“I know you do. What I’m saying is . . . there’s been no one, not until you . . . and then, it’s always been you.” I don’t know how to articulate this. I’m not as eloquent as Conin is. “Everything you’ve done since the night at the party . . . until now with not backing down on what you want, wanting to protect the people here . . . I love you so fucking much. Shit, you really make this impossible.”
His stoic facade crumbles for a moment—a brief moment—before Sandra inserts herself into the room, Matt in tow. I hate this woman. Fuck you too, Matt.
She hands me the paperwork I’ll need to begin my occupation, with the proper job description and the pay detailed toward the top. The Angelics have a currency exchange system in place here. Admittedly, this comes as a surprise. Sandra focuses on Conin and plants a faux smile onto her mouth, a smile that doesn’t quite reach the rest of her face.
“I’ve expressed your interest to the council, and they told me they’ll consider it. I’ll inform you when a formal decision has been made, so in the meantime, just hang tight.”
“Thank you,” Conin says. His cheer is fake at best.
We exchange awkward goodbyes and then Matt leads us down the street, where we pass a small art museum masked as a storefront, a hardware shop, a hair salon, and a bar with a flamingo as its mascot. On the corner of the road at a three-way intersection is a pavilion claiming Dunsmuir to have the best water in the world. Matt veers us to the left down Cedar Street where the old police station watches our descent. I wonder if any of these businesses or buildings are still in use or if they’ve become homes for Angelics and their families.
“The police station has been converted to the guards’ headquarters. Hopefully, we’ll have you join us there soon, Conin,” Matt says with a sheepish grin.
Conin lights up at this, chin held high.
Once we reach Sacramento Avenue, I peer to the right and notice a few other faceless buildings. Matt instead directs us left, where the town starts to show signs of people and activity. A small train yard aligns perpendicular to the row of buildings across the road—trees graze the landscape on climbing knolls, some burnt and withered away, others thriving underneath the scorching California sun.
We follow the trail of electricity poles and the crescendoing hubbub of a cluster of canopies, the ones I noticed earlier. Matt points at a coffee shop dubbed “The Wheelhouse” that he says is still in business and acts as both a bar and a place to grab imported coffee. When we’ve joined the throng of Angelics, Matt introduces us to the Shop, a place where we can buy food, imported goods, and whatever else vendors offer that we may need. Conin appears genuinely interested, but all I feel is an overwhelming influx of conflicted emotions. I keep tight-lipped, proceeding with the tour as if I’m not suffocating on the spot. As if integrating back into a somewhat normal society isn’t themost jarring experience I’ve ever gone through. And I only left the world I knew behind eight days ago.
We’re shown the high school, which serves as a house of education for all grades and ages. The gardens are nearby and they’re genuinely impressive. Trellises of tomatoes and a plethora of fruits and vegetables in garden beds stretch on and on. A tiny, miniscule part of myself wants to believe that working in horticulture won’t be so bad.
Finally, we’re led up a winding road that passes a cafe converted into food storage, what was once a boutique, another bar, and a tattoo shop. There’s a hotel that houses Angelics, a theater across the street Matt says is still in working order, and a library just up the road a bit. Conin asks if we can go inside to have a look around.
“Well, I suppose this is where we can conclude your tour. You’re free to roam now if you like. In case you need me, I’ll be at Headquarters.” Matt waves, leaving us to explore an unfamiliar town.
Conin looks like a kid on Christmas, grateful he still has book access. His palpable excitement rubs off on me. He and I enter the scant space, brimming with an array of all sorts of titles and spines.
“I love it,” he says, then instantly absconds to peruse the collection.
After a while, there’s a shuffle of someone entering the library. I turn to see Atlas MacPherson in the flesh. There’s that tug, the tether acknowledging the arrival of the person I’m bound to. I have the sudden desire to draw myself close, to wrap my arms around him, to claim him and call him mine. I blink and he’s hovering above me with a wide, jovial grin.
“Fancy finding you here,” he says, and my heart skips a beat, leaping out of my chest.
What the hell? When did that happen?
Conin joins us and we pick a table at the far end of the library. There’s tension in Atlas’s shoulders, the way he constructs himself, and the mechanical twirl of both his thumbs. Up and down, up and down, up and down.
“So, which occupations were you assigned?”
“I challenged the council for a guard position,” Conin says. Atlas’s eyes widen.
“No way. How did that go?”
“Well . . . not great. Sandra said she’d pass the proposal along to the council and would get back to me on their decision.”
“Damn,” Atlas sighs. “That was really cool of you.”
Conin’s smile is breathtaking. He truly does seem pleased with himself. Ecstatic is one of the words I’d use to describe this feeling inside me.
“Horticulture. I’ll be working in the gardens.”
“Shut up!” he exclaims, pounding his fist.
The librarian hushes him.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve been assigned horticulture, too!”
