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and you’ve fallen far enough to be writing poetry that’s how you know there’s something wrong when the feelings are too big for capital letters and line breaks in all the right places you know you are afraid of loss you are afraid of life is there anything you aren’t afraid of what are all these hands doing here why do you hate the idea of being out of control

Few people live more Than asthmatics who still fall In love with smokers.

One day the Ferryman will find me and hold out their hand. I will give a 1966 Irish half-crown as payment, The horse and harp faces streaked gray against former silver From the years of travel in my back left pocket. By then I will have played those harp strings to their bones, Rubbed the mare’s shining coat down smooth, Carried the memories of my anxieties along the toothy edge. One day the Ferryman might ask me why I carry such a coin, When so many often die now without payment. I will show them it was minted the year my father was born, Carried by my great-grandfather on a world tour, Now held by me as less than lucky but never just a mere prop, This minor god of chance and memory I’ve kept, For the chance that one day I might have to pay the Ferryman.

A couch, an armchair, and an out-of-place futon Didn’t walk into a bar because, well Nobody in that room drank— Not regularly, so instead We gulped down the noise of a well-used wok and queued up songs Shrimpless fried rice and sneaked spices We poured glasses of Folk Blues and Philosopher’s Stones Sat on countertops and imaginary barstools Set up shrines to the uncanny Rearranged furniture until it had all returned To where it was before Nothing but comfort came to me there A feel-good movie ending every night No matter the sins or ghosts of the day before So raise a glass of milk in toast, you cursed bastard Give thanks to shared drafted works To the fish in the wind and every other phrase We invented while making toast in the morning Or rambled out over dinner at midnight Hugs few and many between, but always with love This home is all you need.

Smoking a cigarette and Piece of Cake The cake I made is in pieces. A better attempt than the first. The first time, I set off the smoke detector. Tonight was the second. With a dinner for two minus one. I left the asparagus in for ten minutes too long. Too long you’ve been gone, but it’s only been two weeks. Now I’m left with the leftovers of a smoke filled apartment, one cigarette, one whole cake All to myself, and a dinner for two. The smell of smoke stains your room, But it’ll be gone by the time you get back. Just like the cigarettes, the cake, and the dinner I made for you.

1. illustration of THUNDER and LIGHTNING deus ex machina motorcycle fringe fuck. 2. we were going to leave early. set out on a greyscale horse into the greyscale dawn. sky creaking open its doors just a little to empty the chamber pots and all. Your hair was grey too and saturated from the deluge, so much bitterbrush and rabbit grass hanging down. but there he was, sucking at a hole in his gums. arms crossed and glowering. something like the North wind’s blues. 3. pistons straining: as above, so below.

the gentle caress of fingertips, the dreamy embrace of a soft whisper, the lulling satisfaction of a hearty sigh, heavenly laughter that fills us to the brim and threatens to spill over. a hazy silence gradually becomes suffocating. a cold smile doesn't quite reach the eyes, a body’s soft outline that no longer feels real… are these things truly mine? or are they merely a rental of something that belongs to another?

I’ve been driving around side streets that keep splitting off into vein-like structures thinking about how sleep has given up on me for five days now and oh look at that — its the city skyline emitting golden pinpricks and waves of stardust, out into the atmosphere, over miniature houses directly into my tired, tired pupils that are big and dark and spinning endlessly like cracked teacup saucers. A quarter tank takes me to the mostly empty parking lot of Starlight on Seventeen at 2:45 in the morning, underneath a glowing rock that sifts energy into the orifices of my zombie body just trying to make it through the next few years of an undiagnosed genetic brain malfunction chemical mix up. My steps echo as I wander across the parking lot and sing a song my father showed me to no one underneath a green and yellow sign turning slowly through molasses air on another hazy summer graveyard shift and I don’t know it yet but that image will forever be with me. A bell chimes against the glass front door with the sole duty of alerting the wait staff that I am here! and I would like a seat in a booth please, and yes I am alone, and yes I am aware that I should not be and that it’s not safe for a teenage girl like me to be wandering around empty diners at 3:00 am. I sit down at a booth near a window looking over the highway that will never rest in its history of existence, as it hosts bright exit signs and cars and street lamps and trucks all buzzing away to the city and twisting up into the stillness of the Ramapo Mountains. My waitress brings over a menu though I told her I’d only like a black coffee and says that I really should eat, I look thin and pale and tired and whatever I order is on the house, truly. Just coffee please. While I wait my mind does not and floats into the dark room where I spent most of my high school days mixing chemicals, stopping and fixing, stopping and fixing only to eventually be told that a dark room isn’t necessary and you can edit photos on the computers much faster. My computer was tired, just like me and would break down, just like me and I would lose whatever I was working on, all the time. It wasn’t until I was back in the dark, mixing chemicals, stopping and fixing that I felt like everything was going to be okay. Truly, just coffee please. I’ll be okay.

I wanted Takis. The lemon-habanero kind that are all sweet, salty, and spicy. I really wanted them but I didn’t want to stand up; Tim’s couch had grown accustomed to my figure and I started to melt - my life a Sprite commercial necessitating high fructose bubbles of syrupy goodness. All the stale smoke was compounding the heat in my head. The Brita bit my tongue but the faucet steamed and Larry was curbing his enthusiasm in the background when I turned to Tim and asked if he wanted to go to the store and he did; but not the 7/11, he wanted to go to the store that was around the corner and since they also had Takis I said that’s okay and that’s when Tim first brought up Arizona. We walked to the store and I should have worn a scarf because the squirrels were angry and each gush gnawed away at the exposed skin. I was reminiscing the sweet moments of decomposing when I opened the door to the store and a wily marmot shut it back in my face so I opened it again and stepped inside. Confronted with a collage of chip choices I made conversation with each sailor cheetah toucan and tiger until a chocolatey parrot and I hit it off. Tim asked me if I wanted chili/lime takis or habanero/lemon which is a tough decision for me to make for I enjoy habanero pepper more than chili pepper but prefer lime fruit over lemon. Quite a lot of thinking ensued and while I thinked Tim checked out except Tim couldn’t check out because Tim had wanted to check out with reds but the cashier asked for ID to buy the reds and Tim had an ID but the cashier said the ID he had is expired and Tim said how can a birthday expire and the cashier didn’t have an answer to that but refused to sell Tim the reds and Tim left to get a passport - the birthdate on which was the same birthdate as the birthdate on the ID but the birthdate on the passport was not expired. I used the extra time to my advantage and strolled the endless aisles to scrutinize the variations in chocolate and peanut butter and pretzel and nougat lining the aisles. Then I heard a noise and it was loud so I looked and what I saw was the cashier being robbed and I wondered if it was Tim who was robbing the cashier so I blinked and was relieved to see it was a treefrog who was committing the crime and since Tim was not wearing green I was sure nobody else would mistake the two and Tim would not be brought into a lineup with five lookalikes and a witness calling forth number 3 from a one-way window. As the robber leaped away I wanted to check out but the cashier was on the phone with the police and was not checking me out so I coughed and waved my cash and put it on the counter and took my things and left out the door and walked home expecting to cross paths with Tim but I did not - I arrived home uninterrupted. Tim was not home and I was worried he had gotten lost trying to walk to the store without me but that was not the case I learned when he arrived and he said, “that is not the case.” Earlier (or later depending where you are) Me: Do I have meth breath? Tim: Naw, you’re good. Me: I’mma brush. I go into the bathroom. Me: Fucccckkkkk iiiiiiitttt. Tim: What’s up? Me: My roommate moved her toothpaste. Tim: You don’t have toothpaste? Me: Usually Tim: So you usually don’t have bad breath? Comforting. Me: I ran out yesterday and literally just used like a drop of hers. Tim: You think she noticed? Me: Always. One time I used a q-tip and the next day the container was gone. Tim: It wasn’t in the bathroom? Me: That's what I’m saying! This girl would rather brush in her room than share some toothpaste. I gotta water down her coffee pot whenever I take a glass. Tim: It’s not like it’s a brush. Me: I need to get this taste out of my mouth. Tim: Takis? Me: Sevenaleven? Tim: Lets go to the corner, I don’t wanna cross Halsted. After the events described in the preceding paragraphs. Me: Yo where you been? Tim: I was getting reds. The cashier at the corner wouldn’t let me get reds because he said my ID was expired so he couldn’t sell me reds so I had to go somewhere else to get reds. Reds is what I got. Reds. Me: I saw a green treefrog rob the store while you were gone. Tim: Green you say? Me: Yes, green. Tim: Well I was getting reds. Not greens. Reds. Me: I know you were getting reds. I'm saying while you were getting reds a green treefrog robbed the cashier at the corner store. Green. Tim: Red. Me: Green. Tim: Red. Me: Green. Tim: Well this is going nowhere. Me: Is that where you went? Tim: Are you accusing me of being a treefrog? Me: A green treefrog. Tim: Red. Me: Green. Tim: Red. Me: Green. Tim: Green. Me: Red. Wait Tim: Gotcha! Me: That was a good one. Tim: That one was good. Me: You wanna roll a fat one? Tim: Sure, do you have any green? Me: I always do. Tim: How much you got? Me: Barely the difference between something and nothing. Later that very same day. Tim: Wake up. Me: Is everything okay? Tim: In the world? Me: What? No. With you, right now; why’d you wake me up? Tim: I just remembered about an ad I saw at the post office for the FBI’s 10 most wanted amphibians. Me: I don’t think those are called ads. Tim: Number 1 was the treefrog convenience store snatcher. Me’s eyes bug out, unable to comprehend the magnitude of the situation. Tim: The police have been on its tail for ages but it always eludes them - y’know, because they’re completely incompetent in every way imaginable. Me: Naturally. Wow, that explains everything. Tim: Does it? Me: It illuminates a few things. Tim: Does it even do that much? Me: It was nice to hear your voice. Tim: Aww. An unexplained amount of time later or before. Me: Did you hear? They caught the treefrog corner store ‘makes good coroner stories’ killer. Tim: Wow, how many user-friendly, well-accommodating, readily-available shopping centers did he rob? Me: 16. They said it was a crime of convenience… stores. End of play and end of the world.

Our summers revolved around the beach. Specifically, Albion beach, on the Northside. My mom, a suncatcher woman looking for serenity in the city heat, loved this place. With our beach towels spread over burning sand, she watched me splash in Lake Michigan waters— carefully. She warned me of all objects to watch out for: broken bottles on the shoreline, Mcdonald’s bags washed up and soggy, a cigarette butt here and there, the sharp slippery rocks. I made sure to secure my footing before clumsily exploring any hazards. Regardless, my mom was not afraid to yell across a beach in an effort of protection. Her voice still carries the urgency of storm waves. She continues to remind me: the last thing you want to do is fall in unexpectedly. We’d stay until sunset, treading in freshwater and sharing stories. We spoke in memory and life lessons, my mom hinted at something greater in every sentence. She warned me of things within this realm and beyond. Sometimes just a hint of Llorona was enough to correct my behavior. The mere mention of her cries reminded me to stay close to mama, to be careful in the water, and to never go out alone at night. Sometimes we’d stay silent and wait for her cries along the water. La Llorona is a weeping woman turned oral legacy. She has become an important figure in Latinx iconography, and moral strings from her story have helped shape generations of children’s behavior. Her narrative shapeshifts in the hands of her storyteller, every version of Llorona lives through retelling. From the 1500s to today, her story has warped across borderlines and waterways— adding and changing layers of history, culture, and psychosocial context at each iteration . Like ripples of water, she is endlessly changing. However, in all her versions, her children have drowned in water. In most, she is the one to blame. Some shape her into a murderer, some craft her into a feminist, others leave her somewhere in the middle. But whether her final actions are out of neglect, protection, regret, or guilt— her grief becomes immeasurable in the afterlife. Heard across waterways, she cries out for her children. There is no peaceful rest for her, only endless searching. Llorona became not so terrifying as I grew up. I began to peel her story back in layers, dissecting her choices from a refreshed perspective. She became a protector. A force of reason. A woman echoing strength along rivers and streams. A reflection of women in my own life. The sacrifices a mother must make do not often meet the level of desperation Llorona faced; but this story functions to rework our narratives of motherhood. To reinvest in the agency of women as they navigate solo motherhood is one step needed to rework how we think about Llorona and mothers alike. The unconventional paths taken in the greater interest of a child’s wellbeing blurs the lines of how we think about motherhood entirely. In most variations of the story, La Llorona’s spirit ties to an (often Indigenous) woman of lower socioeconomic status who kills her children and herself because of what future lies ahead. Often directly linking her to La Malinche, her identity is critical in understanding her decision-making and what has become of her legacy. The act of both infanticide and suicide protects her from a wealthy/Conquistador ‘lover’— a man planning to uproot her children and raise them in aristocratic society alongside another (wealthy + white) woman. By considering the layers of colonization and legacy, Llorona’s image is completely reconstructed. Now, I root myself in empathy rather than fear. And I know, a mother will do whatever needs to be done if it means protecting her children. Llorona is constricted by external forces in every retelling of her story. At her core, the lives she and her children deserve are crafted as unattainable. Her fear of their future becomes all-consuming, and she must make the ultimate sacrifice. My mother’s fear stems from the same place as Llorona. This fear of not being able to provide perfection reflects the weight of motherhood, but especially under the context of patriarchy. She wants to give me everything life has to offer but knows that is not realistic. I was almost aborted out of protection and my own mother’s fear of the future. She was just floating around, enjoying life in the city and working. Babies were not something in mind. At only 23, she decided motherhood was her new path in life, despite all obstacles roadblocking her vision. My mother pushed herself through anti-abortion protestors, opened the clinic doors, and checked in for her appointment. She made it much further than some women even have access to. And just like Llorona, she was fully equipped to do whatever needed to be done. But rather it was an act of divine intervention or just the state of women’s healthcare at the time (and now, even)— a complication occurred during another woman’s procedure and all following appointments were canceled for the day. Instead of rescheduling right then and there, ambulance alarms blaring outside, my mom-in-progress canceled her appointment and drove herself to Taco Bell instead. Having children was not in her playbook, at all. Nor was having an abortion, but with my father-to-be breathing down her neck, she scheduled the appointment anyway. She kept thinking: I’m not married, we don’t have a home, I have no savings. So she ordered three soft taco supremes and sat in a stew full of what-ifs and other intrusive thoughts; until she made the decision just to not tell anyone for a few more days. Llorona wades in a stream of worries, waiting for a better future to come. Her palms wrinkle in exhaustion, as she searches and searches and searches. But she does not find what she is looking for. Her children have left, but she has not. Trapped by memory, she is only welcomed by fish swimming upstream and puddles laced with grief. Llorona wades, eagerly. And tries to fill the silence with her cry. My mother wasn’t ready to let go just yet. Instead, she grew heavy with anxiety and defense. On her drive home from the clinic, Taco Bell strapped in the passenger side, as she’s dazed with overthinking— she accidentally hits a kid riding on his bike. And although he (and his bike) turned out to be just fine, the reality of her situation sunk in. She knew it was time to get it together. But before anything, she needed to quit smoking. Protection takes forms in odd shapes and sizes. For some people, it’s a ring of salt around the room. An incense cleanse in both directions. A pocket knife. Others find solace in a prayer or two. A trust fund. Someone else entirely. Llorona found protection through escape, transporting children to another realm out of necessity. Her soul haunts ours as her sacrifice centuries ago. Her children are free now, but out of her reach. Protection is not an easy thing in every form. My mother ran in protection, too. She left my father and hid the truth from me, but despite dropping dominoes of distraught— it was what needed to be done. My father, a man of Myspace girlfriends, Ecko Unlimited, pizza puffs, and drug money. She couldn’t imagine raising a child with him. So after a series of cataclysmic evenings, she signed restraining orders and custody papers. In order to be a working, single mom— she completely changed her lifestyle. My mother clipped coupons on her lunch breaks and before bed most nights. She meal-prepped on her days off and made sure I did all of my homework. No more Saturday nights out and summer vacations. No more purse and shoe shopping with extra cash. Running alone as a mother with children is a form of fear I cannot fathom. As the fears of weakness and emotional distress run behind her, she is chased down by intrusive thoughts of abandonment. There is the lingering fear of not being able to control herself. The future’s pressure only strengthens as her children grow older. It is endlessly exhausting. I go back to Lake Michigan as an adult now and mull over memories. Llorona’s voice comes back to me in waves as I diffuse into the shoreline. The resentment I once held for her is lost. Instead, her tone reflects my mother’s and harmonizes in imperfection— and it is beautiful. I know we are not made to be perfect. We hold onto our pain and craft power from its edges. And sometimes, we pour ourselves back out in exhale, flowing together in a release. My eyes water as I think of the pain mothers hold, and my own mom’s pain held too close. And I leave an offering to the lake, Llorona, and the women alike in my life. And I extend my offer outwards as it washes away.

Trigger Warning: Violence, murder, body horror, manipulation, sexual assault ENTRY I: Today she took me out on an adventure: one of those things where you go out, kill somebody, stuff them in the trunk, and take them home to dissect their innards. Some say murder is bad, Ego says it’s necessary. I don’t care who’s right, as long as it’s not me on the other end of the knife. The adventure went somewhat well, by my standards. But Ego sets her standards a little differently. She put a knife to my throat and told me I needed to be faster with the hacksaw. Fuck that, I let her cut me to see if she would. She cut an inch above my carotid. I bled like a fountain, but I was satisfied in knowing she has a reason to keep me alive for the time being. We got in the Trigger- her car with the false floors- and took the freeway home. This is when I feel alive. When I let my hair whip around in the gusts generated by Ego’s speed machine, I feel like I know exactly what my purpose is. I started to see something vivid, like a movie playing in my head. I was in some college kid’s basement, who looked like he went to an art school. He kicked this machine, a sound board maybe, and I started playing on a guitar. It was a half-decent Gibson knockoff that sounded like grinding bones against the teeth of a saw, but the kid seemed into it. He started talking to someone whose face I couldn’t quite make out. I couldn’t exactly figure out what they were saying to each other either, but I heard parts of their conversation: “...ga...finished with his parts, do you wanna...Boogie’s should be open late as usual.” “Yeah, of course, but our dad...and g... gotta catch the train in the morning.” I think the guy the art student was talking to is important to me somehow. This may have been more than just a daydream. I’ve gotta hide this from her. She won’t like it if she reads it. I’m not sure why, but that’s what my gut is telling me. If Ego found this, I think I’d be dead. ENTRY II: I made a fucking mistake. I asked Ego about the daydreams I’ve been having and she injected me with tranquilizer. I woke up but knew to keep my eyes shut. I wasn’t supposed to be awake yet. My body was strapped down to a table, and I felt a steady pain. If I could manage to get an idea, I wanted to know what she was doing to me, but my mind was muddied. Then I felt everything go numb. There was another dream. At least, I remember having one. But when I came to, my mind was completely blank and my body felt uneasy. Ego was gone, so I put a pen to paper and tried to remember anything I could about my dream, even a feeling. I got a couple of vague sketches, but nothing I could put any meaning to. There was one letter I couldn’t stop writing: “M” ENTRY III: Weeks have gone by. I almost forgot about this journal. I felt it inside my coat pocket this morning when I reached for my gun, and was compelled to read it later. These past inkings feel like some type of fictional narrative, but I trust myself to know they’re real. What are they if not past-life experiences? ENTRY IV: Today I was tasked with taking an inventory report. I used to think I had a strong stomach, but now I know better. It was a mistake to laugh at her when she offered a waste bin before I entered her freezer. First, it was the smell. She said to expect something pungent, but she grossly underestimated the matter. It smelled completely alien (which is more accurate than one would care to think). Second were the usual unpleasantries that greeted me: various portions of the human body, dissected and categorized. I had almost grown immune to the sight of them, but the head collection disturbed me. It was like those sad videos vegans have you watch. They put a face to the meat. I’m thinking of going vegetarian. Third, where my stomach abandoned me, was the thing tucked unassumingly against the back wall. It was dark green in complexion, covered in since-withered amphibious scales. Its eyes stared forward, yellow and clouded, and its red mouth hung open. I was hesitant to approach the wall, superstitions running wild in the back of my mind. I stared at the creature for some time, almost in a trance. When I glanced briefly to the left I saw the back half of the creature, perfectly sliced, revealing it’s grotesque arrangement of innards. I promptly vomited on my shoes. I shakily checked “Green Man” off my inventory list. Everything was in order. ENTRY V: I want to find the words, so I ought to start writing. She touched me. I couldn’t stand it, but she touched me. I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no. Her hand moved from my chest, down my abdomen, and into the waistband of my jeans. I just watched her, speechless. It was a flash of physicality from then on. There was a battle between us, but no matter the outcome, I’m the one who lost. She has complete control over me. I can’t stand it. But the adrenaline rush and bodily sensations made my common sense go numb. This has gone too far. ENTRY VI: I’m working to remember my life before Ego. There is something there that will give me agency over her, or any agency at all. I just know it. The only problem is once it’s forgotten, it’s hard to remember your past. ENTRY VII: She was driving down the freeway, down the Jersey Turnpike, so late into the night that we were completely and utterly alone. The wind blasted my face as I stared out the window, silent in thought. The stink of the city hit me and I began to have a vision. My brother and I sat on a couch in our basement. I knew this information the way you know someone’s face in a dream: pure instinct. A small static television sat across the room, casting a faint glow. There was crackling audio from a busted speaker. It was movie dialogue, but I couldn’t fathom what we were watching. “To die, to be really dead, that must be glorious… …there are far worse things awaiting man than death.” I stared at the blank screen, trying to remember where I had heard the line before. But the more I strained myself, the more I was tugged out of my vision. I had to let it go. Besides, there were other details to search for. I couldn’t make out my brother’s face, but his hair was combed into a distinctive swoop. I felt myself speak, compulsively. Our exchange was clouded and hazy. “M… Do you know what t… mom is gonna be pissed!” “Don’t worry, Gary… fuck.” He sat with his arms crossed, frustrated. I felt myself grow sad, but I couldn’t figure out what he said to alter my mood. My heart deflated. I could tell this brother meant a lot to me. Suddenly, the television called out. “Remember M-” I came out of the vision with a slight gasp. Ego was tugging at my sleeve, urging me to get out of the car. We were back at her lair. How long had I been out for? I didn’t have the gall to ask her.

I’m so fucking late. The pavement sputters beneath my wheels as I brake. I toss my bike haphazardly against the rack, forgoing the lock and scrambling up to the restaurant. The lanterns outside aren’t lit yet, which means my parents are still preparing for the night shift. Good. I still have time to make up a believable excuse. I swing the door open. Yao Su Rong’s crooning pours out into the street, accompanied by the faint crackle of radio static. The song is velvet on the ears— a sweet thing cut short by the sight of Dad standing at the bar, arms folded. “Thirty minutes, Satoshi?” “Come on,” I groan, dropping my bag behind the register, “Give me a break; you guys have been doing this for years without any trouble.” “That’s because we follow the rules.” Kei’s smooth voice leads me to the kitchen where they’re adjusting the heat beneath one of four large pots. Even with their back to the doorway, I can tell they’re smiling; they can never stay mad at me for long. A gentle nudge says they’re mostly grateful I showed up safely. “And one of the most important rules is to get here on time,” Dad adds as he passes us. “Cutting corners like this will get you killed.” Kei shoots him a look, but keeps silent. He’s right. “Well, at least you’re here now,” they sigh after a moment. “The only thing you’ll really have to do is mind the stove. Your father and I took care of most of the opening tasks already.” I lean over my parent’s shoulder to survey the array of soups, inhaling the harmony of spices swirling toward my face. Kei passes me a ladle from the pot closest to them. “Taste this. We made some minor changes to the spicy miso recipe.” I blow gently, then sip. Tonkotsu. The soup is richer than usual, its sharp flavor and scent threatening to overwhelm the senses. An elbow presses into my back as I savor the broth. Dad is standing behind me, a bulging trash bag in each hand. He holds them out. “Take these to the alley.” I grimace. The bags reek of old vegetables and rotting meat, a scent that chases me as I waddle across the kitchen. Dad props the back door open for me while he shuffles through his pockets for a cigarette. There’s a quick spark. He brings up a hand as if to shield the flame, but I catch his smirk. Bastard. A plume of smoke billows out of his mouth, briefly obscuring his face before dispersing into the summer night. “What’s in here?” I hiss, setting the trash down to tie my shoes. “Leftover ogre.” I can’t tell if he’s kidding. “These are heavy as shit. There’s no way I’ll make it back in one piece.” “Don’t be like that. You’ve made the trip before.” Dad heaves one of the bags onto my shoulder. Leakage soaks into my shirt. God. “Just grab the other one and sprint.” Dad checks his watch. “It won’t take more than a minute. I’ll time you.” “I know how long it takes.” “Then it shouldn’t be a problem.” I squint into the darkness. The dumpsters are about a hundred meters away, their faint silhouettes an ink-veiled taunt from the gaping mouth of the alley. I’m still in the safe zone— the column of light spilling out from the kitchen— but I toe the line with my sneaker and take a deep breath. “Ready?” I nod. Slowly exhale. There’s no getting around it. “Go.” It takes me seventeen seconds to make it there. I’m still counting as I swing the first trash bag into one of the dumpsters, ignoring the small spray of meat juice that hits my shoes. As I turn to the second bag, something catches my attention. It’s subtle— a silent, deliberate movement from several feet away. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Something foul fills the air: the acrid smell of charred flesh and splintering skin, flaking onto the concrete. I think of a body veiled in melted plastic. Of a mouth wrenched open in anguish. Of the words MISSING WOMAN FOUND on the TV screen once when I was ten, followed by low-quality civilian footage of our restaurant. I straighten, eyes locked on the figure slowly rising from behind one of the bins. The face was a mess, Kei had said. It took them weeks to identify her. Dad found her wandering the alley one night while on his way to take out the garbage. It’d been about a week after the police had taken her remains. He figured it was the shop’s doing. Called the restaurant a “magnet for spirits”. Keeps ‘em anchored between life and death, he’d explained. The poor thing followed Dad right up to the back door and dissipated as soon as the kitchen light touched her, leaving behind only the lingering scent of smoke. My parents saw no reason to chase her out seeing as she was mostly docile, but that became less true over time. Kei described the woman’s anger as a stew, simmering gradually on the heat before boiling over. Each encounter made her more aggressive, her form warping with rage, until she simply became the Alleyway Devil. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. I’m not sure what’s worse: the growing heat, or the fact that I can almost make out her melted features as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I retreat with each of the Devil’s steps forward, careful to maintain the same pace as her. The task is excruciating. It takes all of my willpower to keep my legs from shaking. I swallow. I know she hears it. There’s a soft clink. A glass bottle rolls out of the Devil’s path. She freezes, then lowers her body slightly. Fuck. No time to think. I chuck the trash bag at her head and run. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. The distraction gives me a head start. I’m sprinting with my eyes shut, concentrating on the sound of bare feet slapping against the pavement. The temperature rises as she closes the gap between us. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine. I risk a peek ahead of me. Dad is still standing in the safe zone. The cigarette falls from his mouth as Kei comes outside, a shotgun in their hands. I must’ve taken longer than they were comfortable with. My chest burns as I watch them load it. Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six. Almost there. My legs are ready to give out. I abandon counting. Instead, I focus on narrowing the distance between my parents and I, disregarding the searing protest in my lungs. The Devil’s breath wisps against the back of my neck. I realize, fleetingly, that Dad has never mentioned what happens if she catches you. Kei aims the shotgun directly at my head. They wouldn’t. No way. “Just a few more feet!” they call. Dad steps forward. Something rakes across my shoulder blade as I reach for him, white-hot, deep enough to cut through both shirt and skin. I don’t have enough air to yell, but my knees buckle. Someone curses— I think it’s Kei. Dad grabs hold of me before I can collapse, pulling me past the safe zone. I slump against him. Behind me, there’s a wail. The reverberation threatens to stop my heart. Then the scent of smoke fills the air. It’s silent. Nobody moves. I can feel Dad’s chest rising and falling, his grip still tight around my back. Kei releases a heavy breath. “Well you lucked out, honey.” They cast me a smile. “Don’t know how I would’ve broken the news to your sisters.” I glance downward. The shotgun in their hands is trembling.