Foreverland Is Dead

and sorts through the tubes of lipstick and lotions, humming along with the music, imagining the conductor’s steely glare and fluid hands.
    The upper desk drawer is full of office supplies. The second drawer is a mess of papers and envelopes. There’s a box at the bottom. She pulls an oversized pair of binoculars out of it.
    Mighty powerful ones.
    She steps to the window, lifts them to her eyes , and scrolls the middle dial. The wind harvester comes into focus. Kat is pulling on the barn door. The hinge must be damaged; the door only gets halfway closed before the wind snatches it back. Cyn helps push while Kat gets the latch into place. They run for cover.
    Binoculars just armed Miranda in the battle against boredom.
    She puts them on the bed, digs t hrough the middle drawer for more treasure, strikes gold again. This time, a fat manila envelope full of photographs. They’re old and scratched, bent at the corners; mostly shots of the ocean, yachts, beach houses. The sorts of things wealthy people photograph.
    The bottom drawer is mostly junk. A few more photos and a box of necklaces. She starts to shut it when she notices a leather-bound notebook, scuffed and tied with an elastic band, at the very bottom.
    The pages are rough -cut. The script is beautifully written in blue ink. She flips the pages, captivated by the handwriting. The words are a work of art.
    There’s no n ame inside the cover. The line on the first page reads:

    They call this place the Fountain of Youth. I call it Hell.

    Miranda sits on the bed, flipping through the pages. No dates or page numbers, just line after line of lovely script.

    Everything arrived. Some of my possessions, though, were sent back. Not enough room, I was told. Perhaps they’re right. There really isn’t a need to make this place a home. But I’ll be here until the end, so forgive me if I want it to feel like home.

    Until the end? Is this a place for dying? Miranda adjusts the pillows and leans back. She reads more but it quickly becomes mundane. Three pages on learning to saddle a horse isn’t riveting. Still nothing about why they’re here.
    Miranda begins speed-reading.
    Until …

    My girl arrived.

    Miranda sits up. She adjusts the journal to catch the waning sunlight.

    My husband is completely opposed to her. But she’s so much like me in my younger years, when I was hardheaded and tough. He just wouldn’t understand. I can’t sponsor someone I can’t relate to, and she’s perfect. I understand his reluctance, though. She’s a risk.
    In fact, she’s dangerous.
    Her background is quite alarming, but she’s the perfect candidate. If she weren’t, they wouldn’t allow me to sponsor her.
    I didn’t greet her when she arrived. I was supposed to ; that’s what all the sponsors did—they met their girls when they arrived. I just wanted to see her from afar. She just reminds me so much of myself, it’s quite distressing.
    Her hair —it’s just like my hair when I was that age. I can’t quite believe my luck.

    There’s a space. As if the journal skips a few days. Maybe weeks.

    They’re scared of her. That’s good. My husband had no idea of just how frightening I could be when I was growing up. Nothing got between me and what I wanted. She exhibits the same attributes.
    Sweet Jesus , I like that.
    I know that she’s capable of getting what she wants. A trained fighter. Perhaps a murderer. She grew up in the roughest parts of the city; she did what she had to do to survive. I respect that.
    And I look forward to seeing just what she can do. After all, I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t done the same.

    Miranda drops the journal onto her lap, looks at the photos on the desk. She spreads them out on the bed. It looks like vacation photos, water and sand and boats. But there’s one. It looks recent. This one isn’t on a tropical island; this one has snowcapped mountains in the back and open meadows. It features a group of old women dressed like ranchers.
    Six of them. Four wear cowboy hats. They have their arms around each other, grinning and laughing. Four of them have gray hair, one of them has dyed brown hair.
    The sixth has black hair. Jet black.

    My girl has been very disruptive, although I would disagree. She’s demonstrating amazing leadership qualities. She picked out the toughest of the bunch and asserted her dominance. It was quick and decisive.
    I watched her from m y bedroom, how my girl took her behind the cabin. How she took her