Foreverland Is Dead

Then we’re taking you back to bed and bringing you some soup. You got more soup, Mad?”
    Mad drops the bucket and rag next to Jen. They stare at it.
    “Kat,” Jen says, “get behind Cyn.”
    “Why?”
    “You’ll need to hold her.”
    Jen’s gentle at first. But Kat does have to hold Cyn. She wraps her arms around Cyn’s chest, each dab of the cloth like a hot poker knifing through her leg.
    The room starts to turn.
    They carry her out. She doesn’t remember that.
    The storm pelts her, but she doesn’t take cover Her face is numb before they reach the bunkhouse. They tuck her in her bed. Kat stokes the fire. Cyn feels Jen lean over, hears her scratch the wall.
    Adding another day.

40

    The showerhead drips.
    Miranda backs away from the mirror, the edges fogged. She pulls her hair up and clips it into place with a small barrette in order to show off her ears and the dangling pearls. Mr. Williams found the earrings in Barbara’s room and asked her to wear them.
    Don’t sink to their level, he said. Don’t be afraid to be who you are.
    They’re going to hate her, think she’s showing off, rubbing it in their faces. But she likes them. They compliment her complexion.
    So does the necklace.
    She brushes her teeth and rubs a splash of perfume on her wrists. One last look.
    She feels good, like herself. Who she is.
    Mr. Williams is standing at the window in the front room, hands in his pockets, staring at the dinner house. His hair slick with comb lines. He found a yellow collared shirt and white sweater vest. Gender neutral.
    Sid is on the couch, doing the usual.
    Mr. Williams turns. Smiles. “You are a beautiful young lady.”
    “Thank you.” She straightens up despite the tension in her chest. “I don’t think this is a good idea, though. I don’t want to go with you.”
    “We cannot allow our wants to be the compass of our lives, my dear. Life demands. We answer, like it or not.”
    “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
    “How you feel is irrelevant.” He wraps a wool scarf around his neck, holds a coat out.
    She can’t move. “They hate me. They’ll hurt me.”
    “Of course they hate you. But they can’t hurt you.”
    He lays the coat over the arm of the chair, reaches into his pocket. He dangles a black key fob.
    “What is it?”
    “Stay near me.”
    He holds the coat up, again. The gold cap twinkles. He looks from beneath shaggy eyebrows with cold blue—almost gray—eyes.
    She’s compelled to move.
    Miranda slides her arms into the sleeves. Mr. William’s zips it up and hands her a scarf.
    “It’s cold out there.”
    Sid puts on a frilly coat over multiple sweatshirts, sliding leather gloves over his hands, his wrists still exposed. Mr. Williams pulls a thick stocking cap over his head and buttons up an overcoat. He slides his hand over the back of Miranda’s neck, his palm soft with lotion. His thumb caressing her hairline.
    “Sid,” he says. “Lead the way, my boy.”
    The wind whistles through the doorway.
    Miranda steps onto the front porch, turns her back to the west, losing her breath in the frigid gale. She gulps at the air. Painful as it is, the air feels clean and fresh. Purifying. Only then does she realize how bad it smells inside the house.
    “Come along!” Mr. Williams holds out his hand.
    They walk single file, Sid leading the way. His lean body is hardly a shield, but bears the majority of the weather. Miranda shuffles along, head down, plowing through their tracks. Snow falls into her shoes, packing against her socks. When they reach the dinner house, the path widens.
    They stop outside the bunkhouse.

    Snow is melting into puddles near the door.
    Kat and Mad are gathered around the stove. Jen sits next to Cyn’s bed. They look up, their cheeks sunken, their listless eyes dark. They don’t look emaciated on the cameras.
    In person, they look like refugees.
    Miranda’s legs threaten to buckle. Her skin is cold from the weather, but her insides are numb with fear. She stays behind Mr. Williams.
    He looks around, observing the quarters. Hand in pocket.
    “You bring food?” Kat stands.
    Mr. Williams pulls a chair up next to Cyn’s bed, sits with a groan. Miranda goes with him. The blanket is pulled up to Cyn’s chin. He feels her forehead.
    “She’ll be dead in a week,” he says. “Maybe less.”
    “We’re giving her medicine,” Jen says.
    “It won’t matter. What I have to say is more important.”
    “You said this is a dream.” Kat