Caliban

By Miranda Nading

"A gripping storyline with characters that readers will truly care about." -Chris Fischer, Readers' Favorite-

After the death of his wife, Dr. Bobby Reed gives up his life as a geneticist and settles down to raise his kids. He thinks he has destroyed everything related to his research, until an old rival calls for help.

Bobby races against the clock as both the virus and Alpha Corp bear down on Walker's Pass and his children. Held prisoner by Alpha Corp until he can figure out what went wrong, it is only a matter of time before he outlives his usefulness and becomes yet another victim of Caliban.

In all of his years as Sheriff, Mark BaldEagle never saw a flu like this one. Something is happening to the citizens of Walker's Pass. As he begins to put the pieces together, he finds his town under an illegal quarantine; anyone who tries to leave is killed.

Under the cover of a severe winter storm, Mark will have to protect his town...or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miranda Nading
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386853886

Miranda Nading

Miranda Nading is a multi-genre novelist and lives in Arkansas with her husband, father, and her two Pomchis. When she's not writing, she can be found reading one of her favorite authors, taking care of her orchids, and spending time with her family.

Book preview

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

―Friedrich Nietzsche

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To Peggy, for making me open the door. To my husband, Lance, for not letting me walk through it alone.

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With great thanks to the Pedantic Punctuator for wielding the red pen with such honesty and humor.

ONE

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The scream was distant and lasted just long enough to make the hair on the back of Laura Drake’s neck crawl toward her scalp. Her pen froze in its journey across the graph on Elden Richards’ chart and her breath caught in her throat. She waited for the cry to repeat itself.

Nothing.

Out in the hall, the wheels of a linen cart creaked, followed by the soft padded thuds of sneakers. When it faded, Laura was left with the whirr of the soda machine and the ever-constant buzz of the staff refrigerator. Orange plastic streamers fluttered in the breeze created by the heating duct above the soda machine. Nothing more ominous than the tick-tick-ticking of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling answered her listening ears. She glanced at the emergency light above the break room door. It would blaze red if there was an emergency on one of the halls.

It remained dark.

When the clock above the coffee machine ticked off another minute, Laura dropped her pen on the table and eased the door open. To her left, Daisy Hall was deserted save for the linen cart she’d heard moments earlier. It was parked at the far end of the hall, close to a set of glass double doors. Night pressed eagerly at the panes, but nothing else.

To her right, two nurses and an orderly, dressed in pressed white uniforms, walked past the hall heading towards one of the other wings. Their steps were unhurried and one nurse chittered an irritating little laugh in response to something the orderly had said.

Laura had been working as the head charge nurse for two weeks. It’d been almost long enough for her body to get used to working the graveyard shift again. Apparently, that timeframe did not include her brain getting used to functioning during the witching hour. How she had survived the all-night parties and crash study sessions in college was beyond her.

She turned back to her charts but paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Senility might run rampant in her family but she was sure she had heard a scream. If she ignored that twinge of conscience, Drake luck pretty much guaranteed someone would have kicked the bucket or broken a hip. Then she’d really feel like crap. Of course, if anything did happen on her shift, it would prove to be gourmet fodder for the vultures she worked with.

That was the last thing she needed. Laura shoved her chair back from the table. Oh, hell. Maybe a little tour will get the old gray cells firing again.

Daisy Hall, like the rest of the facility, held only a minimal resemblance to a long-term care facility. Instead of the whitewashed walls and industrial tile floors, which she’d grown used to in nursing school, the place had been constructed to look and feel like a ski resort. V-edged knotty pine covered the walls, and the wood floors were polished to a high shine. Everywhere you turned a new and different piece of Native American artwork was displayed, some styled after the Northern Arapahoe tradition while others boasted Eastern Shoshone pride. The only thing that ruined the effect was the omnipresent white clad nurses and the antiseptic air.

The rooms on either side of the hall were dark caverns, cloaked in shadows. Various white, amber, red, and green lights did little to dispel the gloom. Laura could see just enough to ensure the residents were snuggled down in their beds, some snoring, some whispering, and some just dreaming of the days before the cancer had begun eating away at them.

By the time she reached the night-blackened glass door at the end of the hall, she’d begun to feel more like her paranoid old uncle, who still believed the government was secretly carrying on Hitler’s work, and less like a woman of science. The sound had been nothing more than sleep deprivation combined with an internal alarm which said her caffeine levels had gotten too low. The first she could do nothing about for another four hours, but the caffeine deficiency could be corrected with a fresh cup of coffee.

A soft haze of light filtered out of the room opposite the linen cart. Laura peeked in. Tabitha, a dark-haired girl so petite she almost looked elfish, was gently pulling a set of clean sheets under a patient while simultaneously removing the dirty. She handled the man with such care that even if he hadn’t been taking the morphine train through late stage cancer, he wouldn’t have been awakened.

Laura felt a smile spread across her lips as she watched Tabitha work. She was one of the few employees who worked the eleven-to-seven shift that Laura genuinely liked. Tabitha laughed easily and worked, not for the paycheck, although it was twice what she’d make at a regular nursing home, but for the love of the people she cared for. Nor did she seem to harbor a grudge against Laura for being hired from outside. Unfortunately, the senior nurses, who had expected a fighting chance at the position Laura now held, did not feel the same.

They would have to learn to deal with it, because Laura wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. The offer to work at The Rest had been the opportunity she’d been looking for. Here, in the wilderness of the Rocky Mountains, she could finally finish healing and reinvent herself as a person with self-worth, with dignity. Here in the Wind River Mountains, she could say goodbye to that frightened little girl forever.

Covering a yawn with the back of her hand, Laura returned to the break room. Scooter, a career orderly of about forty-five with an IQ to match, stood looking over her stack of charts. Laura was sure he was eyeballing her ham on rye and weighing his chances of making off with it.

Can I help you with anything? She wanted to sit back down and rest her aching feet. That would leave Scooter in a position to look down his pock-marked beak at her. It was a position Laura went to great lengths to avoid.

Scooter grinned, flashing teeth in serious need of a putty knife and a jackhammer, and nodded down at the charts. Really shouldn’t be leaving those lying around.

Yeah, I suppose the news that Eldon Richards has a rather large bowel movement every day, between the hours of two and four, could fetch a hell of a price on the black market.

Scooter’s eyes narrowed, and the scathing remark he appeared ready to voice was cut off when another odd sound crawled through the break room. It wasn’t a scream this time, but a mewling sound that one might hear on those cable shows which document the struggle for survival within the animal kingdom. It was a sound so full of despair, and so totally devoid of hope, that Laura’s heart ached even as the hair on her arms stood up with gooseflesh.

She had heard a sound like that before, when she’d found a cat that had been hit by a car. The pain and misery in that sound had made her cry for nearly thirty minutes. Now, however, it gave Laura the irrational urge to scrub her hands, as if she’d been touched by something unclean. A tiny knot of fear tightened in her stomach.

Despite the animal keening in that miserable sound, it had a human quality that was undeniable. Laura had never before, in all her years of nursing, heard anything like that come from a human larynx.

It was also closer than the scream had been.

A lot closer.

She no longer doubted that she’d heard a scream. She was equally certain that whatever was making the sound she heard now had not been the source of the previous one.

What the hell? Scooter gave a violent little shiver, which made Laura think of her old Nana. A goose had just walked over his grave, she would have said. His face had gone pale as he listened, his head cocked to one side.

The sound itself was not painful, yet it was the emotional equivalent of scratching nails down a chalkboard. The longer she listened, the more certain she was that there was another sound behind the first one—a metallic scraping just beneath the surface that grew more pronounced as the sound drew closer.

It was drawing closer. With that realization the part of Laura’s brain dealing with self-preservation began to nudge her toward the door, urging her to run straight out into the hall, past the nurses’ station and down Willow Hall to the door that led to her car. She’d never been one to listen to her gut and didn’t see any point in starting now. Instead, she found herself stepping forward, drawn to the soda machine.

She was almost certain the sound was coming from the ventilation shaft above it. The grille covering the duct work was a perfect square, nearly two and a half feet high and ended two inches from the ceiling. The lower edge of the opening was almost four inches from the top of the humming appliance. It was a hole big enough to allow the passage of a full-grown wrestler from one of those ridiculous TV shows. The thought of one of those blowhards wriggling though, flexing his massive biceps and growling, was enough to take the edge off her unease. A pine marten or rock chuck had no doubt found its way into the vents.

Grabbing a chair from the nearest table, Laura slid it over to the side of the huge red and white soda machine and climbed up. Her face was no more than a foot from the grill and she could feel warm air caressing her skin. Though she was close enough to reach up and pull off one of the orange strips, if she’d been so inclined, she could see nothing beyond them. The other side of the grille was as dark as the night had been on the other side of the glass doors at the end of Daisy Hall.

She turned to Scooter. Do you have a flashlight?

Yeah, sure. I always carry ’em around in my shirt pocket, he said. It’s just rats.

I don’t think so.

Laura turned back to the dark grille and found herself staring into a pair of amber-brilliant eyes, set in a face shaped by nightmares.

She screamed.

As if answering her scream with its own, the beast’s lips pulled back to reveal dagger sharp teeth and it exploded through the vent. The wire and steel frame slammed into Laura, throwing her from the chair. Pain ripped through the back of her head as she struck the edge of the table.

The soda machine rocked, coming dangerously close to falling and crushing Laura beneath it. Without ever touching the floor, the beast slammed into Scooter. Laura had a moment to see it tearing into his chest, red splattering the perfect white of his uniform, before darkness claimed her.

TWO

Dad?

Dr. Bobby Reed kept his eyes closed and his face buried in the pillow. If he was careful, Lizzie might think he was still asleep and leave him alone. Not likely, but he had to try.

Dad! She yelled this time and smacked him on the backside, hard enough to sting. He jumped and rolled over, protecting his tender flesh from another attack. There’d probably be a red handprint on his butt for the next two years.

I love you, Lizzie, I really do. But sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass. It’s still dark for crying out loud, Bobby grumbled.

Yeah, well, tell that to the idiot who keeps paging you. I’m trying to work on my essay and it’s irritating the crap out of me.

Jeez, you’re grouchy in the morning. But, oh so cute.

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. Her braces caught the lamp light and sparkled. Lizzie’s dark auburn hair was in its perpetual bun and her glasses were perched on the tip of her nose. She could have been twenty instead of sixteen if it wasn’t for the Bugs Bunny pajamas she was still wearing. Another year or so and not even the nerdish exterior she struggled so hard for would hide the beautiful young woman underneath.

Bobby slid his own spectacles on and threw his feet out of the bed. Is Shawn still in bed?

Hardly. He and his pathetic excuse for friends are trying to discover how many bowls of cereal Shawn can eat. I think he’s due to explode in about ten minutes.

How many has he eaten?

Six. He’s on his second box. Lizzie smiled again, as if to confirm how the prospect of her eight-year-old brother exploding thoroughly pleased her, and headed out the door. Your coffee is on the table.

By the look of the kitchen table, Lizzie had not been exaggerating. An entourage of intergalactic VIP’s stood among an alien wasteland of Captain Crunch. One box, sans cereal, lay on its side. Commander Shawn, leader of Starfleet Reed, with his wild red curls and Star Trek uniform pajamas, hid behind another. Bobby tossed the carcass of the defeated box into the trash and put the other one on the shelf.

Hey, I was eating that! Shawn spoke through a mouthful of partially chewed cereal, spraying debris across the table.

I don’t think you’ll live long enough to get to this one. Finish the bowl you’re eating and chase it with some antacid.

That stuff is for old people.

Bobby did his best imitation of Lizzie rolling her eyes and picked up his pager and coffee. What possessed you to try to commit suicide by corn puffs?

He’s mad ’cause he just found out Starbuck’s a girl, Lizzie offered. Bobby was sure the little glint in her eyes meant trouble was brewing in munchkin land.

That’s not funny! Shawn snatched the seven inch 1970’s version—the real version—of Starbuck off the table. He clenched the little figure close to his chest as if he were trying to keep it from ripping off its cloak, dressing in drag, and breaking out into the first verse from ‘The Sound of Music.’ It’s just not right!

Whoa. What’s this about Starbuck being a girl? Bobby questioned.

"Dad, don’t you watch TV anymore? They did a remake of Battlestar Galactica, and made Starbuck a chick. The show’s awesome. Shawn acts like it’s a blasphemy or something."

Having grown up with most of the shows his son idolized, Bobby thought Shawn’s concerns were understandable. The thought of his childhood hero having a sex change made him cringe. I’m gonna have to see this show.

Not a problem, I’ve been recording it. Lizzie’s face flushed with the admission. Embarrassment turned to anger when she caught Shawn glaring at her. She picked up a handful of abandoned cereal and threw it at him. Get over it, Ms. Piggy!

I’m not a piggy! he yelled and returned fire with another handful of cereal. Richard says he eats two whole boxes every morning.

Richard’s an idiot, Lizzie shot over her shoulder as she headed towards the carafe of orange juice on the counter.

You think everyone’s an idiot, Shawn countered.

They are.

Bobby didn’t recognize the number on the pager’s display, but picked up the phone and dialed anyway. I think Richard might have fibbed a little bit, kiddo.

He’s full of it, Lizzie agreed with smug satisfaction.

Take your medicine this morning? Bobby asked, hoping to change the subject again before they could drive him crazy. Or before they started throwing punches, whichever came first. Shawn’s bottom lip and shoulders dropped in his usual full-bodied pout. Bobby didn’t need to be psychic to read that one. Now, kiddo.

The phone on the other end of the line was picked up before the first ring had completed its cycle. Bobby, tell me this is you, a vaguely familiar voice begged.

This is Dr. Reed, who am I speaking with? Bobby asked, although he was afraid he already knew.

Bobby, it’s me, Derrick.

It’s been awhile. Not nearly long enough, he wanted to add, but bit his lip.

Look, I know there are some hard feelings, but I’m at Owl Creek Rest and we’ve got a bit of a situation here.

Owl Creek Rest? He knew the place. It was a rest home which specialized in human guinea pigs for cancer research. It really shouldn’t surprise him that Derrick turned up there, of all places. Yet somehow, it did. How does this concern me?

Alpha Corp. owns this place, Bobby. And I believe they also sign your paychecks. Regardless of how you feel about me, the brass wants you here.

Ah, the truth comes out, he thought, and sighed. Derrick would have pulled his eyeteeth out with a pair of rusted pliers before he willingly called Bobby to ask for help. He might have enjoyed this, if the creep had at least waited till the sun had come up. What kind of situation?

I’ll brief you when you get here. You’ve got an hour.

It takes an hour just to drive up there— Bobby began. He was interrupted by a harsh click. The line went dead in his ear. Typical Derrick. Unable to accept help from colleagues with any grace, he invariably resorted to playing the superior. And he always needed help.

Screw you, he told the empty phone line and hit the ‘end’ button. I’ll get there when I get there.

You get on to me for saying stuff like that! Shawn was grinning around a mouthful of corn puffs.

Do as I say, boy, not as I do, Bobby retorted.

That’s hippothetical.

Hypocritical, Lizzie corrected. Dad, did you drop him on his head as a baby?

Why? Because I’m not a know-it-all? Shawn grumbled.

No, because you’re a moron.

Kids, that’s enough. Lizzie, who was Desdemona? Bobby asked, picking up the question and answer session they had started the night before.

Shakespeare’s Othello. A victim of egotistical, male chauvinistic power plays.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. Are you putting that in your essay?

Yes.

Aren’t you afraid you’ll get an F?

My teachers love me, Lizzie shrugged and sipped her juice.

Mrs. Pile doesn’t love you, Shawn grinned.

That’s because she knows I’m smarter than she is. Besides, Phys. Ed. is stupid.

That’s what all the wussies say, Shawn teased and poked his tongue out at his sister.

Lizzie’s eyes narrowed and a red flush crept up her cheeks. Bobby figured she was about two seconds away from seeing if her little brother could breathe with his head in the toilet. He cleared his throat and stood up. Speaking of Phys. Ed., I didn’t see you sucking on an inhaler while I was on the phone.

I’m going, I’m going, Shawn groaned and pushed away from the table, throwing one last nasty look at Lizzie. His own portable pharmacy sat in a little red bag in the cabinet by the fridge.

"Besides, Mrs. Pile doesn’t like Grandma, either, and she’s not a wimp," Lizzie said, as Shawn returned to the table with two inhalers and three pills. He lined them up in a row and began taking one at a time with ritualistic slowness.

He moved Luke Skywalker, Hawk from Buck Rogers, and Lt. Worf from Star Trek: The Next Generation, to stand guard as he swallowed the pills with the milk from his bowl. Through a milk mustache and with a serious tone of voice that said he believed every word he spoke, Shawn answered. That’s ’cause she knows old Mabel can kick her ass.

Shawn Robert Reed! Bobby set his empty coffee cup down a little harder than he’d meant to. The boy immediately realized his slip and dropped his head, looking for the entire world like a contrite little altar boy, which he definitely was not.

Bobby moved to get more coffee so his son wouldn’t see the struggle it took to keep from laughing aloud. You let your grandmother hear that kind of language, and she’s going to be kicking yours.

He glanced at his watch and figured he’d wasted enough time to have Derrick climbing the walls by the time he got to The Rest. Look, I’ve got to get dressed and go in for a meeting. Commander Shawn, stay out of the cereal and brush that mop on your head before the bus runs. Lizzie, don’t forget the dishes this morning and take out some T-Bones for dinner.

Taking ten minutes to quickly shave and dress, Bobby was surprised to find himself rushing to get ready and out the door. As much fun as it would be to leave Derrick Farson stewing in his own juices, his curiosity was piqued. Despite the rumors that circled Owl Creek, he had never actually seen it for himself.

With a warning that any bloodletting needed to be cleaned up before he returned home, he took Lizzie by the chin and hesitated, admiring the gentle green of her mother’s eyes looking back at him. He kissed the top of her head before ruffling Shawn’s wild red curls, letting his fingers linger in those thick red locks a little longer than usual.

A knot of unease had begun to twist in his stomach. Just a small one. It wasn’t enough to cause undue alarm, but enough to make him want to touch his kids, retain physical contact just a little bit longer. He wanted to touch their chins, their cheeks, and their hair.

He kept coming back to the way things had ended between him and Derrick. Nothing that man was involved in could be good; but it certainly wouldn’t be anything that should make him hesitate to leave his kids.

He would have hugged Shawn if he hadn’t known about the ‘Federation Ban on Overt Fatherly Affection towards Teenagers.’ He was pretty sure Lieutenant Worf had come up with that one and it mainly focused on hugs and ‘I love yous’ in front of said teenager’s friends, but he tried to respect his son’s growing adolescent masculinity as much as possible. He resisted the urge to give in to the fatherly hug gene and ruffled Shawn’s curls again before he strode out the door.

A north wind howled through the basin, pushing billowy white snow clouds closer to the mountain range that protected their little corner of paradise. Bobby fired up the Ford Ranger, kicked the defroster up to high, and grabbed the ice scraper to clear the windows of the thick morning frost. Most mornings, he would let the heater clear the windows while he went back inside to enjoy more coffee. This morning, however, his curiosity seemed to be competing with that strange sense of unease.

He hadn’t been out of the house near long enough for the kids to start strangling each other. Nor did the bustling metropolis of Walker Pass, population twelve hundred and sixty-three souls, have a crime rate that dictated parents needed to fear for their child’s safety. And yet, that little knot of unease was growing.

God, he wished Mary was here. If she couldn’t convince him that everything was okay by wrapping those warm arms around him, she could do it by smacking him upside the back of his head. She could do it by making fun of him and telling him to quit being an over-protective papa. He tried to keep the kids laughing, because that’s what Mary would have done. He tried to follow his mother-in-law Mabel’s example, knowing how alike she and Mary had been. Most of the time, though, he just felt lost.

Popping the handbrake, Bobby backed the Ranger down the driveway. At worst, he’d be an hour away. If they needed anything before school they could go to the Garrison’s next door, or call their grandma who was a scant five minutes’ drive away.

If they needed anything.

As he pulled out of town he quickly left the irrigation district for the low scrub of the desert. ‘Black House,’ by Stephen King and Peter Straub played through the speakers, and Bobby dismissed the anxiety he’d suffered and smiled as his favorite narrator brought to life the words of his favorite beer-making, hog-riding, philosophers. He had simply spent too much time in front of Mabel’s fireplace listening to the old folk tales. Now Bobby was looking for banshees and changelings around every corner. The unease was nothing compared to the stark fear he’d lived with nearly every day, for the first couple of years after Mary’s death. This was a little tickle of concern by comparison, making it easier to shove to the side and focus on the unknown, which lay ahead in the Wind River Mountains.

One advantage to living in one of the largest states in the union with the lowest population was the open, uncongested highways. As he turned off the rural road and onto the two-lane highway, he pushed the gas pedal to the floor and rocketed south towards the mountains at ninety miles an hour. Oil rigs and pump jacks dotted the barren landscape of the frozen high desert, like prehistoric creatures. The giant flare stack flames at rig sites slowly lost their glow, giving way to the more powerful glow of the coming day, while sagebrush and cactus seemed to gather under the light and the warmth it promised.

There were fewer oil and gas rigs now than there had been just a year ago. With the downward spiral of the economy, oil wells had been shut in and rigs stacked to wait for better days when the companies could afford to produce again. The price per barrel of oil had dropped too low for the companies to recoup the millions of dollars a day it took to get it out of the ground. Men all over the state had lost their jobs, seemingly overnight. The men who worked the rigs were well paid and they, in turn, kept the local economies moving forward by eating at the local restaurants, sleeping at the local motels, going to the local bars, buying tools and supplies from local retailers.

A downturn like this had happened before, decades ago. He could remember being a small boy and going with his dad to Casper. That once-thriving city had become a ghost town for a while. When jobs are lost, so are homes and the ability to survive. But the economy had recovered, and then the industry came back, as did the people. Casper and many—though not all—of its outlying areas began to flourish again. Then, as now, folks did the best they could to hold on and wait for the winds of change.

Bobby was in no hurry to see Derrick again. He would, in fact, postpone the pleasure indefinitely if he could. The closer he got to The Rest however, the more his curiosity overrode his dislike of the pompous old ass. For Derrick Farson to cave and ask for Bobby’s help it had to be big. But what in the hell could have happened at a trumped-up nursing home to warrant it? Then again, what was going on up there that would require a geneticist in the first place? Especially one with a record like Derrick’s?

As the rocky mountain juniper and lodge pole pines of the steppe slowly began to replace the sand, sagebrush, and cottonwoods of the basin, he nudged the speedometer and let it climb a little higher.

THREE

The steam drifting up from the reservoir matched what was wafting up from Mabel and Tessa’s coffee cups. The heater in the cab of the old truck was finally beginning to get the upper hand on the sub-zero temperatures, but it wouldn’t do more than dim the chill Mabel felt in her bones. The skies above the reservoir were clear; but like most mountainous terrain, those pristine skies could be deceptive and dangerous.

The old heap of a truck was about ten years past being due to fall apart. Despite its condition, it had managed to get them to the shores of Shaman’s Butte for the past twenty years, where they would wait for the sun to rise on another picture perfect Monday morning. Regardless of the season, the view was always breathtaking. Whether the waters were being battered by fierce Wyoming winds, summer storms, or the brutal high country ice of winter, they always left feeling as if they’d taken a step closer to understanding the true beauty of life.

They loved it not because of the constant drama that nature offered, but because the land itself was timeless. It was a place where the only age that mattered was that of the graceful rock formations, as the Midas sun struck in the mornings and turned them gold.

Their Monday morning forays had begun when their kids started school over thirty years ago. The heartstrings had been pulled, but the newly found freedom of those eight hours a day quickly became something of a secret pleasure for both women.

It was blasphemy to speak while God’s brush strokes were painting the sky. But now that the crimson horizon had been swept away with the climbing of the sun over the mountains, she couldn’t hold it in a second longer. Mabel Aden’s face twisted into a mask of disgust and she leaned closer to sniff the air around her long-time friend. I can’t take it anymore, Tess. What in the hell is that smell?

Must you ruin a perfectly wonderful morning? Tessa moaned and sank down a little deeper in her seat.

In the soft light of early morning, the dark circles under Tessa’s eyes stood out in violent contrast to how pale she had grown. Her hair, usually held in a tight bun by the stylist’s equivalent of cement, stood out in ghostly wisps around her slim face. The past month had been hard on her, and Mabel had become all too familiar with the frustration of impotence. It wasn’t the disease slowly eating away at Tessa – it was the cure.

It’s not the morning I’m having trouble with, it’s the smell, Mabel pointed out.

Then don’t breathe, my dear.

At my age that’ll happen soon enough. Now for Christ’s sake, what are you wearing? Where’s that fancy perfume of yours?

If you must know, it just doesn’t smell right on me anymore.

Got a little saggin’ ass syndrome going on, do we?

Tessa rolled her eyes. God, you’re vulgar.

At sixty-four, it’s my God-given right to be vulgar. But if you want tact, how’s this? Whatever you’re wearing makes you smell like an old lady.

Damn it, Mabel! Just stop it, Tessa’s voice broke and she leaned against the cold glass of the window, covering her face with a trembling hand. Her tears were loud and wet and with each sloppy sniffle Mabel felt a little more like the world’s biggest ass.

Tessa, she whispered, reaching over to take her friend’s free hand in her own. It was so emaciated, the knuckles felt huge and awkward in her much larger, meatier hand. The skin was paper thin under Mabel’s calluses, so thin she could see the blue veins crisscrossing with red vessels like a roadmap. The truth, which Mabel and Tessa had been trying so hard to avoid, seemed to be screaming for acknowledgement.

Tessa was dying.

I’m so sorry, Mabel, Tessa sobbed.

It’s okay, honey. I went too far. I’ve never quite figured out when to shut my trap and it always seems to be sucking on one foot or the other.

I’m just so tired, Tessa admitted.

"I