Foreverland Is Dead

the eggs when she’s finished.
    Cyn stands at the window, occasionally sipping, watching the sky lighten over the trees. The brick house is brighter. The windows are lit, like another lamp has been turned on.
    Something’s changed.
    She almost drops the mug, coffee splashing on her chin.
    In a second floor window, a shadow passes.

SEPTEMBER
    Biting the hand that feeds.
    Blaming the one that bleeds.

14

    “Cyn!”
    Cyn looks up with a log in one hand, the ax leaning against her leg. Jen’s running alongs ide the trees, waving as she approaches the barn.
    “Sh e’s come out!” Jen’s shouting.
    Cyn drops the ax and sticks her hand in a bucket of frigid water, cools the blisters. Sweat tracks down the sides of her face even though she can see her breath.
    The brick house is still lit up. All the lights have been on since Miranda disappeared. They haven’t seen her in days, thought she was dead. Cyn saw a shadow pass by a window from time to time. The girls had seen her ghost.
    Cyn walks through the garden ; several rows have nearly defoliated to the soil, weeds already crawling over their withered leaves, rain resting on the waxy surfaces. Drizzle drifts down in tiny droplets.
    The girls are in front of the brick house.
    “What’s going on?” Cyn asks.
    “You ain’t going to believe this,” Kat says. “Beauty Queen dumped a whole bag of winter clothes for us. We’re talking coats and pants, socks and shoes. We’re set for winter, boss.”
    Jen holds up a sweater. “So long smelly rags, hello Versace!”
    It’s a travel bag, something a hockey player would lug onto a bus if he were hauling designer gear for women. The girls pull out sweaters and coats, shoving them back to the bottom in search of something better, thicker, and warmer.
    “ Take it to the bunkhouse, keep it from getting wet. And take inventory of what’s in there, see what we’ve got.”
    Roc snorts . Inventory doesn’t exist in her world.
    “I ’ve got something for you, Cyn.” Jen holds up a white sweater, white pearls attached evenly across the front. “Match your hair.”
    Cyn laughs. She wouldn’t mind getting all dressed up, but there’s a time and place for that. It isn’t now.
    They drag the oversized lugg age through the grass, giggling. It’s like Christmas. In Hell.
    Roc hasn’t moved off the fence that is clearly defined by the trampled grass. Her arms are stiff, each hand latched onto the opposite bicep. She’s staring at the door, which is slightly ajar.
    Is that music?
    String instruments moan in concert. At first she thought it was the wind but, no, it’s violins and cellos calling out long, mournful tones. Cyn hadn’t spent much time near the brick house since Miranda had gone in.
    Roc hardly left.
    Cyn pulls a square plastic sheet out of her back pocket, unfolds it over her head. The rain tracks off the edges. It’s dripping from Roc’s furrowed brow.
    “Want under?” Cyn lifts the corner of the plastic.
    Roc eyes set deeper.
    “That winter gear is nice.”
    “Can’t eat it,” Roc says.
    “What she doing?”
    There’s a loud bang somewhere deep inside the house. Cyn stands on her toes, as if four inches will give her a better vantage point to see through the windows. A few steps in either direction doesn’t help.
    Something is sliding. The door opens. Candlelight flickers against the walls. Classical music bellows.
    Miranda backs out with something behind her. Her hair is radiant, pinned above her ears. The jeans are new. The coat, too. And the outdoor Merrell hiking shoes—those look new.
    She looks u p at the gray and dimming sky, pulls the fuzzy-edged hood over her head.
    “Jesus,” Roc mutters.
    Miranda pulls a travel bag out of the house. It thumps down the steps, scratching the wet grass. She stops a few feet from the fence line, the tall grass on the inside. She goes back to the porch and fetches a bamboo stick with a plastic hook attached to the end.
    “Use this.” Still not looking at either of them, she offers them the bamboo. “Drag it across the fence. I stuck rain gear in there if you want to put it on.”
    “Princess,” Roc says.
    Cyn hooks the handle of the travel bag, sliding it well past the fence. There are shoes and boots, tons of socks and rain slickers. Roc ignores the one Cyn holds up. Rain drips from her chin and brows, eyes dark and deep.
    Cyn shimmies into a green poncho, throws the hood on. The material sti cks to her skin.
    “Thank you.”
    “I’ll send