Outlaw: Jean-Paris Foxglove

By William Wire

Over a hundred years ago, a super-virus killed all the men in the world and prevented them from being born. Women ruled alone since then. A powerful bureaucracy called the Department of Safety was created to ensure the safety of the surviving women—and when a cure was eventually found—to protect the new men. Federal agents, nicknamed safety maids, enforced the department’s rules. Jean-Paris Foxglove was once a safety maid.

In the aftermath of the events at Magnolia Tower, Agent Foxglove is on the run when the federal government dissolves the US Social Agents (the safety maids) and issues bounties for the agents who refuse to turn in their gun and badge. Foxglove must use violence and make questionable choices to survive from the slew of relentless bounty hunters and the regular police after her.

All the while, past secrets of the serum called advantage formula (injected by the safety maids) and of the Great Calamity, which killed all men, begin to unravel. Paris is forced to confront everything head-on and potentially destroy herself in the process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wire
• Release date: Nov 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005823061

William Wire

William Wire currently lives in Florida, USA. In 2002, he graduated from the University of South Florida with a BA in Art. All his life, he has dedicated himself to creative pursuits such as art, music, and writing.

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Outlaw: Jean-Paris Foxglove

By William Wire

Copyright William Wire 2018

Smashwords Edition 1.2

Cover Illustration by Wayne Miller

Table of Contents

Snow White

Betty Breeze

The Black Medusa

Quiet Girl

Monsters in the Dark

Sister Society

Last Chance

Sweet Dreams

Desert Visions

Lights in the Sky

The Pit

The Simplest Things

Rattlesnake

A Mother’s Love

Sister Hazel

Lost Girls

Thorns from a Lily

Girls Always Lie

Diamond in the Sun

Danny Flowers

A Boy and His Gun

Sisters Forever

The Last Saint

About the Author

Snow White

These days, it was hard not to drink.

Jean Paris Foxglove toyed with the shot of whiskey sitting on the bar in front of her. She had certainly drunk before, when her Aunt Donna had let Paris taste her rose-flavored red wine once. And then later, when she became a US Social Agent, she drank an entire bottle of that same wine in celebration. She had shared her aunt’s bottle with Linda Dove, who also had just become a Social Agent. The girl had been Paris’s only friend, or close enough to one, at the academy. Now, thought Paris, Linda was dead.

Paris pictured poor Linda with her plain-looking face, her thin needle nose, her grey-blue eyes, and the girl’s stringy dirty-blonde hair which had never looked right, even when the girl combed it. Not a pretty girl, remembered Paris, but Linda could be attractive when she laughed, and the girl liked to, especially when drinking. Linda was always terrible at keeping a straight face. During a story, which Linda had tried to tell that night with Paris—something about a dog or Linda's little sister or maybe both—the girl had started snorting out wine and giggling. And that’s all Paris had left of the girl—the memory of Linda’s terrible snorty laugh.

Linda Dove—like many of Paris’s other sisters—had been hunted down and killed for refusing to hand in her gun and badge. Linda got nailed in north Virginia, hiding out in a cabin in the woods. Three bounty hunters had moved in at night and shot her full of holes. The poor girl had no fighting chance, her advantage levels had already collapsed, and she was suffering the effects of post-advantage atrophy by then. The news showed her dead face on TV; it was thin, pale, and her eyes had darkened from what looked like crying. Bounty hunters after former-agents don’t take risks—so they don't take prisoners often. The reward for outlaw social agents was the same either way—dead or alive.

Paris picked up her shot glass and whispered, Here's to Linda… and her stupid laugh, then she downed it. The whiskey burned its way down Paris’s throat, causing her to cringe and fidget on the barstool. That’s awful, thought Paris. She almost coughed some back up.

Mm, hmm, good stuff, ain't it? The dark-skinned bartender said from behind the bar. Ready to go again, Snow White? The bartender’s name was Dorothy, and she was as big and as wide as girls could be, before getting up off their ass became too much of a problem. Her arm fat sagged down and touched the bar top as she wiped it. Dorothy’s grin at Paris was unapologetic. Dorothy had been hovering the whole time, waiting and watching for Paris to finally take that shot. The big girl had insisted after Paris mentioned she'd never drunk whiskey before or any hard liqueur, for that matter. Paris was the only customer sitting at the bar at noon on a Tuesday, and Dorothy was giving her complete attention to Paris. The only other customer was an older girl with glasses, sitting in a booth reading a paper and sipping on coffee.

Snow White? Paris questioned the bartender after exhaling. Why’d you call me that?

You look like ol' Snow White. She had skin as light as yours, and hair just as black. You ain't never seen that ol' cartoon before?

No. I never watch cartoons.

It's about a princess gett'n chased by an ol' nasty witch, who wanted poor ol' Snow White dead.

Why?

The ol' witch was jealous.

Let me guess, the princess won and put her sword through the witch. The end.

Nah, the witch fell off a cliff chased by dwarves.

Hmmm, that seems… dumb. Who would like a story like that?

Hey, it’s the way they made those cartoons back then, before the great calamity.

Oh, I see. It’s ancient nonsense.

So, how 'bout another one, Snow White?

I don’t see how girls could drink this stuff.

It ain’t ‘bout the taste, honey.

Dorothy had a brown bottle already in hand before Paris even agreed. The bartender hummed while she poured, then capped the bottle and put it to the side. This one’s smoother, Dorothy commented with a smile, I promise. The bartender then left Paris alone with the whiskey shot this time, going into the back kitchen. Her heavy body rocked left to right as she passed through the service door. Just holler, if ya need more, Snow White. I'll be in the back for a second.

Paris stared her whiskey down, once again. She reminded herself that she shouldn't get too intoxicated. She needed to stay sharp, and for sure, she really couldn’t know how the whiskey would affect her. She was still on advantage formula. But, the former-agent wondered to herself if that mattered anymore. Normally, it would be foolish for her to be out at a public place, especially at a bar, and especially in the middle of the day. But she had to. She needed to keep her advantage levels up somehow.

Paris predicted that sometime around noon, a girl would wander in with a bundle of flowers, claiming to want to sell them. The girl would do that all through the French Quarter, dropping in on every business that would let her in. She'd sell someone a flower for a couple of bucks if asked to, but that was not what the girl was really selling. When someone asked for a white flower, for example, and handed the girl a twenty instead of two dollars, the girl would hand over the flower as normal, but with an extra note rolled around the stem. The note was a receipt, and also instructions for the buyer to know where to go and pick up their coke. Other colors represented other drugs, and if the seller didn't have that kind today, then the flower girl didn't bring that color with her.

Paris wasn't after poison garbage, though; she was interested in something else. Something that would help keep her alive. Two weeks ago, her supply of advantage formula that she had nabbed from an Alabama hospital had run out, and her levels had been dropping dangerously low, getting close to zero. Once atrophy started, a girl was pretty much dead without medical assistance. Paris hoped that the local dealer would have a black market version of advantage formula. Those were unsafe to use, but Paris had little choice.

Betty Breeze ran the flower girl operation here in the French Quarter. Betty started out as a flower girl herself many years ago. Paris had known the girl from church school, and they had grown up together in New Orleans. Paris even thought of her as a friend, once. When a Social Agent finally arrested Betty, years after Paris had left New Orleans behind, Betty asked for Paris to come and testify on her behalf at the trial. Paris refused to go, but did send a video message to the court that said only, Miss Breeze needs to be in prison for her crimes. No exceptions, Paris believed; the girl was a poison dealer.

Yet truthfully, if Paris had actually gone to trial and had seen Betty's desperate face, a face pleading with the judge and with the arresting social agent for leniency, Paris couldn't be sure what she would have said. She remembered riding bicycles with Betty on the streets of New Orleans, and her being fun, and also very poor. Selling flowers was her family's only income at the time, and that was how Betty paid for her own bicycle. But lots of girls were poor, Paris reminded herself, and they didn't have to sell poison.

After the purge of the US Social Agents, prisons had been opened up, and the low-level criminals had been released early. Some were even given official apologies from the government as if the social agents had arrested them wrongfully. The government did that on purpose. They wanted the public to see the apologies and teary-eyed girls being freed. That way, the public got the idea that the Social Agents had been putting innocent girls in prison. It was all a part of a PR effort to convince the citizenry that America was better off without the social agents and the purge of them had been justified. Betty Breeze was one of the girls released, and she got an apology, too, then she went right back to work selling her flowers.

Here’s to the goddamn government, Paris said to herself, and then downed her whiskey shot.

Paris was wearing civilian clothes now. On her head was a black hood of a hoodie jacket she wore when outside, underneath was a plain white t-shirt, and for pants, she wore a pair of stained, navy blue slacks she had found in a lost and found. She also wore a pair of cheap sunglasses continuously. No more black synthetic-leather gloves and boots like when she was in uniform. She wore dark gloves she bought at a gas station for two dollars and eighty-nine cents, and on her feet were a pair of worn hiking boots she found in a garbage bin. Hidden and slid tightly into her left boot was a military knife. The only part of her old uniform she kept was her cap badge, which was in the inside pocket of the jacket. And of course, she kept her nine-point-nine handgun that was tucked into her pants in the front. She only had one magazine with seven bullets left, but it could, if necessary, keep her alive a little bit longer. A few days ago, she had to fire her gun once as a warning shot when Paris thought a girl had recognized her. The girl ran away with no further incident afterward. That was the only time she had used her gun since Magnolia Tower.

The tele-screen hanging above the bar started its regular report on bounties. The standard rate was still twenty thousand for an outlaw former agent of no real distinction, which was the majority of outlaws left. But for the stars like Paris and Nancy Rose, the bounty price was approaching four hundred thousand. When Paris’s picture popped on the screen, Paris lowered her sunglasses to see better. She had let her hair grow well past her shoulders, which helped her look different from the picture they kept using, the one from back in her academy days when she had tighter, shorter hair.

The current number for Paris was three hundred thousand. Not too bad. Rose’s face popped up next, with three hundred and fifty thousand for her. Paris ground her teeth. Rose still had the higher price, and she was still alive somehow. Rose fighting on did not bother Paris really. She admired Rose for that, actually, but Paris couldn’t understand how Rose always had the higher bounty. Paris wondered what Nancy had been doing to earn it.

Originally, there were over eighty social agents that refused to turn their badge and gun in. But within a month, only half or so were left; most had just given up peacefully. The government immediately took them off advantage formula and put them into medical care for a proper de-escalation, which was needed to prevent atrophy during the post advantage formula stage in a user’s life. The rest of the outlaws, being stubborn or dumb, kept going and went into hiding. The government responded by offering bounties for their heads. The current bounty report said there were only eleven former-social agents left now. From this point, there was no turning yourself in anymore, not for most of the outlaws. The unlucky ones would have had to kill other girls to stay alive, which meant prison time or possible execution if they happened to be taken alive.

For Paris, she could have never turned herself in, not from the start. She had sealed her deal forever when she snuck up on stage that night at the Magnolia Tower with her handgun out and aimed right at the Queen of Hearts, Mother Most Superior herself, and fired twice, hitting the old girl in the chest and dropping her. The crowd screamed and went into a fury, seeing the old sister fall. During the following chaos, Paris made her escape through the subways.

With Director Lilac dead, and everyone else dead, or soon to be that way, Paris had left the basement in a rage to kill a queen. Paris just couldn’t let the sicarii win without making them pay for it. It was sloppy thinking, she admitted now. The purge may not have happened, if not for her. But when America saw the Mother Most Superior shot down by a social agent on a live tele-screen, that was the final nail. And it wasn’t even worth it, Paris lamented, mother most superior got rushed to a hospital, where she was revived. Paris had hit her in the heart, a good clean shot from thirty yards, and that’s fatal for most girls, but somehow they brought her back after twenty-two minutes dead, with a new machine heart in her chest. Mother Most Superior had told the faithful that it was God’s Will that she had lived; it had been a miracle. Yeah sure, thought Paris, next time I’ll make sure to aim for the head.

Dorothy was still busy in the kitchen. Paris could hear the sound of the big girl’s faint chuckles coming from back there. Not wanting to wait, Paris snatched the whiskey bottle sitting just within arm’s reach, and refilled her shot glass. Why not? With each day, and every thought more depressing than the last, she had a hard time arguing against the why not? After all, her sisters were either forced into retirement, making them semi-dead, or had been hunted down, making them actually dead by now. Well, most of her sisters anyway, some were still out there fighting. Maybe, thought Paris, I’ll be the last one, the last social agent on the run. She tossed back her filled glass, and let the hard liquor go down. She shivered a bit in reaction. Oh, that’s horrible too. But that must be why people drink it, she realized, because they felt horrible already.

As Paris wiped her sunglasses with her sleeve, the old girl from the booth walked up to the bar near Paris with payment ready in hand. When the old girl glanced towards Paris, she froze, staring right at her. You’re her, the girl blurted out. Paris hated hearing that. Her sunglasses were off only for a second. Damn it. But it must have been enough time to catch a glimpse.

"I’m not her," Paris answered, sliding her sunglasses back on.

You look like her. The Foxglove girl. The safety maid.

Paris stood up suddenly, causing the old girl to shiver.

Are you sure? Paris asked, Because if I saw her, I'd be real worried. She's a maniac, I’ve heard. A killer.

Paris wanted to shoot the old girl, right then and there. A smart move, really, since there was no turning Jean Paris Foxglove in, so adding one more body under her name wouldn’t make it worse. Paris knew she’d be brought in, at the very end, in a body bag. No bounty hunter was going to risk themselves to bring her in alive. But the old girl wasn’t a criminal; she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m still a social agent, aren’t I? I’m not just telling myself that to keep going. I can’t just kill her. But if she tells anyone…

Paris moved a fold of her jacket back, deliberately revealing the handgun resting in her waistline to the old girl. Paris needed to handle this situation bluntly and quickly if she didn’t want to be on the headline news tonight. Just shoot her, Paris told herself, then shoot everyone else in the bar too, even fat Dorothy.

I bet, said Paris, tapping her finger on the gun’s grip, you didn’t see her.

The old girl shuddered and stepped back. The look of fear on the old girl’s face amused Paris some. The media had made Paris into a monster. And yes, there was a part of Paris that enjoyed that, she liked being the bad girl and being feared by the public. She had to admit some of the accusations against her had been true, too, like how she had treated certain criminals. But those girls had all deserved it, they needed a hard correction, but right now, Paris was just terrifying an unlucky old girl, someone she would have been helping normally. Was this right? Am I a social agent? No, she re-thought, I was one.

Paris moved suddenly, taking an abrupt step towards the girl. That bad reputation was what she had, and she was going to use it. The old girl fell backward, knocking over a bar stool with her legs. The girl’s eyes widened, her hands shook, as she began picking herself off the floor.

Please, miss, begged the old girl, I didn’t see her. I didn’t see anything. I swear. Sorry. Sorry.

Paris stood silent and continued to tap on her handgun.

The old girl said one last soft, Sorry, as she got to her feet, and then went running for the front door. The girl looked back once over her shoulder before hustling outside, letting the door close.

The smart voice in Paris’s head said, you should’ve shot her. If the old girl tells the police, more might die. And I’ll be dead too.

On the bar, the old girl had left her coffee check unpaid. Paris tossed a hundred dollar bill down beside it. At least, she’d pay for the coffee. Paris also swiped the last bottle of whiskey she’d been drinking off the bar. Might as well, she told herself. The whiskey might dull the pain from bullet wounds. And if she was lucky enough, she’d get so drunk; she wouldn’t feel a thing when she died.

Paris exited out the back emergency door with the bottle in hand. She moved through the clustered alleyways in the French Quarter until she picked up the dank, musky scent of the bayou again. The smell was much weaker than this morning. Paris realized that was a sign that her advantage levels were burning out. There wouldn’t be much time left now.

She could leave the city immediately, but she didn’t know where she’d find another possible hook up for advantage formula again. And she couldn’t continue to rob hospitals either. She’d be putting all those sisters at risk. The idea of the news reporting Jean Paris Foxglove was killing sisters at hospitals would be too much, even for Paris. There wasn’t enough time anyway. Betty Breeze was her only hope now. I need to find a flower girl.

Paris settled on a shadowed corner in the French Quarter to sit and watch the streets. During the day, the streets were busy but much quieter than the nights. When she had lived in New Orleans, she used to ride her bicycle up and down the streets during the day. She and Betty would dodge and weave around tourists and the daytime drunks. Betty had been born there. The girl knew the place much better than Paris ever had. Betty would probably die there too. And so could I. She almost laughed. Paris uncapped her bottle of whiskey and took a swig. Awful stuff. Her throat convulsed from the burning taste. But then she took another drink, and another.

Today felt like a last day to Paris. She was America’s most wanted, well, second-most wanted—it seemed having a famous mom helped a girl even when she was an outlaw. Paris never knew her own mother. For Paris, her mother was just a ghost story, a story mostly fictional—hopefully fictional—as far as Paris was concerned. All there was left of her mother were a few random pictures from before Paris was born. Paris was the same age now as when her mother had died—when she was murdered—and it was much worse than murdered as her Aunt Donna had told Paris. Paris had never found the girls that killed her mother, and she had tried too. That was the reason she’d joined the social agents. The agents helped girls. They got the criminals. They got the murderers. That’s what Paris was before, with her sisters, federal agents that got the criminals and got the murderers. She drank down another gulp from the bottle. This shit gets no better.

Twenty minutes had passed, as her tech-watch showed, and the bottle in her left hand was halfway gone when she heard police sirens. Had the old girl talked? Thinking again, she knew it was normal for the sound of sirens to be off in the distance in New Orleans. It never was a clean city. But inside, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it could be for her. They’d send everyone, the best armed they could muster, for only her. Some bounty hunters would be there too, she was sure, because they would have been listening in on police chatter.

Paris fantasized about the possibility of killing them all with what was left in her handgun. Doubtful, but at least she could take some with her, and maybe, just maybe, her last stand would be a truly famous one. The siren faded away though, and the streets of the French Quarter remained seemingly normal. Maybe, she thought, that old girl had been scared bad enough to shut up. Paris could hope.

She finally felt a strong head rush when the whiskey buzz finally hit her. She set the bottle down near her feet. There was close to a quarter still left of whatever shit was in the bottle. Her heart now stung. Was it anxiety? Stress? Or was it the advantage levels dropping? She hadn’t drunk this much in a long time, so she couldn’t be sure. But as her heart cooled off, she began to slow down. Even her thoughts were getting slow. Paris thought, I’m not really dying, not really. But as a former agent, as she knew, when advantage levels went down low enough, it felt like dying. She wanted to just lie down, sleep, and then wake up fresh. Please wake up.

She sank down low to the concrete. Positioning herself so she could see clearly down the alleyway towards a good section of the street. None of the passers noticed her, or they had pretended they hadn’t noticed. Girls liked to dart their eyes away from the homeless in New Orleans, like avoiding staring at a scar on someone’s face. Paris in her ragged hooded jacket, lost-and-found boots, cheap sunglasses, and a whiskey bottle in arm’s reach, must look homeless and worthless. She would think that too of herself. In a sense, she thought, that was what she had actually become. She was a drifter, stealing, and doing whatever it took to survive another day. I’m a scar. But when you don’t want to be noticed, being a scar was an advantage, she supposed.

Nearly an hour had passed, and there was only a swish of whiskey left in her bottle when Paris saw what she was hoping for. A girl, just over four feet tall with cropped short brown hair, and wearing jeans and an awful patterned Hawaiian style shirt, was carrying a bundle of multi-colored flowers. The flower girl was no older than ten, she guessed. Paris pulled herself up, a lot more tipsy than she’d expected to be (then what did she expect?), and edged closer to the street.

Sure, I’ll buy a flower, a tall, slinky teen with blonde hair said, but I want to pay with a kiss. The flower girl had been sidelined by a pair of teenagers on the sidewalk. The blonde sniggered, and the flower girl’s face turned stiff and red. The other one, shorter and much heavier, seized the flower bundle.

No, yelled the flower girl, grasping away at the flowers that were held out of reach.

Oh no, the shorter girl said back, how will you get them back?

Cutie here is going to have to give out two kisses. The blonde leaned down and puckered her lips. The flower girl froze up.

Fun time’s done. Paris marched across the street, her voice harsh and loud. Give back the flowers, now.

The heavier one answered back, Lady, do you think you’re a fucking cop or something?

Paris took a second to think, as she reached the sidewalk, before responding to the short heavy girl, I’m worse than a cop. Give her the flowers, fatty. Right now. For a second, Paris considered slinging back her jacket to reveal her gun, but out in public on the street wasn’t a good idea. A hard attitude should work with these teens, well, good enough, she believed. When Paris wore her agent uniform, the teens rarely ever talked back to her after an order. They knew better.

The heavy girl paused as she thought about making another comment, but instead, the girl tossed back the flower bundle, causing the flowers to fall across the sideway. The flower girl scooped them up, anxiously. The teenagers turned, walked away, and didn’t bother to say another word. Maybe the teens knew somehow, what the scar really was, but probably they just didn’t want any trouble. I looked like a scar to them, but I could be a dangerous one too.

Fixing her flowers, the flower girl mumbled, I hate girls.

Me too… sometimes. Paris helped pick up flowers.

As the flower girl placed the last flower back in the bundle, Paris asked the girl, Can I buy a flower, sweetheart?

The girl, a little flustered still, lifted her head toward Paris and answered back, Yes, miss, which color please?

Now face to face, Paris saw that the flower girl wasn’t a girl. It’s a boy. Huh.

All of them, Paris answered him, but you’re gonna take me to your boss too.

Ummm… but—

It’s okay. I’m good friends with Betty Breeze.

Betty Breeze

Danny, Paris said, wait.

Paris felt weaker and slower increasingly. She had been having trouble keeping up with the small boy, whose head barely came up to her chest. The high advantage levels she normally enjoyed were almost gone and were decreasing steadily. The whiskey wasn’t helping either. Thinking about its taste again, as she walked down the alleyway, made her almost throw up in her mouth. But she held it down. And even worse, she had an awful imbalance in her steps, rounding corners now was more of an effort. She had to place a hand against a wall in an alleyway a few times to stop from tipping over. She wasn’t sure if it was all the alcohol, or perhaps, a combination effect from losing her advantage levels and drinking.

Director Lilac had warned her social agents about drinking while on advantage formula. Yet, most of Paris’s former sisters had figured that was all just a ploy to keep the agents sober. Director Lilac had been rumored to be a drinker, after all. Paris wasn't so sure now. Old Lilac may have been just giving sound advice to her agents. Paris was beginning to suspect the alcohol was accelerating her levels dropping. Keeping up with the boy shouldn’t be this hard, thought Paris. The boy wasn't moving fast. In fact, the boy tended to slouch and look down at the ground as he walked. He seemed pitiful to Paris.

The boy was quiet too. He had not said a word or put up any resistance when Paris forced him to lead her to Betty Breeze. He had only said once, Okay, miss, boys aren’t supposed to give back lip. And the boy hadn't given back lip or even complained a little.

At a wooden fence, Danny pushed aside a plank and squeezed through. He held the way open for Paris.

A secret way? Paris asked.

Yes, miss. A shortcut.

But the gap was too small for Paris. She would either need to go back out to the public streets and go around, climb over the fence (not practical in her state), or figure out a way through somehow. She wanted to avoid the streets as much as possible. Intending to widen the gap, she grabbed hold of the plank and applied force. But, being now clumsy, she ripped the plank right off and fumbled it to the ground. The boy, shocked, was about to say something before Paris cut him off abruptly with, Oh shut up. Danny looked down.

Paris decided to go ahead and pull more planks off too. She still had a little strength in her left. After making sure the gap was wide enough for her, and with only a slight wobble in her first step, she walked through easily.

Behind the fence, Danny stood waiting, playing with the bottom button of his Hawaiian patterned shirt. He was still looking down. She regretted yelling at him.

Danny, Paris asked, why are you always looking down?

Danny shrugged his shoulders. It was then that Paris noticed that the buttons and the holes on his shirt had not been aligned properly.

Did your mom dress you this morning?

I don't have a mom, miss.

An orphan like me? Did Betty dress you then?

No, Miss Sarah lets me dress myself.

Who’s Miss Sarah?

She’s my mistress. She loaned me to Miss Betty as a favor.

Loaned? Paris’s first instinct was to ask more questions as a good agent would have, but she needed to get to Betty as soon as possible. She knew she had no chance of survival without more advantage formula and she was beginning to feel herself sinking into the ground. Remind me to fix your shirt later, Danny. And then we’ll talk about this Miss Sarah too.

Yes, miss.

A half-block later, Danny stopped at the entrance to a small boutique. The sign overhead called itself The Lady Mademoiselle. The shop was nestled between an old pub and a greeting card shop, both closed down. The area was in the less popular part of New Orleans, south of the French Quarter, and near the Mississippi River. The glass in the front door and the windows of the boutique had become darkened from dust, and the old signage on the glass had become discolored from the sun, making the shop look like it had been closed down as well and for a long time. Peering in, Paris saw assorted dresses, most of which looked ancient, European, and probably French. Most likely, she guessed, all pre-calamity.

Miss, I'll go tell Miss Betty. The boy Danny reached for the door’s handle.

No. Paris corrected the boy, snatching the door handle first. It’s a surprise. But stay right here. Don’t go anywhere.

Danny nodded.

Doorbells chimed when Paris opened the front door. She waited until they rang out before entering and letting the door shut. After hearing music from the back, Paris marched directly towards it, moving in-between carousels of old dresses. In the back, Paris wrenched the only door she saw open, and stood in its doorway, keeping her left hand not far from her handgun.

The doorway opened to a room much like an old office, and a tall, thin girl stood behind a long table in the center. In the girl’s hands were flowers of assorted colors, which she had been wrapping into a bundle.

Oh, hello, said the girl, with a voice strangely at ease, now who are you?

Betty, Paris answered, It's me.

Betty's eyes widened. The girl only needed a second to fully understand before she said in a drawn-out whisper, "Paris…"

Betty Breeze wore a summer dress of light colors, looking as if the girl had just plucked one off the rack there in the shop. Her dark brown hair fell past her shoulders, and at the roots, there was a noticeable tinge of gray. Since Paris had seen her last, the girl’s face had thinned out more, and her skin was tanner, making the girl seem older than Paris had expected. Betty's arms had changed too; they had been tattooed with gold, blue, and green-winged butterflies and some colorful birds of different species (plus a few other odd things looking like fairies) all wrapping in spirals up her arms.

Dang, the tattooed girl said, do I smell liquor?

No doubt, said Paris, but don’t worry—I’m fine.

Betty whisked around the arranging table, raising her arms, and came at Paris with a warmer-than-expected smile. But Paris won't budge; instead, she gave the girl a falt look.

Oh, c' mon, Paris, Betty pleaded with her eyes and arms extended.

"I didn't come here to hug you." I’d rather arrest you. I need something, Betty.

Disheartened, Betty lowered her arms. Oh…

Betty backed away, straightened her back, and said with a cooler tone, "Everybody needs something, don’t