#Exodus Prologue

[exodus-au]

Prologue - Sky's escape

The story begins - Sky escapes the Hylian nebula.

(1215 words)

“Come on you damn ship plot the coordinates already…” His hands danced over the controls in front of him. Trained hands and eyes dodging and weaving through black sparks of energy as the ship spiralled through the space in front of him. The yellows that danced across his viewfinder slowly faded as he forced his ship further and further into the dark of the expanse.

“Master” A familiar chime across his implant echoed through his mind as Fi sprung to life. “I detect hull damage; our attackers appear to be targeting your engines.” Her voice was cool and collected as she had been for so long. The calm in the torrent storm that was in his mind after allowing himself to be convinced by Sol to recon the planet.

A shot hit home, and he felt the impact force the ship forward ever so slightly. Sending his body forward, he flapped his wings to steady his footing before opening another panel. Allowing the command chamber to expand. Reds and blues danced through his vision as he lifted himself off the ground. Wings spread wind as anger erupted through his core. “Alright, You damn D3 assassin’s. Come here.

“Fi I’m commencing Symbiotic connection” With the press of a button on the controls, gold holographic feathers began to spiral around him.

They danced across his body as he could feel the controls of the ship echo through his soul. The ship was now his body. A symbiotic bond formed.

With a flap of his wings, he spun around and performed an aerial flip. The ship followed his movements as he closed the gap between himself and his attacker. Settling the ship behind him he raised an arm, forcing a feather into his palm as he went. Slashing it in front of him the ship followed his movements. Huge mechanical claws Slashed across the viewfinder as they cut into the Ship in front of him. Splitting it in half as he rose, forcing the ship to rise with him. Before releasing the control for the weapons and forcing the ship to accelerate instead.

His head began to throb.

“Master you must release the symbiotic control.” Fi’s voice echoed through his head again.  As he continued to push through the throbbing in his head. “You are unable to maintain that state for long.”

Don’t remind me…

“They are trying to stop me from escaping.” He flapped his wings again, the ship steadily increasing in its acceleration as he continued to dodge fire from his now less-of-a-problem group of attackers.  “They are trying to box me in.”

His eyes scanned the dark expanse of space moving his body left then right, dodging and weaving the laser fire as he continued ever onward. The comforting yellows fading out to deep black and purple.

“I know master. But you must stop.” Her voice seemed more insistent. “Go back to standard controls.”

Nope… He looked over to the controls again. The SC Drive wasn’t fully charged but it would be soon. Another impact forced the ship to lurch again, the sudden movement in the space around him forced him to the ground. Sending the ship into a free dive as he attempted to stand.

“Master. Maintaining full symbiotic control over the ship while you also must do so for your wings will lead to exhaustion. You risk your life by continuing this course of action.” Her steady voice the sound of reason in his mind as emotions rocked through him.

His head hurt… His eyes stung.

His eyes flashed over the controls one by one. “Can't lead him to the fleet…” He was trapped, he would die and he would fail and his people would die. “Can’t take him to Skyloft…” His hands stilled as laser fire rocked the ship again. The throbbing in his head was more prominent.

“Master.”

He paused. Before releasing the feathers from his body. Allowing them to fade as he landed gently on the ground. One hand to the floor while the other held his head.

“Fi…”

“I have already taken limited control of the ship to allow you time to recover.”

“Sol said there was some sort of government on the other side of the expanse…” Standing he pulled up a map, allowing it to flicker to life as the sounds of explosions echoed through his ears. Spotting a collection of planets.

“Farore’s core… Farores core…” He hastily said as he opened up a panel. His hands shook. “I have to.. I have to.”

“Spiral charge drive almost charged Master Celestial Sphere.” Fi’s voice echoed through his head again. A wave of calm washed over his body as the lights of alarm bells rang through the ship. Warning lights and ship warnings echoed through the air.

“I told you to call me Sky…” He mumbled.

‘Fire detected in engine bay two.’

His head turned rapidly to the right before he scanned the control panel once again. It now flashing a shade of orange. “Then you better hurry it up, take power from other systems if you must I don’t know…”

He was cut off by the sound of an explosion. “Dammit!”

“Master, I detect multiple impacts. We can't take much more damage.”

‘Left hand wing integrity at 23%’

“I know… I know…” He worked over the controls faster entering final coordinates as a green nebula appeared on the viewfinder. And a marker indicating the planet. Or at least he hoped it was a planet. Appeared.

“Master coordinates set for Farore’s core. Spiral charge core online, we must depart the Hylian nebula if we are to survive.”

“Then let's get out of here!” With the wave of his hand he opened the system to confirm the jump. Thumping it with his fist. It flashed green twice, then a voice sounded over the internal ship systems.

‘Spiral charge launching, destination Castle, Farore’s core.’

“I’ll come back my rising sun, We’ll take back bolt from Demise. We have too…”

The viewfinder stretched the stars as they began to spiral around his vision. Forming a tunnel which the ship hurried through. The sounds of laser fire fading to the stars as he felt the tunnel close behind them.

He released the breath he was holding as the alarms continued to flare.

‘Fire detected in engine bay four’

“Fi! Send a distress call to the nearest planet when we exit. I don’t think I’m going to be awake for.”

CRASH

The ship lurched, throwing the Skyloftian from his pedestal. The he registered the crack of something as he hit the steel walls. He could hear alarms as the world around him spun. A warm substance dripped down the side of his face. He could feel his wings had become detached… The remainders of the mounting device in pieces besides him.

Fi… He tried to call through the noise.

‘Warning spiral charge core offline, course not completed, planetary destination changed’

That wasn’t good…

‘Warning, engines two and four are offline, unable to course correct.’

Prepare for emergency declaration procedures.

Deceleration procedures failed.

Collision imminent

‘Fire in engine bays four through seven.’

Fi… I… need… cover…

Collision imminent

‘Hull damage in sectors one seven and nine.’

Fi… help…

Collision imminent

‘Life support systems on emergency power’

Collision imminent

Fi…

And his world went dark.

[benirium]

[Двенадцать]

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Боги и Герои

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I

12-й день 7-й луны

Что если легенда правдива?

Это был необычный вопрос. Его обсуждение быстро запретили при дворах и в соборах Дельфинада. В тавернах же запрет был проигнорирован в угоду дешёвым балладам, вульгарным рассказам и монетам, заполняющим чаши голодных и безнадёжных. Но для нас, двенадцати друзей с двенадцатью причинами найти колыбель мира, это стало навязчивой идеей. Когда наши ноги последуют за нашими сердцами на Север, к горной цепи Ирама, было лишь вопросом врем��ни. К горам, таившим гибель для всех нас.

Уже три горных пика позади. Мы измучены и обезображены. Льдинки свисают с наших волос и носов, плотно покрывая кожу над впалыми щеками. Здесь нет таких удобств, как кровать или стол: только лёд, снег и бесконечные скалы.

Что если легенда правдива?

Разве надеяться — так уж глупо? Если мы найдём первоисточник всей магии, на что придётся пойти ради обретения его силы?

Я читаю вопросы в глазах своих товарищей. В их голодных глазах. Им явно становится интересно, какова плoть ферре на вкус, и сколько аппетитного мяса можно соскоблить с рёбрышек нашего астры.

Одна из нас особенно заставляет меня тревожиться: Орхидна — любопытная сущность, скрывающаяся в теле ребёнка. Вот только если бы она обладала детским взглядом или ребяческим задором... Но нет. Это всё то же существо, которого сторонились в Дельфинаде, идущее навстречу величайшему приключению в своей жизни так же безучастно, как и по улицам города, где девочка проводила целые дни.

Орхидна — живое напоминание мысли: что если легенда — правда? И что если ожидания нас обманывают?

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II

21-й день 7-й луны

Горы и их леденящий мороз остались позади. Как и испещрённая трещинами, словно мозаикой, долина Ирама — горячая и сухая, будто погребальный костёр. Спустя несколько суток пути у нас возник вопрос: неужели мы выжили в условиях сурового холода лишь для того, чтобы задохнуться от жары? Со временем дюны уступили место почве, а та — диким лесам. Странные (дышащие?) растения, казалось, наблюдают за нашим путешествием. Некоторые хлестали по нашему оружию и частям тела, оставляя кpoвавые рубцы, пока наше странное дитя — да, именно она! — не нашла способ утолить их жажду.

Наконец воздух пропитался магией: мы подобрались к её источнику — раскрытой пасти огромного кратера, месту рождения мира. Его бездонная тьма поглотила брошенный нами факел — глубины бездны, укрытые туманом, отозвались жутким завыванием. Неважно. Мы знали легенду. Знали, где найти древние, ветхие ступени, огибающие стены пропасти. Ослеплённые изумлением и восторгом, мы направились вниз.

Шли дни. На осыпающихся стенах появились узловатые корни. Мы рубили и сжигали их, чтобы пройти дальше — всё ниже, всё глубже. Постепенно корни сменились тёмной, липкой поверхностью, словно светящейся изнутри. Когда лестница вывела на твёрдую землю, перед нами предстали останки тех, кто приходил до нас. Трудно описать, что те из себя представляли: лоскутное одеяло из фрагментов тел и кpoвавыx пятен. Пока мы пытались определить источник опасности, те из нас, кому было что терять, безуспешно призывали к отступлению. Вместо этого, оказавшись по пояс в груде человеческих кocтей, мы попарно ринулись вперёд под аккомпанемент треска ребёр и скрежета черепов.

Почти невесомая Орхидна, шаркая по осколкам, держала в руке фонарь, за светом которого, в свою очередь, следовал я. Она напоминает мне — гораздо чаще, чем хотелось бы, — что колыбель всего мира для нас может стать могилой.

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III

Хаос...

Первый из нас пал. Наша загадочная танцовщица. Она была молода, красива и искусна, но её грация не могла помочь в бою с драконами. Когда мы наконец победили чудищ, нам было не до торжеств... или траура. Выяснилось, что чудаковатое дитя исчезло, и нам пришлось отправиться дальше, кое-как похоронив Наиму.

Мы двинулись по следу Орхидны и вскоре обнаружили её у скрытого прохода — та встретила нас глазами, полными удивления: каким-то образом она нашла врата. Арку украшала причудливая резьба, а необычный, внушительный глиф пульсировал магией на стыке дверных створок. Чем дольше мы смотрели, тем притягательнее он казался, тем прекраснее жизнь обещал в новом мире. Улыбнувшись впервые за много месяцев, Орхидна, не колеблясь, провела рукой по поверхности.

...И безумие.

Гром сотряс воздух, когда глиф, полыхая, ожил. Дверь на петлях отворилась, залив комнату ярким голубым светом. Только тогда мы заметили витой трон напротив входа — и волшебное существо, расположившееся в нём. Орхидна приблизилась — и фея, мерцая, поднялась с трона, пристально глядя на девочку. Осторожным шёпотом она спросила, наступил ли Конец света. Орхидна вздрогнула. Она посмотрела в мою сторону, но на этот раз у меня не нашлось слов.

Во время этой неловкой паузы фея объяснила, что была назначена Привратником до самой гибeли этого мира — либо до момента, когда кто-нибудь займёт её место. Прежде, чем мы обрели дар речи, существо исчезло, оставив Орхидну ревущей от ужаса. Совершенно неестественным образом ноги девочки будто сами повели её к трону и усадили на его холодную, непроницаемую поверхность.

Мир замкнулся.

Это было ужасно. Мы потеряли одного спутника и обременили другого. И всё же надежда есть. Ворота открыли путь к центру мира — к Саду, что хранит источник всей магии. Должна существовать сила, способная вызволить Орхидну из её нового дома и темницы. Мы поклялись отыскать средство среди чудес, спрятанных внутри.

После отдыха мы разделились, сказав Орхидне (и себе), что поиски займут не больше дня...

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IV

Говорят, время притупляет память, что его последний подарок — это потеря потерь. Хотел бы я согласиться.

Тысяча лет прошла с тех пор, как мы достигли врат, но эти воспоминания со мной и по сей день. Я остановился на нашей экспедиции, Орхидне и её связи с троном стража. Я помню горечь, подступавшую к горлу, когда мы оставили её кричащей, умоляющей нас не уходить. Один за другим мы пообещали вернуться с чарами, которые позволят освободить её. Потом мы прошли сквозь врата, через несколько мгновений оказавшись разлучёнными и потерянными в одиночестве.

Время кружилось водоворотом, и века проносились мимо, унося жизни смeртных. Отыскав, наконец, дорогу назад, мы принесли с собой могущество, пугавшее своей безграничностью. Кому-то были дарованы способности героев, иные превратились в богов. Нашлось место и обидам: плоды соперничества и зависти вызревали сотни лет. Мы любили и ненавидели. Развязывали войны и проливали кровь, используя силы, которые едва могли понять. Мы походили на детей, играющих с первозданной магией, и невинные страдали за каждую нашу ошибку. Джину повезло меньше всех: наш бывший лидер стал Кириосом — богом cмeрти, сеявшим разрушения в мире.

Хотя девятеро из нас противостояли ему — некоторые мощью, сопоставимой с его, — мы не смогли сохранить старый континент. Не спасли Орхидну. Не уберегли и милую Нуи, заплатившую своей жизнью за избавление народов.

Теперь будущее туманно. Союзы смeртных готовятся к предстоящим битвам, и некоторые из нас планируют помочь им. Пока другие живут легендами и блаженными воспоминаниями, где время застыло на месте, мне нравится представлять рождение новых героев. Героев, что исправят наши ошибки и найдут тех, кого мы покинули, — именно они направят нас в светлую эпоху.

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{ К Содержанию }

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

[discord-lurking]

Dungeons and Daddies Wiki Drama: A Greek Tragedy Told through the Medium of Forum Posts (Part 1)

Prologue

Greek tragedies are typically formatted in three or more acts interspersed with choral interludes, beginning with a prologue, and ending with an exodus. In these, protagonists often meet their downfall due to their fatal flaw, or hamartia: the ways in which the protagonists are their own undoing. Our own human failings are the things that bring us the most pain.

When considering a three-act Greek tragedy structure for this, my first thought was to use the Oresteia as a framing device, a trilogy of plays written by Aeschylus about Agamemnon's family in the aftermath of the Trojan War. Upon reflection, though, the themes of the Oresteia (revenge vs. justice, perpetuating a cycle of violence, honor and punishment) didn't quite fit the story I was trying to tell.

No, this is a classic tale of hubris: excessive pride and its ultimate downfall.

After all, what position could come with more power than that of wiki moderator for a Dungeons and Dragons podcast series?

Act One: The Beginning of the End

The D&Dads wiki has historically been... unhelpful, at best. (Source: Myself.) Trouble had been brewing for a long time.

Forum posts from spring 2022 began noting issues cropping up around the wiki. First, it was a complaint about anonymous users "disrupting" the wiki (specifically on Jodie-related pages) while also fixing mistakes in articles.

I'm unsure what specific "disruptions" were meant, but the proposal to ban anonymous users didn't garner much traction.

March 21st, 2022:

After little activity for months (only one forum post, related to infoboxes), wiki user TwoRatner had a radical proposition: wiki migration.

December 17th, 2022:

TwoRatner suggested an alternate platform that would have different editing options, then made a potentially-prophetic statement: the wiki might be cursed.

This warning went unheeded.

December 27th, 2022:

Ten days after the migration suggestion, TwoRatner came back to ask if there were any recent changes. This went unanswered for months until new user Penguinwithafancytophat reported adding art to character pages (including Glenn, a main season 1 character since the start of the podcast in 2019, who incredibly might not have had any official art on his wiki page before March of 2023).

Spring of 2023 seemed to bring along a revival of the wiki, with new editors coming in, engaging with the forum, and attempting to make suggestions on how to improve wiki organization.

March 31st, 2023:

May 27th, 2023:

July 17th, 2023:

October 2nd, 2023:

Interestingly, the only administrator seen to be interacting with these enthusiastic new editors? Gaycowboyrats. Let's put a pin in that.

Enter: the drama.

It started out simple enough- a forum posts for administrators to discuss changes that needed to be made.

November 3rd, 2023:

76 replies.

Seventy. Six. Replies. Each deeply interesting in its own way.

However, this is a Tumblr post, not an Hbomberguy video essay, so I'll keep it brief.

The discussion started out as one might expect a wiki admin discussion to start:

Mods discussed blocks, deleting stub pages, spam, etc. Standard wiki business.

The first reply to ping my interest:

Removing cast pages from a wiki about their work seemed like an odd decision, in my non-wiki-editor opinion, but the last line is what really stuck out: "Besides, I hate the idea of someone vandalizing the pages to defame them."

Several questions arose for me:

Was this a known problem? Were people constantly vandalizing cast pages?

Would a vandalized fandom wiki page really defame somebody?

Isn't the point of wiki editing to remove vandalization on articles?

The administrators began to stand out to me as deeply invested in a very specific sense of wiki justice.

Users TwoRatner, Brazil86, and TheOneTrueGod41 agreed with Honic's take.

Another thing to ping my interest: these users seemed to share a similar odd, slightly stilted, writing style. Almost Tommy Wiseau-esque.

Brazil86 expressed optimism about users engaging with wiki pages, something that would begin to set them apart from other administrators.

As I read, themes began to emerge: wiki justice, and incongruous one-liners.

Quoth Honic Washington: "I just found a wave of nonsense fish. My backyard is full of them. Hey, TOTG41, do you like jazz? I like jazz."

Truly, modern poetry.

Administrator Marth8204 suggested giving people more time. More time for what? Unclear. It seems a plan was afoot.

TwoRatner came in with a hot take: "I feel like we need a community more right now, than adding links that people can search for in the search bar."

Brazil86 agreed: Changing the navigation was less important than getting people editing and making friends.

Another theme began to emerge: wiki community as more important than wiki functionality.

Gaycowboyrats had some (incredibly reasonable) objections to this, pointing out that the wiki was a resource for many visitors who might not participate- something that is generally true of wikis as a form of content.

Honic Washington responded to this, the signs of wiki-related stress beginning to show.

Honic posts a long rant about the thankless task of moderating a wiki, which goes largely unacknowledged.

Notable TwoRatner quotes:

"You can't crack open a few omelets without punching a few egg-rolls."

"Now Freddie will get more money. What do you all say? I think I helped quite a bit."

Another theme emerges: discontent in the wiki moderator ranks.

Honic reaches full Joker mode. Again, this goes largely unacknowledged.

Honic: "I am leader. I am a painter! Keep your rules. Keep your status. Keep your friends."

"Keep your status"- words that will reverberate throughout the rest of this tale.

The final theme? Wiki moderator status, and the maintenance of it.

After Honic's bomb drop, conversation about regular wiki moderation continued, with mods considering the addition of a bot to make edits.

Admin Discussion Zone, first started by Honic Washington, ends not with a bang but with a whimper.

Over nearly a year of forum posts, patterns emerged.

Firstly- users attempting to engage in the wiki, wiki administrators not engaging with these new users, then wiki administrators bemoaning the lack of user engagement.

The notable exception was Gaycowboyrats, the only wiki administrator to engage with new users in the forums. Gaycowboyrats, the administrator whose (incredibly reasonable) suggestions ended with Honic Washington's villain-esque monologues and denouement as a moderator.

Secondly- administrators putting forth large-scale, drastic solutions to real or perceived wiki problems. This includes Cheesoid4 wanting to ban anonymous users, TwoRatner suggesting site migration, Honic deleting cast pages to prevent vandalism, and more to come.

Thirdly- wiki administrators seeming to share similar styles of speech and occasional non-sequiturs. Interestingly, this mainly seems to include the wiki administrators who agree with each other.

Funny how that happens.

Chorus

Stay tuned for Part 2, where the forum drama really starts to heat up.

[reanimatedheart]

Hello! Welcome to the official Reanimated Heart Tumblr.

(This Pinned is Under Construction. Still figuring out the tags...)

Reanimated Heart is a character-driven horror romance visual novel about finding love in a mysterious small town. There are three love interests with their own unique personalities and storylines. Play the demo on Itch now!

Content Warning: Reanimated Heart is an 18+ game! It contains dark subject matter such as violence and sexual content. Player discretion is advised.

This blog is ran by Jack, the creator.

Itch | Link Tree | Patreon | Twitter

Guidelines

My policy for fanwork is that anything goes in fiction, but respect my authority and copyright outside it. This means normal fan activity like taking screencaps, posting playthroughs, and making fanart/fanfiction is completely allowed, but selling this game or its assets isn't allowed (selling fanwork of it is fine, though).

Do not use Reanimated Heart for illegal or hateful content.

Also, I expect everyone to respect the Content Warnings on the page. I'm old and do not tolerate fandom wank.

F.A.Q.

Who are the main Love Interests?

Read their character profiles here!!

Who's the team?

Jack (creator, writer, artist), mostly. I closely work with Exodus (main programmer) and Claira (music composer). My husband edits the drafts, and my friend Bonny makes art assets. I've also gotten help from outsiders like Sleepy (prologue music + vfx) and my friend Gumjamin (main menu heart animation).

For VOs, Alex Ross voices Crux, Devin McLaughlin voices Vincenzo, Christian Cruz voices Black, Maganda Marie voices Grete, and Zoe D. Lee voices Missy.

Basically, it's mostly just me & outsourcing stuff to my friends and professionals.

How can I support Reanimated Heart?

You can pay for the game, or join our monthly Patreon! If you don't have any money, just giving it a nice rating and recommending it to a friend is already good enough. :)

Where do the funds go to?

100% gets poured back into the game. More voice acting, more music, more trailers, more art, etc. I also like to give my programmer a monthly tip for helping me.

This game is really my insane passion project, and I want to make it better with community support.

I live in the Philippines and the purchasing power of php is not high, especially since many of the people I outsource to prefer USD. (One time I spent P10k of my own money in one month just to get things.) I'll probably still do that, even if no money comes in, until I'm in danger of getting kicked out the street… but maybe even then? (jk)

What platforms will it be released in?

Itch and then Steam when it's fully finished. Still looking into other options, as I hear both are getting bad.

Will the game be free?

Chapter 1 will be free. The rest will be updated on Patreon exclusively until full release.

Are you doing a mobile version?

Yeah. Just Android for now, but it's in the works.

Where can I listen to the OST?

It is currently up on YouTube, Spotify, and Bandcamp!

Why didn't you answer my ask?

A number of things! Two big ones that keep coming up are Spoilers (as in, you asked something that will be put in an update) or it's already been asked. If you're really dying to know, check the character tags or the meta commentary. You might find what you're looking for there. :)

Tag List for Navigation

Just click the tags to get to where you wanna go!

[jo-harrington]

As Above, So Below - Series Masterlist

Van Helsing - Kas!Eddie/Fem!OC - Soulmates

This story is told from 2nd Person POV (you/your)

Minors DNI - This fic is for 18+ readers only.

Summary: In order to undo a centuries-long curse, you travel to Hawkins to defeat a great evil and close the gates to Hell once and for all. Unfortunately, you uncover many unsettling secrets including some about your lost love, Eddie Munson.

Warnings (in no particular order): Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut (Specifics Tagged in Chapters), Major and Minor Character Deaths, Violence, Gore, Body Horror, Blood, Manipulation, Transformation, Corruption, Religious Elements, Criticism of Religion, Biblical and Other Literary and Pop Culture References

This story is going to be EXTREMELY HEAVY to write, so I will not be putting out a posting schedule. Chapters will get posted as they are completed.

OC is of European/Italian-American descent on her father's side and her mother's side can be left up to interpretation. She is loosely Roman Catholic and you will see why I say loosely if you read. I will not be giving her a name, or any major physical descriptors if I can help it but her cultural identity is integral to this story.

Note: You do not need to have seen Van Helsing (2004) to understand the premise of this fic. You should, however, read the prequels.

Prequels: Heaven - Hell - Purgatory

Hymns of Heaven: A series of "additions" to the prequel timeline based on cryptid and monster requests. April 1984 Mothman - April 1984 Immortal Snail - May 1984 Splinter Cat - May 1984 Sully - June 1984 Chupacabra - July 1984 Will-o'-the-Wisp - August 1984 Manticore - August 1984 Frogman - September 1984 Fresno Nightcrawler - September 1984 Thunderbird/Horned Serpent - October 1984 The Kraken - Halloween 1984 Werewolf - December 1984 Freddy Kreuger - December 1984 The Guardians - Christmas Eve 1984 Loch Ness Monster - January 1985 Manananggal - April 1985 Oneiroi - Unknown in the UD Inner Monster - Unknown in the UD Nachzehrer

Related Blurbs: Limbo - Genesis

Gratia. Charitas. Solamen.

Prequel Playlist

Chapters: Prologue - Annunciation 1 - Illumination 2 - Descendió a los Infiernos 3 - Crucible 4 - Malum Malus 5 - Via Domus 6 - Revelation 7 - Exodus 8 - Miserere Mei 9 - Deus in Absentia 10 - Atonement 11 - Ab Aeterno

Series Playlist

Reader's Guide to AASB - A collection of references and Easter eggs that are made in the story.

Series Art All series art is commissioned by me from various fandom artists. Some art depicts the Knight and these depictions do look like me and will be noted as such. If you want to keep the illusion of a faceless Knight, please do not look at the artwork noted with (*).

*Eddie and the Knight on their First Date - by @boltedfruit *

*Eddie and the Knight and the Fresno Nightcrawler - by @doomcheese*

Hell Eddie - V2 feat. Knight's Intervention - by @lilithapril (TW: Blood/Gore)

Purgatory Eddie - by @dance-on-the-bones (TW: Blood)

Kas!Eddie - by @nightonblogmountain

*AASB Sketch Sheet - by @toomanyacorns* (TW: Blood)

Via Domus - Eddie and the Demobats - by @hearsegrrl

*AASB Sketch Sheet 2 - by @toomanyacorns * (TW: Blood)

The Gospel According to Mary Victoria - AASB as told from Mary Victoria’s perspective and a deep dive into her journey.

Book 1 - Book 2 - Book 3

This fic will not be for the faint of heart. Please check the above warnings and ask yourself if you are in the correct headspace to proceed. I am happy to answer any questions via PM or Ask.

Tag List: There will be no tag list for As Above, So Below.

[anathemafiction]

Inflation prices

Hosted Games is going to raise the price of all of their games on January 19th — it's been years, but it seems inflation has caught up with them. This won't affect newer releases much, like the Rose, but it may have a pretty substantial price increase in some of the older titles. 

The Golden Rose will go up 15% percent — so if you want to buy it, now's the time to do it! Outside of Steam sales, it'll never be this low price again.

However, some old gems will have bigger price changes, and I wanted to take this opportunity to shine some light on a few of my old favorite HG games. If the summaries interest you, give the free demos a try!

(I'll be linking the COG page, where you can find the links to Steam, Google Play, the App Store, and Amazon at the bottom of the screen).

Tin Star (50% price increase) — Step into the shoes of a US marshal in the old, wild west. It's a very big game, full of hard decisions and a great cast of characters (Preston, you cocky bastard, I love you). You can be a terrible person, a saint, or anything in between. 

Zombie Exodus (60% increase) — Try to survive a zombie apocalypse. There are dangerous missions to navigate, complicated power dynamics between survivors, and, of course, friends and lovers to remind you what it is you're fighting for. This is an old game, but it was one of the first IFs I read, and to this day the story and characters hold a special place in my heart. 

Zombie Exodus: Safe Haven (40%) — This one isn't really an old game, but I want to include it since the price increase is still substantial and, if you enjoy the first ZE, you will LOVE this. The author took everything from the first game and made it better. You can see how much he has improved. From customization (it's mind-blowing), to relationships, to writing atmospheres - I was legitimately scared in some parts! Plus, the different prologues are so good and... just try it! I adore this game so much. 

Way Walkers: University (40%) — Play as a student in a prestigious magic school. The magic system is super interesting, as is the world at large. But, by far, the best thing about this game and its sequel are the characters. It has one of my favorite ROs in any IF games, Semryu, and the way your friendship develops into a tentative romance is so well done. There's also mystery and tension, and I cannot wait for Book 3! 

Double/Cross (60%) — Okay, I'll admit: I don't remember a lot about this game. It's been years since I read it, but I do remember, however, really liking it! You work as a bodyguard for the richest man in England, and not everything is as it seems. I like it because it subverts your expectations, and when I got my "happy ending" I... did not feel happy at all. It's really interesting and not very long, so I encourage everyone to give it a try!

So, You're Possessed! (50%) — Oh, how to explain this game? You start as a pizza delivery person, and then you meet a demon and your life is thrown upside down. It's been years since I've played it but it has always remained a special little gem. I don't want to spoil the story too much, so just give it a try!

Evertree Inn (40%) — Again, not exactly old, but I think the price increase warrants it on the list. I also think most of you are familiar with the game and its sequels, but I want to mention it anyway. Solve a mystery in a secluded tavern and watch out for the murderer! You can play as a number of fantasy races — dwarf, elf, etc— and interact with a cast of colorful characters. It's just such a fun game, and it leads to a great adventure in the sequel. 

Fallen Hero: Rebirth (40%) — Okay, okay, I know. You all have the game already plus, it isn't technically "old". Well, may this serve as an announcement that Fallen Hero is about to get 40% more expensive, and if by some chance some of you haven't played it yet, you should absolutely do so now. The sequel is coming, and it's held as one of the best IFs ever published. A reputation that, in my opinion, is more than deserved. 

Happy reading! I hope you find at least one game that'll bring you joy.♡

[judjira]

in your loving arms (preview)

AN: a short prologue to pregnancy au, as well as an introduction to dahyun's character ! that's right baby we're tackling internalized homophobia (trigger warning!)

pairing: dajeonghyo

pregnancy au

wc: 1107

Honor your father and mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord, your God, is giving you.

Exodus, 20:12.

It runs through Dahyun’s mind like a freight train with each droplet of water that hits her body.

Her hands, clinging to her arms and hugging her body, do little to provide warmth from the cold of the rain.

It’s cold.

And all Dahyun is wearing are her pajamas, if they can even be called that. A baby blue XL shirt with a print of a duckling waddling through the rain, and gym shorts that barely reach her knees. Both of them hugging her form, and doing nothing to help her from the torrential downpour.

“H-Honor…your father and mother…” She murmurs.

It’s cold.

Dahyun’s not sure if it’s the rain, or the gaping void in her chest, sucking in every coherent thought from her mind, besides that verse.

The streets are empty at this time of night. The moon, usually a source of comfort for her, is nowhere to be seen among the dark and heavy clouds that loom over her.

Skyscrapers tower over her, the city so oppressive it crushes every semblance of her personal space, streets so squashed together to form a concrete maze she can never find her way out of.

Flickering streetlamp lights are the only thing that guide her way, on the cusp of breaking due to the rain.

It’s cold.

Until suddenly, she sees it.

A glimpse of light.

The city passes her by as her bare feet slap against the concrete, puddles of rain water barely slowimg her down.

It’s so close.

She runs, and runs, like the verse that runs through her mind, the only thing keeping every part of her together.

Her feet take her across the street.

There’s a flash of light, and for a moment, Dahyun thinks it’s a sign of the Most Holy, shining down upon her.

And then she hears the tires screech.

Ears ringing, she can do nothing but hold her hands up to her face, what once was holy light now blinding her to the point of pain.

For a moment, or two, all she can hear are her heart pounding, and the merciless rain against the concrete.

Then she hears the car door open.

“Jesus fucking Christ, watch where you’re—!”

The name makes her wince, used in vain.

Whoever they are, they’ve stopped, or maybe their words have gotten softer, because there is barely anything to be heard over the rain.

“What the fuck? Kim Dahyun?!”

She lowers her hands, slowly, tentatively. But the light still blinds her, and all she can see is a silhouette by the car door.

“Damn it, Jeongyeon, use an umbrella, there’s—!”

The other car door opens, but still Dahyun cannot see.

“Dahyun?!”

She’s shivering, she realizes. Hair flat against her head down to her back, a few strands getting in her face. She can barely even feel her own skin, only the pelting of raindrops. Her feet are numb, and only now that she stands still can she see blood being washed away from the ground where she stands.

There’s the sound of boots against concrete.

Then the rain stops.

She looks up, and standing next to her are two figures.

Familiar ones.

“Are you crazy?! You just ran out into the road out of nowhere?! You could have gotten yourself killed!”

Jeongyeon. Yoo Jeongyeon. Her senior. She hasn’t seen her in years.

“What’s the matter with you?!”

Jeongyeon is still loud. What little she’s gathered from their sparse conversations in the past is that Jeongyeon is loud, aggressive, scary. It still holds true now.

“Jeongyeon! Look at her! She’s clearly in distress!”

Jihyo. Park Jihyo. Her senior. She’s seen her only once in recent times.

“Dahyun, what are you doing out here? There’s a storm out, it’s not safe.”

Big, worried eyes stare into her, and it’s only when they blink that Dahyun realizes she’s being addressed.

“I…”

Her mouth fails to continue, an anchor in her chest stopping her from speaking.

“Never mind, we can talk about that later. Come into the car.”

Jihyo was always nice. Even if everything about her alluded to the contrary.

“Wha-?! Ji, are you serious?!”

“Jeongyeon! Come on!”

Dahyun processes Jihyo running back to the car, jacket over her head.

Then she processes an arm hooking into her elbow, gentle, delicate, and caring.

“Alright, fine, let’s go.”

The voice that ushers her to the side of the car is the opposite.

The car door opens, Dahyun sits down, and the car door closes.

Heat, warmth, and some semblance of comfort are given to her only then.

Her clothes drench the seat, water pooling around her as the driver’s seat door slams shut.

“Fuck, that was scary. I thought a ghost just materialized on the street.”

Dahyun looks up, and she’s greeted by two pairs of eyes looking right at her.

“Dahyun-ah…what were you doing out there?”

Jihyo is looking at her, eyes so warm and caring. Her hands are by her chest, fiddling with the seat belt as her body is turned to look at Dahyun.

“I could have killed you, y’know. Be more careful next time, jeez.”

Jeongyeon is scratching the back of her head, sheepishly. Her head is turned downwards, embarrassed, but her eyes still look up at Dahyun’s, in concern.

It all comes rushing back to her, now that the rain no longer halts her every single thought.

“Woah, woah, hey, you’re okay. You’re safe, Dahyun-ah.”

Jeongyeon’s voice almost startles her, and it’s then that she feels the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Dahyun, what’s wrong?”

When Jihyo asks, Dahyun can count the amount of raindrops that are hitting the car in pelts, and they still wouldn’t be as many as the things that are wrong.

Her throat trembles, her lips quiver, and she sobs.

“I-I was…I was looking for you.”

Jeongyeon’s eyebrows crease as she looks to Jihyo, as if for confirmation. Jihyo can only subtly shrug as she turns back to Dahyun.

“Why? What’s wrong, sweetie?”

Sweetie. The endearment rolls of Jihyo’s tongue so easily, like Dahyun is still the same old Dahyun that Jihyo had befriended.

Dahyun shakily exhales. And with her breath comes the expelling of fear, of hesitation, of sorrow, all easily captured in one simple sentence.

“…I have nowhere else to go.”

Silence fills the car.

It feels like an eternity passes, and it itches at Dahyun’s skin. She almost opens the door to run back out into the rain.

Until Jeongyeon’s voice, soft but purposeful, cuts through the thick.

“Alright. We’re taking you home.”

[the-lupine-sojourner]

Transformers: Honor and Loyalty [Prologue]

So this story idea is not mine. It comes from a friend on TikTok, Deckar Terdax. He came up with this plot, pitched as a movie concept in a slideshow on TikTok, and I liked it a lot! I asked if I could write the idea as a fanfiction and Deckar said I could, so here we go!

Deckar also came up with the title and created the cover picture!

This is the story of Deadlock becoming an Autobot and how he settled on Earth.

I hope you all like this idea as much as I do! :)

Btw, if you like my writing, please consider buying me a ko-fi, or if you want, you can continuously support me writing stories by joining my Patreon!

Anyway, on to the story!

God Bless and Good Day!

~The Lupine Sojourner

Deadlock ducks behind a decrepit wreck in the shipyard, gritting his teeth as he prepares to take out the Decepticon guard nearby.

He had been slowly realizing how tyrannical and oppressive the Decepticon cause is, but his sense of honor had demanded loyalty, so he had bitten his tongue and done as ordered as the war continued to wreak havoc on the planet.

His loyalty had begun to slowly come into question, however, after Optimus Prime had been forced to eject the Allspark to keep it from Megatron's hands. He had then led a mass exodus with as many Autobots as he could find ships for, leaving some of his troops behind to carry on the battle.

Deadlock had at first been angry at the Prime, thinking him a coward for dooming their planet and running away, but then he came to realize the extent of the damages done to Cybertron throughout the war and that Megatron had been the one to drive Optimus to that extreme.

Deadlock saw that Megatron was blinded by his hatred of the Prime, beating or executing any who dared question him or his pursuit of Optimus.

Things grew worse on Cybertron without the Allspark, but the few Autobots left on the dying planet bravely fought on despite overwhelming odds.

Deadlock grew to admire their courage and their valiant struggle to save their planet, hoping the Allspark could be restored to Cybertron before the planet completely died.

Then he and a team of Vehicons were ordered to take out a ship full of Autobots that were escaping Cybertron.

He could not carry out the order, but the troopers had seen no issue with the heartless and cruel command.

Deadlock had gone ahead to scout out the ship, which had been caught before they'd even left the atmosphere, and when he saw the desperate refugees huddled in fear he could not bring his Spark to harm any of them, so he lied to the team, going so far as to say he had eliminated the crew aboard.

The team had been impressed at the alleged show of brutality and returned to their ship, but Deadlock had hesitated, talking briefly with the leader on the ship, a Wrecker he didn't recognize.

Deadlock agreed to help them reach their destination, even pointing out a better route for them.

Then a Vehicon came back aboard and saw Deadlock talking to the Wrecker, and the refugees behind them.

Deadlock had been forced to kill the trooper there and then, feeling for the first time a flicker of disgust with the Decepticons in his Spark. If they were willing to slaughter refugees, they did not have any honor.

After lying that the trooper had been killed in a surprise attack by a survivor to the other troopers on the ship, Deadlock had to assess his loyalties.

He had killed one of his own side in defense of Autobots.

He took a long look at himself in the reflection of his ship's cockpit.

What he had done was the right thing, he felt it in his Spark. How could he kill innocent refugees?

But killing the trooper was dishonorable to the Decepticons and would be seen as treason if it were discovered.

He had covered his actions as best he could and hoped his deceptions were accepted as truth. It was too late to do anything else.

As the cycles went on and nothing came of the incident, Deadlock grew increasingly conflicted. The Decepticons had repeatedly shown dishonor in their actions, but because he had sworn allegiance to them, he felt stuck.

Defecting felt like a betrayal, but more and more of his orders made him see just how dishonorable the Decepticon cause is.

The breaking point occurred when there came a new order, pairing him with Bludgeon (who Deadlock considered a brother. They had joined the Decepticons together, even).

Spies had discovered a small refugee camp and Megatron ordered it to be cleared out with no survivors.

Deadlock recoiled, but his sense of duty would not let him protest in front of Megatron, so he kept it to himself until he and Bludgeon were en route to the camp.

"Why should we kill innocents?" Deadlock asks, frowning. "It is dishonorable."

Bludgeon, surprisingly, scoffed. "There are no innocents when it comes to Autobots, Deadlock. You know that."

Deadlock shakes his head. "They are merely trying to survive. They have done nothing to deserve such a fate." He insists.

"Way I look at it, any Autobot is an enemy, and enemies should be eliminated with extreme prejudice." Bludgeon retorts, frowning at him, the tension rising.

Deadlock knows he'd likely be reported to the Decepticon Justice Department if he continues protesting against killing Autobots, so he holds back anything else he wanted to say and when they arrive, he says he will monitor the perimeter and ensure none escape.

But what he really did is watch in horror as his friend slaughtered everyone in the few buildings that made up the camp.

Bludgeon had a grin on his face the entire time, which made Deadlock shudder.

The vicious attack was over soon, and to make his story believable, Deadlock moved further from their transport and spun on his heel to start walking back as Bludgeon arrived, his swords dripping with Energon.

Splatters of the glowing blue liquid covered Bludgeon, making him look barbaric.

"You make sure we got all of them?" Bludgeon asks casually, almost making Deadlock's Energon pump reject its Energon.

How could he talk about slaughter so casually? Does he have no sense of honor at all?

Deadlock could do nothing but nod and head into the transport.

His mind was reeling from what he had seen. He had never once seen that side of Bludgeon. Certainly, Bludgeon had been the more aggressive of the two, typically speaking, but Deadlock had never thought his closest friend and brother capable of such a brutal attack on unarmed refugees. This threw their relationship into a whole new light. Could he still call Bludgeon a brother? Deadlock shifts uncomfortably, staring sightlessly out the window.

His mind was whirling and Spark flared in outrage at the loss of innocent life, at the way he had simply stood by, DJD or no DJD.

He knew it had been dishonorable to allow that terrible slaughter, but the thought of being hunted and perhaps tortured by the DJD was too terrifying for him to commit to preventing the slaughter.

Deadlock resolved there and then that he will never stand by again.

He could also no longer deny that the Decepticons he'd thought on the right side of this conflict would continue to spread cruelty, fear, and tyranny throughout the galaxy.

He had no choice but to defect. He understood that clearly now.

To that end, he makes up his mind that, upon his return, he would gather whatever intelligence he deemed valuable (in the hopes the intel would convince the Autobots to allow him to join their side) and then seek out a long-distance escape pod to take him to Earth, where he'd find the Prime and officially join the Autobots.

Now, after finding intelligence he knew Optimus would find extremely valuable, downloading it and hiding the data cylinder, he had snuck into the shipyard, where a few guards had spotted him, but had quickly been disposed of before an alarm could be raised.

However, it hadn't taken long for the other guards to see the bodies, and now he was being hunted.

This will not stop me. Deadlock thinks cooly, turning the tables on his opponents and eliminating them one by one as he searches for a pod.

He soon has only one final opponent, cornered against a mostly functional ship.

"Traitor!" The guard yells, blasting at him, but Deadlock grits his teeth, dodging the blasts as he races forward, stabbing the unfortunate guard directly in the Spark Chamber.

Deadlock watches as the life seeps from the guard. "May you all find peace with Primus upon your return to the Allspark." He bows briefly in the general direction of his victims, acknowledging he had taken lives precious to Primus, before sheathing his sword and climbing into the ship.

There! At last, an operational long-distance escape pod!

He programs it for Earth and settles in for the long flight as the pod's thrusters ignite and start its journey.

He reaches out on any Autobot frequency he can find to let the Autobots know he had stolen valuable intelligence to give to Optimus, and that he is defecting and joining their side.

"This is Decepticon Deadlock. I am trying to reach Optimus Prime."

[anneapocalypse]

Mark Darrah's Memories and Lessons from Dragon Age 2

Mark Darrah, former BioWare developer and Executive Producer, talks about the development of Dragon Age 2.

Summary of key points below the cut!

EA closed the sale on BioWare right before Origins shipped. At the time, MMOs were seen as the future and EA wanted Star Wars: The Old Republic, which was currently in development and scheduled to ship in 2009, but delayed several times. Because of the delay, EA told BioWare they needed to ship a game in fiscal 2011 to "plug the hole." It was decided that Dragon Age 2 would be that game.

Darrah says you can never be sure how real the threats are from higher up, but this one seemed pretty real, and if they hadn't shipped a game, EA likely would have demanded cost-cutting measures for the studio.

The original plans for the second Dragon Age game looked a lot more like what eventually became Inquisition. That concept wasn't possible in the time they had.

Preliminary work had been done for another expansion pack for DAO, and much of this concept got rolled into DA2. However, Darrah resists the idea that DA2 was "built out of an expansion pack" because he feels it minimizes how much work the team did in a short period of time. It is true that David Gaider had already laid a lot of groundwork for the expansion, but there were also no assets or levels created yet.

The team originally wanted to call the game Dragon Age: Exodus, which Mark still believes would fit the game better and would have helped it find its audience better. The implication that DA2 was a direct sequel to DAO set a lot of expectations that were not accurate, and they set people up for disappointment that was in some cases, he feels, unjustified. The name "Dragon Age 2" was a mandate from above; the executive at the time insisted that "Dragon Age 2" would sell better, would fix everything, would "probably cure cancer," and so that was the title. "They were wrong," Darrah says, but the team couldn't override the exec.

Darrah likes the frame narrative, both for the punchy opening it allows and the unreliable narrator:

I love unreliable narrators in general. Dragon Age uses unreliable narrators for everything. The reason I love unreliable narrators is that it allows you to present information through the lens of someone who could be wrong, or intentionally misleading. 'Brother Genitivi says…' is how most lore in Dragon Age: Origins is presented, and what that allows you to do is have him be wrong, mislead the player on purpose, or sometimes just give yourself the flexibility to change your mind, in order to change the lore, change the universe around that established lore without actually violating it, because it's an unreliable narrator.

But the cool thing is, you actually get all of that while also deepening the sense of your setting being lived in by real human beings. When information is presented by an unreliable narrator, it's presented by a person within the setting. It's not just sterile information dumped into a Codex; it comes with this implication of story and life that doesn't come from other ways of presenting information. To my mind, it's actually win-win across the board; it gives you extra flexibility, while also making the setting feel more alive.

A frame narrative can have the problem of draining some of the tension, because you know that the narrator has to survive. DA2 gets around this by having Varric narrate; you know Varric lives, but Hawke could have died.

Darrah acknowledges that the trick where they increased Bethany's bust size in Varric's exaggerated prologue was juvenile, and while he thinks it's in-character for Varric, he also doesn't think it adds much to the character and says that they probably wouldn't do that today.

They were able to control scope on the project by making DA2 a story told over time, instead of over a lot of space. This allowed them to get more story out of less area.

DA2 had very little peelable scope, which refers to having elements that are easily removed when cuts need to be made. Nearly everything that was initially conceived was conceived as necessary; everything that could be cut was cut right away.

The idea of Act I was a metaplot about gathering enough resources for the expedition, so that it could grow or shrink as needed. But they ended up needing to introduce a lot of plot points and character-establishing quests in Act I, so the "raise enough money" plot became secondary, because by doing the other essential quests, you would earn the money as a byproduct, which made Act I feel less open and exploratory.

Darrah feels that DA2 in some ways shows why constraints are important, because it's a great example of a team rising to the challenge to work within the space they're given to make a good game within that box.

Tactical camera was set aside for DA2. Darrah doesn't feel that it's a core feature of the series.

Things he does feel define the series are teamwork, choices with consequences, and power with a price, among other things.

"It's about the characters, stupid":

The primary reason that I think Dragon Age 2 is the Dragon Age game that’s very fashionable to like now is because it’s the first BioWare game that intentionally puts the characters first. I still don’t think we’ve actually said it out loud, that "It’s about the characters, stupid," that BioWare’s secret sauce is characters and followers that you can have these relationships with. I still don’t think that we’re really acknowledging it. We’re doing it because we have no other choice. Characters are fast to write; characters don’t require as many re-writes, typically; characters can often do their plot in whatever level is hanging around. So they are perfect for a highly constrained situation.

As you go beyond this game, as you get even past Dragon Age: Inquisition— yeah, the reality is, is this is what makes BioWare games special. Characters that are interesting, that have interesting interactions, that have arcs and evolution and wants and needs, that you get to have a story with, that you get to hang out with, that you get to potentially romance. This is the secret of BioWare games and it’s, in retrospect, kind of mindboggling that it wasn’t until a post-Dragon Age: Inquisition world that BioWare was really able to say this out loud and say "It’s about the characters, stupid. It’s always been about the characters, stupid." Why did we allow this to be an incidental feature that was special in spite of the intention that was being paid to it? So I think Dragon Age 2 is the game that shows the way to what made BioWare special in the first place, and what continues to hopefully make BioWare special in the future. That’s the special thing in Dragon Age 2.

Darrah thinks the level reuse in terms of telling a story through time in the same city is fine, even if not everybody likes it; it's upfront about what it's doing. The generic warehouse isn't ideal, but it's okay. The one he thinks is less defensible is the cave, because the cave is too distinctive, despite being identified as a different cave every time, and it's not just recognizable as reuse but "rubbing your nose in it." A more generic cave would actually have been better.

In terms of art direction, Dragon Age 2 was pushed toward a more distinctive look. In part, this is a response to the engine itself, which is very good at pushing polygons and large amounts of mesh, but less good at surface effects and textures. So between "push more polygons," and a vision of "Kurosawa in the Northern Renaissance," the art style of DA2 took shape. Darrah likes that DA2 has a distinct aesthetic that you can recognize from a screenshot.

Another major change from DAO was “the philosophical approach to combat.” The underlying combat engine is the same; it’s just packaged differently. Origins uses a combat balance known as “perfect symmetry”—enemies do the same amount of damage as the player character and allies. DA2 throws out the idea of symmetry. The player character and party members have fewer hit points and do more damage; enemies have more hit points and do less damage. This opens up more possibilities for player abilities, but creates problems if you want to turn party member against the player or have enemies join the party. Darrah thinks DA2 pushes it a bit too far because it makes the combat herder to understand numerically. Dragon Age: Inquisition tried to strike a blance between the two: not perfectly symmetrical, but not so dramatically asymmetrical. (He notes that D&D went through a similar transition between 3e and 5e.)

“EA has always had trouble marketing BioWare games.” For DA2, the marketing was intended to be two-pronged, one prong aimed at the “tree house” (the established fans) and the “frat house” (a new, mainstream audience). Right off the bat Darrah cautions about using reductive labels like this. In the end, he says, pretty much all the marketing ended up targeting the “frat house,” so that was all the marketing the fans were consuming and that made them worried that the game would be “dumbed down” and more console-focused. This set up the core audience to reject the game even harder than it deserved. More targeting of the core audience might have helped, but Darrah also points out that your devoted core fans are going to consume all the marketing, whether it’s intended for them or not.

The marketing team for DA2 did a lot of things to “juice up” the preorder numbers, which gave the impression that the game was going to sell a lot better than it did.

Darrah’s greatest regret for DA2 is that the ending forces you to fight both bosses either way—which he’s pretty sure was his decision, but he believes it was a mistake. It was felt that Orsino wasn’t worthy of being an end boss by himself, so it was decided that the player would fight Meredith either way, which he thinks is defensible. The problem is that they also make the player fight Orsino either way. Darrah says there’s often a desire to have the player consume as much content as possible, because it can feel like “waste” otherwise; he argues that players not consuming all the content isn’t a problem, and is actually a good thing.

Despite the backlash, over time DA2 has become the one that it is “fashionable to like.” With some distance from the marketing and the initial backlash, a lot of people came to appreciate what was good about DA2, particularly the strong focus on characters.

DA2 has Darrah’s favorite box art, even though it does commit what he calls the “cardinal sin” of RPG box art in locking down the player character into a single default appearance. He says that box art doesn’t matter as much as it used to, but he believes it’s still important.

The Dragon Age team became a true team through the work on DA2. Darrah wouldn’t recommend the kind of rush DA2 had, but he likes what it forged the team into and wonders whether that experience could be replicated in a different way.

What would Mark do differently?

If they had stay within the same constraints:

Adjust the marketing and make sure there’s better messaging to the core fanbase to mitigate the negative reaction.

Call the game Dragon Age: Exodus.

Don’t make Orsino a mandatory bossfight.

Make a more generic cave for reuse.

If they had more time:

Ship the next fiscal year, damn the consequences.

Cut or simplify the main plot parts of Act I and bring back the focus on making money for the expedition.

Make a second cave.

Reduce the asymmetry of the combat system a bit.

Mask out the unused parts of reused area maps.

The game is still very different from Origins, and that’s okay, just communicate with the core fanbase to help them understand why.

[scribophantasma]

The Phantom Rabbit (Black Butler x Rabbit Reader)

Prologue

Trigger warning : blood

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in the forest on the outskirts of London was a hidden cottage. Within it, lived a 'witch'.

Hazel Jane was her name. She appeared to be just as average as every other middle-class, young adult. But behind closed doors, she secretly practiced 'witchcraft'. The reason why? To have whatever she wanted.

Hazel was never satisfied with anything in her life. Although she had a roof over her head and plenty of food to eat, she dispised being 'poor'. Hazel was better off compared to the people who lived on the streets or in workhouses, but Hazel only cared for her own selfish self. Also, nobody from the higher class would ever notice or marry her.

Hazel believed for a long time that marriage into a noble house was the only way she could live the lavish lifestyle that she desired. But all her efforts to snag a rich man were in vain.

Hazel also grew disenchanted with Christianity when God did not heed her prayers like a genie would. And so she decided to use witchcraft instead. Hazel then obtained her 'magic' by making a deal with a devil. 

After sealing the deal with a contract mark on her lower back, the demon gave Hazel a strange device. He told her that it was a 'magic wand' that could conjure anything out of the 'holes' she would slice in the air with it. All Hazel had to do was will with all her heart, mind, and soul for whatever she wanted, and it shall fall out of the hole. 

It looked nothing like a magic wand in Hazel's opinion. It was large and heavy, she had to yank a string on the shorter end a few times to get it working, the noise it made was extremely loud, and the device had several, jagged ends that rotated swiftly. Hazel was quick to discover that the device could also cut through anything it touched!

But just as the demon had promised, Hazel was able to conjure items out of the air she sliced with the device. 

She supposed it truly was a magic wand, and she didn't mind at all- taking the demon's further advice to separate herself from society and hide in this cottage (lest they find out, burn her at the stake, and take away her 'magic wand'). She would need nor want for anything anyway now that she has 'magic'!

It's been a year since she struck that deal, and Hazel was happily practicing her 'magic' when it happened: a sudden, burning sensation in her lower back. It felt like she was being branded!

At first, Hazel thought she slept wrong. But how could she, when she has the most comfy bed with silks and furs that she conjured with her 'magic'?

Perhaps she pulled a muscle?

No way. The only time she strains herself physically is when she does 'magic' for hours on end, with no breaks. Plus, she was far too young to be having severe back pains.

It was at that moment that she realized it was the devil's mark. Hazel had totally forgotten that she sold her soul in exchange for the 'magic wand'.

It was that time already?!

But there was so much more she wanted to do!

Frantically, Hazel 'conjured' a ticket for a one-way trip to America. But the burning contract mark prevented her from taking one step out of her room. 

Hazel then conjured a large barrel of salt. She spilled it sideways, and then she conjured a broom so that she could spread the grains all over the carpeted floor. 

She drew crosses on every wall with chalk, conjured 'holy water' to sprinkle at every corner (and to drink), and Hazel even conjured a lamb with no blemishes.

She slaughtered it (after conjuring a dagger) and dragged its corpse across the sides and top of the door frame to spread its blood. 

Hazel refused to pray to God for deliverance. Instead, she figured that if the blood of a freshly-killed, spotless, white, lamb could make the Angel of Death pass over whole houses in the Book of Exodus, surely it would keep a hungry demon out of her room, right?

Wrong.

Hazel Jane forgot several key points:

For one, she did not place her faith in God. 

Two: she's not an Israelite in the story of Moses during the reign of King Ramses II. 

Three: this demon is not the Angel of Death.

Lastly, to back out now would be a breach of contract. The demon has every right to her soul.

Even if Hazel cried out for God, nothing would happen because she would have gone back to how things were: living her life fulfilling her greedy, covetuous, desires with the 'magic wand' rather than living a life glorifying God. 

And so, the demon broke through the door- causing Hazel to scream and jump backward. In doing so, she slipped and fell- getting blood and salt all over herself.

The demon laughed at the sight. It was a jeering, distorted laugh in several different pitches. As he did so, the room got dark, and Hazel was paralyzed with fear and pain from the contract mark. It burned more than ever!

"I see you took the time to marinate yourself in salt and lamb sauce. Very creative! But most unnecessary." The demon taunted as black tendrils encircled Hazel.

"I quite like the decor, too. Most befitting for our little dinner party~" the demon snickered.

"P-please, d-d-don't kill me-e." Hazel begged through her sobs before she gasped in pain. The tendrils were squeezing her tighter.

"That's not how it works, Ms. Jane. I provided your 'magic', you used the 'magic', and now you must fulfill the contract requirements."

"B-but I-"

"If you didn't like the contract, you shouldn't have signed it." The demon flashed Hazel its own mark on a humanized arm before liking its lips and opening its mouth impossibly wide.

"WAIT! I can conjure a soul for you. One even better than mine!"

This made the demon pause.

While it is true that he supplied Hazel with the 'magic wand', he could not actually use it. 

To use such a device, the wielder must have a soul. And he, being a demon- does not possess one.

The ability to even conjure a soul by itself is impossible. It must always be attached to someone (or something). However, Hazel displayed an aptitude for conjuring things- be it alive or inanimate, as evident by the freshly slaughtered lamb. Surely, she could manage to conjure a soul by itself. If not, a human would do- he’d just have to kill that person once they arrive.

Now, a soul even better than Hazel Jane's would not exist for at least two centuries. The reason why is due to ancestral sin. The more sin that an individual inherits from the generations before, the more potent the taste, and the more power it gives the demon.

Due to this, it is impossible and forbidden for demons to time travel and devour souls from the past or future. But the forbidden factor would make this soul much more delicious! The demon drooled at the thought.

"Very well. Get me that soul!"

The demon placed Hazel down and shoved the 'magic wand' into her arms. 

She huffed at the sudden weight but quickly regained posture and revved up the device. Hazel sliced a wide arc into the air above her with all the strength and 'magic' that she could muster, whilst willing so hard with all her mind and heart that this soul would be better than hers. Perhaps the demon would take it instead and leave her alone. 

A bright, green light and mighty wind erupted from the portal - something that has never happened before due to the breaching  of time and space. The human and demon both watched with bated breath for what would happen next.

Suddenly, something flew out- landing on the bed with a THUMP! Simultaneously, the portal imploded on itself in a flurry of sparks and stardust, sending Hazel to the other side of the room and making the demon stumble! 

When the wind died down, the demon inhaled deeply in search of the soul. Smelling nothing, he creeped closer to the lump beneath the blankets.

It was very small. An infant human, perhaps?

The demon pulled back the covers with a clawed, shadowy hand and peeked inside. Shortly afterwards, he snarled and shot some tendrils at Hazel. They grabbed her by the neck and yanked her over to be face-to-face as he roared at her.

"IS THIS A JOKE TO YOU?! I EXPECTED A SOUL AND INSTEAD YOU DO A PARLOR TRICK!"

Hazel could only gasp incoherently as the thing on the bed squeaked in fright and bounded out the door. 

It was not a soul. Not even a human! It was a rabbit. Hazel had conjured a white rabbit!

She could have sworn it was a soul that she conjured. Hazel had never messed up her 'magic' before! The nerves and pressure she felt must have interfered somehow.

But Hazel couldn't voice these thoughts, and she couldn't even scream before the demon devoured her. 

Unbeknownst to either of them, Hazel truly has conjured a person from the future. And that poor, unfortunate soul is now stuck in a different dimension as a rabbit. 

[exodus-au]

Main story archive

Welcome to the exodus AU main story archive, where you'll find all the stories I and others have created for this universe

Prologue - Sky's escape

Back to the main archive

[sunnydaleherald]

The Sunnydale Herald Newsletter, Wednesday, November 8

XANDER: You were looking at my neck. ANGEL: What? XANDER: You were checking out my neck! I saw that. ANGEL: No, I wasn't! XANDER: Just keep your distance, pal. ANGEL: I wasn't looking at your neck. XANDER: I told you to eat before we left.

~~BtVS 1x12 “Prophecy Girl”~~

[Drabbles & Short Fiction]

Overdue Honesty (Buffy, Joyce, others, PG) by badly_knitted

Diary: Prologue (Xander, T, Devil May Cry xover) by madimpossibledreamer

Head Games (Angel/Darla, T) by NAOA

I may never get to Heaven (but I once came mighty close) (Buffy/Angel, T) by angelus2hot

Amaranthine (Buffy/Angel, T) by Lalaith Quetzalli

Tabula Inscripta (Buffy/Spike, R) by all_choseny

My Babysitter's A Vampire (Buffy/Spike, PG) by violettathepiratequeen

[Chaptered Fiction]

Breathe Again, Chapters 1-2/17 (Angel/Cordelia, M) by Califi62

Exodus Take Two, Chapter 3/3 Complete! (Harry Potter xover, Xander, Harry Potter, not rated) by danu40k

Days of Future Past, Chapter 29/34 (Buffy/OC, Angel/OC, Buffy/Angel, M) by a2zmom

Heart Don't Lie, Chapter 19/25 (Buffy/Spike, E) by NautiBitz

Blood and Chaos, Chapter 37/? (Ensemble, M) by quote_Amy_unquote (Sannah_banana)

Lindsey's Pride, Chapter 4 (Angel, Lindsey, T) by TinyDancer96

Her Old Fashioned Boy, Chapter 13 (Giles/Jenny, T) by Bobbie23

1632 Revello Drive, Chapter 6 (Buffy, Giles, T) by A Most Sovereign Lady

[French language] Do as Romans do, Chapter 4 (Dawn/Spike, T) by OldGirl-NoraArlani

Against All Odds, Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by CheekyKitten

Destiny or Choices Made?, Chapter 26 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by charmed4lifekaren

Out of this World, love..., Chapter 5 (Buffy/Spike, PG-13) by Miss Kitty

the Eyes, Chapter 14 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by Dusty

Dusk Rising, Chapter 25 (Buffy/Spike, NC-17) by HappyWhenItRains

[Images, Audio & Video]

Artwork: A fragment from a bigger Spuffy project I’ve been working on for a while. (worksafe) by lamaraloon

Artwork: [Drawing of Buffy] (worksafe) by nicknamekittyname

Cosplay: For anyone who can guess the character I’m attempting to cosplay here. Really digging his outfits (Lorne, worksafe) by geekstuffkittykat

Artwork: They know exactly what we’re here for. (Oz, slightly NSFW) by snakeliciousbaby

Fanvid: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce | Anti Hero by 1SnoWhiteQueen1

Fanvid: Marvel | Buffyverse by Jess Wilson

[Reviews & Recaps]

ReWatch: Angel (the series) S1, E19 - 22 by kimannebb

Turning The Vampire Genre on its Head (Buffy The Vampire Slayer analysis) by mediaconsumernightwriter

[Recs & In Search Of]

Our next fic for IWRY 2023 is by thenewbuzwuzz recced by original-iwry-marathon

[Community Announcements]

Upcoming December Event: 'Tis The Season by Sunnydale After Dark

[Fandom Discussions]

It is f*cking insane how much better of a character angel becomes when he’s not centered around buffy by junotter

God, rewatching Angel is always so brutally bittersweet by andrasta14

Why didn’t sunnydale coffins have stakes built into them by twosomeofcuteness

November 6, 2001: Once More, With Feeling aired for BTVS season 6, episode 7. by on-this-day-btvs

[About Buffy/Cordy] by jennycalendar

Watching S2 of Buffy after watching S7 is serious whiplash. by muse-write

This is why Willow Rosenberg is such an important character in ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ and why she’s so relatable and resonatable by girl4music

Honestly I just try to ignore everything mentioning Giles and his abandoning of Buffy and the Scoobies by girl4music

I just woke up thinking about how unfair the watcher’s council was for never paying the slayer by mariepv

Rather than “how spuffy,” reasons “why spuffy.” Why do spuffies spuffy? by deadthingu

So I was watching ‘Once More, With Feeling’ earlier and [shortened] I noticed Willow and Tara’s physical distance a lot in the background of the Magic Box by girl4music

weird that in Spike: After the Fall, I find that the characters’ voices aren’t as show-accurate as Asylum or Shadow Puppets by absolutely-wretched

what if I said Cordelia’s flat tone is bc she’s autistic what then by svngriche

Ok hot take maybe but the whole like cheating thing between willow and xander personally made no sense to me by treeshman

I have one big thought. When Buffy shows up in the office to ask Giles for help with Angel by twosomeofcuteness

[Amends: episode rewatch and notes] by twosomeofcuteness

hey. um. this just occurred to me [Giles and Jenny using the same crossbow] by jennycalendar

THIS IS SUCH A LINE. especially considering where she [Willow] goes next! by jennycalendar

Seth Green leaving, was it dodging a bullet storywise by Btvs fan, multiple posters

Should Buffy have used force? by NoShip, multiple posters

First genetically born Slayer? by Firm_Zookeepergame16

What is everyone opinion on Harmony? by RachelisRach

What part did Xander really play in the enjoining spell? by JeSuisLaCockamouse

Why Spike? by Hairy-Membership-461

A defence of Spike by inconspicuous2012

What if Spike got the Gypsy curse instead by The810kid

Angel vs Spike in AtS 5.08 “Destiny” (spoilers for AtS) by AccordingReference3

Was Angel more allowed to graphic violence than Buffy? by SafiraAshai

What the show was saying with Spike's development by Nostromo87

Maybe an unpopular opinion on Riley and Buffy in season 5 by Eagles56

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Join the editor team :)

[kyzveryown]

Kingdom Hearts - Re:work Series is a personal project where I re-imagine and/or rework stories and lore from Kingdom Hearts franchise. Diverge: Chi + Back Cover is first installment in the series. The first part of Diverge: C+BC, “The Foretellers”, is finished. Listed below are links to the seven parts of the prologue. [DISCLAIMER: This is not  a "fix-it" or some "fan knows better" shit. That's not my intention. I'm just doing this for fun.]

I — The Foretellers, Prologue II — The Foretellers, Ira III — The Foretellers, Invi IV — The Foretellers, Aced V — The Foretellers, Gula VI — The Foretellers, Ava VII — The Master's Exodus

The next part, “March of the Fools”, will come in the future.

[davidrmaas]

THE WORD MADE FLESH

The Prologue of the Gospel of John presents key themes that are expanded in the Book. Most critically, Jesus is the Logos, the “Word become flesh” in whom Life and Light are revealed to penitent men and women. He is the true “Tabernacle” where God’s “Glory” resides, not the tent in the wilderness or the Temple building in Jerusalem. John employs imagery from the history of Israel to illustrate what God now provides us in His “only born Son.”

Since his death and resurrection, Jesus has been the place where the presence of God is found, and the “Word become flesh” is our means of access to God. He is the greater Tabernacle in which the true worship of the Father takes place - “In spirit and truth.”

His “glory” is not confined to the physical walls of the Tabernacle “made-with-hands” any longer, and no longer is access to His presence limited to the Levitical priests. Every member of the People of God new beholds His glory in the “Word made flesh that tabernacled among us” - (John 1:14, 1:47-51, 2:13-22, 4:20-24).

The Living Word was embodied in this flesh-and-blood man from Nazareth so all men could see the Divine nature expressed in his life. In his words, deeds, death, and resurrection, the true nature and redemptive plan of God are presented before the world. In the truest sense of the term, the Logos of God has been “incarnated,” in-fleshed in the true man, Jesus Christ.

The description of the “Word tabernacling among us” echoes the incident at Mount Sinai when God inscribed His ten “words” on stone tablets. In Jesus, the Word of God is now written in “flesh.”

The Greek verb translated as “tabernacled” is skénoō, meaning, “to tabernacle; to pitch a tent.” It is related to the noun skéné for “tent,” the same term used in the Greek Septuagint translation of the Book of Exodus for the “Tabernacle” carried by the Levites in the wilderness. Thus, in Jesus, God is “tabernacling” with His people.

Yahweh commanded Moses to “construct a Sanctuary for me that I may dwell among them,” a portable structure fashioned “according to all that I am going to show you, the pattern of the tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings.”

In obedience, the Great Lawgiver “proceeded to take a tent and pitch it by itself outside the camp… and he called it, the Tent of Meeting… it came to pass, that when Moses entered the tent, the pillar of cloud came down and stood at the opening of the tent” - (Exodus 25:8-9, 33:7-11).

[Photo by frank mckenna on Unsplash]

[Read the complete post on the DIsciples Global Network website at the link below]

[zer0desu-writes]

0. Prologue - Taejoon

I created a character based of off my favourite Apex Legends character, Crypto! I’m using his character lore as a starting point for this playthrough. 

Some preliminary info:

Assets: Tech path, Fugitive path, Survey Bot companion, Ghost Starship

Starting sector: unnamed, begins on his home planet Gaea

Cataclysm: Escaped catastrophic war due to self-replicating nanos

Exodus: Fleet took millennia to reach the Forge

Communities: Ships/settlements under Founders (in this case, The Syndicate is one of them)

Iron: Vow on blades

Laws: Bounty hunters are above the law, law varies from place to place

Religion: Our gods failed us

Magic: Supernatural powers wielded by paragons. Powers from magitech (building off of Wraith’s Void powers in game)

Comms: The Weave allows near-instant data transfer

Medicine: Sworn healers (Wifeline duh)

AI: Sentient machines live among humans (Pathfinder!)

War: Mercenaries protect those who are able to pay

Lifeforms: Life finds a way

Precursors: Biomechanical Remnants survived the death of their creators

Horrors: Horrors aren’t real, but spacers know the truth

Starting off, he’ll have his nerdy office worker look like below haha. Things will be very loosely based on the Apex characters, since I want this game to run wild. Let’s get into it!

--------------------

“There he is!” 

Park Taejoon ran as fast as he could, Syndicate agents hot on his heels. He had just found out that his adopted sister, Mila, had disappeared and the authorities believed that he was the one who did it. 

Taejoon managed to get to the launch bay and commandeered a starship. He jammed his PC cord into the data slot in the control panel, overriding the built-in navigation system with his own AI. The engines whirred to life and he floored it, ignoring the pings of bullets ricocheting off the hull.

“Hack, get us out of here.” Taejoon yelled. Hack beeped in response and the engines roared. The ship accelerated out of the launch bay, but there was no time to celebrate. The Syndicate was still on him. 

He had to get away. Create a new identity. Get off the grid. And most of all, find out the truth.

[ Background Vow: I swear to find out the truth about Mila ]