Part One
Bolt From The Blue
Chapter 1
Pansy
King’s End, Minnesota
Saturday, July 8
My mother always said: Beware of the brilliant blue sky.
But as I stand on the front porch, hand shielding my eyes, I detect nothing. The July air is heavy and sweet, full of summer and the promise of sweat, salt, and sunburn. Today is the first day I feel like myself again, or nearly so.
I step inside and consider pulling my umbrella from the stand. She is a pale pink with a scattering of polka dots in all sizes, from dollar-size to tiny pinpricks. Also? She has ruffles. Yes, she looks like a frivolous thing. Oh, but don’t underestimate her.
She is formidable.
But she is also leaning against my mother’s umbrella, one of a deep rose red, an American Beauty of a color. Their straps are intertwined, a mother and daughter clutching hands. To my right, the front room is empty now, but my mind’s eye superimposes the hospital bed on the space. My ears anticipate the rhythmic, mechanical breath of the oxygen condenser.
I blink, cast my gaze back to the brilliant blue day outside my house. It’s time I ventured downtown. I’m ready for that.
Even if my umbrella isn’t.
So, I leave her behind. She shudders with both relief and guilt. I tell her to hush as I close the door behind me.
On the sidewalk, I pause, peer to the right, and let my gaze follow the asphalt until it vanishes into the gravel road that leads to the abandoned housing development. Mind you, I have been patrolling that part of King’s End. There’s no getting around that particular chore.
All of the problems in King’s End begin and end in the development’s skeletal remains. Weekly, I repair any holes that appear in the chain-link fence that surrounds the half-developed acres of land and mend fissures that crisscross the ground. Farther down the road, the old farmhouse and crumbling silo stand. Occasionally, I patrol there as well, but I haven’t returned there since that day three months ago.
In truth, I hope never to return.
But that part of my job is solitary. No one but me ever ventures past where the sidewalk ends. The downtown, on the other hand? I’m certain to run into someone I know, will have to accept strained greetings and awkward condolences. I’m ready, I tell myself.
I’m ready.
King’s End is small enough that I can walk its streets and alleys in half a day. I’d bike, but the world passes by too quickly for me to do my job. Logging thousands of steps a day is the lot of an Enclave permanent post agent.
It’s Saturday, so the pedestrian mall is teeming with tables, pop-up stalls, and a few people selling their wares with traveling trays, like cigarette girls of old. The smells of brewing coffee and freshly baked bread compete with the tangy scent of tomatoes and smoke from roasting bratwurst.
I halt, the cobblestones solid beneath my feet. With a hand on my stomach, I gauge the growl. Flickers of actual hunger—the first in three months. After my patrol, I plan to load up a plate of food, starting with a vegan brat. I’m amazed at how such a small thing can feel so rebellious.
The market is alive with chatter and chirpy music. I do a circuit, lifting my chin, not so much tasting the air as sensing what lingers beneath it. Yes, a couple of pockets of discontent, but they’re small, puny things. Hard to find, but I should root them out before they have the chance to bloom into something harder to contain.
Before I can, someone calls my name.
“Pansy!” A tall woman with a cascade of braids waves from her stall of eggs and honey and preserves. Beneath the table rests a Great Dane with its head on its paws. When I approach, Tiny—she was the runt of her litter—perks up, from ears to tail, so quickly that it almost topples the table.
“Tiny!” The woman, Matilda, grabs the collar as Tiny’s claws scrabble against the cobblestone. “She misses you,” she says. “We all do.”
“I’m sorry—” My throat clutches, my cheeks flame, and a hot flush of guilt washes through me. It really has been too long.
She hushes me, much like I shushed my umbrella, and pulls me into a hug. “We understand, honey. It doesn’t matter your age. It’s hard to lose your mother.”
I repress a sigh. If she only knew.
Matilda cups my shoulders and gives me a once-over. “You’re looking good.”
