Foreverland Is Dead

begins eating again.
    “There something wrong with him?” Cyn asks.
    “It’s been a long trip. He’s still…adjusting.” He looks out the window. “Tell me a little bit about this place.”
    Mad comes out of the kitchen, slides a bowl in front of Mr. Williams. Steam rising from the soup. “That’s enough food,” Cyn says.
    Mr. Williams avoids looking at her. He takes a moment, looks up when his expression has softened. Smiles again.
    “If you’re annoyed,” Cyn says, “you’re welcome to give back the clothing and be on your way.”
    “Not at all, my dear.” His smile is wide enough to expose a gold molar.
    Cyn’s back stiffens. She bites her words.
    “My apologies,” he says. “Please, tell me about where we are and what you’ve been doing here.”
    The girls look at each other. Cyn doesn’t know why she’s so tense. She’s afraid she’ll snap at him. Perhaps it’s watching them eat their food, the way he’s looking around, judging the room.
    “We don’t remember,” Jen finally says. “We just woke up here. We don’t know…anything.”
    Cyn stares at Jen, getting her attention. No more.
    “I see,” he says.
    “What does that mean?” Cyn says.
    “Thank you for your generosity.” He takes Sid’s bowl, pouring the remains into his bowl. “I see you are all are very hungry, and we don’t want to be an imposition. Or eat food we haven’t earned.”
    He stands up, holding the chair for support. Sid stands so that Mr. Williams can hold on to his shoulder.
    “Let an old man rest, if you don’t mind. So that I may gather my thoughts. Come along, Sidney.”
    Sid leads the way, still wearing flip-flops. Socks cover his bloodied and bruised feet. The old man stops him at the door.
    “Would you mind if we rested in separate beds?” Mr. Williams asks. “There’s not much room in one bed.”
    “During the day.” Cyn folds her arms. “Not at night.”
    Mr. Williams’s teeth are straight. His smile, hollow.

30

    Miranda watches the girls bring the men into the bunkhouse. They sleep in separate beds next to the stove until night, then the girls shove the younger one in the same bed with the old man. They barely fit, but they seem too exhausted to care.
    She zooms the camera, but their faces are buried in the blankets. They hardly move.
    Miranda wakes the next morning in the back room, curled up on the office chair and wrapped in a blanket. The bunkhouse is empty except for Roc, who is waiting for someone to bring her breakfast.
    Miranda doesn’t bother with breakfast or tea. She flips through the cameras, finds everyone except Roc in the dinner house. The men are dressed like women. They were dressed like cruise ship tourists before that. How did they even survive?
    The boy is strange. He’s skinny and tall, would be cute if he wasn’t so zombie-ish. She zooms in on his face. He’s yet to really look at anything. Hasn’t smiled or frowned or anything. Not even sure if he knows he’s hungry and cold.
    The old man, though, he’s sizing things up. He doesn’t react to Cyn being a bitch. He’s looking around, learning who’s in charge. He’s not biting the hand that’s feeding him.
    But he looks familiar.
    He says his name is Mr. Williams, but that’s no help. The boy’s name is Sid, but she’s never seen him before. She’s positive. They go back to the bunkhouse. Mr. Williams has Sid push a bed in front of the stove and climbs into it. Sid goes to the corner where Miranda slept and lays on top the covers, staring at the rafters.
    She focuses on the old man. Where have I seen him?
    She flips back to the dinner house, listens to the girls argue. Cyn is adamant about survival. They don’t know these people, they could be dangerous, there’s only so much food. Jen just wants to help.
    Miranda prepares a cup of green tea, stirring in a dollop of honey. She paces the hallway while steeping the bag. She listens to a piece composed by Richard Strauss, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts fall into the music’s flow.
    Vacation clothes.
    She puts down the teacup.
    There’s hardly space on the coffee table. She stacks empty plates and pushes trash onto the floor, but it’s not there. She goes to the bedroom next to the kitchen.
    The photographs are scattered on the bedspread. She pushes them around, sorting through images of oceans and beaches and boats. She picks up the photo of a couple standing on a balcony, the sharp line of the ocean behind them.
    More hair,