On Such A Full Sea

26

Look at the fish.

Our best B-Mor primes. Look at the eyes, luminous and clear. Even on ice, the scales are tiled tight to one another, the points of the fins unbroken, unclipped. Peel forward the gills and see the darkest cherry red, as if there’s blood hotly pushing through its robust, meaty body. The mouth is closed but not clamped in any grimace, saying instead this with a tranquil set of jaw:

We are in good order.

Take us up.

We are ready to be chosen.

And choose them they do. For the rumors are done. Any remnants of the months-long scare about the wholesomeness of our fish are now very few, to be found in only the most phobic quarters, such as those flats and villas where they parse every morsel and sip and likely never enjoyed them anyway. The rest, however, are back at the fish shops all across the Association, queuing as before and with their unyielding Charter scrutiny selecting the ones they deem the brightest, finest, the most pure. They have absolute confidence in their ability to discern and analyze and perhaps well they should, given where they are. They fully believe in themselves, and it doesn’t matter if our fish are of unsurpassed quality, virtually identical in size and composition, and raised in such a way as to make it almost impossible, if not ridiculous, to try to choose among them. And yet they do, studying the displays like they were buying gemstones, and while there are no jostling scrums like at a special clearance or sale in B-Mor, when someone else picks the very one they’ve identified as theirs, the one they’d determined was destined to best nourish and block any rogue unknittings in their cells, they can’t help but get there just a bit earlier the next time.

The result has been a heady rise in the price per kilo of #1 primes, enough, in fact, to get us near the record levels reached during the last big boom, when it seemed no Charter could go for more than a couple of days without a fillet on his plate. All the facility tanks are full again with every stage of them, from specks of fry to the stoutest matureds, the concrete floor of the grow houses tickling the feet with the constant vibrato of the filter pumps running around the clock, the air heavier, moister (though it truly can’t be, given how engineered everything is) with the enriched quality of the reprocessed effluent dripping onto the plant beds. These are growing as dense as ever, so that you can hardly see a coworker weeding directly on the other side, merely hearing the threshing of his gloved hands against the stalks.

And from all this flush being there’s a scent that is at once off-putting and sweetly alluring, too, whiffs of faint rot and newest life columned together and vented through the roof so that the surrounding households of B-Mor must be dreaming of every earthly hunger, of filling themselves with whatever goodness may be at hand. Or are their lights burning later, sometimes into the wee hours of the morning, to feed newly roused desires?

The rest of us have no such wafts carrying across our paths, and yet here we are in the mall-going throng, like everyone else pursuing our day’s own trivial ends but feeling drawn in, too, by the wider pitch and tow. There’s no specialness or majesty in this, there’s nothing different from what has gone on here since the originals set themselves up, we descendants doing what we should be doing, workday or free-day, in the households or in the parks, contracting ourselves for best use and the welfare of the run of times to come. Nobody knows the future. So when we chat on the stoops, say, before the evening chill finally drives us in, of the lady on the next block who attempted to circumvent the usual regulations and produce her own designer line of fashion slippers in her attic using a platoon of counties peddlers as cheap labor, or of the man who was caught sitting at night — totally unclothed — high up in one of the largest trees in the park because he simply wanted, he said, a better view of the stars, we rib one another and chuckle and maybe even argue about the state of our settlement, though with no more of those uneasy skips or pauses, no more throaty, dire tones. We speak and abide one another and then we go in.

For what is there to worry about now? With the relative quiet prevailing, the directorate, or some other body, we can’t be sure, has reversed some of the more disheartening measures of recent times, foremost being restrictions on health clinic visits, which are still limited (as they should be, given the realities of the times) but at a more reasonable frequency, and the qualification for Charter promotion (back up to 2 percent), as well as certain smaller things that indeed make a difference day to day, such as suddenly better pricing for our own excellent produce and fish. There’s even talk of the schools using more of our goods in preparing the children’s bento lunches, rather than random broccoli and potatoes of vaguest origins and from suppliers long unnamed and unknown, though this remains to be seen.

Finally there has been an unprecedented round of new, if modest, public works as well, something they’re promoting as Keep It Up, which has employed at very decent pay small armies of recently retired folks and unemployed younger people, who are now sweeping the streets and sidewalks, clipping shrubberies in the parks, power washing and then painting faded or graffiti-tagged buildings and walls, as well as a hundred other sundry projects meant to bring up the luster of our good place. You see them on their snack breaks, maybe a group of eight or ten of them sitting on the picnic benches near the noodle and kebab stands, all wearing the same asparagus green jumpsuits with lighter green caps (inevitably one of the youths sporting it sideways) and while not talking much as they eat (they wouldn’t know one another), older and younger at least joking or sharing a taste of this or that with enough ease and good feeling to suggest that they’re in this together, communing as they labor, this enduring snapshot of what makes us who we are.

And if you put all of this together, if you collect these happenings and projects and promotions, you would have to say that they comprise again the typical habit of our lives here in B-Mor before this period of disturbance, which, from really anyone’s perspective now, would appear to have passed. It’s like a dream irrepressibly vivid and captivating when it was happening but now nearly impossible to remember, not just its details but the very fact of it. We just slept through it is the sensation. Rested the whole of our night. Of course, there are some who must know we did not make passage serenely in a void. Some of us still tap our fingers to the rhythms of those street-filling chants, or can see, when no one else can, the shape of the signs still ghosted in our minds, now blotted by layers of clean fresh paint. It’s not common, not at all, but every once in a while someone will rise up from a chair in an eatery or tea shop or step from the movie theater line and face the blithe crowd with half-open arms and without having to utter a word say to all: So what is this?

What is this?

What is this?

Naturally, nobody will acknowledge her. Everyone becomes a wall. And the person, solo in a room, sits back down. The act and moment are gone.

And yet it happens that some of us, like spies in a perilous land, will meet a certain gaze; and once we do, that recognition can soften the most wary eye and make us want to exchange all kinds of notations again, even the more improbable tales and rumors, to report everything we know of our Fan, who we’re sure can somehow hear us a little better now. It’s not that we can ever help her or lend her more courage. We simply wish her to know that we are here, and not unsatisfactory, and that in this regard she can please pay us no great mind.

For it was important that Fan keep everything out in front of her. After the scuffle at the fitness center pool, they all went back to Betty’s Lane, and while there was a certain heightened state in the new household — this coinciding with their move from the trailer into one of the new houses — with Oliver and Betty perfectly okay as they all breakfasted at the huge kitchen table, at least until, say, Josey or someone else would make some innocent comment, or after nothing was said at all, when Oliver would abruptly rise and retreat to his study. For a few seconds nothing would happen and then Betty would trail after him, and because of the particular acoustics of the center stairwell shafting the house top to bottom, you could hear them even behind the closed study door rasping at each other, Oliver usually the aggrieved party and Betty the remorseful, though midstream their roles would often switch, and switch back. Josey and the babies, of course, paid little or no attention, preoccupied as they were by screens and toys, the helpers trying anything they could to coax them to eat.

Soon enough Oliver and Betty would return to the table, both looking a bit abraded, and resume whatever they had been doing, usually Oliver checking the markets and Betty reviewing her to-do lists for the day, which included calling her parents, who hadn’t quite yet moved in, as they had gone on a thirty-day cruise with other older Charters, this one around Cape Horn; they logged in every other day, waving and blowing kisses to Josey and the babies from the windswept balcony of their stateroom. Otherwise there were few incursions from the outside world, this pattern of Oliver and Betty repeating itself daily, their ascents and descents, until one morning Betty didn’t follow him, and he didn’t return, at least not until after the dishes were cleared, the lessened tension and casual regard they had for each other surely signaling a calmed new stage. But this more orderly state was somewhat unsettling, too, as are most accommodations in matters of the heart, and if Fan didn’t exactly think their marriage was in jeopardy, she did wonder if some other thing or element had now lodged itself between them, their desire for happiness nourishing a fast-growing buffer all around it so that it would hardly be noticed. Fan was still quite young and her love for Reg was unsullied and the only thing giving her self-pause was that on the night before he vanished she had decided on her own to invite risking the condition she was in now. Yes, it was youth’s first passion, yes, as Reg might dorkishly croon, they were “burnin’ like wildfire,” but in truth Fan made the cold decision in that moment to invite a part of her beloved Reg forever, whether he might wish her to or not. Why did she? Nothing was threatening their future. Again we are sure it was out of love, only love, that she’d told him not to worry. And if there was any secondary reason to be with him again, perhaps it was her hope that she could simply show herself to him, and thus tell him what she’d done.

And which, Oliver informed her and Betty one day on returning from a meeting with a prominent village friend, might happen quite soon, for there’d been a breakthrough lead: Reg was indeed being “studied” at a directorate research facility, one in fact very close to B-Mor. He asked Fan if she knew why he would be examined like this, and of course, Fan had no idea. She truly could have no idea, and never did. Reg was special but no doubt mostly, if not only, to her. In any case Oliver was optimistic, describing how the pharmacorp was applying pressure on their behalf, using its considerable leverage with certain directorate members so that they would allow him a visitation, if not his outright release.

Betty took this news as excitedly as Fan did, promptly taking her the next day, as the best big sister might, to the boutiques in the village to find just the right outfit for the visit. Unlike Miss Cathy, however, Betty didn’t have a preconceived (and squarely daft) conception of what Fan should wear, pretty much liking everything the salesladies brought out for Fan to model, from the designer-jeans-and-blouse look to something more sophisticated, such as a smart cocktail dress, and nixing them (as long as Fan agreed) simply because they didn’t quite fit the bill of a reunion with one’s beau. They tried to figure out what each outfit would say to him on first glance, the bright yellow sundress declaring, I’m very happy! or the knee-length cashmere sweater dress murmuring, I’ve longed for you, or the more formal lacy white gown announcing, We shall never part again. Fan made sure to ask for sizes that would be loose-fitting and comfortable, saying she disliked snug clothing. It was all good fun and Fan found herself giggling along with Betty as she popped out from behind the changing curtain, but in the end Fan chose the outfit that she felt most comfortable in, a set of athletic stretch pants and top and zip-up jacket, all in matte black.

You look great, Betty said, if with eyebrows slightly raised. Very sleek. But why so dark and serious?

Fan explained that this was the closest thing to how Reg most often saw her, which was when she’d just climbed out of the tanks.

Ah, I see, Betty nodded. You want him to feel he’s at home.

Yes, Fan said, although that wasn’t quite right. For really she wanted him to think, Here’s my Fan.

They each got a pair of black athletic slip-ons (Betty decided to get the same outfit as Fan, in her size), and afterward they had to stop at the fitness center before going home to empty Betty’s locker. The Cheungs had decided to quit the club, not to blame it for what had happened but simply to get past the unpleasant memory and association. They weren’t going to join another club; given all the new space they had, they were now planning instead to put a swimming pool in the basement of one of the houses.

Liwei wants a full gym with weights and cardio, too, Betty said, fiddling with the combination wheel on her locker. Plus a romper room for the kids, for when it’s bad weather.

That would be fun for them, Fan said.

It will be, as long as everything goes the way it’s supposed to. The architect is drawing up plans. But I’ve been worrying about it. We’re going to have all the money we’ll ever need, but only when the deal goes through. Only God and I know how much we’ve spent in the last month! Many times more than we have, that’s for sure. There’s no reason why the deal shouldn’t happen, but every time I ask Liwei when it’s going to happen, all he says is that the lawyers are the problem. The lawyers! That they just keep bickering over the tiniest details.

Fan said that she’d heard him complain about that.

But you know what I did yesterday? Betty said. I thought, What could they be fighting about that’s so important? Liwei isn’t even going to run the lab anymore or have any say, he’s giving up all control, so what’s there to argue about? So I called a friend who works at the law firm we hired and asked her if she could find out what the remaining issues were and you know what she told me?

Fan shook her head.

She told me there were issues before but of course none now. I said, Why “of course”? Because the contract was agreed to more than a week ago, she said. Liwei apparently was in to sign it. Liwei didn’t tell me he did, but we were fighting a lot then and I can understand how it slipped. Anyway, my friend said now we’re simply waiting for the countersignature. But for some reason they’re taking their time. They don’t seem to be in any hurry. Of course, you don’t need to know about such things, but it’s all a little worrisome, don’t you think?

Fan agreed it was, to which Betty gave a great sigh, though in a strange way the corroboration seemed to make Betty feel a little better, too, and after she deposited her sneakers and toiletries in the plastic shoe bag she’d brought with her, she set the bag down on the narrow upholstered leather bench that ran between the polished wood lockers.

Could I ask you something? Betty said, taking Fan’s hands in hers.

Sure.

When you were out there, in the open counties, I assume you weren’t all alone, because that would have been too hard and dangerous, yes?

Yes.

But you must have felt very alone anyway, right? I know you left of your own free will but putting that aside, you must have felt at times that you’d lost everything. Your household and your clan and your friends. Your work in the tanks. The many other things you surely enjoyed. And of course, your Reg. All the things that had made you you, made you Fan, there was none of it. It was all gone, and maybe, in your mind, gone forever. Was it like that?

Fan didn’t immediately answer.

And when it was like that, Betty went on, her beautiful eyes disked wide and dark, it must have been frightening, so frightening. I can hardly imagine, but did you feel something else, too? Something on the other side of all that? I’ve been feeling very funny of late. It’s nothing like what you probably experienced but I can’t stop feeling it. I can only describe it as this amazing and cavernous emptiness I’m floating at the center of and that I found completely terrifying at first, like I wanted to die, but now I’m not so sure. There’s something about it that drives me crazy. Do you know what I mean? Do you know what I’m talking about?

We know any feeling, even if identical in physical sensation, can never quite tell the same story in another. Still, Fan did understand the feeling, though she told Betty she wasn’t sure, not wanting to say that she’d always had it, even when she was back in B-Mor, even when she held Reg’s hand tightly in hers while they were walking in the park. She was as free as she had believed, and always had been. Only in leaving was it confirmed.

Betty had wanted to stay out a little longer, maybe even take a ride somewhere, make it an entire girls’ day, but it was nearing dinnertime and Liwei would be anxious to get the evening meal going. With the project now essentially done and the pool and gym plans just now in development, he and Betty had more than ample time to devote themselves to those aspects of home life they considered vitally important, from the nurturing of Josey and the twins, to best environmental practices regarding their household’s resource use and waste, to of course what the family ate. Eating was obviously elementary, it was what people did most of in their day, literally taking in the world, and in this area Liwei took a particularly intensive interest, not so much from a gastronomic angle about how things should taste but rather with the idea that each of them — even the babies — should take part in the production of the meal, from the selection of the ingredients at the village market to the chopping and measuring and cooking (the babies given a strong whiff of everything, from ginger slices to cinnamon sticks, after which they’d sometimes cry), the idea being a holistic appreciation through mindful exertions that would result in the best chance for well-being. Frankly, it was often a bit of a circus, the meals never coming out quite right because everybody at every stage had to take her turn, and it was fortunate they still had enough helpers about to mop up the rampant messes, especially if Josey got ahold of the mixing bowl.

It was not difficult for Fan to see that these intricate domestic efforts Oliver and Betty were now directing themselves toward were a constructive means of siphoning off energies that might otherwise go toward arguing or stewing or avoiding each other in the big but now more compartmentalized house. And she assumed this: Betty was still in regular touch with Vik. As far as she could tell, they didn’t meet in person, they couldn’t possibly, for how busy and full the Cheungs’ house schedule was, and with the family being almost always together. But Betty had a second handscreen that slipped out of her handbag in the car and which Fan found beneath her front passenger seat and replaced, Betty zipping up her bag even as she drove. She was grateful that Betty had not divulged any more to her, too, as it would have dragged her anew into the ethical quandary that was finally rendered moot after the incident at the pool. For although she did not know him very well yet, Oliver was Liwei and Liwei was her blood and his pitiable position made her feel she still knew too much, her chest giving the smallest heave whenever just the three of them were together, usually after putting Josey on the preschool shuttle.

The funny thing was that Fan was spending much more time with Oliver than with her, perhaps to limit the chances that Betty, wine-soaked, might want to engage in a certain heart-to-heart, perhaps to figure out if she truly liked him, or could ever feel for him what she did for the others of the household back in B-Mor, that somehow remarkably uncomplicated love that one need rarely express or demonstrate. The Cheungs as well as their friends believed deeply in demonstrations, the minute-by-minute acting out and temperature taking of respect and admiration and devotion, though with Fan, Oliver seemed to be reverting to what he must have been like when he was back with the clan, the two of them now hardly much talking at all while they were busy in the kitchen, or listening to the architect explain the details of the newest plans, or watching Josey do her little-girl cartwheels across the shiny new street, her rear arcing higher than her legs.

He didn’t have to tell Fan he was enjoying or appreciating her company, for if he was or not, it didn’t seem to matter as much as his simply being with her, or if not near her, having a clear notion of where she was. It was enough for him to walk into Josey’s room and see them playing dolls, and he wouldn’t even nod or say hello, just noting it as part of how his people were lodged in the house. Nor had he spoken of what happened at the pool or did he seem to have noticed anything unusual about her after she came out of the water. For isn’t that what we like best about being in our household, having a picture of auntie and uncle up there in the garret, and cousins out in the front, and a brother and nephew across the hall, not having to dwell too much on who they are but instead pointedly feeling their array, the same sense our primordial predecessors must have had when returning at dusk and gazing up into the umbrella tree. It’s not always a perfectly wonderful feeling but it is ours, going forward and back.

Of course, where Fan was on Betty’s Lane will be viewed by some as a most unnatural version of our plan, given how swiftly (if sometimes not so smoothly) their realm was realized, and operated not via equally shared labors but through the pressured application of unbounded wealth; but we must point out, too, that at least Oliver and Betty had, in their exactingly purposeful Charter mode, thought everything through, selecting in and out the best and worst of our ways, which can only be to their credit, and our tradition does not naturally demand that they bear the consequences of such overreaching control. Most times nothing happens. People do get away.

And when they don’t, maybe it’s just the turning of the Earth, such that some bit of light plashes across their path too early or too late. For we think for Oliver and Betty it was like that. One day Oliver gathered everyone including the helpers to relate some disappointing news, namely that they could not yet go forward with the basement pool and gym project because of certain zoning restrictions, telling only Betty that it was, in fact, because the bank was reviewing their credit lines, which were now temporarily suspended. All Fan knew was that he somehow looked grayer in the temples, grayer in the cheeks, and although he’d position himself as ever in the middle of the kitchen chaos, he picked lifelessly at his plate, downing only his unsweetened iced coffees, one right after the other, generally appearing badly dispatched enough that Betty had begun to sneak extra cream and whey protein into the drinks, which fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. Each new day that passed, two of them, three, then five or six, without word from the law firm of the contract being signed seemed to increase the time he spent up in his study, saying he was going over their financial accounts, though of course the conclusion was always instantly the same. They were running low on money, and there was no money coming in. The last few pieces of furniture and decorative items and artworks were still being delivered morning and afternoon, but a telling sign was that their wrappings and packages were no longer being opened, Betty having instructed the helpers simply to leave them for now, that she’d do it herself later. In fact, Betty now often lingered up in Oliver’s study after bringing him something to eat, and it was soon left to Fan to decide what she and the kids and the helpers would do with their day, what they would eat, when they’d retire, even when they’d arise. Betty had had the helpers set up a cot in Oliver’s study so that he could simply fall asleep, usually near dawn, in something other than his desk chair, Betty herself often staying up with him. It was usually completely silent up there, but sometimes there’d be a fit of arguing in the middle of the night, loud enough to wake one of the twins. Most often it was midday when they’d finally come down, usually Oliver before Betty, as his thirst for his drink would rouse him.

But then one morning, just after Fan put Josey on the shuttle, they came down together, both showered and neatly dressed, Oliver in a crisply pressed shirt and flannel slacks and Betty, to Fan’s instant notice, wearing the outfit matching the one she had for reuniting with Reg.

We did it, Oliver said, raising his hands. Betty was covering her mouth.

The contract? Fan said.

Yes! they both said. It went through!

The helpers started hopping and clapping, and Fan did, too.

But then Oliver nudged Betty, and she gasped: And also Reg!

Fan didn’t know what to say.

Go up and change, Fan, Betty told her, tears in her eyes.

It’s a long drive to where he is, Oliver said. So let’s get ready. We’ll want to leave soon.

What hasty preparations we make for our future. Think of it: it seems almost tragic, the things we’re sure we ought to bring along. We pack too heavy with what we hope we’ll use, and too light of what we must. We thus go forth misladen, ill equipped for the dawn.

But not so our Fan. She wasn’t a prophetic one, as we know, or always ever ready, nor was she chosen, at last, to lead anyone but herself. For at every turn, whether she bore a full satchel or one slim or nothing at all, she stood resolved, her boldness not one that simply pushed her forward but rather fixed her, solid, on the very spot she found herself. Where you are. Did this make her impervious? Heroic and wise? Not at all. She was as subject to chance and malice as the rest of us. She could only entertain hopes for the future. But we know very well that there was a quality about this rootedness, which, unlike the rest of us, she never bemoaned or fought or disbelieved, that every person who met her couldn’t help but recognize with a gentle trembling.

Betty accompanied Fan upstairs. Despite Oliver’s advice that they should soon get on the road — only he was going to go with her in the livery car, as it might end up an overnight or maybe two, with Betty staying back with the kids — she suggested Fan take a soaking bath, after which Betty said she would paint her nails and help her with her hair, which was still in a simple bob. Maybe they would get the curling iron out, or even give Fan a wave, one of the helpers likely having a box of instant perm. While the tub was filling (and seasoned with several scoops of Betty’s fancy lavender-scented salts), Fan packed a small overnight bag, a blouse and nice sweater and a pair of jeans Betty had recently bought for her. That was going to be all but Betty thought she should take along a few more outfits, in case they allowed her to see him through several days. So Pinah brought up a much bigger bag, this one with wheels, and after merely half filling it with the various options of what they’d laid out on the bed, Betty went ahead and larded on other pieces from Fan’s closet, leaving just enough room for a toiletries bag.

You never know what you’ll feel like, Betty said, telling her that even if it was only another day’s visit, she’d have plenty of choices for what she might like to wear. Really, who could tell until right then!

This seemed reasonable enough, of course, though while she lay in the slightly too warm bath, her head propped on an air pillow, Fan must have felt that something was amiss, that Betty was being a bit too indulgent, even for her. Had they changed their mind about her and Reg residing there? Had it been just their sentimental dream? If this was so, we are sure, she would tell Reg that she was only grateful for their company, for their care and aid, and that she would miss Josey and the twins and the helpers, too, for all the good mayhem and laughter, and that she did not regret a moment along Betty’s Lane. No need to linger.

So she rose from the tub and peeked into the bedroom and was surprised to see that Betty was still sitting on the bed, awaiting her while messaging on her handscreen. Betty quickly put it in her pocket when she noticed Fan. They did her nails, finishing them plainly with a clear lacquer, and they decided in the end that Betty should simply give her ends a trim, so that she would look fresh and neat. In fact, after the cut and the lightest dabbing of blush Betty applied, she looked as fit and fine as ever, perhaps never so much life arisen in her face. While Pinah and now another helper, Violet, took down her bag, Fan changed into the special outfit, and when she came out, Betty took her hand and they regarded themselves in the mirrored doors of the closet passage, the two of them looking like any sister divers back in B-Mor.

Are you ready? Betty asked her.

Fan nodded.

They went down the stairs together. The front door was open and through the clear pane of the storm door they could see Pinah and Violet letting the bag bump down each stoop step to the sidewalk. Betty now said she had to call about a furniture delivery and that Fan should wait outside. Her car was coming any minute.

Besides, she said, I despise good-byes, even for just the briefest trips.

Shouldn’t I wait? Fan said, glancing upstairs, where she knew Oliver was still packing and changing.

He’ll be down very soon. Oh, look, here it is.

A silver sedan with darkened windows rolled up, and out from it emerged a squat, burly driver in a shiny blazer that pinched at his underarms.

Okay, no good-byes. I’ll see you very soon, okay?

Okay, Fan said. Very soon.

Still, Betty opened her arms, beckoning her, and Fan let herself be taken in. And it was surprising how Betty gave her the deepest hug she’d ever felt, from Reg included, like the woman would sooner perish than let her go. But then she did.

Now hurry.

The very notion, we fear, Fan was thinking herself as she skipped down the stoop. Now hurry back toward B-Mor. Now hurry to sweet Reg. For if there is ever a moment when we are most vulnerable, it’s when we’re closest to the idea of the attained desire, and thus farthest from ourselves, which is when we’ll tread through any flame.

While Pinah and Violet pecked her on the cheek, the man hefted the big bag with one hand into the trunk of the sedan. She looked back at the door and Betty was gone.

Miss Fan? the driver said, and when she acknowledged him, he said Please and took her by the arm and guided her to the rear door. Please, he said again as he felt her begin to resist, his stiff fingertips pressing a nerve of her elbow she did not know was there. She heard mewls of panicked confusion from Pinah and Violet. Her knees almost gave way.

Please!

Before she could speak, she was in the cave of the car, propping herself up in the backseat, her eyes not yet adjusting. It smelled just cleaned. They were already rolling forward, just turning out onto the real street. And they passed another silver sedan, oddly enough, on its way into Betty’s Lane. Fan realized there was a second person in the front, who now ordered the driver to speed up, to go as fast as he could.

I like your outfit, he said, turning to her now.

It was Vik. Gentle-eyed Vik. It’s a good one for traveling. But the question now, little one, is where would you like to go?

Where indeed.

Where would you go, dear Fan?

Where would you have Vik direct the car, as Betty had asked him to, unable as she was to abide her husband’s plan? For Liwei was going to deliver you not to anywhere near us and Reg but to the pharmacorp, in the hope that someone bearing Reg’s legacies would be fair exchange for their final purchase of his work. Or at least that was his intention. Could he have done it? Truly tendered you so? We know that at the very moment the guard post’s gate bar was lifted and you flew out, Oliver had stepped down the stoop himself with his own overnight bag and was ushered into the car. But there he found only Betty in the backseat and knew immediately what she had done. Did they fight? Did they cry? Did they speak of love and doom? All we know is that they remained inside, and the car did not soon move.

The other one, we will have to dream, traveled swift and wide and far. It went in a direction away from us, you knowing now that you must be left somewhere you’d go unnoticed and undisturbed, at least for a good long while. For that time would be coming; there could not be any more travails. So perhaps you went north, where people wouldn’t think to look, or south for a winter’s warmth, or maybe westward, that ready route, drawing you forth to reach another sea.

But sometimes, we’re sure, you’re much closer than we know, waiting out word of Reg in some modest but nice place, maybe like the one Mala spoke of. We can almost see it now, small but tidy, emptied of its household save for a black-clad girl, the brightest shape we know.

Don’t hurry, Fan.

Stay put for now.

We’ll find a way.

You need not come back for us.