Enfumi put down the bag of government-issue grain almost silencing the voice of his fathers. The digi-digi were running for cover in their thickets beneath the black moon. The hunter spirit. Someday, she would find him.
“Lord, why have you forsaken me?” Samantha cried, her nose dancing crimson cocaine puddles on Sister Margaret’s essay comments: “Great,” she had written, “but what about the holy cup of trembling?”
The 50-year high-school reunion was over. Soon the stomach-cancer streamers and suicide balloons would be a memory. As would Margaret standing defiant by the fruit punch.
He kept flailing away at the postcard rack. The Statue of Liberty, Times Square, the Empire State Building all fluttering down until there was only empty metal and screaming. And then just the screaming.
Tomorrow, they would talk, and embrace, and recall the time everything was ruined, and no one cried.