“No,” he says. “Not that one. There’s another one where you and J both have, like, flowers coming out of your mouths, and it’s like you’re kissing, but it’s just, like, the flowers are kissing? You know what I mean?”
“No.” My jaw tenses.
“James told me there’s an entire city block that’s done up in, like, a comic strip, where you’re half man, half robot, and you save the neighborhood from a horde of bloodthirsty vampires. But I haven’t seen that one yet.”
I shoot a hard look at Kenji. “Thank you for reminding me why I never go outside.”
A group of raucous kids nearly barrels into us on the sidewalk, all emanating sweat and insecurity, and I try to brace myself. Try to hold my breath.
The one good thing about spending time in the Ship District is that most of these teenagers are too young to know who I am.
Or if they do, they don’t seem to care.
Many were toddlers or young children during the fall of The Reestablishment. What they know of our modern moment is mostly story and flashes of memory. If anything, this generation is more fascinated with James than any of the rest of us.
He’s their true peer; an actual contemporary.
He was born and raised in Sector 45—which once comprised much of this region—and he grew up on these streets alongside many of these kids. His life story, as a result, is of enormous interest to them. For years there’s been global gossip dedicated specifically to musings on his personal life, which made adolescence particularly uncomfortable for him.
It’s part of the reason he and I both avoid places like this.
I did my best to shield him from public scrutiny as he was growing up, but it continues to be an unrelenting task. I have no doubt that raising a child of my own under this glaring spotlight will prove its own nightmare—
I take a tight breath at the thought, cutting it off at the root.
I turn my eyes toward a glowing streetlamp, its warm light attracting an eclipse of moths. The flutter of their wings mirrors the sudden palpitations of my heart. I seldom allow myself to think about fatherhood as anything other than an abstract concept. Ella is far more optimistic about the outcome of her pregnancy than I am.
“Hey,” says Kenji, looking away from shop signs to study my face. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say automatically.
“Oh, shit,” Kenji says without warning. He elbows me,jolting me, and I have to remind myself not to kill him. He’s suddenly wheezing with laughter.
“What?” I demand. “What is it?”
Kenji points at something in the near distance.
I follow his direction to a coffee shop window illuminated under the glare of an overhead neon sign. Ornate scrollwork decorates the outer edges of the glass, all rendered in chalk marker; neat, handwritten text occupies the negative space in the center. It reads—
JAMES, COME BACK AND REJECT ME SO I CAN FINALLY MOVE ON
Under that, in smaller type:
It’s been 58 days since James Alexander Anderson drank coffee here.
I nearly roll my eyes. Kenji is still laughing.
“What do you think?” says Kenji. “Should I go in there? You think I should tell them he’s in love with a serial killer?”
I’m officially out of patience. “I’m going home,” I say, and start walking.
My pager buzzes again.
“Wait,” says Kenji, catching up to me. “Wait, look—the problem is, I already told J we’d be getting her dumplings. She’s expecting dumplings. So we need to find the dumplings—”
“What?” I stiffen. “When did you promise her dumplings?”
“This morning.”
