Hellbent

He waited a moment and then lifted the lid. A row of greeting cards filled the shoe box from end to end. He ran his thumb across the tops of the cards. The front two-thirds had been opened. The rear third had not.

And then he understood.

He felt his chest swell, slight pressure beneath his cheeks, emotion coming to roost in his body.

He used his knuckles to push back the stack so he could lift out the first card. Flocked gold lettering read:

It’s your ninth birthday
A most happy day
A time to sing
And a time to play…

He opened the card, ignoring the rest of the printed greeting. An iris was pressed inside, already gone to pieces. Familiar feminine handwriting filled the blank page.

My sweet, sweet girl,

The first one without me will be the hardest. I’m sorry I’m not there with you. I’m sorry I got sick. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to beat it. Let my love for you be like a sun that warms you from above.

Forever and always, M.

Evan put the card back. He flicked through the ones behind it.

New Year’s. Valentine’s. Easter. Birthday. First day of school. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas.

He took a wet breath. Let the next set of cards tick past his thumb.

New Year’s. Valentine’s. Easter. Birthday. First day of school. Halloween. Thanksgiving. Christmas.

The last opened card was Thanksgiving, the one that had fallen out of her rucksack in the foot well of the stolen car yesterday.

He pulled out the one behind it, sealed in an envelope that said “Christmas.”

He scrolled ahead, the labels jumping out at him. “Easter.”

“Halloween.”

“Your 18th Bday.”

And then they stopped.

In the bathroom the sink water turned off.

He closed the shoe box, set it back on the couch, and returned to where he’d been sitting.

Joey emerged, wiping her face on a towel. She slung it over the couch back and sat again on the cushions and sheets. She noted the shoe box’s return and then stared at her lap.

Finally she said, “That’s when I went into the system.”

“I’m sorry.”

“The cards, they’re gonna run out when I turn eighteen,” Joey said. “Then what’ll I have?”

He showed her the respect of not offering an answer.

“After I ran away from Van Sciver, that’s where Jack found me. Visiting her grave.” She looked down, gave a soft smile. Her thick mane was swept across, the shaved side exposed, two halves of a beautiful whole. “He was smart like that. He knew how my heart worked.”

Evan nodded, not trusting his voice. Yes, he was. Yes, he did.

After a time Joey slid down into the sheets and curled up, her head on the pillow. “I never fall asleep with anyone in the room,” she said.

“Should I leave?”

“If you want to stay, it’s fine.”

Evan said, “I do.”

He sat and watched the curve of her shoulder, the tousled hair on her cheek. Her blinks grew languorous. And then her eyes closed. Her breathing grew regular, took on a rasp.

He rose silently and eased from the room.

48 Something Akin to Pride

After checking the deep-learning software in the Vault before sunrise the next morning, Evan meditated, showered, and then walked down the hall to the kitchen.

Joey was up early as well, digging in the freezer, an ice pack in one hand, the bottle of Stoli Elit: Himalayan Edition in the other.

She heard him coming and looked over her shoulder. “Don’t you have any frozen burritos or whatever?”

“Careful with that,” Evan said, nodding at the Stoli. “It’s three thousand dollars a bottle.”

Joey appraised it. “Is it worth it?”

“No vodka is worth three thousand dollars.”

“Then why do you have it?”

“What else am I gonna spend it on?”

She stared into the pristine white void of his freezer. “I don’t know. Food.”

He came around the island.

“Out of my way,” he said.

* * *

Two eggs dropped in the frying pan with a this-is-your-brain-on-drugs sizzle. Joey sat on a stool, leaning over the island counter, chin resting on her laced fingers. Fascinated.

“You know how to cook?” she asked.

“I’d hardly call this cooking.”

“How’d you learn?”

“Jack.”

“You fit it in between drownproofing and close-quarters combat?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Humor.”

The toaster dinged, and Evan flicked two pieces of sourdough onto a plate. “Butter?”

“Duh.”

He buttered the toast and slid the eggs atop the two slices. “Go snap some parsley off the living wall.”

“Living wall?”

“The vertical garden. There.”

She walked over. “Which one’s the parsley?”

“Upper left quadrant near the edge. No. No. Yes.”

She tore off a piece, brought it over as he twisted pepper from the mill onto the sunny-side-ups.

He halved the sprig, laid a piece on each yolk. Then he set the plate before her, nudging it so it was precisely between knife and fork.

She stared down at the plate, not moving.