Feeding

By Stephany Brandt

What Would You Do?

If you were trapped in a facility where you lived by the buzzer, never knowing the touch of another human being?

If your pets suddenly weren't themselves anymore?

If your worst nightmare was haunting your every move?

If you got a diagnosis you never expected, and had to make choices you never imagined?

If an ordinary day became an extraordinary fight for survival?

If you met a stranger and fell in love?

The answers to these questions lie in nine tales of intrigue, speculation, and horror, set in our present day, and spanning deep into our future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephany Brandt
• Release date: Feb 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9780998709383

Stephany Brandt

Stephany (Steph) Brandt is a speculative science fiction author based in Oregon, and their novels are set in the Pacific Northwest both in present and future times. They focus on tales in our near future that delve deeper into the nature of good and evil, discuss what it's like to be an outsider, and explore the nature of love during trying times.They are heavily influenced by writers like NK Jemisin, Martha Wells, Ursula K. LeGuin, Robert A. Heinlein, Stephen King, and Stephen Baxter.Their current titles include Here, Perfect, Darkness, and Wilderness, as well as numerous short stories. They received their creative writing training at the University of Oregon.Steph lives in Eugene, Oregon with a pug from another planet.They are also owned by their writing room and travel companion: the 1985 Volkswagen Van "Henry."

Book preview

Feeding

Feeding

Stephany Brandt

Vicious Bunny Press

Copyright © 2021 by Stephany Brandt

All rights reserved.

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First Paperback and eBook Edition, 2021

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Paperback and eBook Edition, License Notes:

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Thank you for purchasing Feeding. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer.

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This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.

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Feeding is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. Thank you for your support.

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Published in the United States by Vicious Bunny Press, LLC

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www.viciousbunnypress.com

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Cover Design Copyright 2021 by Ida Jansson, Amygdala Design.

http://www.amygdaladesign.net/

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ISBN: 978-0-9987093-9-0

ISBN: 978-0-9987093-8-3 (ebook)

For Dad, Mom, Laura, Trogdor, Merra and G.M.

Contents

New Caviar

1. New Caviar

The Hens

2. The Hens

Everything Must Go!

3. Everything Must Go!

The Mechanic

4. The Mechanic

Last Stand At Bi-Mart

5. Last Stand At Bi-Mart

Mr. Finger

6. Mr. Finger

Visited

7. Visited

Bobby

8. Bobby

Snowblind

9. Snowblind

About the Author

Also by Stephany Brandt

Now Available

New Caviar

1

New Caviar

One

Daryl followed the yellow path. People in matching yellow jumpers and white tennis shoes came out of their rooms and joined him in line, walking together to the cafeteria in a giant mass of bodies. Everyone knew the rules: Yellow people walked to the right, Blue ones in the middle, and Red ones on the left. You stayed in your line, or else the proctors picked you out and took you away. No one knew what happened after a proctor tapped you on the shoulder, and Daryl didn't want to find out.

A tall boy in the Blue line with blinding white-blonde hair bumped Daryl’s shoulder, but Daryl lowered his eyes and said nothing. So did the boy in blue—not even an I'm sorry. Daryl figured he was just as afraid of the proctors, so they each did their best to carry on without drawing attention. The Blue fellow walked ahead of Daryl down the doorless concrete corridor to the cafeteria, while Daryl stared at the Blue's massive back. Has to eat a lot to maintain that frame, Daryl thought to himself: the boy was at least six foot four, perhaps over two hundred pounds. Daryl remembered the Blue from earlier cafeteria walks, but hadn't seen the big guy for a week or so until today, when he joined the crowd walking clumsily down the hall.

As the group got closer to the cafeteria’s arched concrete doorway, a buzz surrounded all the teens no matter what their color: they could smell the food from behind the swinging entry doors. Daryl saw a girl across the hall in the Red line smiling and tapping her fingers against the side of her leg as she walked. Her head stood in relief against the red, blue and yellow-striped arrows painted on the concrete walls, directing people towards the cafeteria. She carefully avoided bumping into any of the other Reds ahead or behind her, and moved with a smooth grace—anticipating the actions of people like she was telepathic.

Daryl wished he was telepathic, and some days he felt a pressure in his head that made him think he might be; it often turned into a headache, and then he'd have to lie down for a while. The migraines were the worst, but the Company didn't seem to mind when he missed exercise duty for one of his headache days. Daryl’s gratitude knew no bounds that today wasn't one of them—his stomach felt about ready to cave in with hunger, and the sweet smell from behind the cafeteria doors called him like the Sirens.

His stomach growled mightily and Daryl looked around to see if anyone heard it, rubbing at his midsection while the aching gnawed at his innards. The light sugary smell deepened with the scent of bacon, and Daryl's stomach twisted in a feeling of hunger so extreme it almost made him sick.

The large doorway loomed ahead of Daryl and he felt his pulse quicken. Beyond those sterile white doors was the cafeteria, and the food line where he'd get his badly-needed breakfast. A cold sweat broke over Daryl's back and his limbs felt like they were shaking, even though he could tell they were still. He prayed the hunger fit wouldn't turn into one of his headaches as he watched the arch pass above his head.

You never knew what breakfast might be on any given day; everyone got food from their color-coded line, and no one went to the wrong line—or else the proctors picked you up. Daryl occasionally snuck peeks as the Blues and Reds left to their own color-segregated cafeterias, but most of the time he was too busy eating the meal he’d received from the Yellow line.

Yellows usually got some kind of bread product for all meals. Breakfasts were often things like pancakes, waffles, or sweet buns, and there was also some kind of fruit, a cup of orange juice and tea. Workers never got to choose their breakfast—they took what the meal server gave them at the window, and thankfully, most days the breakfast met all their cravings with aplomb.

Today Daryl smelled a light buttery aroma mixed with sweet cinnamon wafting through the air as he crossed under the arch, which turned his mind to waffles, and he prayed a waffle would be under his tray lid. Daryl saw the other Yellows queuing up in their line, marked by the yellow arrows and yellow-bordered path painted on the concrete floor. He joined them and stood behind a particularly pretty girl who had her red hair pulled up in a yellow ponytail holder. Daryl looked at the back of her neck and the soft hairs that didn't quite fit into her ponytail; a couple months ago he would have dreamed about touching her neck and stroking that hair, and might have even used the memory to pleasure himself later on in the evening. Today, though, Daryl stared at her numbly: he hadn't felt sexual desire in over a month—not since the headaches got really bad.

Daryl moved to the front of the line and the meal lady scanned his wrist, then handed him a yellow tray. She was a middle-aged woman, with black hair pulled tight under a yellow hair net, and she stared at Daryl with a pugnacious glare but didn't talk to him. Daryl didn't want to look her in the eyes, so he dropped his gaze and took his tray. Something about the woman always scared him, and he never wanted to look too close at her; she never spoke to any of the Yellows in line, but Daryl always felt the cruel intentions in her gaze.

He walked into the yellow cafeteria; the immaculate lemon-colored walls were so familiar it was like wearing a comfortable sweater. Daryl took a bench at the end of a long white table filled with other people in yellow jumpsuits, opening up the yellow lid on his tray to behold his breakfast: waffles. There was a dollop of whipped cream in a bowl, a small container of apple sauce, and a carafe full of maple syrup. Daryl loved the apple waffle days—he’d remember every bite for weeks until they served waffles again. He opened the container of apple sauce, poured it over the waffle, then drenched the whole concoction with all the maple syrup; the whipped cream was for the small steaming mug of hot cocoa sitting next to his breakfast plate. He put as much of the white foam in his cup as he could, then ate the rest of the whipped cream with a spoon, cleaning the bowl with his index finger when he was done.

The waffle sat waiting for Daryl. He took a small bite and felt the blinding sweetness roll around his body: it instantly quieted his rumbling belly, and he felt the weak shakes melt away. Daryl tried eating slowly, but his body wanted all of the waffle immediately like a wolf who hadn’t eaten in a week. He didn't know what he'd done the night prior to warrant such hunger: last night's entertainment was just a movie, and he hadn't even exercised the day before. Daryl took his time with the waffle, savoring every bite until he finally felt full and sat back with a stifled belch.

Daryl looked around at the other people in the cafeteria; no one spoke, everyone concentrating on their own meals. He sat alone at the end of his table and wondered why no one wanted to sit next to him today, but Daryl’s mind shot back that it was probably just a fluke, and he'd be surrounded by others for lunchtime. Daryl took his tray up to the recycle window and handed it through the slot, as something behind the window grabbed the tray and moved it on to a mysterious place behind the wall. Daryl never got to go behind the wall, and he really didn't want to—that was where the meal lady ruled.

After a minute picking his teeth, Daryl walked out the door and headed back to his room, still following the yellow path like a duckling trailed its mother. He wondered if today would be an exercise day.

Two

Nancy stared at the guest list: over two hundred people, most of whom Martin invited. He always tricked Nancy into this, saying it was only going to be a small party. Just work friends! he'd beg, then it would balloon into everyone in his near contact list. Martin loved being the cheerful host and entertaining everyone with his loud stories about travel and business; Nancy, on the other hand, had to prepare everything he wanted to the tiniest detail—which left her begging for a glass of champagne and a nap.

Yet he'd done it again. This party was supposed to be a celebration for one of his partners' birthdays, but the guest list swelled from twenty to over two hundred in less than a week. Jerry Maxwell had invited some of his friends, then Barry Wilson had done the same. Bill Thomas, the guest of honor, invited all his family, as well as many of his close friends—it was his party, after all.

The guest list sat flashing on her desk screen, and Nancy scratched her impeccable blonde hair and sighed. She tapped the little button at the bottom of the screen bar and the entire visual projection disappeared. Nancy rubbed her temple; she felt a headache coming on already, and it was only eleven am in the morning. How she wished for a sip of champagne or a glass of wine, but it was too early in the day for that. Instead, she kicked off her Louboutins and wiggled her toes in the chill Puget Sound air.

Back to the list. Nancy tallied up every person and their 'plus ones’— which gave her an idea of who had allergies, objections to certain foods, or was on a diet. There were so many diets running around her circle these days she could hardly keep up: Mary Thomas, Bill's wife, was on one right now where she could only have lemon water and tonic during the daylight hours, then seaweed stew for dinner. She swore the routine made her glow, but Nancy figured that was just the starvation hallucinations talking. Nancy, herself, kept a reasonable diet of meats and vegetables, with the occasional splurge for a dessert when she was at a party. That, and she could have plenty of alcohol—Nancy could never give up her wine. The purging she did afterward was her little secret.

Martin came in the room and watched his wife staring pensively out the window while she sat at her marble-topped mahogany desk. How goes it, honey?

Nancy jumped in her chair and looked over at her husband, her cheeks flushing just enough to color her pale skin like roses. Oh, just fine! She tried putting on a cheery air, despite the nibbles throbbing at her temples. How was your day at the office?

Peachy. Bill and I had a right good meeting. Gonna go play a round now.

At the club?

Yup. I got us a tee time for one pm. Gives me just enough time to come home and see my little missus.

Nancy blushed as Martin kissed her on the cheek. How sweet. I don't ever get the pleasure of a Martin Jamieson visit during the mid-day.

I know! Martin smiled. I thought I'd surprise you. And check on how the party plans were going.

Nancy put on her best fake smile and tried imagining the headache going away. Maybe it would actually do that if she pretended hard enough. I was just going over the guest list right now.

How many we up to?

Over two hundred.

Martin let out a low whistle. Well, I owe Billy a good time…how many guests does he have?

Over one hundred. Nancy tried restraining a shudder as she brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

Good God! barked Martin. He's eating me out of house and home! I'm gonna have to make him pay for the round today. He pat Nancy on the shoulder. You've done bigger parties, though, my pet. You can handle it.

Nancy wasn't as surehearted as her husband. She'd definitely done bigger parties, but they were years ago—and she hadn't had the headaches and tiredness to deal with. That's what it was like getting older, though, and Nancy felt practically like an old maid at the age of forty-five. Martin was already sixty, but he bounded through the world with the vigor of a twenty-year-old; it had to be the vitamin and energy shots the doctor gave him regularly, she thought. Nancy tried them once, but they only made her headaches worse.

Yes honey, I'll get it all set, she said with another big fake smile. You can count on me.

I think Bill wants to have some beef at this thing. Martin scratched a patch of silver hair on the back of his head. Can you get us a prime rib? Make sure the caterers know we want enough to feed the whole lot. How many were there again?

Two hundred and seven.

Martin shook his head and sighed, Yes, two hundred and seven then. Cut the admit list off at two hundred ten. I've done well this year, but now I'm gonna watch all my bonus go into the gullets of Bill and his friends.

Nancy wanted to add: that's what you get for feeding all your buddies, but she held her tongue. She knew her place in this marriage, and sassing back wasn't in her repertoire. She felt the age and income differences tangibly: if Martin divorced her, she'd be back to desk work for the law offices of Ansby & Mellonson again—at forty-five. Nancy cringed at the thought.

What were you thinking of for the meal? Martin chirped.

Well, with the prime rib, we’ll have a set of three plates. Our guest can choose the beef, a fish dish, or a vegetarian/diet dish. I've asked all the people who've RSVP'd to tell me if they have any food sensitivities, and I think we can get away with those three. We'll have to keep the beef separate from the other dishes; though, Mary will have a fit if anything red touches her food.

Ah yes, what diet is Mary on these days? Martin chuckled.

You don't want to know…something she says makes her glow.

Like a skeleton in the dark.

Nancy stifled a giggle and smiled genuinely at Martin. He had a way of making her laugh, and that always helped the headache. Martin gave her a squeeze around the shoulders. Don't you go on a diet like that. I like you nice and yummy, just as you are! He pinched her cheek.

Nancy didn't tell Martin about her secret after-dinnertime bathroom visits. It was amazing how many years you could live with someone and keep a secret like that from them. If he did notice, he didn't complain about it—she always fit into a proper size number two. Any bigger, and she'd be the disgrace of her social circle.

Martin was almost out the door when he stopped in mid-stride like he'd been shot. Oh shit, he murmured, I almost forgot. Bill wants New Caviar for his birthday. I promised.

The name started Nancy's headache up anew. She tried not looking surprised, but this was the first time Martin had ever requested that delicacy. She'd done so many parties over the years, but, in her opinion, had thankfully avoided serving that dish: it was all the rage across society, but remained ever-elusive to acquire. Nancy heard horror stories from her girlfriends of the searches they'd made to try and get New Caviar on their tables. On the last go-around, Beth Morris said she'd been able to make an order with the Russian foodservice, who everyone knew were associated with the mafia. Nancy didn't want to have to deal with some sweaty guy from Moscow who smelled of cigarette smoke and aftershave: people like that made her squeamy.

New Caviar? she asked. Are you sure?

Yeah. I promised it over drinks the other night. He paused for a second, as if he wanted to take the choice back. A drunk decision my love, can you handle it?

Nancy tried hiding her uncertainty. Yes, darling, I'll make sure I get it. And you're okay with the cost?

Hell, said Martin with a slightly resigned tone. I'm sending us to the poorhouse with this party anyway…why not go all the way?

Three

Daryl hardly looked at the yellow-coded doors on either side as he followed the yellow path back to his room. Every floor in the building was color-homogenous; of the nine stories, Yellow took the bottom three, Blue had the middle three, and Red had the top three floors—with the ground floor reserved for the cafeteria. Daryl never visited a Red or Blue floor because exploring also got the proctor's attention.

One of the other Yellow people brushed Daryl's arm as she walked by; her hair was as yellow as her jumper, like she'd taken her color-coding to heart. She looked back at Daryl and smiled sheepishly, clearly apologetic for the unexpected physical contact. Daryl nodded at her as if to say: it’s okay, and she smiled back as she walked to her door: number 122. Daryl felt the strange urge to kiss the girl in number 122, but the urge faded as quickly as she disappeared into her quarters.

It was odd, having that kind of a feeling. Nowadays Daryl felt nothing towards his fellow Yellow people: male or female, he noted them both with a kind of platonic haze. To his knowledge, there were no inter-sex relations allowed between people of any color, and everyone purposefully avoided contact—never quite seeming to touch. The fact that Daryl was touched by two different people in one day almost shocked him, and he wondered for the first time what it might feel like to touch another person for more than a glimmer of a moment. Yellow 122 made him think that.

He struck the thought from his mind and continued up the yellow path on the stairs. Every mixed hallway was color-coded precisely from left to right: Red, Blue and Yellow—you kept to your path and didn't walk in the wrong colored spot. Daryl had only seen it once, when a person crossed over the colors: a young man from the Red line tripped and fell into the Blue line on his way to breakfast. Everyone around him stopped and stared like they were in shock as the Red lay there on the ground, and before anyone knew it, a pair of proctors grabbed him and whisked him away. Daryl never recognized the boy’s face anyway, so he didn't know if the Red ever re-joined the lineup.

To Daryl's knowledge, the only time you were allowed to speak to another person outside your room was during the once-weekly talk time. The proctors gathered people of like-colors into groups and took them to a special room where you had tea, cookies, and could talk to the other people at the table about anything on your mind. Daryl always enjoyed talk time because the cookies were better than the ones they served you at lunch or dinner, and sometimes he met a nice person. He always came out of talk time feeling warm in his stomach, and that was a lovely sensation that stuck with him for days afterward.

Daryl climbed the stairs to floor three and turned down the hallway. This hall was color-coded entirely Yellow, and Daryl walked down the middle of the hallway because it felt so different: the middle of any mixed hallway was usually reserved for Blue-coded people, so the walk to his room was the only time Daryl could break the rules without facing the risk of proctor punishment. He got a little chill of excitement every time he did it.

Daryl made it to his room: 333. The door scanned his DNA as he approached and opened automatically, welcoming Daryl back to his tiny suite. There was a modest bathroom with a sink, toilet and a combination tub/shower, and a small vanity held all his toiletries. Every item, even the toothpaste, was color-coded yellow; since he got food every day in the cafeteria, there was no need for a kitchen. The rest of Daryl's suite was dominated by a large, soft bed and an even larger TV screen covering one of his walls. The outside wall had a nice big window looking out on a tree, but Daryl spent most of his time focusing on the TV, enjoying one of his many video games. The only windows the Facility boasted were the ones for the apartments, and they were rarely used.

Games were the best way to pass the time between meals if you didn't have to do exercise duty or talk time. The little game machine built into his TV had a library of practically every game known to man; you could even play the oldies like Pacman and Pong, if you wanted. Daryl's preference was for the sports games, or the shooting games—those gave him the thrill he loved and couldn't achieve from anywhere else. Even the food didn't please him as much as pulling the trigger and watching an enemy combatant go up in a spray of blood.

He was one of the best single-person-shooter players in the entire Yellow group. Daryl knew this because there was always a ranking screen in the bottom left corner; the game rankings went by your room number, so everyone knew the guy in 333 was the best of the Yellows. They even let you play some games with other members of the Yellow floors, and when Daryl did this he always won. Good reflexes, he thought, that was what made him good at the games.

Sometimes when he'd win a game there'd be an extra prize at the end: usually a different type of delicious meal they'd deliver to your door—a special private feast. Daryl played for those kinds of prizes because the food was always the best thing; one time he even got something he'd never tasted before called roast beef. The meat practically melted on his tongue and the biscuit and butter they served with it were heavenly—he still tasted that meal in his dreams.

Daryl sat down and flipped the TV screen on. He was playing a space-adventure game called Mutant 7 and had almost completed the final level. This was a special-prize game so the stakes were high in Daryl's mind—he wanted some more roast beef and almost had the game beat to win it. As the program loaded up, Daryl scratched his head and cleaned his teeth with his tongue.

The game clicked on and Daryl pulled his view goggles over his face. He was surrounded by the strange planet: its rough, blue ground and glowing pink sky. Daryl turned and looked at the three moons, all setting towards the horizon; he knew it was a fake place, but Daryl still enjoyed seeing the beautiful, possible world.

It made him feel free.

Four

Nancy stared down at her platinum and diamond wedding ring and twisted it around her finger, fiddling with the band and rubbing it a little with her thumb. It seemed like years since Martin had put it on her hand; she'd been so young then, so excited to be marrying such a handsome and famous man. Nancy Wilson was a sweet, blonde office worker who happened to stumble upon Martin Jamieson the famous TV lawyer one night at the brewpub. She'd gone out thanks to her girlfriend Susie's badgering, and Nancy felt like the night was already a waste when she saw the line of mouth-breathing young-boys-in-men's-bodies lined up at the bar. They all looked her over like a piece of meat.

It had been purely an accident. Martin literally bumped into her and spilled his drink all down the front of her dress—he'd been aghast at the impropriety and apologized profusely. The accident led to drinks in a small private booth, all the while Nancy smelled like scotch and soda. She'd gotten Martin's number at the end of the evening, and he'd sent her a new dress as an apology the next day. All the girls at the office ooohed and aaahed over the lovely powder blue sheath in the fancy white box, and Nancy had blushed red down to the roots of her hair.

Martin stopped by her office the next day and brought her a little box lunch—he’d begged her to share it with him in the park, and she'd acquiesced. Martin was not the normal kind of man she dated: usually they were good-looking young fellows, often ex-football players with the broad shoulders and the man first attitude she thought was appropriate to want in a mate. They all treated her like a fancy piece of luggage, and tired of her after about four months of fucking. Nancy thought life was going to be like that until Martin came along.

He was older and had little flecks of gray starting to show at his temples. Despite the age, his body was vigorous from daily visits to the gym, and weekly soccer games between his office buddies. Martin had a large collection of skis and adventure equipment, and his office was lined with photos of Martin doing dangerous excursions: skiing, skydiving, mountain climbing, scuba diving, cross-country motorcycling, and kite boarding. Nancy stared at them in awe the first time Martin invited her to his office.

There was something about Martin that Nancy liked right away. Something about how nice he was to her when he'd spilled his drink, how he looked her in the eye and not immediately at her breasts. She felt a little more human with him, and when he'd bumped into her all the other men in the bar had melted away. After Martin and Nancy got serious, she'd laugh at the catcalls she heard on the street. Those little boys, she'd think to herself, they have no idea who they're up against.

The wedding of Martin Jamieson and Nancy Wilson was a grand affair, attended by all the best and brightest Seattle had to offer. They'd done the entire event at a private mansion on the Whidbey Island, and she still remembered the slightly briny scent from the water, mixed with the heavy fragrance of roses from the gazebo where she and Martin confirmed their vows. The party afterward was glorious, like something she'd dreamed up as a little girl: the tables were all perfectly done up with white tablecloths and there was a lovely arrangement of pink and yellow roses at the center of every one. The wedding planner had suggested the added extravagance of putting a little bowl with a fighting fish on each dining table, and the children in attendance got into terrible quarrels over who would get to keep the fish and take them home as pets.

Nancy's wedding cake was from Avril Shields: the best baker in all of Washington—a divine concoction of vanilla cake with lemon curd and a lovely sweet white chocolate frosting. It, too, was done up in the pink and yellow color scheme; Nancy made her bridesmaids all wear matching pink dresses, and Martin's groomsmen wore yellow ties and cummerbunds. The overall effect was brilliantly perfect, and all the society reporters called the event a resounding success.

Martin took Nancy to Fiji for their honeymoon, where she sat for long hours watching the impossibly blue sea from the deck of their luxurious beach hut, which sat suspended over the water. Martin spared no expense for her, and she started getting used to the life of ease Martin provided; when they got home, Martin bought her a beautiful house on the banks of Lake Washington near Madison Park. They'd been so happy in those days, and made love in every room of the house.

Nancy wiggled the ring on her finger and looked up at the room around her; she'd decorated the place with the best mid-century-modern furniture she could find. Most of it was real stuff from the 1960's and '70’s—not the knockoff pieces made of particleboard you could buy from the Swedish House. The furniture had to match the home, which was a lovely piece of architecture from the same period: a disciple of Frank Lloyd Wright designed it, and the place paid sweet homage to the beautiful pieces Wright had built in his later days in the Midwest. Nancy fell in love with the place at first sight, and Martin enjoyed the little dock on the lake where he could keep his waterski boat, his sailboat, and a rowing shell.

The house felt a little stale now; she'd kept the interior up with the trendiest furniture, made sure all the requisite technological advances were added, but it still felt cold. Nancy was always cold nowadays, and she'd taken to having their butler Charles build large fires in the decorative fireplace in the living room. She'd sit there and have a cup of cocoa or tea, then promptly go to the bathroom to purge it after she finished.

A new fear slowly built in Nancy as she'd gotten older: even though Martin still seemed enamored with her after all these years, she felt the age now, and worried constantly she wouldn't be good enough for Martin at some point. She'd get facials and laser surgery, anything to keep up the natural good looks she'd been blessed with. Nancy drew the line at the deep cosmetic stuff, though: she'd seen plenty of girlfriends go under the knife only to come out looking like startled fish. Martin always laughed at those women behind their backs, so Nancy knew to stay away from any of the hard treatments.

Her stomach growled and Nancy went to the kitchen for a spot of lunch; Sherry, their chef, left her a lovely salad in the fridge, which Nancy ate with no dressing. She chewed the lettuce thoughtfully while she read an online gossip magazine on her viewscreen, a tall glass of water with a lemon wedge dripped condensation onto the coaster next to her. Nancy took a sip and wiped her wet fingers on the linen napkin in her lap.

She'd been dreading it all day, but Nancy finally got up the courage to call Beth and ask her about the New Caviar. Nancy wiped her mouth with the napkin, took her salad plate to the sink, then came back to the viewscreen. She tapped Beth's number into the pad, and a little green calling icon flashed in the middle of the screen, while Beth heard the tinny double-blast of the call tone.

The screen opened up to Beth's cherubic blonde face, impeccably made up as usual. Nancy! she cried, what brings you to my neck of the woods!

Getting ready for the party…you still planning on coming? Nancy met Beth's with what she hoped was an equally sunny smile.

Of course! Beth added seriously. We would never miss it. Mike would be distraught!

Nancy took a breath and tried maintaining that impossible smile. I'm so glad! She felt her voice rising higher into the range reserved for teenage girls. It'll be so wonderful to see you!

You too! squealed Beth back. How long has it been?

At least a month. Nancy took another sip of water. I think we last saw you at the Meyers' function.

Oh yes! That was a lovely time, wasn't it?

Nancy felt the corners of her mouth ache from smiling so much. Yes, it was! A pressure climbed her esophagus like a monkey, perhaps the beginning of heartburn. Nancy forced herself to change the subject.

On the note of parties. I have a question about a dish Martin wants me to get.

What's that?

New Caviar.

Beth shrieked with joy and Nancy cringed a little from the high pitch. I'm so glad! You're finally joining the real world!

Yeah, I guess so, sighed Nancy, but I don't know where to get it.

Ah, go see my man Ivan in down in Ballard, Beth grinned. He'll get you all set.

Nancy took a large breath and steadied herself. Is he reputable?

As reputable as they come. He has contacts to the direct source. They've been trying to standardize the supply chain and get rid of all the mafiosos who deal in the stuff. Ivan's going legit.

Nancy looked palpably relieved. Oh good! It's always made me nervous…I think that's why we haven't served it 'till now.

You and a million others, said Beth with a smile. I think Ivan's hoping for more sales just like yours. He wants to be the new magnate.

Can you get me his number? asked Nancy.

Already did, added Beth.

Nancy saw a little new contact icon pop up at the bottom of her screen. She tapped on the icon and read it back to Beth. Ivan Rachmaninoff, she looked up at Beth with a quizzical grin. Rachmaninoff, really?

He changed his last name a long time ago, said Beth, thought it made him sound more elite. Plus, he likes to romance the ladies to his namesake's music.

I'll look out for that. Nancy smiled shrewdly.

Beth laughed. He'll be a good boy! He's got a new lady love.

That's good, Nancy sighed. I'll give him a call.

Tell him Beth Morris sent you! He'll give you a deal.

I'm sure he'll give you a deal too, thought Nancy, but she didn't dare say that out loud to Beth. Instead, she thanked Beth and closed the connection.

Nancy waited and stared at Ivan Rachmaninoff's contact on her screen, too nervous to touch the icon and initiate the call.

Five

Daryl remembered the men in white coats at the front door. They asked to come in and his mother started crying, but invited them in anyway. Their house was very small, and Daryl still recalled the scent of cat urine and cigarette smoke, plus the strange scabs all over his mother's face and arms.

Little Daryl was only five years old, but he knew something wasn't right with Mommy. She could be super happy and ready to take them both on an adventure to the store or some great place like a park, then she'd be snarlingly angry and hit him if he asked her a question. Daryl was getting good at learning when she'd be angry: it was always after she smoked from her pipe. She'd get super happy from the pipe for a little bit, then he could feel her change in the air—it crackled like a sick kind of electricity, and her eyes would get so sharp. She'd either get angry, or watch TV lying on the couch and ignore him completely; Daryl didn't really mind when she ignored him—it was better than when she hit him. When he was on his own, Daryl would get his own food from the cupboards, try to feed their cat Kitty whatever leftovers he had, dress himself, and walk to the bus for