Foreverland Is Dead

the windows.
    Doors open and close. Logs pop in the stove.
    Coughing.
    Cyn swims through watery delirium, a spirit paddling against the current, rolling beneath the surface, attempting to keep her head above sanity.
    And failing.
    Often she finds herself landing on the ledge, fear screaming her name from the chasm. Turning—always turning to run. To get away.
    And she always returns. Never escapes.
    She’s caught in the current of thoughts and tension and contraction. Back to the ledge. Toes hanging over.
    Nothing she ever does works. She never gets away, always comes back.
    So she stops.
    She stays on the edge, staring into the abyss. Gray swirling like lost souls. Loneliness howls inside her, but she doesn’t look away this time.
    This time she doesn’t run.
    Doesn’t resist the discomfort.
    She remains there, on the edge, with the tension. The fear. Without pushing it away, without grasping. Just there.
    Just there.
    No more running.
    This time, she finds home on the edge.

    “No stealing tonight.”
    Cyn is jostled from slumber. She hears the voice, different from the ones that whisper from the gray. This one is over her, near her.
    She opens her eyes.
    “Here.” Mad puts something against her lips. “Swallow.”
    Cyn lets the pills fall under her tongue, swallows the water poured in after them. Feels like she’s drowning.
    Her head falls onto the pillow. So hot. So achy.
    Mad and Kat are dim outlines in the failing light. It must be late.
    “We got rid of them,” Kat says.
    Kat dangles something. The plastic bag catches a little light coming through the window, clear nutrient solution dripping through a tear on the bottom. Tubes wrapped around her wrist.
    “No more stealing.”

42

    Mr. Williams and Sid are waiting outside the brick house.
    Miranda pulls on her gloves, tucks her scarf into the gap under her chin before stepping outside. The sun is rising. Fresh snow glitters like a blanket of diamond dust.
    It smells so fresh, so clean.
    Mr. Williams smiles, throws his arm over her shoulders, and draws her tightly against him. He inhales deeply, feeling the clean air, too.
    His hand finds its way onto her neck, thumb circling on her flesh. Goosebumps flash down her back.
    “If all the days were like this, I wouldn’t mind staying.”
    Another deep breath.
    “Sid,” he calls.
    It takes Sid a moment to process this. He slides his hand down the railing, scraping a two-inch layer of snow onto the ground. Mr. Williams keeps his hand on her neck. She’s too afraid to move, wondering if he can make the fob work on her.
    The garden looks like a graveyard of fallen soldiers, old stalks beneath lumps of snow. An arm here. A leg there.
    He stops at the first solar panel, wiping off the snow. He uses his arm like a wiper, exposing the black glass to absorb the light once the sun is up.
    Miranda watches.
    “A good start, yesterday,” he says. “We’ll find it soon enough, Miranda.”
    “How long do we have?”
    He goes to the next panel. Sid is working his way towards them. Mr. Williams winks. “Plenty of time. Don’t tell them.”
    They finish cleaning the solar panels and plod their way through the snow, around the garden. The outside kitchen door is cracked open. Mr. Williams discovered he could unlock all the doors through the computers, except for the small cabin where Patricia sleeps.
    “Plenty of food,” he says. “We don’t have to go hungry, it’ll last us.”
    Again, arm around her.
    She walks stiffly, head down. Funny how they’re still hungry in a dream. Still breathing. They don’t really need food or air.
    Not in a dream.
    Sid walks through pristine snow piled at the foot of the kitchen door. He pushes it open, steps aside. The shelves are full of food. Mr. Williams chuckles, in the best of moods. He kisses the top of Miranda’s head, gives her a squeeze, and steps into the kitchen.
    Stops.
    She and Sid wait outside.
    Nothing looks out of place. But his cheer dies. Mr. Williams’s hand slips into his pocket. He lumbers through the small kitchen, poking at something in the sink.
    Miranda’s afraid to follow. She backs up a step, feeling her chest contract. It seems as if his posture swells, that he fills the room with anger.
    He holds something up.
    It’s plastic and limp.
    It slaps onto the floor.
    Mr. Williams grasps the edge of the sink, hunched over. Head bowed. Sid doesn’t move.
    “Dammit!” He swings his arm.
    A stack of bags scatter, each smacking against the wall.