by Chuck Wendig
Steve stares at her.
Paralyzed.
He says nothing, though it looks like he wants to.
Finally, he says, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“That’s . . .” He blinks. “I’m sorry, but it’s all real? What you said?”
“It’s all real.”
“You also told me you were psychic. That was just a joke, right?”
She offers a sad smile. “Not a joke. I am cursed with a power to see how people are going to die. I gained this power when I had the aforementioned violent miscarriage back when I was in high school. The father of that child killed himself, and his mother attacked me in the bathroom, beating me half to death with a snow shovel. I lost the baby and gained the sight of death.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
She can see it in his eyes—it’s like a light-switch flipping. He went from not believing her story to believing it, click. She can see in his eyes that he sees the truth in her eyes. And they stare at each other like that for a while. Sharing this strange moment.
“The baby,” he says. “Will you keep it?”
“I don’t know,” she says honestly.
“You can see how people are going to die?”
A slow nod. “I can.”
“That’s pretty fucked up.”
“It is. What’s more fucked up is how it’s become background noise for me. I guess surgeons are like that too. Death is just a part of life to them. It’s just a part of it to me, too. Can’t have a snake without a head and a tail.”
He hesitates. She knows what he’s going to ask. Finally, he’s out with it, spoken in a hushed voice across the table, as if he’s speaking some kind of heresy, some forbidden question of a fallen and forgotten god. “Do you . . . know how I die?”
“I haven’t touched you yet. I need skin-on-skin contact.” She gives him a long, hard look. “Do you wanna know?”
“Not yet,” he says, answering quickly.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
“With your life, you really do need a stiff drink.”
“You’re not wrong.” She finishes her Betrayal Juice and then says, “Enough of me oversharing. Time for you to overshare, young man.”
He puffs out his cheeks. “Hold on.” He slams back the tiki drink and then summons the waitress for another zombie. “Okay, I am ready. You may begin your interrogation at your leisure.”
“So, what’s your deal?”
He makes a frowny face. “That’s your question? What’s my deal?”
“Everybody’s got a deal. I gave you my deal. What’s yours? What’re your peccadillos, who are your demons, what’s your bag, your jam, who the hell are you?”
“Peccadillos. Good word, peccadillos.” He eagerly takes the next cocktail when the waitress brings it. “Hold on.” He takes a drink. “Okay. My deal. My deal, my deal, my deal. My . . . family hates me. That’s something. And it’s maybe a big something since I think about it . . . every day? And multiple times every day.”
“That’s a bummer. Why do they hate you?”
“A lot of reasons. But three—I think, three big ones.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“Number one, I’m a Democrat.”
“Like, the political party.”
“Yes, the—how do you not know that?”
“I know that; I just wondered if that was maybe a new slang term for like guy who fucks cats or something. They just—they don’t like that you’re a Democrat?”
“I’m from a part of Ohio which is basically Kentucky, and being conservative is, I think, a part of our actual genetic makeup, so—yeah, it was a problem. But it’s probably the shortest leg on their stool of criticism.”
She nods. “Go on.”
“Also, I’m asexual.”
“What?”
“Asexual.”
“Like, you . . . reproduce by . . . cellularly dividing?”
“No, being ace means I have no sexual thing toward people. No attraction toward them. Intellectual, sure, romantic, okay, but like, I don’t feel a physical, visceral attraction to men or women.”
She leans forward, brow furrowed with the scrutiny of a scientist discovering a new physical force in the universe. “You don’t have sex?”
“I have, but don’t usually.”
“Do you like sex?”
“It’s . . . okay. I like eating hamburgers, too, but I don’t wanna fuck ’em. If that makes sense.”
She hmms. “Not really? But it doesn’t have to, because I’m me and you’re you, and honestly, you do what you like, Steve Wiebe. PS, I would totally fuck a really good hamburger.”
“Have you had In-N-Out yet?”
“No, wuzzat?”
His mouth opens wide, and his eyes open wide to join his mouth, as the light of pure joy emanates from him in nearly tangible crepuscular beams. “Ohhh, ho ho ho, ohh, oh man. Miriam. Oh. Oh. It’s good.”
“It’s just what, fast food?”
“We’re going. After this, we’re going.”
“Is it just going to disappoint me? Do I need to be drunk?”
“This isn’t just drunk food. This is just—the best fast-food hamburger you will ever have. I mean, maybe there are more refined hamburgers, but none as satisfying as this.”
“I’m dubious, but okay. So, what’s the third thing?”
“Oh. The third thing.”
“Out with it.”
“Ahhh.”
“C’mon.”
“Unhhh.”
“Spit. It. Out.”
“I’m trans.”
“Trans what?”
“I was . . . born a woman. I’m a trans man. Assigned female at birth.”
Miriam puckers her lips, then shrugs. “Okay.”
“Okay? Just okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Some people get weird when I tell them. Like, my family.”
“I just told you I’m a psychic who can see how people are going to die and I’m impregnated by a dude who got shot in the head. You rolled with the punches on that one, so I kinda feel like I should be cool with whoever you are and whoever you wanna be.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
WAIT WAIT DON’T TELL ME
In the car, on the way to In-N-Out. All around, the smear of Hollywood lights, the press of crowds, the claustrophobia of cars after cars after cars. She says, “Wait, so, what bits do you have?”
“You’re not supposed to ask me about my bits. Besides,” he says, “it’s not about the fiddly bits. It’s about who I am.”
“Everything is about the fiddly bits,” Miriam says. “But I’m basically a twelve-year-old, so I think a lot about fiddly bits.”
He pauses. “I think a lot about poop,” he says, earnestly.
“Oh my god, me too. We all poop. It’s one of life’s unifying bonds. Frankly, I think it’s weird when people don’t think about poop.”
“Right?!”
They sit in silence for a while, contemplating this deep, sacred reality.
Finally she says, “By the way, I can also become birds—er, sorta—and I think I can heal injuries faster than the average individual. Maybe really fast. Maybe really grievous injuries too; I’m not sure yet. Jury’s still out.”
“You’re the queen of oversharing,” he says.
Miriam nods. “And all shall be serfs in my kingdom.”
THIRTY-NINE
TRUTH IN ADVERTISING
“Jesus fuck,” she says, chewing.
Together, the two of them sit on the hood of Steve Wiebe’s Kia sedan at the back of the In-N-Out parking lot, finishing their burgers. Except, for Miriam, it is no mere burger. Steve told it true: this was a truly sublime hamburger. He told her to order it “animal-style,” whatever the fuck that meant, and she took his suggestion. Soon as she took a bite, the beef angels did sing.
A moo-cow chorus of beatific deliciousness. Greasy and meaty and fatty and burgery and cheesy and saucy in all the perfect proportions. The Greeks would have spawned entire schools of philosophy about this burger. This burger should have a cult.
Miriam contemplates starting one.
“Maybe it’s queendom,” Steve says, suddenly.
“What?”
“Sorry. I do that sometimes? I continue a conversation that has long been over without warning the other person. Earlier, in the car, I said you were the queen of oversharing. And you said, all shall be serfs in my kingdom, but maybe it’s queendom. Because queens, not kings.”
She shrugs, cheeks bulging with burger-flesh. “Whatever, dude.”
“The burger’s good, right?”
“The burger’s not good, Steve. The burger is the kind of burger that could start a war. Or end one. This burger might be the one good thing God above has given us, or it might be the most tempting artifact dangled before us by the Devil himself. This burger would be the thing I would give to an extraterrestrial invader to prove that we were worthy not only of saving, but of uplifting to a greater state of cosmic evolution. This is no mere burger, Steve, nor is it merely good. It is awesome in the truest sense of that word.”
He nods, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.
Moments pass.
“But the fries kinda suck,” he adds.
“Totally not great fries,” she says in vigorous agreement. “I mean, how do you make a burger that amazing but then kinda fuck up the fries?”
“Maybe it’s like,” he says, swallowing one last bit, “they could choose to make one thing truly amazing, or two things just really good.”
“So, the mediocre fries are the price we pay for divine burgerfood.”
“Could be. Just a thought.”
“Thanks for this, Steve.”
“It’s been fun. And I got a burger out of it.”
“I guess I should go home now.”
He puts out his hand. “I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To see how I . . . you know.”
“Bite it.”
“Yeah.”
“Suck the pipe.”
He nods. “Right.”
“Take the big ol’ dirt-nap, ride the bone-coaster to Reapertown, tap-dance off the end of Death’s naughty parts—”
“Yes.” He thrusts his hand out farther. “Let’s do this.”
But Miriam hesitates.
Her chest tightens.
“What?” he asks her.
“I don’t know that I wanna.”
“Why?”
She makes a face. “I don’t know! This has never happened to me before. I always wanna see. I kinda get off on it—like, in a spiritual way, not in a soggy-panties way. But I’m starting to like you and I’m afraid that you’re going to die in a bad way, and soon, and it’ll be my fault.”
Steve looks wary. “Why would it be your fault?”
Because it’s always my fault, Steve-o.
“I just—I’m not ready.”
“Oh.”
He retracts his hand.
The disappointment comes off him in waves like stink lines off a cartoon skunk. She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
“No, don’t worry about it, it’s—”
She pinches his cheek and—
FORTY
THE HEART WANTS WHAT THE HEART WANTS
“—it’s cool,” he finishes saying.
She pulls her hand away. It feels cold, suddenly.
A bit of trash blows across the parking lot. A car pulls through, rocking heavy bass. Someone yells something to someone else: a friendly shout. An airliner overhead. All while Steve’s death replays in her head.
The good news is, it isn’t her fault.
For once.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Do you,” she starts, but then she has to clear her throat because it’s suddenly tight. “Do you have a heart condition?”
He blinks.
“Yeah.”
“A heart valve problem,” she clarifies.
His face goes ashen. “Yeah. It’s fixed. I had surgery when I was little—and I take beta-blockers and vasodilators and—”
“And it kills you.”
“Oh.” He laughs it off, nervously. “At least I have time—”
“You have three years.”
“What? Three years? Three? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I’m only twenty-seven. I’ll be thirty. I’ll die at thirty.”
“Yes. That math is accurate.”
He says, “That can’t be right.”
“It’s right.”
“I can—I’ll get it fixed, get surgery again. I’ll be okay. Thanks for the warning.”
She looks upon him with sad eyes. She forces a smile, though it damn sure ain’t a happy one. “It doesn’t work like that. You can try to bend fate and twist out of its grip, but you’ll just end up making it happen. Fate gets what fate wants. I can stop it sometimes, but only when someone else causes it. If there’s a killer, I can kill them before they get you. I can balance those books. Without that, it just . . . happens.” Her own blood goes to slush as she thinks about Louis’s baby inside her. She knows of no killer, has no sense of how to save the child. Hopelessness sucks at her like hungry mud. She has to willfully not be drawn down into that mire of despair. “I’m sorry.”
“Three years.”
He looks off in the distance, toward the fast-food joint, but he’s not looking at it. He’s staring through it.
“Do I just . . . die? Like, on the toilet or something?”
“No. You die in a hospital. You have some warning, it seems.”
“Is anybody there? At my bedside?” Idly, Steve cracks his knuckles one by one: an anxious, nervous habit. “Or am I alone?”
“Bunch of people there,” she tells him, and it’s not a lie. “I don’t know who they all are. They don’t . . . introduce themselves in the vision. Only one I know is someone named Emily. You say her name, holding her hand as you go into tachycardia and . . . pass on.” She hates that phrase so bad, but she feels the need suddenly to soften all this for him.
“Emily? Seriously?”
“Emily.”
“Black hair? Long-ish? Little scar on her chin?”
“That’s the one.”
He smiles. “That’s my sister.”
“Oh.”
“We’re not talking right now.”
“Well, you’ll be talking then.”
His eyes shine with tears that threaten to fall but never do. “When I stopped talking to my family, she was part of the fallout. Maybe I can reach out to her. Maybe we can reconnect.”
“Sure.”
“Three years. That’s not a long time.”
“No. But also, it can be. Life is short, but life can be long, too.”
“Maybe this is a gift, you know? A really . . . fucked-up gift. You tell me I have three years, maybe I can fill those years with some meaning.”
“See, there you go.”
“I should probably stop eating In-N-Out burgers, though.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, shit.”
“This burger tonight may be the thing that kills me in three years.”
She shrugs. “I’d say it was worth it.”
He takes a moment, then licks his fingers, one by one.
“You might be right.”
FORTY-ONE
THE WORM IN THE APPLE
Home. Or what passes for it. Their half-ass condo in this crazy-ass city. Miriam, sober as a Sunday morning, full of mocktails and burger meat, climbs her way back up to the condo and plods into the bedroom, realizing that she’s going to have to be awake in four hours to go do the thing again with Guerrero. Because they have to. Because they have three days.
No.
Two days now.
Two days until the eleventh.
Two days until the Starf
ucker kills again, absolving some dipshit prettyboy of his face and of his bowels.
Once again, Miriam Black is on the clock. Not for the Trespasser this time, but for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Does this appease the Trespasser, though? Is this just what that demon wants of her? To once again step in, to slam her rock down and break the river in twain, to divert the course of fate and save the lives of others while her own hangs in the balance? For a long time, she thought the Trespasser just wanted to fuck with her. Then she thought, maybe the Trespasser, in its fucked up way, is trying to right some wrong. Now she’s not sure about any of it. She feels again and again like she’s playing into the Trespasser’s hands. Or worse, like his hand is up her ass: she, its destiny-killing puppet.
But why? Why does the Trespasser want this?
What is it? Who is it?
She doesn’t know, but she intends to find out.
Stop the Starfucker. Get the name of the medium from Guerrero. Find the Trespasser and kill it, however she’s gotta.
Into bed she goes. Cuddling up next to Gabby. Though she is the smaller of the two in Actual Size, she curls up to Gabby’s back as the Big Spoon. She presses her cheek to Gabby’s T-shirted back and starts to drift off. But Gabby must know she’s here. The other woman moans a little and rolls over, and in the half-dark of the early morning room, Gabby’s eyelids flutter. She smiles a little and says, in a whisper:
