes and birdsong.
Maybe I should have killed you, Mother.
Surely being held for charges of murder
would at least afford me basic rights.

I could get a real meal
instead of an IV.

Stars, I'm so sleepy)

(Intentional interruption
of another's bodily rhythm
is a serious crime, isn't it?
A method of torture?
An interrogation tactic?

I still don't get what
my body has to do with
cicadas
or any other insects-
OW! Ow ow!
Always right in the hip!

Pain's always worse when it can't be expressed.)

"Bartz?"
(Why bother whispering?
You're the enemy.
This is your territory.
You're in no danger.)
"Evincent knows you're here.
We're working on a way
to get you out safe."
(She hates my guts
'cause I'm a coward.
Why would she bother?)
"But it's exceedingly hard to exfiltrate
anything out of this place.
A body requires
nothing short of a miracle.
I know this may sound strange
since I've a man's voice,
but can you be brave?
You've got friends in this place."
(Sure,
random nurse!
I would never think
of letting the register of someone's voice
stop me
from blindly
trusting them with my life!
Oh, wait! You guys
turned off my implant!
So I've got absolutely no choice!
Does it make you feel good when victims can't talk back?
When the people you'd help can't make any demands?

Body,
you could at least show solidarity
by making my blood pressure rise accordingly.)

(The nurses turned off the beeping
on the monitors in time with my body.
I can't have light. I can't have sound.
I can't have visitors or anyone else around
who isn't a nurse come to change equipment
or jab another needle into my hip.

Why's the brain got to substitute
a high pitch like a squeaking flute
whenever there's nothing else to distract?
Maybe those are the cicadas
that make my body tick
like a machine does.
Silence
is a paradox.
And nature abhors a vacuum.)

(Luke,
you'd be so jealous
of all this free time I possess.
All these cool lyrics
and auditory hallucinations
that would have made such cool rhythms.
And they all slip
through my fingertips.
Have you started a new album
yet? Or still beating trash cans
into submission?
Has Lara Evince
instilled some discipline?
Is Mercer yet forgiven,
or are we still
technological cavemen?)

(I wonder if the ceiling's composed
of thin white tiles like all those
the direct-to-waiting-room-TV movies show.
The ones with schools in urban Americana.
The ones that look all carved
up with scissors, scarred
with squiggly lines, faces
with no choice but to bear witness
to teen angst and petty drama.
Most look some flavor
of bored or disgusted.
The goddess
of chaos'
cast-out demons.
Eris, if you're alive and well,
could you answer a prayer?
Let the faces that stare
convey the despair
I've been robbed of the words to declare.)

"Bartz,
you like art,
don't you?
Oh - sorry, I've been rude.
You can call me Velaire.
So

these hormones

can't be fed through your IV
because they're meant to go
straight to your ovaries.
Direct in-
jection.
It hurts. I know.
I'm sorry."
(Are you

shutting them down?
Pumping them full of testosterone?
I thought the whole reason
Mother thought me a success
was because my body wasn't in dysfunction.
None of this makes any sense.

That was the single blessing through this mess.
The three who thought me a test subject
all had reasons for doing so.
They had concrete wishes and goals.

Maybe, having served my purpose,
I'm being decommissioned?

There are more efficient ways
of killing someone without a trace.

Consciousness is a wave

of images distorted, displaced

and I'm crowdsurfing)

"Hey, are you awake?"
(I can't tell anymore.
No difference between nights
and days.
No distinction between touches
and sores.
Do I even still have a body?
Or is this darkness,
this endless void,
the stage
for the rest of my life?)
"Right here, this
is the last needle
to go in your hips.
After this, no more.
And I don't believe
your mother
has any further
plans.
Maybe we won't need a miracle!

Oh, I forgot to mention.
You might feel some mild confusion
and vertigo
in the next few mo-
ments.
This procedure
requires
sedation.
We might be flagrantly
violating
human rights,
but at least we're not cruel and heartless!"
(Big yippee for me.)
"Bartz,
at your farm,
do you have chickens?"
(It's not a farm, it's an orchard.
No animals,
just apple trees.
Though I guess apples
are eggs, in a sense,
since the cores hold seeds.

The placement of the needles

You've been stimulating my ovaries!

Oh, Evincent,
the bitter irony
of calling me a coward, a chicken.
And now they're taking my eggs!

I'm no better than a farm animal.
No, I'm worse.
Because at least cows get a herd
and pigs get to play in the sun.
I'm alone. I'm unique. I'm no one.
I'm a body in a closet.
I'm a breathing object.

At least I'm not pregnant?

Velaire,
are you still there?
The edges of my brain are blurry.)

(If I was a brain in a jar,
would I even notice at this point?
I think I can feel my hands, my arms,
my legs, my feet

but all my joints
are numb, or asleep,
or maybe not even there anymore.
Could I

have been ossified?
Bones
fused together to stone?
How do patients in comas feel
when they wake up to rejoin the world?

No, mind's eye,
that's a dolphin.
I said a patient-
oh, never mind.

I was never good at meditation.
Too many images
demand attention
and I'm too eager to please.
Just shave my head
and stick me up on a mountain
if I'm going to be like this
for the rest of existence.

Velaire, I know that's you.)
"Bartholomew Sylvain Sitz. In"
(You don't need to be so close to my ear!)
"a few minutes
a fire alarm will go off, so listen
close.
Your mother is here, in this very facility.
Why wouldn't she be? It's practically her home.
And she gets to be close to you, her baby
boy. She loves you, you know. But secretly."
(Velaire, whose side are you on, really?)
"It's been a hell of a time
making a plan to get you out safely
and still
fulfill
the mission."
(Are you going to clue me in?
Give me instructions?
Maybe turn on my implant?)
"Now what was I saying-"

(Velaire?

Just disappeared.

Threat of fire, and I'm drowning.
I

I can't breathe.
Water
from the sprinklers.
If the smoke doesn't burn
me first.
Body, come on, please.
Please move. Please listen.
Implant, override? Turn on?
Reactivate? Key in ignition?

What's the point? I've probably weakened
too much to find my way out of this maze.

I want to see my friends again.
Even if that's as a severe burn victim.
Even if I'll never be able to move my limbs
again. Please, implant. Just this one wish.
Just this one favor from Providence.

I can't even have dying reflexes.

I can't even have a quick
and painless
death.)

"Aren't you getting tired of the deus ex machina shit?"
(Evincent!)
"Some loving caring father to give his life's achievement
a glaring and obvious weakness.
You can't do anything, Bartz. You're useless."
(Am I supposed to argue?)
"Well, that's not true.
You give me something to do.

I think this knife belongs to you?
I'll tie it to your scrub ties.

Okay, muscle control in three, two,
one."
(Where are my hands in relation to my face?
My eyelids hurt. I can't see.

That's better- no, I take that back.
Is that blood or phlegm I'm coughing?
The light's too low to tell.)
Evincent? For once I'm glad to see you.
"Yeah, well, you can thank me later.
I'm off to go assassinate your mother.
You can thank me by getting out of this hell."
Hey, after

after all this,
if you're not still considered a terrorist,
could we maybe be friends?

"I wouldn't make any bets."

(Gently tear off all the monitor patches.

That's straight up a whole layer of skin.
How long have I been here?
Easy slow upright. Or my inner ear
will throw a fit.
Bartz? More like Barfs.

Ah- eff- feet,
no time to fall asleep.

Legs, I don't blame you for being stiff,
but I need you to get me to a staff
or a cane.

Or an IV stand.
That'll do.

David, your knife's swinging like a dick.
Under any other circumstances,
I know you'd find it hilarious
it's going to make my scrubs fall off my hips.

Out the door.

All the lights have gone dim.
Trusty EXIT glows in red.

This is a flood, not little rivulets.
At least dirty skin makes it harder to slip.

The hallway's empty.
Somewhere in this building
could be caches of decades of documents
about me and the other experiments.
I could-
No, I musn't.
I have to trust Evincent.
Right now I'm my own priority.
One foot in front of the other.

Thank you, silver button for wheelchairs.
Let me lean on you for a moment.)

Oh, stars, it's so bright.
(Stand, roll out before me.
Guide
my way
while I'm
functionally blind
and fighting off mounting pain.)

Oh, glorious wind!

(Sixty to eighty degrees.
Mid-to-late summer or early
autumn. Definitely sunny
beyond my eyelids.

Slight decline.
A wheelchair ramp?
I suppose, if one is daylighting
as a legitimate
healthcare clinic,
it would pay to be accessible.

Are we in the middle
of nowhere?)

(Did all the other evacuees
gather on the opposite
side of the building?
This looks like the back.
There's a bay for an ambulance.
Currently vacant.

Shouldn't there be

a fire truck?
Or cop cars?
Or guard
towers
with snipers
getting ready to shoot
anyone who tries to escape or intrude?)
Come on, Mother.
Could at least have some barbed wire
and nasty greyish weather
to complete
the whole
"evil
laboratory"
ensemble.
This is, for a so-called villain, pitiful.

I shouldn't push my luck.
Gotta stay grateful!
I'm alive,
and I'm upright,
and I'm mobile!

(And I'm stranded
with no money
and no form of transportation.

No, that's not true. I've got my feet.
Even if my bare soles
feel like Ariel
walking on knives on the concrete.
Hey, you pick the dull side, it's not so bad.
It's the sharpened part that'll slice you in half.

I must- I have to keep going.
All roads lead to home.

That's how the phrase goes,
right?
Well, all roads lead to where others reside.

I need to find
somewhere far away to hide
before they realize
I'm missing.
Maybe some roads lead to forests?
Nooks under bridges? Deep ditches?
Another orchard performing a harvest?

It'll be a miracle if I get out of this
with only a minor infection.
If I don't run out of time
and dissolve into a pile of sea foam.

The geese are starting to return home.)

(My first monarch butterfly of the year!
Oh, gentle insect

I

I need a rest.
I've been on my feet for hours.
The sun definitely dips lower.

I'm a wizard with a staff
in a forest of face-bearing trees
and

they're laughing

and my IV bag's empty.)
Stand, maybe this is where you
and I part. Your wheels are ill-suit-
ed for off-terrain travel.
Thank you for being such a loyal
and patient traveling partner.
(Okay, Bartz, grit your teeth.
Don't yank, just gently pull
out the needle.

And I'm bleeding.

It's just a faint trickle.
It'll stop soon enough.)

Trees of the forest
just off the bike path!
Is there a single fallen branch
worthy of being my next staff?
Or, maybe less grandiose,
a walking stick?

(They stick their tongues out,
but otherwise remain silent.

Have I any hope?

I need a source of water.
I can probably deal with hunger,
but without a river
I'll be dead in three days.

That branch'll be a good fit-
That's a snake!)
Sorry!

(It slithered away.
Oh, tauntings of fate,
how you make my heart ache.
Maybe the next-
Nope! That's a snake as well!
Did I sit down by a nest?
Some kind of scaly conference?

Or I could be delirious.
I need water.

Good, this stick isn't
reptilian liquid.
Sturdy and solid.

Onward, ho! My quest has been assigned!
The lonely wizard wanders
by the dregs and scraps of daylight!)

(Must not have had the budget
for a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.
Nobody's
been following.
I'm the only source of sounds
that wouldn't have existed
in nature without my presence.

Legs, forgive me, but we cannot rest
yet. I still need to find a river.
My throat's a veritable desert.
You won't be able to take me anywhere
anymore if I'm dead.

Damn, I'm tired.

Maybe I deserve
to close my eyes for a moment-
No! If I do, if I lay
my body down
now,
I'll never
get up again.
I made a promise to my friends.
I have to keep going.

Is that burbling?

Or am I hallucinating?

I can't afford to doubt myself.
No more penalties for being wrong.
Onward, feet!
Toward the bells that ring sweet
with hydration's
siren
song.

And hike up my pants again.)

"Son?"

(Now that's a hallucination.

Though my heart wants to disagree.)

"Son, you came to visit. I'm pleased."
(There's lips moving on that tree.
Stick in front for defense!)
Halt! What vile manner of sorcery
seeks to distract me from my mission
by means of impersonating my father?
(Maybe I should go be an actor
at the Renaissance Festival next year.)
"You would label your own father a distraction?
After all this effort to reach beyond the grave?"
Dad,
I

I meant no offense.
I'm sorry. But I can't stay here
to chat.
I need to find a river
or I'll be dead within the week.
And that's if my feet don't protest
from unfair labor conditions.
It'd be deadly, a general strike.
"I understand. Do not worry.
You're much too young yet for eternity.
Just know that I love you dearly,
and some part of me will always live inside
you, and that there's a river about
a mile west of here."
Father? Thanks.

(Didn't this tree have a face?

No matter. I'm turning.
I'm following the burbling.
I feel the blisters on my soles. I'm ignoring
them. I'm distracting myself with thoughts
of hot showers and clean dry socks.
Yeah, socks. From my bedroom drawer.
To keep my feet warm as the nights grow longer.
I got fuzzy socks and plain ankle whites
and that one pair of pastel thigh-highs
I got as a gift one year
and everyone snickered
and I didn't get the joke until I was older.
Yeah, clean socks. I love-

This is mud.

Oh, blessed scintillas and sparkles!)
Staff, wait here on the banks.
I'm a rich old miser
about to swim in my wealth.
Worth its weight in gold!

Ack! Cold!
(What do you mean, untold time in
near-complete sensory deprivation
didn't solve all my sensory problems?
That was stupid of me.
How 'bout I wade in slowly?

Down gently
to drink directly-

Maybe let's try little sips.
Better men than I
have gone and died
because they half-starved and then went hoggish.)

(Evincent,
how do you do it?
A life in a backpack,
illegalist nomads,
passing transient
through this world unseen
with no regard for wages or property?
I'd sure like to know.
They say it shortens the road,
having good company.
Maybe that's how you traveled fast as wind.
With the size of your gang, all trips
end up instant.)

(Would this sunset mark night one or two?
Or maybe three?
Or a whole week
I've followed the river?
I could sure use a calendar.
Or a clock to measure my sleep patterns.
Or a divine visit
from the cicadas
that live within.
Nature's
timekeepers.
The constant drone
means it's still summer,
right?

Am I anywhere near home?
With my luck, I'm probably farther
away than I was at the clinic.
Could use a map. Or a GPS.

Or another night's rest.
Moonlight,
you'll have to be my guide
some other time.

Mossy ground, be my cradle.
Stars in celestial watchtowers,
keep me safe as I rest idle.)

Is someone there?

Only myself.
(Great, now my thoughts ring external.

That one didn't echo.)
Bartz, why'd you stop when you're so close to home?
(I've got to sit up again
when
I just got comfy?)
Maybe it's because you're tired of hiding
from the rest of the world?
Letting your talents languish,
rotting
in obscurity?
(You look like me.
Or, at least,
last I remember from my own reflection.
Another damned hallucination?

No, your hair is tangible.
Soft and silky.
Man, I miss shampoo.)
Who are you?
I'm Barbara Sitz.
A world-acclaimed songwriter,
poet, musician -
oh, and I do charity work
on the side with my father.

Is he also named Donovan?
You got it!
A famous pediatrician.
He treats paralysis
in infants and small children.
Hey, how come we look so alike?
You're practically my mirror half.

(Mother, is this what I could have had
had I had a different one in my life?)
Tell me about your mother.
She's divorced. I barely know her.

Are you envious?
Don't you stay up at night and wish
you had it good
like I do?
That life can be yours if you want it.
You could wake up tomorrow in bliss.
Just take my hand, Bartz. If
you're not a coward.

(No more angsting about being an experiment?

No more kidnappings?

No more gender confusion?)
But I like my life, for the most part.
But you can be so much more!
You were born with limitless potential!
Are you really going to waste it all
lounging in lawns and picking apples?
Who's going to remember you when you pass on?

My friends. And the people who like my songs.
You're just afraid of criticism.
You'd assign your whole legacy oblivion
so nobody says anything negative.

Whether or not or how I'm remembered
after I die

it's not my decision.
What's really wrong with a long life spent
in peace making obscure art and loving my friends?
As long as I made
a positive change
in at least one person's life, my own was worth it.
You'll regret this on your deathbed.
You'll wish you picked fame
and having millions of people to influence.

Not likely, last I checked.

Barbara, as they say, get thee hence.
I have a promise to keep
and a body to rest.

In my version of events,
nobody's hurting women.
Childrens' genes
aren't being messed
with
to try to make women unnecessary.
You could stop all this. You could end their suffering.
All you'd need to sacrifice is your fear.
Or is that too much to ask, Bartholomew Sitz?
Let them all suffer,
if it means your comfort?

You really expect me to believe
you single-handedly
solved misogyny?

If I stepped into your shoes,
I'd mess it all up before
even the first day was through.
Better to stay as I am
and make do with what I have.

The decision you've made tonight will haunt you.

I'm aware. But this is my life.
Not anyone else's. And certainly not yours.

Then allow me to test
the strength
of your conviction.

(Whoa!
Oh, gross!
Your skin's shedding like a snake!

If that wasn't a mirage,
then this one definitely takes the cake.
And eats it, and smears it all over her face,
and drops the crumbs on the ground
like seeds
to become

golems?
Bodies?
All melding.
Man, this Twister remake is something
else- Ow!
Body, it's not the time to fall down!
Get up! Get up

Evincent!
And David.
And Lmama, and Kyle

and so many others I haven't seen in a while

Staff! Defense!

Would be helpful if I could hallucinate
a wall of protection.
This break from reality is kinda useless
otherwise.
Think! Do flesh monsters of the mind
have any kind of elemental weakness?)

"Are you going to help, or just be an obstacle?"
I can't help if I'm worn out and struggling myself.

"Son,
why do you refuse to conduct
yourself with grace and decorum?"
Your version of manners meant denying emotions
and playing the part of a good automaton.
Eat like this, breathe like that,
wink and flirt on command.
I refuse to be a figurehead
or Figure One of a report on an experiment.
I shouldn't have gone to the conference.
I grew up without bearings for life in public.

"Come on, you can't be that boring."
Sorry I'm not suited for life on a screen.
How does it feel, to be unable to make
mistakes without severe and immediate
blowback? Constant
and omnipresent
surveillance?
You prune yourself and die little deaths
in the process.

"Don't say you're a man. No one believes that dreck."
I am what I am. Why bother trying to correct
every person who misgenders me
as I walk by on the street?
Might as well try to command
every atom and the space between.
As long as no harm has been done
when they misunderstand.

"Every day's a new chance to fuck it all up!"
And to laugh, and to create, and to love.
Mistakes will be made. But I choose to trust
that things will turn out okay for my friends and me.
To believe
otherwise,
to allow someone else to assign
my life a purpose and meaning,
to comply without resistance,
to force my gifts
and talents
to serve another person's design,
is to willingly consign
myself to oblivion.

"You don't want justice? You don't want world peace?
The world could go to hell, so long as you have what you need?"

Your life will result, and has already,
in the scales being tipped toward suffering.
"As is true of every person in this world."
Then may what lies
on the other side of this life
forgive my harm as unintentional.
They know I've done my best to all hurt minimize.
"And how will you identify yourself?
You will have barely known the potential you."

Easy.
I'm a woman named Bartholomew.

If you're going to kill me
as I stand here defenseless
and without my friends,
then do it quickly.

That's it? No boss fight? No dying quips?
You'll just freeze and scatter to ashes
on the nighttime wind?
Well, just make sure you're extinguished.
Nobody here's licensed for controlled forest fires.

(What a gruesome Exodus.

Stars, I'm dead tired.
Didn't Barbara say the orchard's nearby?
Body, I promise we're almost there.
Even if it's just the outskirts,
it'll be safer
than a field in some stranger's
property.

I know this fork in the river!
This is the Northwestern!
There's the property sign
and the fencing line!

Legs, can't you climb?
It's just a few
slots of wood.
A wide ladder with thick rungs.

Or we could collapse here.
Someone still patrols the perimeter,
right?
They'll know who I am?
Oh, hills of waking, Sisyphus' eyes)

O, great apple tree,
I swear myself to thee
for now and all eternity.
Learning, and knowledge,
and defiance.
And a really good dessert crisp!

"B?"
(Your voice has never sounded so sweet.)
David.

I'm behind the fence.
"Holy shit, man! Where've you been?"
It's a long story,
but it probably compresses
to only a few pages.
Can you swing around and bring the trailer?
My limbs are exhausted.

Oh, and I have your knife.
"Screw that, man! I'm just glad you're alive!"
Wait - before you go,
what day is it?
"It's October second."

(My birthday's tomorrow!)

(Evincent.
I know it's strange to think it,
but

the wind feels different.
It knows you're no longer with us.
You'd be horrified to know
the reporters
for the local paper
chose a glamorous photo
of my mother.
I mean, I can understand the reasons why.
They're not going to publish a full-color
photo of the gory murder
scene
where children can go into the library
or the newspaper stand and see.
Hell, even adults couldn't stomach it.
And those were full-trained police!)
"B? Is that you?"
Luke!
Oh- shucks, I got startled.
I almost spilled my applesauce.
It's been so long.
What a birthday present!
How've you been?
"Eating applesauce at an apple orchard?
Now there's one thing that would never occur."
Well, they got me on the 'Bartz' diet
to get my stomach re-used to being alive.
Bananas, applesauce, rice, and toast.
"So

what does the Z stand for?"
I'm

not sure.
Zicken broth? Zaltines?
Can't be zebras.

Oh! Zucchini!
"Heh! That's my clever man!"
(Oof! Be gentle
to my shoulder!
I'm still sore all over!)
"Hey, would you be interested
in getting back with the band?
Lara's quitting due to grief.
I can find a new keyboardist,
especially with our fresh reputation
of being linked to conspiracies.
Everyone wants to crack the code,
you know?
Get on the inside, see what they can expose?"

Luke, I'm really sorry.
But I'm in no physical condition
to travel, much less for performing.
"I thought that's what you'd say.
But the tour's over, and we don't play
again anywhere
until at least next year.
And we need some new material. Lyrics,
chords, anything I can work with.
I can come back with some instruments,
get everything set up in the basement.
Just like how it was when we started.
You just gotta provide the juice.
The zap! the blam! I've been missing from you."

Where's Brían?
"Still dealing with the Man.
You know, legal shit. Contracts.
Trying to get our last payment.
She's wily, but it'll take a fair bit
before we can all get together again."

I can be patient.
As long as you're all still my friends.

And you can reciprocate!
Wave three of the harvest is next week.
I hear ideas grow on trees.
"Come on, B.
Do these
look like laboring hands?"
Don't be such a baby.
It's piss-easy
as long as you follow simple instructions.
"Ehh

fuck! I'm late
for a suit-filled meeting!
Gotta blast!"

(Classic Luke, to the very last.

What do you bet my birthday cake
will just be a slice of toast with jelly?
I hope they pick orange. Or classic strawberry.
Or something exotic
and alcoholic
now that I'm one-and-twenty.

Whatever. Kyle's back from the hospital.
He'll get me a huge ice cream cake
when my stomach's somewhat stable.
Right now, I just gotta sit back
and focus on getting my body back to normal

and being thankful.

Is that David and Lmama making out?

At least it's a domestic problem in my hands.)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

VANE VANDER thinks it is funny when corporations accidentally prove they cannot make art. She spends her time abusing energy drinks, waging warfare against sleep demons, and struggling with dysphoria. She can be found being terminally offline at mayvaneday.org.

Copyright © 2025 Vane Vander. All rights reserved as detailed in Copyright.