Idle, Arizona

The Coffin: Entries

|-JOHN DOE-|

"Did you have any idea there was a cave down here?"

"Not at all. This is so fucking cool. Aren't you glad we came down here now?"

"You successfully avoided rockfalls and snakes, but that's not what I would--"

"What you would?"

"Kat. Is that a body?"

"What? No way--holy shit that's a body. That's a creepy cave body. We found a body."

"Wait, maybe she's still alive. I don't smell any rot. Can you check her pulse?"

"Why do I have to check her pulse? You saw her first, you do it!"

"No way! What if she's dead?"

"Are you really gonna make your new bride touch a dead body in a creepy cave in the middle of nowhere? On our honeymoon of all times?"

"No. I don't think I am."

"Good, because that would be terrible husband behavior."

"I'm not going to because she's sitting up."

It was truly a strange day in Idle, Arizona: Barbara Smith Gutierrez Doe had closed up shop early.

For decades Barbara had only closed her shop on Christmas (when John Doe and Fable made their obligatory contributions to her hearth) and Thanksgiving (when she was merciful enough to let them dine separately.) The craft store was, in its own way, an institution far more reliable than the police, the town hall, and even the august PTA. Fires in the scrubland had done nothing to shadow its hallowed halls.

Still, when Jon Doe attempted to visit his daughter at noon, he found her settling the 'CLOSED--Please Come Back Later' sign with an unsettling air of finality.

"Dad?" She glanced over her shoulder at Jhon Doe and frowned. "You're here. I thought I was going to have to go to the mesquites to get you."

John Doh sometimes liked to surprise his daughter. He had with him a styrofoam container from the Idling Diner, her favorite open faced turkey sandwich inside. Because he had a terrible habit of spoiling Barbara, more than half of it was still inside.

"Thanks, but I'm not really hungry." The sun glared off the street. Barbara squinted at him. "We have bigger problems. My well ran dry today."

John Dote was not a hydrographer. Nor was he a deity to command precipitation.

"Don't give me that," Barbara scolded. Her brow was creased. She didn't bother to spare the sandwich a glance. "It's a hot day today. Just like the rest of the week."

The weather was always perfect in Idle. Saying otherwise would be illogical. John Do was nonetheless standing in the shade beneath the overhang of Barbara's shop.

"There's a stranger in town. Dell called ahead."

Jonh Doe was very, very still. It took a couple of minutes to remember to breathe. Breathing no longer came very easily for him. Barbara glanced up and down the street before leaning closer.

"You said the stranger was broken when you ate it, right? No way it could have survived."

Dzhon Doe never said that he ate the stranger. He merely broke it into pieces and watched it crumble into the street. The stranger was as dust. Jnoh Doe had no interest in adopting such an undignified name.

Barbara's cheeks were ordinarily very red in the noontime heat. It was one of the things which made her an incessantly adorable child. They currently had the pallor of an anemic corpse.

"You didn't eat it? God, Dad, no wonder you look like shit! You haven't gotten a new form, and your name's coming apart at the seams. What were you thinking?"

Jod Noe did not appreciate his daughter's commentary about his eating habits. He had made her a promise to not consume anyone in town long ago, and it was not his fault that the stranger was thoroughly unworthy of consumption.

"Screw the promise!" Barbara took his arm, then blinked as she realized it was soaking wet. "You're coming apart, and the stranger is still on the loose. You need a new form."

It might not be the same stranger. There were many beings who were strangers, many beings who Hon Joe had not attacked and left in the street to disintegrate.

"Would be broken in the street have killed you in any way that matters?"

The plants in the pots across the street were wilting. Jed Hoon thought this was a distinctly unfair question. It would have killed him in many important ways. He could no longer be Jock Don--no, Jess Downe--no, Jack...Jack...

"Jack...no, you aren't Jack, are you?"

Barbara blinked first at him, and then at the street. The baking sun usually kept everyone off the street at this time of day. Don Johe, after a moment, turned to look with her. Looking at things with his daughter was one of his favorite hobbies, and he saw no reason not to oblige.

A woman stood in the street. There was a heat haze about her that toyed with her hair and the hem of her neat white shirt. Job Dole did not know her name--

This was a lie. He did know her name, though it had been nearly thirty years since tasting it. Barbara smiled politely at her, an admirable gesture of customer service that was completely ignored.

"Good afternoon! Welcome to Idle. I'm afraid the craft store is closed today. You'll need to come back later."

The woman continued to stare at Joel Dove. The plant across the street was brown from overheating. The asphalt of the street was liquifying. Naturally, he could see she was wearing at least three layers of clothing.

"Could I get your name?" Barbara pressed.

Her name was Katherine Paxton. Twenty-seven years ago she had married a man whose name had been taken from him. She was not Katherine Paxton anymore. Katherine Paxton was anything but a stranger, and this woman was a Stranger in Idle.

Barbara drew in a sharp breath. She glanced from Jom Door to the Stranger, eyes widening. Good--Barbara was not so young as to miss the obvious. She had always been a delightfully clever child.

"Listen. Katherine--are you still in there, Katherine? You're not yourself right now. You've been taken by a being very much like my father here. I--I can't imagine what you must be feeling right now, but you have to fight it. It doesn't look like you're gone yet so there's still a chance for you to live as yourself."

The Stranger's hair had streaks of gray. Jove Dom hadn't remembered that about her. Twenty-seven years could change a person.

"Taken? Oh, I know all about being taken." The Stranger was not blinking. How amateurish. Jolly Dome had been right not to consume someone who didn't even know how to blink. For emphasis, he blinked twice himself. "I've seen it happen before. I've spent years trying to forget the sound of it. The screaming. The wet sucking. The rumble of earth and awful, swallowing water where no water belonged."

Lon Bow remembered it as well. He remembered the heat of hatred which he could never understand. He remembered the glare of the fleeing girl. He remembered the taste of enveloping, crushing fear as cold as inevitable as the crushing depths of the earth.

He was surprised she came back. Perhaps there was something inevitable about Idle as well, to lure her back after so many years. It was a most unorthodox place, after all. The weather was always perfect.

Something ancient looked out at him through the eyes of Katherine Paxton.

"Water consumes and reforms," Barbara whispered urgently. "Air gives life and shape. Katherine, please, I know what fire does here. It's going to burn you up and leave nothing but ashes and barren earth. You have to throw it out. Your name is Katherine Paxton. You have a life outside of this, and you can keep it instead of throwing it all away because some old spirits have a grudge--"

"Spirits don't have grudges," the Stranger interrupted. "Only people have grudges. What do you think they burn to keep the spirits alive?"

It was a good point. Nob Lowe could see the heat of the grudge around Katherine and the thing that wore her like an evening gown. It was a sun tucked inside a shell of ash. There was light which could not be hidden under the bushel. It had eat that could make of fertile ground nothing but desert and smouldering ruin. Truly Katherine's hate had only grown in the decades since he had last seen her.

"It has," the Stranger acknowledged. Barbara whimpered. "You have consumed the man she called husband, Thing That Was John Doe. You have wasted in a mere twenty-seven years what she wished to keep for life. And this charming little town stood idly by and let it happen. How long has it been your hunting grounds, name-thief? How long since the people realized who claimed this place?"

Vaugh Gogh considered this a silly question. Only the very young were so preoccupied with their own origins. What was his was his. What was outside belonged to others. This was the nature of possession. He was not foolish enough to hate matter for having form at the expense of other matter. Why should the others in town hate on the behalf of a stranger?

"Katherine, please." Barbara was crying. It was difficult to see, since the tears evaporated seconds after leaving her eyes. "You don't have to do this. You're about to hurt so many innocent people."

There was no Katherine. There was only the haze of heat with a shape inside. "There is no such thing as innocence. There is only fuel. There is only ash. There is only the dry land under the sun. There is only the hatred that makes things so."

Jax Dae lunged for the Stranger. Barbara screamed. The haze shifted.

A single gunshot rang out in the still, idling air.

The Stranger watched as Jack Doe lay on the street. He had the correct number of teeth. He was no amateur.

He did not have the proper number of holes in his body.

Everyone has an off day.

Barbara was kneeling by his side and crying. How strange. She was not very easy to upset. Her hands were covered in blood. It was fortunate that they were outside. Stains were difficult enough to remove from the floorboards, and the well was dry to boot.

The Stranger watched Jack Doe, and confirmed that his blood was the appropriate color and consistency. It tucked the gun back into its waistband. The sizzle of flesh against the hot barrel made a harmonic counterpoint to the sizzle of Jack Doe's blood on the hot asphalt.

"That's the end of you," the Stranger decided. It had all the satisfaction of Katherine finishing a ripened strawberry. "Now I can handle the rest of the town."

It turned and walked away. There was nothing of Katherine Paxton in its voice or gait.

Jack Doe's heart was beating slower. He was dehydrated. It was a very hot day. He should really drink some water.

"Dad, no, please. You can't leave, not like this. Dad, you have to get back to that place, okay? I can help--Dad? Dad!"

So loud. He was sure he had raised her better than that. He was so thirsty, why not have just a little bit of water...

The blood was not blood. The wonderings were not wonderings. No one was lying on the wet street of Idle where the heat turned it to steam and the remainder scuttled into the cracks and soaked into the dry, dry earth.

It was a beautiful day in Idle.

There was no such thing as John Doe.

|-TERRE SCHAEFER-|

They could not sleep. The archive was complete now, but it was not something that could be finished. Both knew this in their own ways. The Bard would never find an empty milk crate; the Scribe would never stop scribbling. They had been working for years, and no time had passed at all.

But this was the end, or the beginning of an endless something else. Something had broken. The DVDs, if they played at all, now emerged from the player as piles of sparkling dust. The voices which emanated from the cassette deck arrived muffled but piercing in isolation, as if heard while half-asleep; a ruined recording of a recording of a recording.

Meanwhile, the walls of their room crept forward with the imperceptible strength of an army cresting a hilltop, viewed from miles away.

–––

The armed woman – the other Terre – was still pointing her gun at the pool by the time Terre stumbled to her feet. What frightened her more than the vicious waves that lurched across the surface of the water, reminding her of the bullets which lay embedded in the terracotta beneath, was that the armed woman's passivity did nothing to diminish the electric and violent aura that surrounded her. An aura that manifested as multiple expanding brown stains on her uniform as the blood which Terre had seen on her body began to soak into the khaki fabric.

During the time it took for Terre to push her cracked hands against the cracked stone and push herself up, the armed woman stayed still like a snake – it was unclear if she was digesting something large or hunting something weak. Her face, save her eyes, was impossibly turbulent, a child's crude drawing of a face scribbled over and torn and shuffled. But her eyes remained transfixed on the water.

Through a mouth that was closed, then not, then cavernous, she whispered, "Who is that in the water?"

Terre looked at the pool. It was empty.

A dull clang brought Terre's attention to the gun in the woman's arms. The first thing that she noticed was that the other Terre's finger was not anywhere near the trigger. The second was that the gun had no trigger.

"My name is something else," the armed woman said. "This was supposed to happen before."

The gun did have a trigger. It was nothing like Terre had ever seen before. She couldn't believe what the woman was holding was real.

The armed woman was no longer staring at the pool; her face was inches away from Terre's. They stared at each other, the air between them a terrible mirror. The gun was unknowable, and its barrel was pressed against Terre's stomach.

The other Terre's breath was hot and smelled like skin. "Boyd," she murmured.

Terre had never heard that word before.

Review of detective Jesse McCormick's interview of Private First Class Allison Bardo (AB). In the room are detective Jesse McCormick (JM) and SA Buck Neilson (BN).

[START: TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT 2]

BN: Can you play the tape back?

JM: Yeah.

AB: Do you ever think about when it is that you stop existing?

JM: Death?

AB: Depends. If that's what you think.

JM: Have you been thinking about this recently?

AB: Yes.

JM: Why?

AB: Because I came to the conclusion that you can't.

JM: What?

BN: Come on, Jesse.

JM: You can't stop it there. You need to keep going.

BN: I'm frankly unimpressed with how you conducted yourself. You can't let a witness ask you questions like that. Doesn't matter if it's voluntary or if they've been arrested or if they're loony. She derailed you.

JM: Play the tape.

BN: What happened?

JM: I don't know. I don't know. But God forbid she comes in again because if she does, I'm letting you handle it. I don't know what they're feeding those people at Boyd to make them that way. The people in my platoon were never that fucking weird.

BN: Hold on.

JM: What?

BN: I'm thinking. Wait.

JM: What is this, Buck?

BN: Can you go get that second Camille tape?

–––

Cherry pulled the trigger. That was all it took.

–––

One by one, the soldiers began putting on their sunglasses as the microscopic debris from the disintegrating dust devil floated in a hazy cloud towards the gate. The Lieutenant, bare-faced, was now standing in front of the small wooden shack, the one with the yellowed windows, and hearing her voice, Terre realized that, at some point, the Lieutenant must have gotten off of the jeep. That they must have all turned to face her at some point.

There was something new in the multiplexing air. It was Thanksgiving all over again.

"The goal is to remove the civilian from the area without revealing your motive. Your methodology will depend on what the civilian thinks they need. What they need might be directions to somewhere else, a meal, or a place to stay the night. They won't know any better. You must be accommodating."

Terre looked around as subtly as she could because Camille was no longer standing next to her. To her left, through the gate, she could see shards of white light on the horizon, the sun reflected off of pieces of glass too small to see from this distance. But whereas the glass was functionally invisible, the silhouettes of buildings were barely visible through a filter of heat and floating dust.

"You will all be trained for multiple roles. This is a very important metaphor, and you should all internalize it. When you're on location, you must think of yourselves as actors. This is for two very important reasons. The first is that, like an actor, you are not your role. You are not a line cook or a hotel maid or a gas station employee. You are, first and foremost, soldiers with a responsibility to your country.

"The second is that, like an actor, you cannot act like a soldier in a time of crisis. You must make the burger. You must clean the civilian's room. You must give them gas. Most importantly, when possible, the civilian must see you doing these things for them. It is your responsibility to maintain the illusion."

Camille tapped Terre's left shoulder and smiled, "You should do a bang-up job at this."

The Lieutenant stood in front of the gate. With her arms outstretched, she signaled to the man in the shack with one hand and to the drivers behind the platoon with the other.

"These two realities are confusing, but you must not confuse your two realities. Doing so will put yourself, the civilian, and your fellow soldiers in danger."

–––

[START: TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT 9]

CL: And then there's the dream stuff, which I told you about.

BN: What else can you tell me about her dreams, Camille?

CL: What about them?

BN: Does she ever tell you what she dreamed about?

CL: Sometimes. There was one morning where she was telling me about how she dreamt she was on a beach watching nukes go off over and over.

BN: Does she tell you about other dreams?

CL: Honestly, it's hard to remember. There were lots.

BN: Well, why do you bring it up? Are they nightmares? Do they affect her ability to work?

CL: No. But they're annoyances, for her and for others, I would say.

BN: How so?

CL: Like I already said, they mess with her sleep schedule pretty bad. She leaves her duties early and stuff like that. But she takes meds for it, she said.

BN: What does she take?

CL: Why would I know that?

BN: Because you're her friend.

–––

"Ask your questions now."

Only one hand; the Lieutenant was always thorough.

"Owens."

"Why is it spelled I-D-L-E?"

"Contractors," the Lieutenant laughed, as if that explained anything.

–––

Terre was sunblind. Even before she could open her eyes – which ended up taking several seconds – she could feel the sun on her face, on her arms, on her legs. Her legs. She felt like if she tried to activate any muscle with them, they would shatter and lay in helplessly tiny fragments on the ground, too small to see, too small to pick up and put back together. When she did finally open her eyes, she saw that her head was tilted to one side – she had not even been aware of that – on a smooth, orange-red stone surface, and that what she thought was direct sunlight was actually its reflection, cast from the surface of a tranquil swimming pool.

Getting up took several minutes. The sun-baked stone was not hot enough to burn her skin; its muted warmth was seductive and pulled her down. It offered a surreal reassurance – it was warm, so it was alive and be understood; it was hard, so it was real and could be relied on. There was also the issue of the disconnected images that flickered in front of her eyes like a damaged roll of film being pulled haphazardly through a projector. There was a gun; Terre was the one holding it. A blanket. A road. Other people, their faces obscured underneath the same smudges of light that one might see when taking a flash photo of a glossy surface. A click. Fear.

That fear was still present. Something bad had happened; something had broken. She felt reborn, but not renewed.

Sitting now, Terre tried to address her surroundings. First, the pool. Its water was clear, and slight imperfections in the corners informed her that it was being filtered. Two worn-out lounge chairs slumped next to her. The terracotta slab that surrounded the pool was itself surrounded by a chain-link fence that stood proudly in the sun. But that was it. The pool had no ladders or steps, and the complex seemed to lack a lifeguard's chair. Alone. Always alone.

Her head pounded. Her throat burned. And through the all-consuming ache in her legs, a new pain emerged. Looking down, she saw that her shins and knees were littered with patches of shaved skin and beaded blood which had long-since dried. Embedded in her skin like tiny houses were pieces of red stone. Everything was familiar. She could not remember ever seeing any of it before.

A gust of cold wind shot through her. She cried and clutched her stomach. That motion was familiar, too, but she did not know why.

She pushed open the front gate to the pool and stumbled forward onto a dirt footpath that led up a small incline. After a few paces, an empty parking lot emerged from behind the hill, decorated with what appeared to be fresh paint demarcating parking spots and miniature crosswalks. Terre had no intention of skirting around in the sand; she walked across the lot in a straight line, leaving a trail of multicolored footprints in her wake.

As she left the parking lot and stepped onto the paved road from which it sprung, Terre noticed a sign planted in the sand on the other side of the lot. "Thanks for visiting Idle Public Pool Number Three! Come back soon!" it read.

–––

"If you're the type of person to get carsick, you might want to take your dramamine now," Bardo chuckled.

They were all back on the landcruisers. Since when?

Terre stared at Bardo, trying to conceal the horror that was starting to grow in her stomach. "Where are we going?" she asked.

Bardo responded but didn't answer. "The town itself is new, but these roads... These roads are ancient. And you can tell!"

It was not the sentence Terre was expecting. "Have we been here before?"

Bardo was silent. She simply let her head fall onto the open window, her hair flying sideways in the wind.

–––

Continuation of the review of detective Jesse McCormick's interview of Private First Class Allison Bardo (AB). Neither detective Jesse McCormick (JM) nor SA Buck Neilson (BN) are in the room.

AB: Nothing stops existing. You might not recognize it, and it might not look the same as when you last saw it, but it can't just disappear. The mind is a real thing. I think people like to forget that. It is a real thing that is made of real parts. It has to be. Consciousness cannot be the one unreal thing in the universe. Or maybe it is. I'm not a scientist. But when you die, like you said, your body still exists, even if you burn or bury it. There are those subatomic pieces that don't ever disappear. They can't be destroyed. And then you still exist in the minds of other people. That's also physical. Your thoughts are real. Their thoughts are real. I think when people say that so-and-so exists in so-and-so's heart after someone's death, they're closer to the truth than they realize.

JM: Do you think this is the truth? Is this how the world works?

AB: It is how the world works. But I told you about the strange things. This isn't one of them. Not really. Whether or not you believe what I said just now won't affect you once I leave this room. There are other things that will, and you need to know them.

JM: I don't understand. What are you talking about?

AB: I told you this will make sense.

JM: Why aren't you looking at me?

AB: It will make sense, but whether or not you accept the explanation... That's something different. It can be the truth, but it might not be the way the world works. That's the strange thing.

JM: Allison, who are you talking to?

–––

There was a building directly across the street from the pool parking lot. The town that surrounded it was hardly anything – a handful of buildings, mostly shells, and several empty lots where it appeared that ground had just been broken. This building, however, appeared lived-in, worked-in, inhabited, at the very least. A simple, tan stucco structure, it also seemed to be the first building in a series or shopping complex, as it was flanked by empty lots that contained either cracked concrete or weeds and wildflowers. It had no logo or sign, but through its heavily tinted glass double door entrance, Terre could see reflections of movement.

And parked out front was a car. A jeep.

That was all it took. A memory of sticky leather seats. Of a shack. A gun. Blood. Boyd. A dust devil. A death.

Terre frantically pushed open the door. The building was dark, but that could have just been her eyes adjusting to the lack of blinding sunlight. A heavy, almost herbal scent. Old media collected in a single room. Soon enough, the same movement which caught her attention outside made itself known once more. A figure – no, two – in the corner. One standing tall, the other hunched. As her eyes adjusted, Terre looked around. Lining the walls of the room were stacks of milk crates.

As she turned to leave, panic replacing her tendons and forcing her forward, Terre could see through the glass doors that it was nighttime.

–––

The Bard and the Scribe would never stop existing. Both knew this in their own ways. But both could remember when they started existing. At the beginning – the very beginning – their room had a door, and it did not have the Body.

|-FLORIAN RED-|

Tabitha isn't dead. Florian forgot to say.

His best friend of a thousand years is out there, somewhere, and he wonders if she still knows the sound of his voice. Has she thought of him on her birthdays, or on his? Does she miss him? Maybe. Maybe her hair is longer now. Maybe the stranger makes her cut it. Maybe she really is dead, and all this hope is emptier than a lake after dehydrating, a stomach after its purge, a volcano dormant and dry. All this hope, and only his memories to keep it alive.

His memories.

Dear Mr. Red,

Greetings from Relive Company! Based on our observations, you have reached one of the final milestones in our program. You'll notice the subject, ISAAC DORAN, was removed during last night's episode, and he will return to you later this evening until the end of your subscription tonight.

All information gathered so far has been transferred to the sheriff of Idle, and their superiors. We thank you sincerely for going through with this process, and we hope to bring your missing friend home soon.

We know it will be difficult when your purchase expires. All we can tell you is to relive as much as you can right now. There's nothing more you can do to help our investigation, and we will visit tomorrow evening to wrap-up the Relived's stay.

Remember, there is no death in death. There is only death in being forgotten. You continue to keep the subject's memory alive.

The sun floats flatly in the sky when Florian wakes up in the morning, groggy and drowned in the images of last night. He stands from the floor of the flower shop and dusts off his knees, groaning at the pain in his lower back. He doesn't remember falling asleep, and he wonders if that dream is what Relive Company had promised him all along. Answers.

Seeing Tabitha's face...seeing the crimson that stained the hallway walls, the carpet, the picture frames...it was all a little too much, and Florian shakes when he thinks of what he'd found in Isaac's room.

He shivers. He could now paint the stranger's face in every detail.

He leaves Isaac's manuscript on the front counter, forgets to lock the front doors, and steps outside into the Idle sun. It burns his skin at first, the warmth unreal compared to the chill inside his house. A woman walks by across the street with a friend, forging concrete palpitations to solidify inside Florian's chest, stealing his breath. It's the first time he's been outside alone in over a year—he thinks he might lay down and stop breathing forever. He thinks his lungs have filled up with oil, with brine, with rot and decay. He could die, and part of him wonders if that would be so bad.

Instead, the women disappear in the distance. Florian gets in his car. He drives into the desert.

Idle, three years before:

"Where are you taking me?"

Isaac chuckles in the passenger seat, his smile both permanent and wide on his shining face. There's glee in his words, nerves in his teeth, a kind of love in his expression saved for someone who magnetizes his skin. Someone who melts away everything. Someone like Florian. Someone like magic.

"The desert," Florian says, removing one hand from the steering wheel to grab Isaac's trembling fingers.

Isaac gives him a scowl but takes the hand and breathes in deeply, Florian's thumb grazing his palm in an offbeat, "Everywhere is the desert."

"Correct. So why worry?"

The radio loses its signal and turns into crackling white noise. Isaac uses his free hand to turn the volume down, and the only sound left is the numb hum of the tires against the rocky roads. "You could be a murderer. In it for the long-con. Are you killing me this afternoon, Flor?"

Florian turns, looking Isaac in the eye. It's the stillness of a temperate forest, the silence of a neverending grove. "Yes."

Isaac laughs. There's no gunfire—not yet. "This ring on my finger says otherwise, Mr. Red."

"It's a ruse," Flor dismisses, waving a hand and looking back at the road. "Besides, that's a ring from Macy's I found on the floor. Who said I wanted to marry you?"

"You did. When you spent two grand on a ring you found on the floor."

This time, they laugh together, and perhaps it sounds like ammunition freshly loaded. Nothing has been fired, but it's waiting, ballistics in the barrel, words stuck in the throat.

Idle, three years after:

Florian drives himself to the middle of nowhere. He plays no music and leaves the windows rolled up to quiet as much of the whipping wind as he can. He tries to keep still and focus on the road elongating in front of him, but he's crying, and the white lines begin to blur with the black concrete until his world is grey.

He will return to you later this evening until the end of your subscription tonight..

He grips the steering wheel until his hands are blindingly white. He holds a breath in his nose, keeping the ricochet of wet bullets inside his eyes and choking on air. There's heat pooling in his cheeks and in his stomach, nausea and fear and ache warping together into a monolith inside him. It's panic. It's grief he's felt for a million miles, grief louder than the galaxy, grief heavier than moonrock.

It's death in death. And Isaac is going to die again.

Soon, he has to pull over, his vision too obscured by the riverbeds embedded. He can't stop the tremor in his hands, can't stop the sun from grasping him with lava-red fingertips. He can't stop the wildfire in his limbs as he throws himself at the door and throws himself into the center console and punches the wheel and beats his head against his own seat. The horn blares, his elbow bruises.

It's a while until he opens the door and steps outside into the sands. He thinks about laying himself down on the dunes and sleeping. He'll dream of the past and never wake up. Isaac will be alive and stay alive. They'll ride the stars and bury their hearts.

Florian walks until he doesn't. He gets back to the car and keeps driving.

Idle, before:

Isaac falls asleep before they arrive. His soft snores fade in and out as Florian messes with the radio again, sighing when all he finds is static. There's only a half-mile left until the motel situated right outside Idle, and it comes into view right as the sunset bleeds violet into an otherwise yellow skyline.

Flor pulls into a parking spot and rustles Isaac awake, grinning madly at the sight of tousled hair and sleep-ridden eyes. "We're here," he says. His palm lingers on Isaac's shoulder as the other man sits up to stretch. "Tired?"

"Nah," Isaac murmurs, nestling his chin and cheek into Flor's hand. "Just calm."

Flor rolls his neck back, muscles tense from the drive. "Okay, good. I'm not staying up by myself. Tabi's the reason we're here and you have to make up for it."

"You're the one that said yes." Isaac reaches for his things in the backseat and jumps out of the car, glancing up at the cloudless blue. "You give in way too easily."

Flor rolls his eyes and joins Isaac outside, wrapping an arm around his waist, taking a moment to breathe. "I said she could redecorate. I didn't know I'd be evicted."

"Shh," Isaac whispers, kissing the top of Florian's head. They fall into a tight embrace, a tangle of fire. "No more Tabi talk." He shuts his eyes and they lean on one another, a slight breeze whistling around them, nothing but their heartbeats booming ardent and loud.

"Fine," Flor agrees. "Bring in the bags?"

Flor leaves Isaac outside to check in and find their room. The motel isn't rugged or run-down, but it's quaint and cheap, so Flor is ecstatic when he steps into the room to see the queen bed waiting for them, red sheets and a brown wall, a grey carpet and green drapes.

He groans as he falls back onto the bed

Idle, after:

and his head lands on the pillow. Florian stares at the ceiling, the white color vacant against the earthiness of the rest of the room. The only window sits slightly ajar, the air seeping in from the desert outside. Maybe it's toxic, because still he can't breathe.

He doesn't know how long he lays there. He drifts into darkness and comes back when the dreams become too real, his back stiff on top of the comforter, feet still confined by his shoes. Time suspends, and he starts to sweat from the desert fever.

Time loops and spins and drums on like it has rhythm. There, on the motel bed, Flor starts to think of Isaac. Of his shoulder blades and collarbones, when that skin would be exposed and trap Flor's gaze in place. He thinks of Isaac's hair, and his mouth, and the way his hands were so much larger, the man so much taller, the way his voice reverberated with rasp when they touched each other.

The room blooms into an inferno. Florian sits up and realizes it's deep into the night, so he tosses his shirt aside and his chest shivers when he opens the window wider. It's not the same room they'd stayed in three years ago, but the memory fills the space like a movie. Blankets thrown everywhere, pillows lost. Clothes strewn on the ground like litter, legs pushed to every angle, sweat pouring over them regardless of the heat.

Time stops. As Florian undoes his belt buckle and starts to pull it from his pants, there's a gentle knock that echoes across the room. The rap is so familiar that Florian's heart seizes and skips, his belt stuck halfway into the belt loops as he runs to the door, throwing it open with so much certainty that Isaac is the one standing there.

And he is. Time starts to wonder if it, too, has a sound, and if that sound sounds like static, like gunshots, like laughter or even wind.

Idle, before:

"Come on in," Flor says grumpily. "Welcome to our new home."

Isaac chuckles and throws the bags to the floor, pulling Flor in for a kiss. "We're here for three days, Florian." A kiss. "I think..." And a kiss longer still, lips like candy floss and sugar. "We can handle it."

Flor steps back and grins. There's an envy in his expression now, a coyness, a playful tone in his next words that sends an electric shock down Isaac's spine. "I don't know, Isaac. I'm going to be pretty miserable!"

"Oh, really?"

Flor nods. "Really. I mean, do you feel how hot it is in here?" He backpedals until Isaac has a full view of him, then throws his shirt off in a flash, laughing explosions as Isaac reddens and stares. His fingers reach for his waist, and the heat becomes unbearable.

Idle, after:

The sight of Isaac has him speechless. Only a day had passed, but seeing him takes everything away from him. He has no breath, no thoughts. There are no words. Only Isaac flushing red at Florian's bare torso, the hanging belt taunting him like devils, like hell.

"Sorry," Flor finally says, rushing back to his shirt and fumbling with his belt trying to get it back in place. "It's just...well, you remember how hot it gets, it gets—so hot in here, uh...just one second, I—"

"Florian, wait." The demand is a cannon, a gong. It stops Flor's movements and they both freeze in place, finding each other's eyes among years of uncertainty. Isaac's are so overgrown, filled with ardor, pupils dilated, craving and wanting and desiring to have what he's had sometime before.

Florian waits.

Isaac steps past the doorway. An eternity stretches out before him as he takes step after step towards his love, each inch closer spinning with a hushed lust. Soon, Isaac is able to hear Florian's exhales, their faces too close, not close enough, seconds from bursting aflame.

Florian waits. The entire time he watches Isaac closely, never leaving, never looking away.

Isaac places a hand on either side of Florian's waist. His fingers are so slow, undoing the belt completely and letting it slip from Flor's pants onto the carpet. He pops the button, the sound of a zipper then breaking their silence, goosebumps covering every corner of their bodies.

"Is this okay?" Isaac whispers. He never breaks their stare. He never moves too fast.

Florian nods, gulping and leaning forward to let their foreheads meet. They share this breath and this air, Flor's chest tingling from being so exposed, his groin simmering from just the memory of this exact moment, three years before:

"Come closer," Flor asks, afraid to speak too loudly and break the haven they've crafted from scratch.

Isaac unbuttons his shirt, revealing a taut chest and bare arms as takes it off. He meets Flor in the middle of the room, but there are no walls around them. No roof, no window, no lock or key or doorway. It's just this; Isaac leans in and their mouths form a labyrinth, eyes shut to the dream.

When they pull apart, Flor smiles and wraps his arms around Isaac's shoulders. Isaac's hands still on Flor's waist, they start to sway, no music to guide them, only the hymn of their heartbeats and the chant of breaths to come.

"You know," Flor says, "You kinda owe me for this weekend."

Isaac laughs. And maybe—maybe that's the first of the shotgun shells. "You know," he answers. "I think I do."

Florian steps back, taking in the image of Isaac there with him. Memorizing it. He takes Isaac's hands in his and leads him to the edge of the bed. He sits down with his feet still planted on the floor, Isaac towering over him.

Isaac rubs a thumb over Flor's mouth. "Tell me what to do."

There is only death in being forgotten. All we can tell you is to relive as much as you can right now.

Florian slides his pants down to his ankles, leaving only his briefs. He slowly guides Isaac's hand down, breath hitching at the contact, and he finds his voice as he inhales: "Get on your knees."

Isaac does.

Idle, after:

Isaac takes his time undressing, wanting to live through every last second of their final night. He watches Florian, now naked, now alive, lay back on the bed, eyes patient and expecting, brimming with an almost uncontrollable lust. Finally, he strips his underwear, and Florian thinks maybe he'll never breathe again.

Isaac finds his way to the bed, settling on his knees in front of Florian's trembling legs. Their stare blazes, setting alight a forest previously untouched, and the flames simmers until boiling. Isaac finds Florian's shaft, his chest rising with anticipation, and when he starts to stroke he realizes they're nearing their end, right as they're beginning.

"Isaac," Flor moans, the name fervent, filled with fury. Flor has always been the impatient one, Isaac taking his time, teasing, laughing through the awkwardness and the bullets. "Please."

"I want to remember this," Isaac answers. He prepares Florian as time interludes. Outside, the desert cools down, but for them, all that remains is heat.

"We're running out of time."

And so they lay together in that motel bed with the red sheets and there's nothing else in the entire world. Isaac's thrusts are underlined by his gruff voice, telling Florian how much I love you and how good you are and I wish I'll never forget this, while Flor keeps his gaze stuck on Isaac's face and body. The sheets spin into knots around them, blankets strewn, their limbs just another thread in the tangle; it's sex and avidity, arsonists in their last breaths.

It's life in death. Time may not make a sound, but when it passes, it is the loudest thing in the universe.

When they're finished, Isaac holds Florian and Flor memorizes the sensation. The comfort and familiarity of Isaac, the way their skin melds like a blacksmith forging them from fire. They kiss and they sleep and they love.

Florian closes his eyes. We're running out of time.

"You're gonna die again," he whispers. Maybe he wants to say it so quietly that it's not real. He wants his words to be lies. He wants the world to be a trick.

"No." Florian turns away from Isaac, too afraid to see him anymore, but stays in his arms. "I'm just going away," Isaac says.

"That's the same thing."

Isaac hums. "Maybe it is."

And Florian waits. He waits for the gunfire.

Idle:

At the end of the world, in the motel in the desert outside the town of Idle, Arizona, Isaac Doran dies for the second time. He doesn't bleed. There's no pain. He disappears before Florian Red has the chance to open his eyes, glance into the forest, and whisper that last I love you.

Isaac is dead. Florian forgot to say.

|-LINDA LOWES-|

"Ugh." Brooklynn slapped her phone down onto the car seat.

"What's wrong, honey?" Linda asked, not taking her eyes off the highway ahead.

Brooklynn slid her headphones down to her neck. "Phone died."

"Well, what did you think would happen when you spent the whole service on it?"

Brooklynn sighed loudly in response and turned to stare out of the window.

The Lowes family were packed into Linda's Range Rover. They were one hour into their five-hour return trip from Los Angeles. It was late at night, but not particularly dark. Clouds hid the stars and moon from view, but the orange-tinged streetlights did well to guide the family's way home. In the backseat, the twins were sleeping soundly, all tuckered out from a day of giving ominous forebodings to funeral goers. Brooklynn was in the passenger seat, as was her birthright as the oldest sibling. She wasn't wearing her regular, awkward fusion of emo/goth stylings. Instead, Linda had managed to wrestle her into clean slacks and a nice black sweater without any spikes or skulls or symbols of the devil on it (unfortunately for Linda, the ship full of sensible black dresses had sailed long ago for Brooklynn, and even she was willing to pick her battles sometimes). Brooklynn's jet-black hair was unusually straight and neat, a compromise that Linda had made in exchange for taking her out to get her regrowth redone the day before the funeral. Behind the wheel, Linda looked perfect, as always. She watched the roads with an eagle eye, analysing every other car on the road for indications of drivers who were DWP (driving while possessed).

"I could have charged it if we'd stayed at a hotel," Brooklynn grumbled.

"Sweetie, not this again..."

"Coffin Failure was playing in LA tonight! We could have bought tickets! Now I'm never going to see them live because they're never going to come anyway near stupid Idle."

"Don't be silly. You'll have plenty of opportunities to watch them when you're older. Besides, you have school tomorrow."

Brooklynn groaned again.

The mother and daughter sat in silence, watching the monotonous view out the front windscreen together. Linda remembered a fun fact she had heard some time ago; car rides are a great time for difficult conversations because there's no awkward eye contact, neither party can run away, and there's a natural end point.

Linda did not think this fact was very fun.

She readjusted her acrylic claws on the steering wheel and cleared her throat. Brooklynn made no response, still staring absently out the window and watching the streetlights speed behind them.

Linda did not think that this silence was particularly fun, either. Her teenage daughter was right there, stuck in the passenger seat for another four hours and possibly just bored enough to talk to her 'nagging' mother. But what to say? Linda flipped through possible conversation starters in her head.

How was school today, honey?

How is your band going?

Have you noticed anyone acting weirdly around you, like maybe they've been possessed by some unhinged lunatic with a specific vendetta against me for some unfathomable reason?

But Brooklynn didn't go to school that day, and if Linda asked about her band, she would probably just remind her daughter about their argument the week before. The last one... Regardless of how much Linda wanted to know the answer, the words sat like a lump at the back of her throat, unable to be forced into her mouth. They would encourage questions that Linda couldn't, or didn't want to, answer.

"Hey, mum?" Brooklynn asked softly, without looking away from the window.

"Yes, honey?" Linda responded, a bit too quickly.

Brooklynn finally turned to her mum. "You were being really weird today."

Linda's mouth fell open. "I was not," she scoffed.

"Yeah you were."

Linda wanted to let go of the wheel and cross her arms. "And what makes you say that?"

"You kept glaring at everyone."

"I do not 'glare' at people!"

Brooklynn made eye contact with Linda, and then nodded wordlessly to the rear view mirror. Linda looked to the mirror, and was suddenly squinting angrily at herself. Linda flinched at being hit with her own unexpected death stare.

Brooklynn snickered, covering her face behind her hand to hide her smile.

Linda felt a little embarrassed, it's true, but Brooklynn's slight laughter made the feeling melt away. Instead, Linda pursed her lips together to hide her own smile.

"So did you hate the dead chick or something?"

"Brooklynn, you shouldn't call her a 'dead chick'. It's not polite."

"Fine," Brooklynn said as she rolled her eyes. "Did you hate the 'deceased' chick? Is that why we had to leave early?"

No. We had to leave early because if we stayed too long all of my old college friends would realise something's terribly wrong with me.

"Yes. Becky was absolutely dreadful. She spoke in a stupid nasally voice and slept with half of the sorority's boyfriends." Linda's nose crinkled up. "And she chewed with her mouth open like a cow."

Brooklynn snorted.

"And did you see her children? I'm sorry, but there is no way in hell that they are all Henry's. Her youngest was a ginger. Do you know who else was a ginger? Her college boyfriend."

"Was he the one that--"

"That got drunk at the wake and made a pass at Becky's gay sister?" Linda smiled wickedly. "Yes."

Brooklynn nodded, a thoughtful look on her face, and turned to look out the window again.

"And did you see the dress they had her in? Lemon yellow! She'll be rolling in that grave forever."

Brooklynn sighed, more tired than anything else. Linda swallowed any quips she might've had about boring her daughter; this was the least combative conversation she'd had with her in... A while. Her mind searched desperately for a way to make it continue.

Are there any cute boys at your school? Or girls? Girls are okay too, honey, as long as she's not eccentric.

Have you watched any good movies lately?

There's something important about my skin condition that I've been meaning to tell you for a while now...

Before Linda could continue not saying things, Brooklynn started playing with the car stereo on the centre console. The radio started up, and Brooklynn began rapidly flickering through channels. Linda turned the sound down with the buttons on her steering wheel, lest the noise awaken her sleeping angels in the back seat. The radio raced past late night shock jocks and classical FM, easy listening jazz and top 100 billboard hits, NPR and old-fashioned country, never lingering on any sound bite for longer than a second before Brooklynn deemed it unlistenable.

She gave up after a minute of channel surfing, sighing in defeat and throwing her head back onto the car seat. Linda promptly continued her daughter's pursuit, flashing through more disconnected sounds until she circled back around to a channel labelled "90s Classics and Throwbacks". She nodded along as the chorus of Backstreet Boys' 'I Want It That Way' played softly over the sound system.

Brooklynn groaned like a teenager being forced to listen to music that old people liked.

"What's wrong?" Linda asked, taking the bait willingly.

"This sucks."

"This does not suck!"

"Yes it does. All music from the nineties suck."

Linda shot her daughter with a faux-offended gasp. "I know I did not raise my daughter to say something so ridiculous out loud!"

Brooklynn scoffed. "It's true! Name one good band from the nineties."

"Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam, Blink-182, Green Day, Nirvana..."

Brooklynn instinctively rolled her eyes. "Nirvana is so overrated, mum."

Linda rolled her eyes right back. "Come on, honey, you must like some of these." Brooklynn said nothing, so Linda continued, "No? No Aerosmith? The Offspring? Social Distortion? Alice in Chains? Surely you've raged against a machine before."

Brooklynn raised an eyebrow at her mum.

Linda huffed and picked up her phone and Brooklynn stared at her determined face, now lit up by the harsh blue light of her phone. Linda swiped through the phone's various menus hurriedly, looking back at the road every few seconds, and all the while muttering something about failing her daughter. Eventually she put the phone down again and placed two hands on the wheel, just as the words 'Workout Playlist #6' came up on the little screen in the console. Then, the distinct beginning riff of Enter Sandman by Metallica started playing.

Brooklynn looked at her mum like her head had just fallen off. "You... like this?"

"I was young once too, darling. Where do you think you got your music taste from? Your father?"

Brooklynn nodded along with the music, tapping her fingers like impromptu drumsticks on her legs. As the song progressed to the chorus, she started headbanging along to the beat. Linda, too, bobbed her head sensibly in time with the music (her headbanging days being long behind her).

As the song started fading out, Brooklynn piped up again, "You always act like you don't like my music."

"These are classics, honey. No good rock music was made after 2005."

Brooklynn chuckled, and the next song started playing. Linda immediately recognised The Cranberries' most popular song, and tried to quickly skip it.

"No, leave it! This song's great," Brooklynn protested, before following up with, "I mean, it's okay."

Linda left it, and casually tightened her grip on the wheel.

The two listened to a handful of songs together wordlessly. They didn't talk, although Brooklynn did start singing along softly. They just enjoyed the music together as they sped along the late-night highway. Linda did not feel the need to say anything.

After a few more songs, Brooklynn turned the volume down a little and pulled her legs up onto the car seat so that she sat cross-legged. "Dad didn't like this music?" she asked.

"No, he could never get in the spirit of it."

Brooklynn nodded. After a thoughtful moment of silence, she continued speaking. "Why didn't dad get a funeral?"

Because they never found the bastard's body.

"Because he might not be dead, sweetheart," Linda answered, very matter-of-factly.

"He probably is," Brooklynn said in an equally unaffected tone. "Maybe we should give him a funeral."

Frankly, he doesn't deserve one.

"Ugh, goodness no. Then we would have to invite Karen, and I'm sure she would just love the opportunity to tell me how horrible the funeral was and why I was never good enough for her son."

"Yeah, grandma's a bitch."

"Brooklynn, language!" Linda yelped. "But yes, she is."

"If you died," Brooklynn asked, "Would we be orphans?"

Technically, you already are, dear.

"I don't know, dear."

"Sometimes I imagine dad will come stumbling out of the desert one day, with, like, a pack of wild coyotes that he's befriended. Like, what if he just got lost one day while hiking and had to join a family of wild animals to survive?"

"That would be pretty impressive," Linda said in a soft tone.

"He probably just left to find a new family. It would be cool if he came back though," Brooklynn shrugged, her shoulders falling just a bit. She wore a brave face, but her large eyes made it difficult to hide the melancholy from her mother. When Linda looked at her, she couldn't help but see the seven-year-old who last saw her dad.

I'm so sorry, Brooklynn.

"Hmm," Linda hummed in agreement.

Brooklynn sat back up straight in her seat. "At least I know you'll never go missing." She flashed Linda a smirk with new-found confidence. "All I have to do is start loading the dishwasher and you'll show up out of nowhere and tell me I'm doing it wrong."

"Hey!" Linda admonished. She wanted to be insulted, but just couldn't find it in her. "Well, I know I'll never lose you, because... Because all I have to do is ask you to do the dishes and I'll be able to find you from the sound of your grumbling alone!"

Brooklynn giggled (Giggled!), and Linda beamed at the road ahead.

As the giggle died out, Brooklynn tucked her legs in closer and looked down at her hands. Linda glanced back at her daughter--her pursed lips, her suddenly pensive stare, her quiet comportment--and felt... confused. She had never considered how considerate Brooklynn was.

"Hey mum?"

"Yes, dear?"

"You're not going to go missing, are you?"

Never.

"You know I can't promise that, honey."

"Yeah, I know." Brooklynn looked out the window. "Have you thought about your funeral?"

Yes, not that it will do me much good.

Linda hesitated. "Not really."

"What do you think it'll be like?" Brooklynn asked.

Well, I was young and beautiful; a wife and mother tragically deceased while pregnant with twins. It would have been the event of the decade.

"That's an... odd question. I suppose everyone will be wearing black and crying."

"Do you have a will?"

No.

"Of course, honey."

"How do you think you'll die?"

By falling down the basement stairs and breaking my neck, like a moron.

"Peacefully in my sleep."

"I don't think you sleep enough for that."

You're not wrong.

"That's not true, I sleep enough. You know I have insomnia," Linda said with a dismissive wave. "Why the questions? Are you planning something I should know about?"

"No!" Brooklynn replied, smiling. "I'm just curious. I think about my funeral sometimes."

Linda's eye twitched. "Oh, no, hun, there's no need to talk about that--"

Brooklynn smiled, oblivious to her mother, as always. "I want it to be on a dark and stormy night."

"Rain is hardly good weather for a funeral--"

"It should be in a haunted church."

Linda laughed, but it was more like a gasp for air. "Now where would we find one of those?"

"I don't want to be cremated."

The image of dust and dirt piled on the car seat where Brooklynn was sitting flashed in Linda's mind. She did her best to stay her wavering voice. "That's good to hear."

"I want to be buried so I can have an open-casket funeral."

Linda's face went colder and paler than she thought possible. She dug her nails into the steering wheel until the leather almost tore off.

"Then everyone can see me lying there."

No. No no. No no no no no no no.

Brooklynn turned to her mum, a rare and animated smile on her face. "Did you know that it will take only ten years for my body to fully decompose?"

Linda met her daughter's bright eyes and wide smile. Apparently, it would take only ten years for those to waste away into nothing.

She couldn't physically cry. For that, she was glad. But she wanted to cry so badly, and for that, she was mad. At who, she didn't know. So, instead of crying, she steeled herself. Her lips pursed together and her eyes hardened. When she spoke, it was harsher than she could control. "That's ridiculous. Why would you want to think of that?"

Brooklynn's face fell. She looked at her mum like a puppy who had just been kicked. "I don't know, because it's fun," Brooklynn said, her voice high-pitched and defensive.

Linda felt a pain in her gut for the first time in eight years.

I'm so sorry, honey.

She turned quickly to watch the road. "Well it isn't," Linda snapped.

Her daughter looked away. "You don't get it. You're too sensitive." Slowly, her face twisted into a thing of spite and anger. "I'm going to die someday, mum. Or are you upset you can't control that too?"

"I'm not controlling!" Linda sniffed. "You're just being weird again."

I shouldn't have said that.

Brooklynn didn't say anything. Instead, she frowned, hugged her legs to her chest, and turned to stare out the window again. Linda wasn't sure if she saw her lips quiver or not. The dull pain in her gut spread to her chest and her throat.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean it. I love you so much, Brooklynn. I wish I knew how to tell you that you and the twins are the only things I will ever love. And one day you are going to go somewhere I can't follow. I don't know if that place is good, or bad, or just nothing. I don't think I'll ever know. But you, Brooklynn, you will find out one day, and when you do I will be the one burying you and that thought kills me like nothing else can. And I will be alone for an eternity. I'm not sensitive, Brooklynn. I'm terrified. But I'm trying to be strong. For you, for Paisleigh and Kingston. For all of us.

Linda sighed.

"I'm-- I'm sorry, honey. I just... I'm your mother. I don't want to think about you dying."

"Whatever."

Linda, deflated, stared dead ahead as the car sped into the night.

|-ANGELA GOMEZ-|

Most of the town's residents were new to Idle at some point in their lives. Contrary to popular belief, the residents don't magically appear and most of them weren't, in fact, born there. Residents like Barabara Smith Guiterrez Doe are the exception, not the rule, and I don't think anyone could tell you why exactly there are so many weird people all in one place, just that it was always like that and will probably stay like that. The way I figure, birds of a feather flock together and weird people draw in weird people. You get a strange town and this strange town with strange things markets themselves as being strange and you get a lot of strange people all in one place, showing up year after year with their U-Hauls and burnt up referrals for seeing a psychiatrist.

I was eleven when I moved to Idle because California was getting too expensive to live in and because according to dad, California was becoming an "immigrant state" where everyone was on welfare and everything sucked all the time. He ignores the bit where mom is from Venezuela not America, but I suppose that's just what you do when you only see what you want to see and only believe the observation that is easiest to make at the time that you need to make it to form an opinion. But regardless, moving to Idle when your only friends are ghosts sucks and everything did suck all the time, not for those reasons, but he did have a point about things sucking all the time. Ghosts don't always travel with you and they don't always stay—they don't replace real friends as much as you want them to because you can't take pictures of your shoes together or raid the soda dispenser at restaurants to try every flavor until you reach a sugar high. I didn't have a lot of people I could do that with until the day I met Jasper Jones.

The way I met J.J. was not unlike the way most religious people met other religious people— through the Church at a younger age. We attended the same Catholic school and in an eighth grade class with less than twenty students where seats were arranged alphabetically by last name, we were forced to sit next to each other.

So it was the end of recess and I had this friend. Her name was Rachel and she'd been in Idle for a while after an accident playing hide and seek in one of the mines where a wendigo was said to live. Rachel was a wayward ghost in her emotions and she dared me to bring my dad's old Playboy magazines from the 80s to get a rise out of our teacher, Ms. Higgins, who came before the dinosaurs yet still managed to stay unretired. Rachel wanted to see if it'd give Ms. Higgins a heart attack and although I didn't actually want to kill her, it seemed funny enough at the time so I followed through on the dare.

On this particular day, J.J. was reading Twilight and he'd stayed inside the classroom to read. I thought it was pretty cool that he didn't mind reading "girly" books but since we weren't friends yet, I didn't say anything about it.

J.J., as always, worried I'd do something to get us both in trouble, looked up from his book when he saw me rummaging through my backpack.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Ignoring him, I fished out the magazine from the main pocket. There was a faint scent of mildew and dust lingering in the air when I dropped it on my desk. J.J. curled his lip in disgust, "What is that?"

"A magazine," I said.

For a moment, J.J. stared the magazine up and down, and I thought he was going to get up and leave, not wanting to risk being near it, but he instead sat there for a long while before returning his attention to the book he was reading.

"Well, put it back," he replied.

"Make me."

His gaze didn't leave the pages. "You'll get us both in trouble."

"But it'll be funny."

"When they say girls aren't very funny, really they just mean you."

Not having a good come back, I stood up and marched the magazine over to the teacher's desk. The clock read a minute till ten which meant recess would be ending soon and I didn't have a lot of time.

"Angela," said J.J.

I stopped then and threw a quick glance at him before dropping the magazine on the desk. I thought I heard the sound of a child laughing next to me and it sounded a lot like Rachel. But when I turned my head to look, there was no one there. She wasn't showing herself to me today.

"Angela," J.J. continued, his voice going from calm to annoyed, "I'm being serious."

"I am too," I replied. I paused. "Besides, Rachel thinks I'm funny."

"Who's Rachel and why can't you tell your ghost buddies to leave you alone?"

Before I could respond, the bell rang and I rushed to take my seat as Ms. Higgins came in. She didn't notice anything at first and when she did finally notice it, she turned red in the face, the reddest I'd ever seen her. Nobody laughed and I don't think there was so much as even an amused smile. It all started with a "this is highly inappropriate and the wisecracker who thinks they're funny, rest assured you are not and will be sent home" to "nobody leaves this room until someone confesses." The room got real quiet after that and the blood drained from my face, realizing my mistake.

She must have smelled my fear because she approached my desk with The Look. The Look that appears on every adult's face when it's game over and you have no choice but to accept your fate and plead for forgiveness or mercy. Her scowl was like a death grip to anyone whose eyes she met and when she opened her mouth to ask me if I knew anything, my eyes watered. Fear or regret, I wasn't sure but I would've confessed right there and begged for forgiveness if J.J. hadn't cut in at that exact moment.

"It was me. I thought it'd be funny but it wasn't funny," he said.

That day, Ms. Higgins spoke to him outside the classroom and when she returned he didn't come back. They called Faith and I'm not sure everything that happened but when I asked him why he covered for me, all he said was "everybody deserves one get out of jail free card sometimes."

I'd like to think that was the day we became friends and that even though we didn't take pictures at Disneyland together or raid the soda dispenser at restaurants to try every flavor, we were still friends.

A friend who helped to set me free and who I wanted to free in return. Everybody deserves one get out of jail free card sometimes and that's the truth.

~

The morning starts off how most days in Idle start. It's cloudy because it's July and monsoon season and the pavement smells damp because it's humid which could mean rain. It never rains in Idle, not here, maybe in Phoenix but not here. The birds don't sing because in Idle there are too many natural predators so they're few and far between.

When I wake up, I know that I am not in California but the heated depths of Arizona because my window is open and it's too hot to do anything. My radio is turned on, and the channel I'm on is talking about the weather. There's only one station that you can hear without hearing static and it's a station that plays country music and sometimes tells you the weather. Today they're saying, "crack open a fresh can of lemonade because this week just gets hotter and hotter!"

Summer never really does seem to end around here and I just lay there in bed because there is little else to do after last night.

According to my dad, his work sucks right now because of last night's shooting and the stuff that happened with Julianne. Apparently, Guy-With-The-Black-Toyota was after Julianne because he's a hunter of sorts and got paid. Dad glossed over most of the other details because he isn't allowed to tell me, but he leaves out the bits about where J.J. and I were shot at with little reason. There's no rhyme, no reason, no motive and no explanation, but I suppose that's what happens in towns like Idle where people live and die mysteriously all the time. They said they have the guy in custody and they're interviewing him now and trying to find out his potential connection to Hazel Greene since Julianne fled the scene yet again but that's mostly the end of it. I don't press any further because they don't really matter anymore.

Jesse strangely hasn't called me back so I have nothing to write for True Blue Weekly and I don't update today. Business goes on as usual and one of the ghosts that likes to tap at my window tells me that the floral shop could open up pretty soon. Which is exciting at a time when everything sucks and there are ghosts at my window that won't leave me alone.

I'd drive over to bother J.J. and drag him out to do something, but today he won't answer the door. Humans suck at letting things go and I'd drive out to do that anyway because I don't like letting things go either but I don't. I'd like to think Faith, the resident couponer and bargain buster, is at the local store with her binder full of coupons, buying apples for her pie to share with the women's bible group.

Idle is a strange town with strange things but despite the strangeness of it all, business must go on as normal. The way I figure, strange things happen all the time and everyone is used to it after being in Idle for so long.

I knew J.J. not unlike how most people knew him. He was a goodie-two-shoes and he was an English major at the local community college we both attended. In a journalism class with less than twenty people because journalism is dying, we were partners for a project and I enjoyed dragging him around places he didn't really want to go. I'm not sure why, but then I wouldn't say anything about it even if I knew.

He was also the fourth type of ghost and my least favorite of them all. He wasn't somber or pissed off or left behind because he needed a psychiatrist. He wasn't a demon, but my friend.

Jasper Jones is the fourth type, the one that doesn't travel with you and doesn't always stay. He's the type that leaves you behind.

I'd like to think that the reason he didn't say goodbye was because we weren't really friends. After all, I wasn't his get out of jail card and friends are supposed to set you free.

And I didn't set him free.

|-CAMREN TARRAYO-|

Her ribs strained against the bandages every time she breathed. And as a living organism, she had to breathe. A lot. The fabric grated on the claw marks across her chest, the wounds stinging, fogging her brain with a heady numbness. She'd considered speaking many times, but her mouth refused to open, and she lost herself in the rolling landscape of her godforsaken town as the shiny car cruised towards her home.

She swallowed. Forced her tongue to move. "I'm sorry for bleeding all over your mom's car."

She felt Taryn stiffen behind her. "I'm sorry for being late."

The words bounced around in Camren's brain, sounding warm and cold at the same time, like a concerned thought left unfinished. She was too drained to pick it apart. "I'm sorry we skipped dinner."

Taryn sighed. "I'm sorry for giving you the impression that you need to apologise for getting attacked. I'm not an asshole," she pressed, exasperated. "Who do you think I am, my brother?" she muttered. "I wasn't about to drag you into the diner half dead."

"I could've done it."

"Okay, sigma male."

"Eh."

The wind from the AC was cold, like the swishing of the wolf's tail across her cheek. Her lips were going numb. She'd been lying on the grass, the weight of her head like an anvil, wounds on her chest broiling in fire, when she'd heard Taryn's footsteps coming towards her.

"What the hell happened?"

Her memory of the whole thing was fuzzy. Taryn's shaking hands over her quivering arms. A lot of questions she couldn't answer. "Whys" and "hows" and "whos". A bear, she'd answered. It had been a bear. Yes, it must've taken off really fast. Lots of bears in the...here.

She remembered Taryn staring at her a little too long, then peering into the woods a little too hard, silently searching for something. Then she'd started helping Camren up, and if she'd paused a little too hesitantly before prying the knife out of Camren's clenched fist, the details were too fuzzy for her to be sure.

Taryn had taken her to the hospital out of town to get the wounds patched, and she'd had little reason or energy to argue. It was mortifying to trouble her, let alone bleed all over her mother's car, but she knew she'd lost the battle this time and couldn't stumble home unbandaged without anyone noticing that she reeked of blood. She could already see the sickness on Shiye's face, her mother's haunting gaze simmering with rage. She couldn't bear the tirade. Not tonight. Her bones were too brittle to carry the weight of their disappointment, which, as she'd learned through experience, was the heaviest thing of all.

The car pulled up to her front porch. Taryn jumped from the driver's seat and walked briskly to the other side, hand meeting the handle at the same time that Camren's curled around it sluggishly. Taryn pulled the door open before she could try. "Let me help."

"I can walk." She slid out of the car with as much grace as she could muster, pulling her shoulders back as far as she could without triggering a fresh wave of pain. Taryn tried to steady her, but she wrapped her fingers around Taryn's arm to stop her. "I'll manage. Thank you for letting me bleed all over your mother's car."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Nah."

"Yeah."

"Okay, Chad."

They reached the front door, and Camren pulled her keys out. The door opened before she could stick them in the keyhole. She looked up. Shiye's lanky figure stood between her and the rest of the house. The nineteen-year-old's face was terse and severe. "Cam."

"Move."

He took in her hunched figure, then dropped his voice. "She's waiting behind me. Just so you know."

The little blood she had to show for in her sickly pallor drained from her face, feeling nothing as she squeezed her fist tighter around her jagged keys. "Right." She glanced at Taryn, just long enough to see a flash of guilt cross her face. "You should go, Taryn."

Taryn didn't move.

Shiye stepped aside to let her pass. Camren locked eyes with her mother sitting at the dining table, who glanced over her wearily as she set her mug down with a shaky hand. The yellow tag of a teabag swung from the cup. Ginger tea, to help with nausea. Her mother turned her gaze to Taryn. "Taryn, yes? Thank you for calling us."

"Of—" Taryn glanced over at Camren. "Of course."

"And for sending her home. We'll see you around town."

They exchanged meaningless goodbyes. She felt Taryn trying violently to catch her gaze a last time, but her cheeks were burning too hot for her to look up from the ground. Taryn gave Shiye a final forced smile before dipping out of the house.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Shiye brushed past her in his haste to reach the kitchen, expression obscured behind his mess of dark hair.

Her mother retained her strong figure from her hunting days, but the simmering rage that made her hands shake and the shadows in the dim lighting made her look almost frail. "Do you at least have a fine cut of meat to show for your troubles? Maybe we could share it and I'll remember all the various...perks of wrestling wildebeests with your bare hands, and all will be forgiven."

Camren's stomach churned. She let the silence stretch on, hearing only the tinkling of a spoon against ceramic as Shiye stirred away at some drink in the kitchen.

"Camren?" she probed.

Shiye emerged, steaming mug in hand, and tentatively placed it on the table at Camren's usual seat, then drew back and hovered behind her mother. Sensing the thrumming in the air, he glanced at Camren protectively, as though waiting to step in if tension broke.

With Shiye in the room, her mother's expression faltered, and her voice quivered as she spoke. "I don't have to tell you why I don't want you in the woods."

Camren glanced up and saw that Shiye's expression had turned shadowy and dark. His throat bobbed as he looked away, a sickness crossing his face as though he were suddenly unwell.

Her mother composed herself and turned towards him. "Go to your room, Shiye."

Sparing one last worried look at Camren, he obliged. The door closed behind him.

Camren's mother turned back towards her and lowered her voice. "The walls here are thin, and I do not wish to scream at you about your uncle's passing in the presence of his son."

"Good idea."

She slammed her mug down on the table. "Then don't do things that provoke me. I was lucky enough that chupacabra didn't kill me, but you might just kill me yourself. Are you crazy?"

Camren's cheeks heated. "If dangling myself like bait for money makes me crazy, then sure. I might be, a little bit."

"Then I rest my case. You are insane."

Camren's chest heaved. She laughed, truly feeling like she was, indeed, losing her mind. She wanted to run. She wanted to run until her lungs gave out and her legs crumbled beneath her. The oppressive inevitability of Idle drove her in circles, and she wanted nothing more than to drive out of it until the roads around her were no longer imprinted in her mind stone for stone. If a monster didn't get to her first, living the same day over and over till she was eighty would kill her sooner. She told herself that she hated her night job, but there was something twisted inside her that drove her to the woods on scant hours of sleep, kept her eyes sharp as she hunted through the night. The town was defined by oddities, and she hated it so much by definition that she wanted to enter its heart to shoot and kill it over and over.

"It hasn't killed me yet," she said tersely.

Her mother snapped, "You get lucky. You hunt small beasts. You don't have a partner. Training. You use your gut. That works only to a point. You don't know what you're doing."

Camren gritted her teeth. "I've gotten as far as you did at twenty-two."

"Then good luck making it to thirty-five," she said, voice raised. A tense silence followed. It was a full minute before she spoke again. "You can be the best hunter in the world, but you can never outdo an accident. Your uncle learned that the hard way. For me, it was not much easier. If it doesn't matter to you that my heart is breakable, don't you dare put my nephew through this again."

Camren stared at her mother for a long moment. "I'll be in my room," she said, moving past her mother and throwing the bedroom door shut behind her. She threw her bag onto the floor and crumpled onto the bed, sending waves of pain through her body. Useless, useless, useless body.

The ceiling swimmed with stars, like the forest sky did as she lay in the grass with a canister resting against her foot scarcely a day before, and again as she bled out in the woods mere hours ago. A lifetime had passed between those events. She wanted to sleep. She hadn't slept in a while.

She didn't want to think. But her thoughts kept spinning.

Shiye had been nine, and then twelve when he lost his mother, too. Not quite the age to be angry at everything, like she had been at fifteen. There was a time when she wouldn't share anything with him—not feelings, time or candy. But she realised one day that she'd taken on her second job for both of them.

Just one more, she thought, deliriously. Just one more job. If she succeeded, she could go anywhere. And take him with her. Her parents, too, if they wanted. All the various...perks of wrestling wildebeests with her bare hands. She wanted to laugh. "You shouldn't have done that, but good job," she imagined them saying. "Don't get us wrong, we disapprove of your methods, but your offer is too great to decline. You have done us a great service, Camren." Right now, she could scarcely manage to get anywhere herself, but if the deal with Bochner went through...she could do anything.

Just one more job, she thought, sinking into sleep. I'll survive this one more time.