"Seb, I swear on God's name, if you break your spine for real, I'm painting your whole chair yellow and putting a 'Caution: Idiot Driving' sign on the back," hollers Rose down the length of the tobogganing hill.
"The doc said I did well with exercise," Sebastian hollers back, with all the wild abandon of one currently engaged in the construction of a toboggan chain six sleds long. I cover my mouth so Rose won't hear my stifled laughter. This was my sister's project to start, but anyone who knows both Brooklyn and Sebastian should have guessed this would be the outcome from the moment they collaborated.
At least Sebastian isn't wrong. He can army crawl now, thanks at least in part to a winter of shenanigans including but not limited to rolling around in the snow and playing tug-o-war with Jeriah's family's dog, Penny. The Redding had the grace—or made the mistake—of leaving him with half sensation and very limited mobility from the waist down. He'll never walk again. But tobogganing is not off the table.
"Doctor Fung will have just as many words for you as I will," hollers Rose.
"I love you!"
"If you break a leg, you're still on for dinner tonight!"
It's a lost cause, but that was never the point. With a final cheery wave from Sebastian, the toboggan chain creeps over the crest of the hill and zooms off in a cloud of shrieks and pale pink snow. The Redding, even inert, is taking some time to flush out of the water system. It's lighter than salt water, but not fresh, so it's been making its way to the ocean slowly. Back to where it came from. In the meantime, it's stained all overland precipitation for months already. Even the clouds are pink sometimes.
Rose grumbles, but waits long enough to make sure the pulley system is working properly before she strides back towards the house. I rejoin Ditzy at the top of the pulley. My sister is booking it up the hill towards us, scrambling on all fours when the snow sends her down. It would be easier if she didn't insist on carrying her snow saucer instead of towing it behind her, but who am I to judge the safety of icy hillsides?
Brooklyn arrives in front of us flushed and panting. "Hi, T. Hi Ana," she says, then hollers down the hill, "Ready!"
Sebastian settles himself in the pulley cart—a sled done up with a backrest facing uphill. "Bombs away!"
"Bye, T. Bye, Ana!"
Brooklyn clips the rope to the dog-walking belt she appropriated from somewhere, leaps into the saucer, and careens back down the hill. She and Sebastian high-five on his way up at the other end of the pulley. Ditzy helps him out at the top. He's got his favorite towing-sled in hand, and transfers to it as Brooklyn, Patrick, Jeriah, my grandfather, my aunt, J's dad, and an assortment of cousins arrive at the top of the hill in front of us. They grab Seb's shoulders and storm away, whooping, back towards the toboggan run. Penny bounds after them. She's been having the time of her life dashing up and down the hill after all of her favorite people. Seb's in good hands.
"Did you catch any internet?" says Ditzy as she returns once again to her spot beside me. Snow poofs around her as she plops down.
"A little. Enough to check."
"And?"
"Well, we think they're transferring all programs to Devonshire State University further inland, but that's just speculation at this point. They say it'll be another year before any post-secondary from around the coasts is up and running again. 'Sincere apologies' and all that."
Ditzy snorts. "Didn't they have to replace one hundred percent of their staff at the coastals?"
"I'm pretty sure they're getting hit harder by their antique administrative processes than that, actually. They say they're staffed already."
She does a mock double-take. "Wait, you mean you might be selecting courses off an actual website next year, not a spreadsheet that they email around with a 'sincere apology' because half your first-year requirements are unsearchable on the school portal?"
"I know, right? Luxuries of the twenty-first century."
"The irony that the whole internet will make it back up before the university administrative system does."
"Oh, speaking of that. I have something for you inside."
Ditzy always looks cute when she frowns. "For right now? Or for later?"
"It can be later."
That's an unspoken agreement. The weather is gorgeous, crisp and cold and sunny, with a brilliantly blue sky that seems intent on holding its color as long as possible against the advance of evening. It's been cloudy all week, until last night's dump of snow. Ditzy settles back in her snow-chair. Another collective scream goes up as the toboggan chain departs. It's up to eight sleds now. The group has picked up my mother and several more cousins, and seems to be going for a record.
"Patrick seems happy," says Ditzy, breaking the silence. "He didn't strike me as someone who'd like crowds."
"We have the fun kind of crowd."
"True."
I'm pretty sure that's what made the difference. Patrick took a long time to acclimate to living with my family and Ditzy, because of course my mother adopted them both before she even she heard their stories. It was months before Patrick could stop freezing any time a dad, granddad, or uncle called for him, or any time someone put a hand on his shoulder, or any time a door slammed. He's told us the person who pushed him off the bridge in Chesnet was his half-brother, and that his dad was a rich banker in Chesnet's uptown east side, but he hasn't said much else. Which is fine, really. He can say however much he's comfortable disclosing. I think having us all around helps, at least. And Seb. They've become friends.
I know Patrick wants to reconnect with his mother eventually. She's on the opposite side of the globe and they've only met twice, but planes aren't back yet anyway, so the longevity of any visit is a question and answer for a future time. At least he's tracked her down online and confirmed she's still alive. That alone is something of a miracle.
Ditzy seems content to let whatever remains of her extended family believe she's dead. She hasn't told me much about them. I haven't asked.
"Alright, I'm getting cold," says Ditzy. "See if they need any help with supper?"
"It's J, his dad, and Seb on tonight."
"Ah. So stay clear of the kitchen, then."
"Seb's not opposed to rolling over toes if someone gets in his way or opens the oven too early. And Leandro's named his favorite spatula Slappy the Battleaxe, Protector of Batter. Just saying."
"You said you had something for me on the other end of the house?"
I burst out laughing. "Meet me in the loft."
We unstick ourselves from our snow-seats and tromp back to the house together. It's big. Big enough for several families, and for Seb to have everything a person could need on the first floor alone. The hallways alone are six feet wide. The place belonged to my grandparents' neighbors once. They were nice people, but they were on vacation somewhere coastal when Red Thursday hit, and, well, the coasts are kind of gone now. The Redding came up from the sea like it rose in San Fel. At least we were right that it was only after us there.
Anyway, we took the house. "We're just keeping it warm for them," my grandfather says, which we all know is a lie. My grandparents woke up seven miles from their farm next door after we put the Redding to sleep. Apparently, they marched home that same day, rounded up the animals, and got both this place and theirs in order before my grandmother started mucking with the radio in search of other signs of life. By the time we arrived at my parents' place, they'd cleared out with a note to come to grandma and grandpa's. We rolled up the driveway to find half my extended family and several neighbors sitting around a fire in lawn chairs—shelling beans, seeding sunflowers, and gossipping about telecommunications monopolies taking over the world.
We found Jeriah's family shortly after. We "planned" to leave him there with an open invitation to join us on the farms, but anyone who knew him or met his family knew the answer before the question was asked. His mom walked into the bedroom in the middle of the conversation and started packing.
"What are you doing, love?" her husband asked, laughing.
"You can stay here if you like," she replied, poking her head back out the bedroom door. She flicked a shirt dramatically and folded it. "I'm going."
We helped them pack while Rose and Sebastian took the van to go track down their respective families. By the time they got back, both the van and the wheelchair they'd picked up for Seb had racing stripes. Black, white, and red, obviously. Seb dubbed his chair the Death Cookie Drag Racer, or Deco for short. When you're coping with being newly near-paraplegic, apparently it helps to have a sense of humor.
A fire blazes in the house's gigantic central hearth as Ditzy and I peel off our outdoor clothing and add our boots to the boot-forest taking root along the left-hand wall. Rose is curled up with a book in the living room, where my grandmother and uncle are comparing knitting designs for what looks suspiciously like a chicken-shaped tea cozy. Ditzy runs to grab dry clothes while I retrieve the thing we finally got enough electricity to print this morning. Checking university start dates wasn't the only reason I was on the internet.
I edge into the loft a few minutes later with a sheaf of papers and a small box hidden behind my back. Ditzy gives me a suspicious-but-interested-but-definitely-suspicious look that's so cute on her, I can't help but grin.
"Close your eyes," I say.
She does, and holds out a hand with a hair-toss that would do a pop star proud.
I lay the things on her palm. "Open your eyes."
She does, and gasps. She's gotten into adult coloring books since life went back to "normal," but ran out last month and has been moping about it. The pages I found online are a mix of Eyjarskeggi and Goth aesthetics: graveyards, ghosts, stained glass of gruesome historical scenes, two ships, and a full-sized dragon, all awaiting color. Ditzy leafs through them with lips parted in an unspoken oh that's all the thanks I need. But she hasn't gotten to the best part yet.
She picks up the box with a questioning look. I stick my hands in my lap and grin. She opens it.
"Oh, you are terrible," she says.
I burst out laughing.
"How many boxes did you raid for this? What child will steal back-to-school supplies and have to suffer without a marker in any shade of red? I love you so much."
"You're welcome," I say, and accept her kiss.
Ever since she picked up the hobby, I've noticed her coloring significant parts of her drawings in shades of red. Probably processing something, to be honest. Either way, she's burned through every red marker she can get her hands on, plus most red pencil crayons, too. I did indeed raid a school supplies aisle for these. Specifically in a big box store that's dragged its feet so badly on supporting former employees, it's been embroiled in local politics since November. The store itself has remained closed, and thus open for scavengers. I am not sorry. "Keep digging."
I hid a surprise in one of the markers. Ditzy, true to form, tests each one as she pulls them out, making small noises of excitement at their shades. It doesn't take her long to reach the one that thunks suspiciously in her hand. Her frown returns. She uncaps the marker and yelps as a thin rod of metal shoots out, landing in her lap. She picks it up. "You didn't."
"My grandpa says he'll teach you. That's your starter pack. He's got the iron."
It's a rod of solder. Ditzy still sleeps with her flail beside her pillow, but time and use have loosened its makeshift structure. If she's going to keep it, I've figured she might as well fix it properly
"Oh," she says, jumping up. "I've got something for you, too. Stay here."
She bounds out of the room, and returns with something behind her back. "Close your eyes."
I do, and my heart skips two beats at the familiarity of the thing she drops in my palm. Right down to the jingle it makes when I close my fingers around it.
"You found it?" I gasp. I don't even need to open my eyes to know what I'm holding. I feel over it. "No... you found another one."
"Best I could do. Eldritch tsunamis don't like giving back small trinkets, unfortunately."
I open my eyes. I lost my lucky shark keychain in that final Redding attack. I searched my pockets after, and it wasn't there anymore. A newer, less worn copy now rests in my palm. I'd forgotten how bright its colours used to be.
"Hasn't used up all its luck yet," says Ditzy. "For next time."
It's my turn to kiss her back. "If there's a next time, I'm moving to the desert. Let's go find the others. I promised Patrick a tour of the chicken hutch before it got dark."
"Last one there's chopped Redding."
Our laughter echoes off the walls as we race each other downstairs. I'm not the most qualified to be giving a tour of the chicken hutch, but I'm qualified enough, and I really don't care. I'd trade all competence for an evening spent with friends anyway, while the sun sets outside and paints shades of black, white, and Redding-pink across our recovering world.
Looking for more? I couldn't stop here, so there's bonus content coming soon. So much bonus content. Just turn the page!