He’d fallen into bed with her, choking in a female perfume, catching the sleeves of her dress and yanking them off her shoulders. Her bones were like a bird’s, or the tiny ones holding up ear cartilage or maybe not there at all, like shark blubber. She was all flesh, no bones, that night.

It was in the morning, when she’d tossed him that smile, that he noticed the bones, the solidity of what he did, that he started in bed. Her black hair coursed down the sheets, and he wondered if a strand had crawled beneath his skin and tangled in his guts.

‘Did you have fun?’

He was too drunk that night, she too, but only one of them had developed enough to regret. She was nearly two years younger but he thought she ought to be smarter.

He pulled himself off the bed and stepped onto the carpet. Velvet melted beneath his feet and he looked down to a dress, like the residue of a crime scene, glinting at him.

There a smile flickered from the colour, then the body of her older sister, who had as much as love for him as he did for her. It couldn’t have belonged to her, but borrowed from her sister.

The same sister who stole the place of his original beloved, the same he’s bethrothed to in her absence. That chilling woman, his fiancée. He loathed to marry her, to recite vows on their wedding day, but loathed more to enter his parent’s disapproval.

The only real advantage was that he didn’t need to act proper. He’d already began aging the wine he’d drink the morning of the wedding. If he’s lucky, he’d be drunk the whole fucking thing.

‘Hey?’

He looked back at her, snapped out of it., frothing with questions.

Why would she wear that? Knowing what velvet red implies between them? Did she think he loved her sister in any capacity beyond tolerance? Horrible, horrible girl, and worser him.

‘What?’

‘Are you okay? With this, I mean, I—’

‘This can never happen again.’

Her thin brows skewed, faintly reminding him of a pathetic watercolour doll. ‘But wasn’t last night good for you?’

‘Like that matters.’

His life’s already messed up as it is without bedding his fiancée’s younger sister. His fiancée would grind his bones into a fine powder and smoke a blunt from his ashes.

‘But it does matter to me. For years, I’ve wanted—’

‘You’re nothing like that to me.’ He didn’t want to hear someone he loved as a sister finish a sentence like that. ‘I mean it. I’m sorry. I was wasted and I didn’t mean to take advantage of you. But can you…’ how did he word it in a way that didn’t make him the scum of the Earth?

But she caught on. ‘I won’t tell her.’

‘Thank you. If it’s alright, can you please be on your way? I’ll contact you later.’

She got off the bed as he pulled his foot off the dress. They were the last things he wanted to see.

He sealed himself in the washroom and washed his eyes, the light foundation and hints of blush that brightened his complexion last night, and opened his phone—left on the head of the toilet.

No messages. No scandal outbreak. Just a lone notification from Maman inquiring if he’d be there at the meeting this evening. The world spun on. She was still in his bed.

He wore a bathrobe and only left when he heard the door shut.

Little Mary Anne didn’t complete her chores today. She’d be punished, brutally. Daddy already had the coins out for her to purchase it herself at the fair. Mommy lent her not a kind eye.

‘You should’ve known better, Mary. Your behaviour is unfit. Just unfit.’

Unfit was no good. It was the opposite of fit, an antonym. It ought to be synonymous, ought to be healthy.

So Little Mary Anne took the coins and her parents let her get lost in the fair. It travelled here every spring, some winters, rarely summers, and never fall. Fall represented decay. The staff once told her that the place would become a black hole if they arrived in autumn and everyone within would die.

Black holes ripped people apart, worse than wild animals and creatures, because you had no fighting chance. Nightmares joined her in bed since. Her parents often said, after learning, ‘If you don’t do this, we’ll call them and bring you here during the fall.’

Luckily, it was spring, and quite fit weather. Except it was night, and nightly spring chilled the bones to a pain. She kept her neon oversized parka over her lips, which was too hot, but the only way her parents would find her when their game became enough.

Lights of pink, gold, and a sharp blue shimmered on signs. A game here claimed she should test her luck. Classic whack a mole sat beside it. A mirror maze Mommy insisted she’d get lost in the minute she entered is at the brink of the fair with a never-ending line.

But it was the prize-win game she was supposed to want. Blind-folded throwing with only enough for one round. If she could win something pleasant like sweets, her parents would forgive her.

That old thing was in the corner, unloved compared to all the more glamorous games, crowded with people—mostly zitty boy teenagers and dolled up girl teenagers, who were just as zitty but hid it better. They didn’t pay her any mind, but their Mommies and Daddies probably had them on missions, too.

She walked until she reached the corner. Until the salted butter popcorn and the sugary overload of cotton candy smells ran out.

There the same worker who’d handled it all these years stood behind the booth, always holding an ancient looking book. She was a simple woman whose black hair fell in straight unbroken panels down her back. Skin peeked out of her front hair. Mommy called that balding.

‘Hi.’

She slid the woman some coins. Her hand swallowed it and the other spun out the ticket for her to play. ‘Having fun?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, second-nature, because while lying wasn’t good, Mommy and Daddy already taught her that certain lying wasn’t bad.

The woman got up, tied the sash round Mary’s eyes, and pushed her in front of the machine. It was a bit like an arcade box but with a wider screen and no joy sticks. She could picture it in her mind from how often she’s played. She opened her hand and the woman placed the ball—warm, fuzzy—inside her palm.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Mm.’

Noises sang from the machine. Its screen would be changing by now. She tried to pinpoint the right one, the sparkling noise. The game was all about throwing to the right noise and having the ball hit a part of the screen. Whichever item was closest was the item won.

As long as she got nothing sharp she’d be fine.

A tinkling sang from the left side of the screen, splat near the middle. That was the grand prize. She’d never been able to win it and it was too risky to try. All the sharp things surrounded it, like the toys babies choke on and the weapon plushes.

Instead, she waited for the clinking of the keys, the swish of the tickets, the clunk of the rocks. Three seconds played. She heard them ring their familiar series. Rightmost top corner it sounded. She engaged all her muscles, her mind, and poured it into the swing.

The ball hit solid on the screen. The worker made a sound. When Mary ripped the blindfold off, she wished she hadn’t. The screen’s cracked, a shard of the plastic dangling from where the ball struck.

The worker’s already phoning whoever to fix this old, disgusting machine which never worked in Mary’s favour ever.

In the woman’s panic, Mary walked up to it and plucked her prize, the dangling shard, and held it tight till it cut a line of red across her palm.

At least the punishment will be fair and fit.

Kaya lights the candle at the basement door and waits the three seconds till it flickers red. Always, on time, Jana meows from behind the door, scratching down it with her paw.

Behind, Gale descends the stairs halfway, holding her bowl of chips. She’s never mustered the nerve to complete those stairs, unlike Kaya, who finds comfort in the screech, in confirming Jana’s life.

‘It’s almost time.’ Kaya hunkers to the door. She treats the screeching wood and yowling cat like promise. ‘We’re getting you out tonight, Jana.’

It happened ten years ago, precisely on Kaya’s eleventh birthday. Now here they were, full circle, back again.

‘Have you ever heard of a twenty-two year old Persian?’

‘I still think this basement freezes time. She’ll be the same when she leaves.’ Kaya slides a fish treat beneath the door. The darkness snatches it up and devours it before she’s finished pushing. ‘Good girl. You must’ve been extra hungry.’

‘And you think we’re strong enough?’

‘Mmm.’ She stands and looks at Gale. Below, the light from upstairs dies down to a hush, killing Kaya’s radiance. ‘And if we’re not, we’ll find out.’

‘What do you think we’ll find out, though?’

Gale pictures Jana, bones and ratchet skin, laid across the ground, ripped in different places from the force that stole her that evening. Her tail dilapitated and frayed. A zombie cat, so old it should be put out of its misery.

Kaya twists a curl of blonde hair with her index finger. ‘Just Jana.’

‘And how will she look?’

‘The same.’ Kaya’s face darkens. ‘What’s with these questions? Are you having second thoughts?’

Gale the only other person who saw the basement door gape, its hinges squeal, and the blackness inside snatch Jana up when she got too close. When that awful boy at scared her down here.

‘No. I would never. But are you having second thoughts?’

‘No.’ Kaya smiles, brilliantly, pink lips spreading. She’s always been gorgeous, in a Barbie way, that incites the belief that Gale can do anything. But not this.

Kaya sprints up the stairs, touches Gale’s shoulder, and says, ‘Get the gun.’

‘Will a gun work against a shadow?’

Kaya shrugs again, adjusts her pink tube top, and flounces back into the living room. Gale knows she promised. But she’s shaking. Kaya couldn’t love a Persian cat this much, to wait ten years lying low to fight a light-murdering, basement shadow.

‘What if we saw it wrong? What if we’ve been holding that cat captive for no good reason?’

‘At least we’ll unseal the door tonight, if all goes well.’

Construction men couldn’t after the incident. The hinges wouldn’t come off. It broke their tools. Yet Kaya is convinced that she could do it. Gale adores her for believing two twenty-one year olds could do what a gaggle of contstruction men failed at. That the reason her house became a spectacle online for years—this indestructible basement—can be remedied.

Kaya pours them glasses of coconut rum, and spills in apple soda. Gale forces herself to walk to the other staircase leading up, and press the safe keys. She drops the bowl of chips on the safe as it sighs opens. Bends, grabs the gun, and tucks it in her short pockets.

‘Gale!’

‘Coming!’

Gale enters the living room to find Kaya sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other elegantly. Kaya grins at her, hands her a glass, and clinks them together.

‘Liquid courage. We’ll need it.’

‘You barely do.’

‘Well, because I trust this will work. If it doesn’t, oh well. At least we tried.’ This is the same Kaya who trusted she could fly at ten and broke her leg.

‘You know what I said about not having second thoughts?’

Kara downs her glass, blue eyes sparkling when they meet Gale’s. ‘Yes. And I get that. You’re scared.’ She sets aside her glass and twines their left hands together, fingers tight. ‘I am too. But I also want you to know that no one else would go down some hungry basement for me. I couldn’t do it alone either. You’re the one making me strong.’

Gale wants to turn away, to not draw herself into this. A ten year investment and she wants to break it, now. Kara leans closer, her breath kissing Gale’s cheek, scented with alcohol and apple and the strawberry lip gloss she smears religiously.

‘Can’t you let me make you strong, too, Gale?’

‘You do,’ she breathes the words.

‘Then trust me. I know this sounds like a goodbye speech, but I’m not scared it is. I’m happy it’s not. Because it’s my birthday. And you’ve chosen to give me the best gift anyone can give. You’ve kept your promise. And you will for every other birthday I’ll have from now.’

‘Yeah,’ Gale whispers, ‘Always.’

‘I really love you.’

Gale’s heart stutters when Kara squashes her into a hug. She nearly spills her drink from the intensity of it. Almost falls.

‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

Gale swallows on the best friend part. She pats Kara’s tough shoulder and pries away before her heart bursts.

‘Okay, alright.’

At least Gale can say she struggled. But Kara always finds a way to win over her, whether she knows it or not.

A dragon breathes fire as a pen breathes ink. When the pen suffocates, its breath runs out, A knight has throttled your dragon round. The story shared back home entails a defeat, belonging to you, your ink’s retreat, that spilled of red, your fire drained, and the pages laid away to waste. As a poet you must persevere, and in any case, never let that knight near. It will snuff out your dragon, suffocate your pen, and the paper’s story won’t start but end. A flame caged within the throat, your veins and ink, a sea and boat. That knight is asphyxiation, white-out and water, your gravest challenge. And it will win some days and hail over you.

On the march back to Cherry Shrine, Tara checks her heels for Pearl, to ensure that cat hasn’t camouflaged into the snow banks, or run away. Pearl looks back up at her at the same time, as if checking for Tara. For a moment, she is a pair of floating blue eyes on wintry ground. She meows and exposes a sliver of pink mouth.

The other five shrine maidens are ahead, talking amongst each other, gossiping about the new artisan, Micha. He came around a month ago and the gossip has not died down—a Northern boy, fair-faced and dark-eyed, with the thick accent that syrupped his words when he spoke their tongue.

‘I get to decorate the yard after breakfast.’ Kirsten’s red frock glides against the snow path as she twirls back. ‘Micha might work outside then. I heard he will from one of the guys lodged with him.’

‘Which one?’ Aya asks. ‘And how come you’re speaking with every man in the shrine? Do you have no shame? How do I become more like you?’

The women laugh, shaking their heads. Kirsten primps her blossom-shaped white collar, grinning. ‘It was Thane who told me. Besides, men are simple creatures, Aya. Talk to one and you’ll see.’

‘Simple creatures until they want you to break every heavenly principle with them,’ Darcy says. ‘And I could never speak to the men at this shrine. Imagine a falling out happens and I still have to work with them. It is terrifying.’

‘Again, men are simple creatures. It might not occur to them to be petty.’

‘Animals, I say.’ Hana tosses her head back. ‘Not you, Pearl. You’re better than that.’

Pearl meows and titters follow.

‘Tara, can you be faster? How will you attend your lady lessons if you’re all the way back there?’ Aya calls, bracketing her mouth with her hands.

Tara laughs, bends, and scoops Pearl up. Pearl doesn’t ever protest. She jogs forward, picking the frock in one hand and coming near. ‘Sorry, Pearl is a lazy boy. What is your grand plan to seduce Micha?’

‘Oh, hush.’ Kirsten flips her dark luscious hair back. The tips of her ear burn red from the cold. ‘I don’t seduce. I flirt. Seduction is quite unprincipled.’

Amira is quiet, as always, but her eyes fix on Pearl. Tara hands the cat towards her, though Pearl doesn’t ever look away from Tara. He really is the lamb to her Mary. ‘Thanks,’ Amira says, quietly, before running a thin hand along Pearl’s crown. Pearl meows.

‘Yes, and you’re such a principled flirt,’ says Aya.

‘We exist you know.’ Kirsten rolls her eyes. ‘The seductresses give us a bad reputation. Now, I’ll tell you what happened with Thane, and what I plan on doing with Micha.’

As they near the shrine, the High Priestess Wisteria comes from the front stairs, towards them, her radiant blue gown swimming down the steps. Aya looks at them then her. ‘Kirsten—’

‘Shh. Let me advise you.’

‘That’s lovely, but—’

‘Shh.’

The others look at each other and laugh. Wisteria approaches from behind, quick and sure, like a hunter.

‘First, as Micha’s wood carving, or whatever it is he does, I plan to ask if I could watch. He is not quite familiar with this religion, so I can teach him. It would make conversation. And as an unprincipled man, of weak flesh and desire, he is an even easier target than the ones at the shrine.’

Wisteria has stopped. She can hear. Aya opens her mouth, but Kirsten shoots her a dark look. Amira smiles at how Pearl’s stretched a paw, like she’s trying to point out the High Priestess’ presence to Kirsten, and cradles him closer.

‘Thane, of course, could overcome his guilt, in a while. But a man with no spiritual ties? He has no guilt but for the most basic humanities. It is a man like that who I would barely need to wave a finger at before he’s at my beck and call. And he would be less wary around a shrine maiden. He has no clue of the wiles we can—’

‘Kirsty,’ Aya snaps, and before she can shut her down again, she spins Kirsty around, face to face with the High Priestess.

Kirsten freezes.

‘What about your wiles?’

‘My… my heavenly wiles,’ says Kirsten. ‘Of graciousness and piety that we all strive for.’

Hana and Aya struggle to quiet their laughters. Darcy deals her elbows into both their sides.

‘It is a shrine maiden who should guide,’ Kirsten continues her spiel, ‘and become a paragon of righteousness for those who have not yet interlocked faiths with the principles of Cerasus.’

‘It is also amongst a shrine maiden’s duties to become a lady who can employ those principles to detoxify the unprincipled and guide them from further ruin.’ Her eyes bear down, the redness in her irids signifying someone who eats the Fruit every day. ‘For the next week, read the Prunus, from chapters Avium to Serrulata.’

‘High Priestess, I—’

‘Starting now.’

‘What about my… important duties to complete at the yard?’

‘Your work will be indoors. In the women’s quarters, where you will thrive.’

‘Please, High Priestess Wisteria, a delicate flower will wither in captivity!’

‘Do you liken the Cherry Shrine to a prison, now?’

She calculates her next words. ‘No, High Priestess. I will begin my studies, now.’

The High Priestess flutters a dismissive hand. ‘Go cleanse your mind of this prurience.’

Kirsten ducks into a curtsy and dashes off into the Cherry Shrine. The round doors click shut behind her. As soon as the High Priestess turns to them, they flatten themselves, too.

‘Good morning, High Priestess Wisteria!’ they say together.

‘Tomorrow, we will all meditate two hours longer to compensate for this lascivious conversation.’

‘Yes, High Priestess Wisteria!’

‘Tara, your task was to relight the candles indoors?’

Tara nods.

‘You and Kirsten will switch tasks. I trust you not to infirm your own principles with the unaffiliated.’

‘Of course, High Priestess. The Cerasus is in my heart.’

A lapse of silence rounds them like sheep dogs. It disperses and they release thier breaths.

‘Everyone inside now. Breakfast has been served.’

As soon as the High Priestess strides out of view, Aya bumps Tara. ‘Lucky girl. Do us proud.’

‘Did you learn nothing?’ Darcy hisses.

‘I learnt we need to watch our surroundings when speaking of womanly wiles.’

‘A woman is pure and saintly. Those wiles were entirely Kirstenly.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that,’ Hana says.

‘Not if I tell her first,’ Darcy replies.

Pearl yowls as they reenter the shrine.

——————

Tara emerges into the yard after a hearty breakfast, bows to the Cherry tree, and a ripe cherry plops down. She pops it out of the air and into her mouth. The juice spills over her tongue and burns her throat like ceremonial kirsch.

Pearl licks the bark, her way of curtsying, and prounces into the snowy yard. No snow comes in the radius of the tree—surrounded by a year long vibrant grass that fades back into natural snow.

Before she can let greed best her and ask the tree for another cherry, Pearl screeches with more fury she thought the feline capable of. She turns and finds Micha, sat at the near edge of the yard gate, hammering away at metal work. He stops to stare down at the cat and pulls away his clunky metal mask.

Bare-faced now, Tara can see Kirsten did not exaggerate about Northern men. Her breath catches.

‘What’d you tell your cat about me?’

He sounds so serious Tara doesn’t recognize it as a joke until she processes it five more times. ‘That you weren’t of the Cerasus.’

‘Principled. Make sure he stays close to you, yeah? Working with dangerous things here.’

‘Oh, no. He doesn’t stray.’

‘From his faith or from you?’

‘Both.’ Tara smiles before she can help it. Pearl hisses again.

‘Bye kitty.’ Micha waves, and Pearl shifts back, baring fangs. ‘How about we talk properly later, alright? One-on-one?’

‘Me?’ Tara asks, like a croak. ‘No. Absolutely not. I—’

‘I’m talking to your cat.’

She clenches gloved hands and tries not to die of shame. ‘Well, he’s principled. You’d have to convert before you can get on his good side.’

‘He’s always this rough with outsiders?’

‘Not really. Maybe he thinks you’ve committed more sin.’

Micha stands from his post and drifts towards them. Tara holds her ground, asserting it, but he’s really not coming to her, or flirting with her, or anything like that. He’s focused on Pearl.

‘Where’d you find her? White cats with blue eyes are incredibly rare.’

‘She showed up one day.’ Tara steps in front of Pearl, protecting her from sight. ‘And came with good fortune.’

‘Does that “good fortune” relate to her name?’

Tara stares him down. ‘Maybe.’

‘She went to the High Priestess, and—’ Pearl’s screeching so loudly you’d think she was dying—‘I don’t know. Spat out a pearl?’

Tara looks at his dark eyes, stark against white skin. His bushy brows are relaxed. His mouth tight, shrunk around the next word. ‘She did. I didn’t know you were a religious acolyte.’

‘Something like that, to be an artisan in this era.’

‘Not just an artisan, though?’

‘No. Not just.’ He pushes Tara aside. Or tries. But the Cerasus train their hands. She steals momentum and whips him backwards with her, away from Pearl, whose blue eyes have widened humanly.

She has never seen that expression on a cat and it startles her so much she lets Micha rip away. He runs up to Pearl. She lunges after and grabs his shoulder, as her other hand gropes for the blade beneath her dress. Finds it. Presses it up to his neck.

‘You would dare harm a child of the Cerasus before me?’

A decorative blade glints weak winter sunlight. It swipes to catch against her neck. Micha’s hand is steady. Both of them are hostages. On equal ground. Yet it feels like she’s floating.

‘Do you love the cat or the money it brought with that pearl?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You named the cat the one thing it did for you.’

‘Yes, because it was miraculous. It deserves acknowledgment.’

He scoffs. ‘All you shrine girls are the same. You preach about renouncing material goods but would welcome a demon into your midst if it gives you a pretty ball.’

‘That pretty ball renovated this place. The walls were rotting before Pearl.’

‘Now it’s only the old artifacts, the old ways, pages in the Prunus. But anything to repaint a wall, right?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying you should look at that cat and tell me it loves you or this shrine. Look at that thing and tell me it’s a cat.’

So she looks. And the eyes are human eyes. Blue human eyes embedded on a cat’s triangular face. Like nature forgot it was one, forgot everything. ‘It’s…’

‘Go on. Say it. It’s a cat.’

Her hand is trembling, bad. She whispers, ‘What is it?’

Before he can answer, a crimson smoke bursts out of Pearl’s fur and stains the air, bleaching her nostrils with the stench of ozone. What remains of the cat crumples into an empty sack of white fur that softens into snow. The smoke settles in front of them and screams.

Micha isn’t an artisan. Pearl isn’t a cat. All of these things are true.

‘A snowskin. And if you let me go now, maybe it won’t kill the both of us.’

Not a voice rises in their home on Fern Street, as Father prefers it so. He was downstairs, staying, as he was last week and every week before that.

Natalie cleans up her backpack in her room and ignores the aches prickling her legs. They start up whenever she doesn’t eat enough.

The home used to belong to Mom’s mom, before she did something known as passing. Mom’s in the kitchen, where she hasn’t budged for the last three days, where last Father made her stay.

Natalie learnt early on she can’t ask mom to cook when she’s staying. Father assured her it was nothing like passing, but if she spoke a word it would be.

All Natalie can hope is that Father sleeps off quickly so later she can drift down to eat. Since Mom’s staying, Natalie started sharing lunch with Mya at school—Mya offered first—and today Mya brought two lunches. One for her her. It made Natalie feel real special.

She looks at the clock to wait an hour. Father is like a wind-up toy, on a certain schedule, marching here and there. He doesn’t really enter the kitchen—doesn’t want to bother Mom. In the meantime, Natalie starts her homework.

Mrs. Bea says Natalie’s really good at history for a second grader. It’s because Mom’s the bestest historian ever. Mom goes on digs and is real busy all the time. Though Father doesn’t like that. Probably why he made her stay.

Natalie fills out half her booklet and doesn’t care about the world for a while. It is half an hour when Natalie’s stomach crunches in on itself like a pop can. The lunch Mya gave was really good, but doesn’t make up for the last two days. Natalie eyes her door, shut, with a chair and shelf against it, and a wooden stick kept on the handle in a way that makes it super hard to open.

She shouldn’t go downstairs yet. Father would not be stayed on the couch right now. She knows that. It’s tested and proven like a science fact.

Natalie’s stomach growls again and she clenches her pencil in frustration. It hurts. Real bad. She drops her pencil gently and picks herself up gently, and slowly peels away the furniture from her door. Doesn’t want to alert him.

After, she creeps to the staircase. It is hard to look downstairs without being seen upstairs. If she had a choice, the house would have plenty hiding spots. She peeks her head over the railing, carefully, and Father isn’t on the couch. That means he’s in either the washroom, the kitchen, the laundry, or outside.

Mom used to argue about Father going outside at night. Said he was too busy with other bitches to spend time with his family. Natalie wishes Father would take her. She likes dogs, and doesn’t care if they’re male or female. Female dogs are probably just as strong as male dogs, anyway. Though she still doesn’t know what breed a “skank” is.

Natalie takes a chance and tries a step down the staircase. Mom bought chips a week ago. Father eats all her school snacks—which also annoys Mom. But there should be some sour cream and green onion flavoured ones still left.

She avoids the patches that creak and counts all eighteen steps to the bottom. First, she peers around the staircase wall, into the kitchen behind, with the tiny guest washroom attached. The door is ajar and inside is empty, and so is the kitchen.

Natalie’s feet take her back, but it’s too late. The pantry doors open and Father comes out, carrying a tin of beans. They lock eyes. Mom’s still stayed on the chair in between them. Natalie tries not to choke on Mom’s stink. She hasn’t showered in three days and it’s really, really bad. Her skin’s greening up.

Father looks down at Mom for a long moment when Natalie stares at him. She’s not allowed to run away just yet. That maddens him. She can only run if he’s already mad.

He goes to the counter and struggles to open his tin of beans. Natalie doesn’t know how to open tin cans. She wouldn’t be hungry if she did because she could stuff them in her backpack and never need to come down.

‘Do you want some beans?’ Father asks.

Natalie isn’t allowed to say no, either. She steadies her trembling hands and enters the kitchen. ‘Yes, please.’

Mom’s stink hurts her stomach worse and differently than the hunger. Mom usually cares about her hygiene, always ushering Natalie to shower. This is wrong.

‘Mom’s being disgusting, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, she is.’ Natalie tries a question. ‘Why isn’t she showering?’

‘Because she’s a lazy skank.’

Natalie wants to meet a real skank so bad. ‘Oh.’

Father is so quiet until he shouts and bangs the tin against the counter. It takes everything for Natalie to stifle her shake. ‘Fuck! Natty, get me a goddamn knife!’

Natalie hurries to the leftmost of the counter to the panel where Mom hangs the knives. She takes the biggest one down and hands it back to Father.

He wastes no time and goes crazy with the tin can, over and over, but it doesn’t bend at all. ‘Fuck,’ he repeats. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck! I’m going to starve and it’s that stupid woman’s fucking fault…’

It feels wrong to blame Mom here, but Natalie can barely breathe because she’s stinking up the air.

Father’s knife sticks into the bean tin and Natalie’s stomach twists. ‘Holy shit, how does she open this? You watch your mom cook, don’t you?’

‘Not really. I’m sorry.’

‘Useless.’ He pushes the knife more inside. His hand keeps tight round the tin. Natalie’s fingers don’t stop shaking. Another push and the tin top curls down and there’s beans. She can’t smell it over Mom.

Father pours the watery beans into different bowls and microwaves both. When he gives Natalie hers, the bowl’s too hot. She tries to handle it until she gets to the table, beside Mom, but drops it at the last minute because her fingertips hurt real bad. Her eyes heat.

‘Bitch!’

Father’s scream is fast. He places his bowl onto the counter and stomps around the table.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ Natalie searches for anything to clean with. Then Father is beside her and he slaps her down, and she topples into Mom, who falls off her chair. They slide onto the ground together. Mom isn’t warm at all.

Natalie sobs and covers her face. They were getting along just now. She ruined it. Like she ruins everything. Father kicks Mom aside like one of Mya’s mom’s old-timey ragdolls. Mom doesn’t even make a peep.

**Natalie is not that strong. **She whimpers when Father picks Natalie up by her shirt. There is a dribble of orange tin can beans on it. He throws her into the wall and her head rings. He nears again when the doorbell rings.

He grabs a plate and stares at her, like a bug that just won’t die.

Natalie is good. Natalie doesn’t twitch. Father inhales and leaves her alone to go to the door. She crawls out from behind the wall to see. There is a police officer there. It is not the first time they’ve visited.

‘Is this the Verity residence?’

‘What does it fucking look like?’

The cop pauses and his eyes keep moving over the place. His nose wrinkles fiercely before he locks eyes with Natalie. Natalie freezes. ‘Is that your daughter?’

‘Excuse me.’ Father looks at her and his eyes burn. ‘Natty, would you get your ass upstairs?’

‘You shouldn’t talk to her like that.’

‘Don’t tell me how to talk to my goddamn child.’

This sounds like the conversation that made Father ban Natalie from going to Mya’s house. Mya’s parents are scary nice, like the policeman, like Mrs. Bea during the teacher-parent conference, like the strangers from something called CPS.

‘Natty, get the fuck upstairs!’

‘It’s alright. She can stay here.’

Her head still hurts.

‘Is he your father or am I? Like you didn’t fucking hear me the first two times. Natty, you will not like me a second from now. Go upstairs!’

‘I really don’t mind her. Natty, why don’t you come here?’

Father whips towards the police officer in a jiffy. His hand flies. Natalie’s eyes shut, waiting for the police officer to stay too, like Mom, for Father not to stop, but a second later Father’s the one screaming. There’s a black gun placed steady on his chest and Natalie’s heart jumps. She wobbles to her feet and sprints over.

‘Father!’

He’s on the ground, convulsing, and hot tears flow down her cheeks. She should have gone upstairs. She should have. Her hand grasps at his chest for red stickiness, but there is none. Just another smell of burning something and a warmth where the gun was.

‘You killed him, you killed—’ Natalie chokes.

The policeman kneels down. He’s about Father’s age, but all adults look the same age before eighty. ‘It’s just a tazer, just a tazer. He’s not dead.’

Before anything can happen, he flips Father over and locks his wrists together in hand cuffs. Father groans and it hurts Natalie bad.

‘No, no. My father’s not a criminal. Why are you doing that? Let him go!’

She grabs his arm and tugs but the adult is stronger. They always are. He stands up and she claws at his pants.

‘Please don’t take him to jail, please—’

‘Natty, come. Come. Where’s your mom?’ He holds her hand and she forces herself to stand.

‘In the kitchen,’ she murmurs, ‘and Mom won’t like this, she won’t stand for it.’ But Mom doesn’t speak anymore and she hasn’t stood since she fell.

‘What’s that smell, if I mind asking?’

‘It’s Mom.’

‘Your mom?’

‘She doesn’t shower anymore.’ Natalie sniffles. ‘She just sits in the kitchen and looks sad. Please don’t take Father to jail.’

‘Show me her.’

She walks him to the kitchen. When he rounds the corner, he says a bad word. Natalie knows a curse means anger, and anger means hitting, and if he has that taser gun, Natalie is gone.

Instead, he picks his walkietalkie and mentions ‘back up.’ Then he takes Father, handcuffed, outside, and tells Natalie she’ll be okay, and so will Father. That she has nothing to worry about anymore.

He sits her in the back of a new police car after talking with her on the porch about nothing. There she watches as more red and blue lights crowd outside her house. An ambulance arrives. Neighbours come outside. Soon there is yellow tape and a news van. People in different suits go in and out of her house for forever or for two seconds. Her head still hurts.

The original policeman returns with a lollipop and a woman who sits down and asks Natalie to talk to her. This time, it’s not nothing, like school and homework, but about “Mom dying”.

‘Mom’s not dead. She’s just stayed.’

‘Stayed?’

‘Yeah. Stayed. Father stayed her three days ago.’

The woman is real interested in that. ‘Stayed her?’

‘With his hands. She still has them on her neck.’

‘Okay.’

‘But Father promised she was fine.’

‘And she’s been fine?’

‘She doesn’t take showers anymore. Or do anything. But that’s it.’ Natalie goes quiet, playing with the wrapper around her lollipop. ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

‘That’s okay. Alright? We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.’

The woman doesn’t leave. Natalie doesn’t open her lollipop. Her history teacher says after a while bones turn to rock under dirt. It’s kind of like this. There’s so much dirtiness and time that everyone is rock, all stayed like Mom.

‘Is he going to jail?’

‘Sweetheart, he’s not a good man.’

Natalie’s quiet. ‘I know. But I love him. He’s Father.’

‘And that’s alright.’