Chapter Text
All stories should start with the death of the protagonist. That way you have a deadline. A fixed horizon. A ticking bomb. You know what’s at stake, and where your lines are drawn. Everyone dies. Some die sooner than others.
This story might not start with the death of the protagonist, although it should. It might not end with the death of the protagonist either, although it should do that too. It might just keep going. Like I’ll have to. The same way the second hand keeps ticking long after your eyes glance away from the clockface. The same way you’re still reading this right now, even knowing that the protagonist will die—maybe at the beginning of the story, maybe at the end, maybe far beyond the story’s reach.
I know my life will be cut into before and after: before he dies, and after his death. I know I’ll have to find a way to live without him. A resiliency. A reimagining. I don’t know what that person will be like, but I know she’ll be different. I don’t want to have to know her. But I know I will, and soon. He won’t last long. I know that. And neither will we.
He slumped over in the red plastic booth, trying to tune out the intoxicating smell of industrial fryers and salt-dusted fries and greasy burgers and…fuck, he was well beyond hungry by now. Thoughts slipped through his fingers as soon as he could find them.
He scratched his neck again where his stolen, grime-infused clothes scraped against his skin. The few coins he’d found by the side of the highway clinked in his pocket, not enough to call whatever phone numbers he’d once known.
No, dammit. Focus. Think.
His head didn’t hurt. Had never hurt. Could he really keep blaming his lack of memories on a concussion?
He blinked. The fluorescent lights winked up at him from the plastic sheen of the table. He’d lost the plot again, distracted by overwhelming hunger.
He buried his head in his arms and closed his eyes.
“Can I sit here? Thanks. You’re so sweet, honey. Do you mind if I just stay here for a sec?" He lifted his head and blinked at the most beautiful young woman he’d ever seen as she slid into the opposite booth and beamed at him. She was about his own age, maybe, late twenties, something like that.
“Hi,” she said.
Her hair floated around her head in a fluorescent-haloed cloud of curls. Her eyes were warm and just a little crinkly at the corners, and—
“Hello?” she said again, and waved a hand.
He shook his head to clear it. “What? Sorry. I got distracted.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, lips twitching against a smile. “Sure. So, what’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”
“Sitting,” he said.
She blinked. “Right. Of course. Thank you. I wasn’t sure that’s what this was called. Words are hard, you know? Let’s start with your name.”
“I,” he said. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” she said.
“My name,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. He wasn’t sure if she just didn’t blink or if he’d passed out for a moment and missed a few seconds.
“I’m,” he said, trying to recover the thread of the conversation, “not interested. Sorry.”
“Are you apologizing for not wanting to have sex with me?” she said. “Never mind. Irrelevant. I’m not a sex worker. I just…those guys over there—yeah, by the counter—were looking at me funny, and I thought…well, you can protect me from the big bads with the MAGA hats. Right? Great.”
“And you don’t think I’d hurt you?”
“You haven’t eaten in three days,” she said.
He blinked.
“You haven't showered in eight. Slept properly in…” She tilted her head. “Fourteen. Those clothes are stolen, but if you were really a thief, you’d have stolen enough for at least a cheeseburger, seriously.”
“You’re a telepath,” he said, goosebumps rising on his arms. They’d already found him. Was she a good guy or—
Her head tipped back as she laughed, shoulders shaking, teeth glinting in the fluorescent lights. “Oh, honey,” she choked. “No. I’m just very observant.”
“Or you’re just making stuff up.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
He opened his mouth to say how should I know? I only remember the last three days— then closed it. Better to keep his cards close, right? She’d insist on a hospital or something. Better to stay under the radar as long as he could. Figure out the situation first.
She was still looking at him beneath those gracefully arching brows. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Definitely a telepath. He could feel the—the raw power, coiling in her bones, drawing him closer like a magnet.
“No,” he said, forgetting the question already.
“My proposition,” she said, “is very simple. You need food. Desperately. Also a shower. Less desperate for you, more desperate for the rest of us.” She wrinkled her nose theatrically. “Also, actual clothes that aren’t rolled-up mom jeans and a hunter-orange flannel. Also, a real bed to sleep on.”
“Well—obviously, yeah, but I don’t—”
“I do. Have money. Lots of.” She showed him another toothy smile, less crinkly this time. “Enough for more than one person to start a new life. Maybe go on a road trip first. See the sights. Have some fun. But lots of money means lots of danger, so…I need a bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard,” he said. The lights dimmed a little, then returned. Fuck, he was dizzy.
“More of an insurance policy. Young Black woman, on the road alone, with a shit-ton of cash? I might as well scuttle my car and walk into traffic. With a nice white boyfriend by my side, with those muscles you’re hiding under that balloon of a shirt? I’ll be just fine. You shouldn’t need to punch anyone. I think your body will do the talking. But if you do get into a fight to protect my honor, I’m sure you could handle it.”
“So you want me for my muscles,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And you want me for food and clothing and shelter. Just call me Sugar Mama.”
“I’m not going to—”
“Yeah, no, I’m kidding. Sorry. Look, we’re just…joining forces. You know? Stronger together.”
“Stronger together,” he said. The words felt good in his mouth. “Look, why are you bothering with all this? Just use your powers. Tell them to leave you alone. Or order me to do this instead of just trying to convince me.”
“If I were a telepath, don’t you think I’d have convinced my ex to—to love me?” Her voice scraped low in her throat.
He blinked at her, startled by the tear-smudged edge to her voice. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. Just tell me: do we have a deal, or no?”
He reached across the table in a daze, trying not to pass out from hunger.
“Good.” She shook his hand. “So. What’s your name?”
“I,” he said. “I really don’t know.”
“Huh,” she said. “Well. Okay. But I’ve got to call you something. Any names come to mind? Nicknames? Numbers?”
“I don’t care,” he said.
She squinted at him. Her mouth moved a little, mouthing names to herself. “Peter,” she said at last. “You look like a Peter.”
“Okay,” he said.
“You can call me Em,” she said.
“Like Emily? Or like the letter M?”
She laughed. “Either. Now, sit. This is your first assignment. Watch my bag. My back’s killing me. I don’t want to carry it any more. I’m going to get us food. Sit here and don’t fall asleep until I come back, okay?”
“Okay,” he said, but she was already halfway to the fast-food counter.
“You had one job,” she said.
He—Peter? —lifted his head from his crossed arms. “Uh?”
“One,” she repeated. “Job.” She slid a styrofoam bowl across the table to him. It smelled amazing—
“Whoa,” she said. “Slow down. Better to take it slow and keep it all than chug it and lose it in a sec.”
With difficulty, he stopped drinking the broth, set the bowl down, and took a few breaths. Already he felt marginally more human, more awake. More aware.
“Better?”
He nodded. It was hard to look away from her burger.
“Good. Sip it slowly. Keep it down for a couple of hours and you can have some more, maybe try a little solid food. That sports drink is yours too.” She jerked her chin at the blue bottle.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Thank me by staying awake next time,” she said, but her eyes were twinkling a little. “So, what’s your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you out here. Who are you. Why don’t you want to tell me your name.”
“I don’t know my name.”
“Bull—” She stopped. “You’re telling the truth.”
He rolled his eyes. “Stop hustling me with questions and just look inside my head already. I’ve got food to eat here.” He lifted the bowl to his lips again—spoons were too fucking inefficient—and drank some more, forcing himself to go slow.
“Why do you think I’m a telepath?”
Peter managed to set the bowl down for a second. “Why do you think I’m telling the truth?”
She leaned back in her chair, one fry poised halfway to her mouth. “I’m good at reading people,” she said.
He held her gaze for a sec.
She ate the fry before its ketchup payload dripped onto her lap.
“What’s your deal?” he asked. “You have that much money, why aren’t you flying to the Caribbean? To Europe? Why are you here at a rest stop, eating burgers?”
“Because my dad never let me,” she said. She picked her burger up again and squinted at it. “They’re surprisingly tasty. Like, so bad that they wrap around again to being good.”
Now there was a thought.
His soup swirled lazily in the bowl, tiny flecks of noodles and vegetables floating to the bottom. A spare cup, full of noodles and chicken, sat by her elbow. She must have taken it out before giving him the broth. Thoughtful. His stomach was already protesting the bit of broth. He’d have lost anything else he tried to eat.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s hit up that convenience store in the corner for toiletries for you. I'm not sharing a room with someone who doesn’t brush his teeth.”
“Go directly to the shower,” she said, holding the door as he lugged her bags inside. “Do not pass Go. Do not touch anything. Do not—”
“There are two beds,” he said.
“Honey,” she said, “you are taking this sugar mama metaphor way too far.”
He turned to look at her.
She flicked her fingers toward the shower. “Go on, you nitwit.”
“I’m going,” Peter sighed. “I’m going.” He deposited the bags on the foldout tray and headed into the shower.
She fell onto her bed with a thump and stared up at the ceiling.
GOT HIM, she pressed into her ring in slow Morse code.