Lexicon

hospital. In the heat haze, it could have been anyone. But she had a feeling.
    “Harry,” she said.
    • • •
    Harry peered over the edge of the roof at the street below. His head throbbed. Eliot had hit him. He had frowned at something on Harry’s rifle, and Harry had looked to see what, and woken up slumped in a doorway. Now Eliot was gone and Harry was on the roof of a furniture store, trying to see what was going on.
    A few minutes ago, a soldier had walked toward the burger place, then another emerged from the front door and approached with his pistol drawn. It seemed like they were going to have a confrontation, but they stopped at three feet’s separation and stood there as if communicating telepathically. Then they both ran back to the burger place and plenty more soldiers appeared and there was gunfire. Eventually a young woman emerged and sat down at a table. He stared, because the woman was Emily.
    He had begun to doubt that a little, because of Eliot. Whether she was still the same. But now everything was clear. He wriggled back from the rooftop. It was always this way: The more people talked, the more they obscured. You didn’t need to argue for the truth. You could see it. He had almost forgotten that. He gripped the rifle and went to get Emily.
    • • •
    Yeats turned to look at the figure approaching them out of the heat haze. “Who?”
    “The outlier, could be,” said Plath, peering out from a raised hand. The figure’s arms were extended from his sides. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. “Wil Parke. Looks unarmed.”
    “Well, how about we shoot him?”
    “On it,” said Masters. He gestured and two soldiers stepped onto the road.
    “We know Parke,” said Plath. “He’s indecisive. Untrained with weapons. He’s a carpenter.”
    “Emily, you appear anxious,” said Yeats. “Is there something I should know?”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me.”
    “I thought Harry died. But he didn’t. I just made myself believe that.”
    Plath said, “Who’s Harry?”
    “Her lover,” said Yeats, “of some time ago. He’s the outlier?”
    She nodded.
    Yeats drummed his fingers on the table. “This changes nothing.”
    They watched the soldiers fan out. Harry began to slow. She could see his face.
    “Wait,” said Yeats. “I’m missing something. Aren’t I?”
    She had to answer. “Yes.”
    “What am I missing?” He clicked his fingers at someone behind her. “You, too.” A poet, Rosenberg, a young guy with longish hair, stepped onto the road, heading after the soldiers. “Emily?”
    “Two things.”
    “Name them. I am instructing you to name them.”
    “I don’t think you’ve been in love. Not recently, anyway. I’m not sure you remember what it’s like. It compromises you. It takes over your body. Like a bareword. I think love is a bareword. That’s the first thing.” Yeats didn’t react. If anything, he seemed baffled. “The second thing is I wouldn’t characterize Harry as indecisive and untrained with weapons.”
    Plath said, “Perhaps we should move inside.”
    “Yes,” Yeats said. “Quite.” He smoothed his pants and began to rise from the table. Then he stopped, because Emily had seized him by the tie.
    “Also,” she said, “you are a jerk.”
    • • •
    He walked toward the burger place until soldiers moved onto the road to intercept him. Then he changed course for the real estate office. He clambered through a space that had once held a plate glass window, collected the rifle from where he’d left it on the counter, and jogged toward the back offices. He’d been here a few times when dating Melissa, the real estate agent. Enough to know the layout, anyway. He took position in Melissa’s office and waited.
    A few minutes later, a soldier shuffled in. Harry waited until the second appeared, then put a bullet into his faceplate. Both men vanished like smoke. He pulled the bolt, reloading as he jogged out into the corridor. He went right instead of left, eased open the rear door, and then was in sunshine. He trotted around the side of the building to the air-con vents and peered through. The second soldier was moving away from him in a crouch. He raised the rifle and shot him in the back of the head.
    When he reentered the building, he was surprised to find both guys still alive. He wouldn’t have credited a helmet with being able to stop a high-powered .28. But he guessed that momentum had to go somewhere. One of the soldiers had pulled off his