At the same moment, our umbrellas unfurl. We both send out a pulse that shakes the air before slamming into the Screamers. And they do scream. The sound—which only Agent Darnelle and I can hear—is like a shockwave rolling through the cemetery, up and over the grave markers and trees. One of the mourners, a resident of King’s End, peers over her shoulder. Her gaze touches mine, and she nods, her expression softening in approval.
But luck is with us. We caught the Screamers unaware. So intent were they to consume the strong emotions wafting up from the gravesite that they missed our presence entirely. They try, of course. This is something you must give them credit for. They always try.
Because an event such as this? Pure Screamer fuel. I wonder what it is that attracts them, what it is they need. How can something the Enclave calls temporal disturbances be so attuned to human emotions? How, if not for our intervention, they’d leave the residue of chaos and despair in their wake.
No, I’ve never walked into a desert and fought a Screamer sandstorm. I’m unlikely to save the world any time soon. But I can do this.
I can protect a marriage proposal and a funeral and, by doing so, protect the residents of King’s End. If happy moments are important, then so, too, are the sad ones. A proper mourning. A heart so heavy you don’t think it can hold anything else, and the quiet, chaos-free opportunity to feel. Screamers can deny people all of this. It’s my job to see that they don’t.
Or, at least for now, it is.
The mass of Screamers splits in two and erupts into splinters that resemble those crows. The black and red ones stream off toward Agent Darnelle. On silent feet, he chases them away from the mourners. The blue and green ones head back toward the housing development. I pursue them as far as the chain-link fence. They split their mass, shooting around Agent Darnelle’s coat rather than through it. I don’t bother following them into the housing development. They are chastised. For now.
After the service, I shadow the father and the two children, my umbrella unfurled, protecting their walk back to the waiting cars. I pretend to investigate historical grave markers, but I’m really sending out a subtle pulse with my umbrella, letting the Screamers know it would be a bad idea to return.
The mourners drive off, kicking up grit from the gravel parking lot. I remain there, dust settling on my skin, drying my lips, stinging my eyes. After a while, the shade of a second umbrella joins mine.
“I always check the obituaries,” I say, although Agent Darnelle hasn’t asked or even sent a chiding, schoolmaster eyebrow my way.
I have alerts set up, not just on the internet, but the Hey Neighbor app as well. Screamers don’t always invade funerals, but in King’s End, there’s always a good chance they will. While Sunday funerals are rare, they do happen here. King’s End is accommodating that way.
“There were a lot of people I didn’t recognize,” I add.
“Perhaps someone was coming home after a long absence.”
His words are so quiet, so melancholy, that I lower my umbrella for a better look at his expression. But he keeps his face shrouded beneath his own. I taste sorrow again and something more, something bitter and full of bile.
This time, it’s coming from Henry Darnelle.
All at once, he shuts his umbrella with more force than necessary. “I think we’re done for the day, Agent Little.”
Done for the day? Or simply done, period? Have I completely screwed up my examination?
“I don’t think we were hit.” My throat is so clogged, I sound as if I’ve come off a crying jag. “But would you like to come back for some tea? I can?—”
“No.” The word is sharp and final.
I take a step back.
“I mean, no, thank you, Agent Little.” His voice softens, but the bile is still there, still thickening his words. “I have everything I need in my room at the bed and breakfast. Let’s meet on the green tomorrow morning, say seven again?”
I swear I don’t make a face or even twitch a muscle. Agent Darnelle doesn’t smile, but the crinkles around his eyes deepen.
“Make it eight,” he says. “I’ll see you then.”
With that, he walks through the cemetery’s front gates, leaving me to stand in the midday sun, still clutching my open umbrella.
It’s only when he’s too far away that I think to call after him, remind him of his suit coat still caught in the jaws of the fence. Even if he could hear me, my mouth is too dry to make a sound.
I take a winding path through oaks and willows and headstones. Did the Screamers lead Agent Darnelle through this part of the cemetery? I glance around as if I could trace the path he took by telltale impressions in the grass or leaves torn from low-hanging branches. I don’t detect anything, but then again, he moved with such grace and stealth that I’m not sure I could.
My feet lead me to the grave markers. I kneel, consider the headstones in front of me, and trace the names, first my mother’s and then my father’s.
Rose Little and Maximilian Monroe.
This is where we placed that urn. Sometimes, I’m grateful for this spot, that I have a place to visit, that there’s evidence that Rose Little was here in this world. Other times, it feels like a violation, a betrayal. There’s nothing beneath the marker that is truly her; it signifies nothing. I can’t shake the notion that wherever she is, some day, she’ll come back home. That maybe I’ve given up too soon,
Part of me insists I should mourn.
