Page 45 of A Better World

Instead of going home, she headed southwest, following the landmarksshe’d spotted the night before. Gal’s block was closed off, a tan sedan parked horizontally in the middle of the street.

Hip sat straighter when he realized they were in a place he’d never been before, and not on their way home. The area gave off a wet, wan smell, like morning at a campsite after the fire.

“I need to see something,” she said as she got out.

Hip started to ask a question but it died on his tongue. The house next door was still standing, unsinged. The shell of Gal’s house remained. But its north half was charred black, the roof above collapsed.

Linda went off the path and onto the dead, trampled lawn. The caladrius was still in its shelter, talons poking out. It had been sleeping last night, eyes open, she remembered. On the ground, beside stale vomit, she found her device. Her texts populated the screen in the order of newest to oldest:

Daniella:

Something happened last night. Call me so I can fill you in.

Anouk:

My fellow scholar! Please read and let’s discuss. I’m DYING to talk inherited trauma. If we can rout it, we can solve childhood illness.

www.moderneugenicsproject.org

Gal Parker:

UR listed so don’t be mad Im txting. I just ospit say Im sprrt I was meen. I’m not weel.

Empathy

By morning, PlymouthValley’s landscape was changed. In front of nearly every house, sets of red candles joined by black ribbons had been burned to their nubs. They stuck to front curbs, the wax pooling out. Occasionally, in red chalk, someone had written names:Sebbie, Katie. This had happened in the night, probably while the Farmer-Bowens had eaten dinner or slept.

“What the hell is this?” Josie asked. They were driving along Sunset Heights in the direction of the school.

“I think they had a prayer vigil for those kids I told you about,” Linda said.

Car line was usually a quick in and out; every parent knew their routine. Today, the line wound down from the school for about two blocks. “Can you guys get out and walk?” Linda asked.

“I have all my PE stuff, which I usually wouldn’t but you took forever to clean it,” Josie said. She was cranky about what had happened to those kids, probably a little freaked out, too.

“Josie, get out of the car,” Linda said.

“I can’t!”

Hip was already out the door. He’d taken Josie’s backpack with his own. “Come on,” he said.

Josie took her time. The gap between Linda and the car ahead got to be three car lengths while Josie unbuckled, tied her shoes (which she’d untied in the car for some reason?), arranged her soccer bag and lunch. The car behind Linda pulled up beside her. The window rolleddown. A smiling brunette called across. Her elementary-aged son was in the passenger seat, drawing on the dashboard in crayon. “Hi! You’re holding up the line!”

“Yeah,” Linda said. “Monday morning.”

“But now I have to pass you,” the woman said, still smiling. Her son smeared black crayon scribble over the vinyl vent, then stuck his tongue out at Linda, revealing a red-striped median, as if he’d eaten candy suckers for breakfast.

“You do what you gotta do,” Linda said.

The woman’s jaw went slack, like what she was hearing was insane.

Josie finally got out of the car. She and Hip started walking. “Have good days!” Linda called.

Hip waved. Josie shrugged, an embarrassed apology for causing trouble with the car line police. Linda shrugged back, to let her know not to worry.

The woman stayed beside Linda, dumbfounded. “You can pull ahead,” Linda told her. The boy pressed his black crayon so hard it broke. What kind of jerk lets their kid draw all over their car?

“But now you’re not even doing car line,” the woman said.

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