“But I used it before, on my scratch,” Morgan insists. “It definitely didn’t make me hallucinate the first time.”
“Maybe trace amounts don’t affect you as much. The second time, though—that was an overdose.”
Morgan is enraptured. “Psychedelic potion? We could sell that, too, and make just as much money as we would if we called it medicine.” He straightens. “Wanna put it on ourselves again?”
He cannot be serious. Of all the dangerous, stupid—
Heisserious. “I tried to perform surgery on you!”
“Okay, yeah.” He scratches his chin. “Maybe not, then. Today.”
Perhaps just as mystifying as what happened to us biologically is what has happened to us geographically: the tent is sitting smack-dab next to a river. We did not set up camp next to a river.
“None of this was here yesterday, right?” I survey the swollen water, the two of us standing on its bank. It’s a gray, drizzling day, cold moisture seeping through my pants.
He shakes his head. “No. And I know that for a fact because you kept saying we needed to camp near a source of water and I kept reminding you that we hadn’t come across any.”
We are parked beside a gurgling, icy river with no rational explanation, and it is not, in fact, early morning, but noon.
“Your pet crushed my leg, and you poisoned me,” I say crossly. “You’re carrying all the tent mishmash today, and I’ll carry the pillow and Cocoa Puffs.”
“Hey, I protected you from that snake last night! You’rewelcome.”
“That snake wasn’t real. You were probably screaming at your own shoelace.”
“Hm.” His lips purse. “That would explain the missingshoelace.” Then he watches me unscrew the cap of my medication and swallow a pill. Somehow resists asking what sort of pill it is, even though he’s nosy and impulsive.
I answer his unspoken question, anyway. “SSRI.” I wave the bottle. “Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. Twenty milligrams every morning helps me keep feeling like the same person all month long. It’s the reason I was able to move back home.”
He searches my face, inquisitive. “Luna and Romina have mentioned a few times that they hoped you’d come back to Moonville, and they saidyousaid you never would.”
Yep. All true. “I have premenstrual dysphoric disorder,” I tell him. “I’ve struggled with it since my early twenties but didn’t know exactly what was wrong with me until about eight months ago when I saw a thing online about PMDD, and how it isn’t normal, actually, to feel like a completely different person in the one to two weeks before my period starts. I’d get severe mood swings, brain fog, insomnia. Crushing anxiety and depression. Any tiny thing to go wrong would feel hopelessly insurmountable, and I’d have a total meltdown. But also—and this is the big one—I’d get suddenly dissatisfied about where I was living, so I’d pick up and move. New city, new state. Then my hormones would go back to normal as soon as my period started, and I’d be left dealing with the consequences of all the decisions I’d made during the luteal phase of my menstrual cycle.” I circle my finger. “Every month. Behaving irrationally, wanting to move somewhere new. Period starts. Feel normal for two weeks. Then it happens again. And again.”
“And now you’re cured?”
“I’m way better. I still get a little emo a couple days before my period starts, but the urge to turn my life upside down has gone away and I can stay put in one place without a problem. The day I sold my camper van and bought a car, packed all my stuff to drive back to Ohio—I can’t even describe the feeling. I was so proud of myself.”
He smiles affectionately. “I’m proud of you, too.”
I look down, busying myself with my suitcases, hyperaware that I don’t talk about myself this much with other people. Why am I telling Morgan personal information? And why doesn’t it bother me?
Morgan and I give each other privacy while answering the calls of nature, getting dressed, acknowledging that certain parts of this expedition are not as great as I’ve been romanticizing, et cetera. Then we sort of stand around for a bit, looking to each other for direction. We’re vaguely somewhere in Falling Rock Forest. We might be a hop, skip, and a jump from the main road; we might be miles out. It’s especially tricky to guess now that we’ve ended up…not where we started.
“What if brays are watching us go to the bathroom?” Morgan asks.
“Then it’s the most excitement they’ve gotten in a while, so let’s just be grateful that we’re not in their position.”
“Yet. If we die out here, we’ll become like them.”
“You only become a bray if you’realonein the forest when you die. We’re not alone.” I survey the area. “Let’s make the most of this nice weather and see if we can find a trestle and acave close together. Find the trestle and cave, find the Black Bear Witch’s lair.”
My statement is punctuated by an unexpected downpour of chilly rain. I did not account for this. Normally I’m a big fan of chilly rain. There is such romance in foul, gloomy weather, in wind that’s out to pull teeth. It makes me yearn to sit at my window in fuzzy socks, mug of steaming tea in hand, watching the bricks of Vallis Boulevard gleam copper as the sky spits.
“Please tell me you packed an umbrella,” he says, knowing full well that I did not and neither did he.
We roam about, trying to stay under the cover of tree branches. Forte sleeps angrily in his baby sling strapped across Morgan’s chest. Being wrapped up snug seems to induce a state of hibernation in him. “What does that turtle look like to you?” Morgan asks me, gesturing.
“Like a turtle.”
