The little bird defecates like clockwork, one more step in an automated dance: walk walk walk pause, inspect, walk walk, drop, leap back into flight.
The Ad Hoc catches it out of the air with a kind of mechanical gentleness: its hands are like steel, Rita knows, but she’s sure the bird isn’t bruised. Yet. It doesn’t cry out, just tries to watch its captor with one eye, then the other.
“A decision,” says the Ad Hoc flatly.
Nearby, a white moth flutters around, resembling nothing more than a paper circle caught in the wind. The Ad Hoc opens its hand.
They still don’t have their eyes open, though a couple of determined explorers have managed to escape the basket and go wandering, nose-first. Rusty collects them and dumps one back in the blanket-heap. Then he tosses the other gently upward, grabs the Slugger and connects nicely, right on the sweet spot. There’s an explosive squeak. Then there isn’t.
“Rusty,” muses Blythe as she takes the bat, “you ever think maybe dogball is kinda mean?”
“Less cruel than drowning ’em,” says Rusty, and spits. “You’re up.”
Blythe shakes her head, picks up the next one, and sends her to deep right center.
The inside of the bathroom door handle is wet, and Trilby feels his nose wrinkle in disgust as he exits. Sure, it’s clean water. In theory. But what about those who just run their hands under the tap for appearances? And what about those bacteria that laugh at triclosan–they must love swimming around in those clammy drops, just waiting for the next unsuspecting hand! Is it really such a big deal to hit the hot-air dryer button and–
Suddenly, Trilby notices Edwin looking at him. He blinks. “Er,” he says, “did I say that out loud?”
“No,” says Edwin. “What?”
“Thou mayest make good on the wager.”
“That’s wrong. That can’t be right! Who decided that order?”
“As a duchess to a baroness, so a flush to a straight. The former outranks the latter by tradition and convention–if not, in this case, God’s will.”
“Screw tradition and convention!”
“It is also recorded on yon parchment: the rules to which we agreed. A merest glance would confirm it.”
“It doesn’t make sense. If I’d known, I would have–”
“I will wait as patiently as is necessary. Make good, milady.”
Sighing, but secretly smiling, Vivian reaches up to undo her bra.
“Did you have trouble with my email, sir?” she asks, adjusting her headset on her squashed ear.
“I uh. I got that, here’s what… I still can’t… log on.” He pronounces that last with a foreigner’s careful emphasis.
“And you made sure your caps lock was off?”
“No, I hadn’t.”
“Okay, could you do that and then type your password?”
“Sure.”
Pause.
“Sir? It’s working?”
“Oh,” he says, “I thought you’d help me out there.”
Vicki breathes carefully. “Turn the caps lock off–”
“I know!” There’s desperation in his voice. “You gonna tell me how to do that or not?”
Introductions all around and hearty laughter, set to something pleasantly wandery–Davis? Coltrane? Maybe both.
Sylvia notices a man moving with an odd hesitation and cocks an eyebrow at Addie.
“Vincent,” Addie whispers in return. “He was cut in half by a samurai last Tuesday, but the blade was so sharp and the swordsman so skilled that he hasn’t yet slid into two pieces. I think he’s just trying to get used to life this way. Vincent!” She raises her voice at that last. “Come meet Sylvia!”
“A pleasure,” he says in a mellow baritone, smiling. His handshake is very gentle.
She knows his ears are undamaged, because he flinches at the slamming door. Yet he doesn’t speak, or look up at speech; he seems to have forgotten how to listen.
Usually Maya takes her strays to the hospital when she’s done what she can, but this boy’s different. His wounds cannot be seen. Medicine isn’t what he needs.
Maya resigns herself to some of her oldest remedies. She gives him a quiet cot and begins to work with time and a spoon, clearing the filth from his lungs and reminding his blood of life: honey and onions, then hot spiced wine.
Inside the hood it’s difficult to track time, and Mateo wills himself not to count the cycles of the truck’s heavy sway. He knows better. Counting’s how they get you.
Without sight, without hearing, he’s learning his other senses. The hood smells of sour sweat and fear. His naked feet on the truck floor feel enormous, every touch magnified: he follows one indentation, slowly, cautiously–touches something.
It’s another foot. Both hesitate, but neither withdraws from the strange intimacy. Mateo is silent; he wants to weep. They are not alone, and he knows that in that moment, they love each other.
“Hey, handsome,” coos Lorelei. “Been waiting for me all day?”
He doesn’t respond.
“I like that,” she coos, crawling into bed.
He refrains from speech.
“I missed you,” she whispers, stroking his chest. “Missed you a lot.”
He yet remains silent. This is unsurprising. He doesn’t, after all, have a head.
Lorelei probably couldn’t say when she fell for his department-store good looks, and certainly couldn’t say why. But she can go on about how she’s so lucky; how they’re perfect for each other; how, when she’s apart from him, she pines for her perfect, sculpted 372-T/N and his styrofoam caress.
Roxanne plays with the ice in her drink. She’s in a bar tonight. No, a tapas bar.
The bartender comes up to hmm. Do they have those in tapas bars? Anyway, a guy comes up to her and leans over her table. His nails are trimmed neatly; his shirt is olive. No, maroon.
She looks up from her gin and Coke to what? Why not? Fine. She looks up from her Jack and Coke, following the olive sleeve up to the glowing point of his cigarette–or no, it’s in his other hand. Up to…
Okay, wait. I’m trying to remember.