Foreverland Is Dead

Nothing moves but the wind.
    Miranda shuffles through the hallway, exposed and alone. She looks out the window. The moon and stars are crisp. The glass is cold. A light flickers inside the dinner house. A hunched figure looks out the window.
    Miranda has the urge to duck.
    Too late.
    A minute later, the candle appears at the front door, quickly blown out by the wind. The floodlights, though, show him the way. Miranda watches the old man plod through the snow, followed by a gangly figure. They pass through the fence, unflinching.
    Their footsteps on the porch.
    A knock at the door.

    Mr. Williams stands in the front room, hands behind his back, looking around. Sid is behind him with shaggy dark hair and a slack lower lip, waiting while the old man drinks in the details of the home.
    The old man breathes deep, closing his eyes. Miranda isn’t sure if the house still stinks, her senses long dulled to the odor.
    “Who are you?” She holds out the photograph like a gun.
    Mr. Williams cranes his neck, squints. He slides his feet toward her, reaching out, plucking it from her hand. He caresses the photo. His eyes are glassy.
    “I can explain,” he says meekly. “Perhaps some food first?”
    Miranda taps her foot, her stomach clenching. Cans of food are stashed all over the house, enough to last her a year. He’ll know she’s lying if she says she’s out.
    And she can’t starve him. That’s what the girls were doing.
    Miranda goes to the kitchen, returns with two plates. They’re sitting on the couch. Sid attacks the food like a dog, smacking with his mouth open. Can’t he do anything with his mouth closed?
    She fetches a teapot and pours cups for all three of them. The old man has more self-control, but he leaves little room for talking, keeping his mouth full until the plate is nearly empty.
    “What’s wrong with him?” Miranda asks.
    Mr. Williams pushes his plate toward Sid and sits back on the couch, crossing his legs. “He’s incomplete.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It’s like a file that hasn’t completely downloaded. It’s just not entirely there.”
    Sid nabs the remaining squares of cheese from Mr. Williams’s plate and pushes them into his mouth, chewing with his lips open.
    Wide open.
    “It’s safe in here.” Mr. Williams lifts his cup of tea toward the spider-webbed glass.
    “Roc doesn’t like me. The others probably don’t anymore, either.”
    He sips. “Don’t apologize, Miranda. You belong here; they don’t.”
    He tips his head like he’s catching the notes floating out of the speakers. He hums along with the refrain, closing his eyes, savoring the moan of a viola, bouncing his chin along with the pluck of violin strings.
    He slides the stack of photos across the table and leans over. “Barbados. We had our honeymoon there. Barbara loved the place so much we bought a condo.”
    He picks up a photo.
    “She was always so white, she couldn’t be out in the sun with her fair skin. She’d had skin cancer twice, but she never listened. Loved the sun, she did.”
    He drops it on the other photos.
    “Not all blondes are ditzy. Some are tough as nails.”
    Miranda twitches. Blondes?
    She grabs the pile, shuffles them like cards. There’s the group of women. The one with black hair is up front, the same color as Roc’s. “That’s not her?”
    “No,” he chuckles. “Always a blonde. Of course, she grayed as she aged.” He drops his finger on one of the other women. “Gracefully, I might add.”
    Barbara was talking about Cyn.
    “Where did you find these?”
    She points at the room while staring at the picture, hardly notices Mr. Williams get up. Miranda flips through the other pictures, looking for another group photo. Maybe the woman that sponsored her is in the group. Will I recognize her?
    She goes to the bedroom. He’s at the dresser, turning a glass Buddha figurine in his fingers.
    “This was her favorite, had it when she was a kid, attached it to all her backpacks by a string. When she was nervous, she’d rub the belly.”
    Mr. Williams looks around the room, his thumb circling the glass belly.
    “This place is perfect,” he says.
    “What’s perfect?”
    He opens the top drawer, picks through brightly colored scarves. Smells one and smiles.
    “Mr. Williams? What’s perfect?”
    He closes the drawer. “Let me see the rest of the house and I’ll tell you what I know.”
    Miranda backs into the hallway, crosses her arms. “That’s what you told