Fabulous Bodies
Author: Chuck Tingle
Date: 2026-05-28 00:00:00+00:00
Description: From Chuck Tingle, USA Today bestselling author of Bury Your Gays, comes Fabulous Bodies, a supernatural joyride where Drive meets Beetlejuice.Fashion influencer by day and grave robber by night, Poppy Stringer is on call when Eddie Michaels―a flamboyant, piano-slamming rockstar and queer icon―unexpectedly dies. All Poppy has to do is retrieve Eddie's body from the medical examiner's office, but what starts as a routine delivery quickly goes off course when Eddie wakes up.Now, Poppy must fight for her life in a blood-soaked night of carnage and fabulous entertainment all across Palm Springs.
Publisher: Titan Books

CONTENTS

Also by Chuck Tingle and available from Titan Books

Copyright

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Dead Weight

Clickbait

(Nothing But) Flowers

A Star Like Me

Follow for Follow

The Splitting Headache

Club Flamingo

Sick

Forks

Date Night

Get Ready with Me

Block Party

Sponsored Content

Trending Up

Influencer

Demonetized

About the author

“Another banger from the king of camp horror! Fabulous Bodies is Chuck Tingle flexing his prodigious powers of entertainment, and it’s easily his best book yet. Tightly paced, deliciously frightening, and emotionally sweeping, this one’s a masterly ride across terror and wonder. I can’t wait for wherever Chuck Tingle takes me next.”

OLIVIE BLAKE, New York Times
bestselling author of Girl Dinner

“A wild, brutal romp through Hollywood’s desert playground. Turning the pages felt nearly compulsive, and I’ll follow Poppy Stringer wherever the dark night takes her. Gory, outrageous, and full of showmanship, this is one spectacle you don’t want to miss.”

CJ LEEDE, USA Today bestselling author of Maeve Fly and Headlights

PRAISE FOR CHUCK TINGLE

“Brilliantly bloody, wildly fun, and extremely scary, Bury Your Gays brings a sledgehammer down on tired tropes and makes a masterpiece of their guts. A profoundly smart and emotionally resonant novel that is sprinkled with cinema magic and a brutal Hollywood reckoning.”

RACHEL HARRISON, bestselling author of Black Sheep

“This triumph of a book effortlessly and cleverly upends cliche. One of the best novels ever about LA, the film industry, and horror movies, it delivers all the fandom, fear, and feels, and then some. Only Chuck Tingle can tell a story as masterfully as this, and he once again proves that love is so real.”

CJ LEEDE, author of Maeve Fly

“RIP gay clichés! Wickedly funny and hella entertaining, this takes great pride in digging up Hollywood’s skeletons and gleefully pounding them to dust. I loved every eerie, nostalgic, blood-spattered, rainbow-flag-waving page.”

JOSH WINNING, author of Heads Will Roll

“We have what I’m coming to think of as the trademark Tingle style; effortless character work and world-building, a ruthlessly efficient and immediate pulp prose style that belies an impressive depth of storytelling in terms of concepts and themes, and a damn near visionary ability to speak directly to bleeding edge concerns of the cultural moment.”

Ginger Nuts of Horror

“Tingle cements his place in horror with this gory romp… [his] vivid, visceral storytelling combines with prescient insight into the corporate dynamics that rule mainstream media. The result is smart, subtle, and a bloody good time.”

Publishers Weekly

PRAISE FOR

Camp Damascus

“Fantastic. Camp Damascus is seriously good.”

JENNY LAWSON, New York Times bestselling author of Furiously Happy

“A genuinely terrifying nightmare – but it ain’t the monsters you gotta be afraid of. Chuck Tingle is absolutely the best guide through this level of Hell.”

N.K. JEMISIN, New York Times bestselling author

“It’s a bighearted, chilling ride that proves the author’s mantra over and over: Love is, indeed, real.”

Vulture

“Chuck Tingle continues to surprise and thrill. Camp Damascus is terrifying, darkly funny, and engagingly humane.”

JOHN SCALZI, New York Times bestselling author

“A joyful, furious romp through dark places, Tingle proves he’s as good at fear as he is at love.”

T. KINGFISHER, bestselling author of What Moves the Dead

“Camp Damascus is a hell of a ride. Tingle is right at home in the horror genre – he delivers all the thrills of a slasher while exploring the deep wounds that can be inflicted by broken systems. This book is worth your time.”

SARAH GAILEY, author of Just Like Home

“Jaw-dropping…both frightening and utterly cathartic. A queer nightmare of demonic proportions!”

MARK OSHIRO, New York Times bestselling author of Anger is a Gift

Also by Chuck Tingle
and available from Titan Books

Camp Damascus

Bury Your Gays

Lucky Day

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Fabulous Bodies

Print edition ISBN: 9781835415511

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835415542

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com

First edition: July 2026

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Chuck Tingle 2026

Lyrics from ‘Carry On’ © Stephen Stills 1970

Chuck Tingle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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Dead Weight

I’m here for the body.”

The kid doesn’t look up, but a slight huff of annoyance shoots from his nostrils. His bad attitude is not about my specific request; it’s because my word choice is a reminder of just how different our sensibilities are.

Funeral directors, morgue attendants, medical examiners, and organ donation coordinators: all part of the same ecosystem, but not without friction. You’ll rarely hear someone at a funeral home say body, or corpse, or cadaver. With them, it’s always the departed, the deceased, or more likely, just the first name of whomever kicked the bucket—any title that stresses humanity.

Insert eyeroll emoji.

Medical examiners are more clinical. They usually go with the subject, or just boil things down to a case number.

I, however, am here for the body. It’s a carcass, for fuck’s sake, bone and blood and meat, now woefully void of the previous electrical current that once helped it wiggle around.

The funeral industry is a world that most people find unsettling, even frightening. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of their own inevitable end. Most folks would rather just pretend we go on living forever, doing anything they can to ignore the crushing existential truth that one day—a day not too far off, in the grand scheme of things—we’ll all end up on the slab.

And when we’re finally crushed under the wheels of a twenty-five-thousand-pound semitruck, or crumpled on the floor of our own bathroom with a ruptured cerebral vein and a skull filling with blood, someone will have to clean up that mess—often figuratively, almost always literally.

This is where I come in.

“Eye for a Guy Organ Donation,” I state confidently, catching sight of my own face in the reflection of a massive, glass-framed photograph.

The image hanging behind the young funeral home attendant is bright and colorful, a desert sunset in purples, pinks, and oranges meant to evoke feelings of a heavenly transition to some other place that I know, in the depths of my soul, does not exist. Others probably find it very comforting.

I’m not looking at the photograph, though. I’m looking at my own stoic face, devoid of any makeup and slightly shaded by the brim of my fitted black baseball cap. I’m wearing a set of thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses that I don’t need, their simple design chosen by a saleswoman who was instructed to find the most unremarkable pair in stock. My auburn hair, which usually tumbles down around my shoulders in soft waves, is tucked away under a short brown wig.

I’ve draped my body in an oversized Eddie Michaels hoodie, a reprint of the poster from his free 1979 show in Central Park emblazoned across the back, and while this little pop of flair is probably not the best choice in a practical sense, Eddie’s worth it.

This hoodie always gets stored in a bin marked WORK CLOTHES and otherwise restricted from the light of day. I do miss it sometimes, but I’ve got a whole other rack of Eddie Michaels gear to look cute in.

Outfit separation is key. God forbid a girl photographed leaving the crime scene is wearing the same vintage Alexander McQueen pumps as a notable social media starlet three towns over.

Regardless of the care I’ve taken to blend in, I still wield an incredible power. This kid behind the counter will inevitably bend over backward for me, not just because I’m particularly skilled at what I do (and I am skilled at what I do), but because I also employ a mighty force of nature that has tempted heroes and toppled empires, a power that will reign over brains or brawn for centuries to come.

Even in this humbled state, tucked away under all this cover, I still look fucking amazing.

What am I supposed to do? Lie about it?

In my own internal monologue?

I assure you, I think this with no self-congratulation at all. It was luck that brought me here, not skill, and if I ever meet my biological parents I’ll be forced to hand over this best-in-show trophy to their phenomenal genes. A body is just a body, and my body happens to be one that people enjoy.

As if to confirm my hypothesis, the kid finally glances up from his phone, halting awkwardly when our eyes meet. There’s a split-second pause as oxytocin surges through his veins. His demeanor shifts.

He swivels in his chair, rolling over to an ancient desktop computer and opening up a new window. “Who are you here for?”

“Tyler Fleming,” I confidently reply.

He types this into his keyboard and slaps Enter, the computer crackling like it’s about to pop open in a flash of sparks and a puff of smoke. Everything about this moment is wildly outdated, a decades-old PC struggling to keep up with some obsolete program and a long-forgotten operating system, but that’s shockingly normal in this industry. Every funeral home has its own unique requirements for checking bodies in and out, many of them still functioning on paper catalogs, rusty filing cabinets, and the occasional Rolodex.

It’s not that they don’t care. In fact, the depth of their caring often works in my favor. These people spend their days grappling with issues that are much more existential than the logistical development of a standardized federal body-tracking system.

A new screen loads and the young funeral assistant furrows his brow, reading over some notes. “We don’t have anything here about a harvesting service for Mr. Fleming.”

Again, the difference in language is stark. According to him, I’m not in the organ-donation industry, I’m in the organ-harvesting industry—a butcher, albeit an aesthetically pleasing one.

It’s not that funeral directors don’t believe in organ donation as a concept. Most of them are compassionate enough to be donors themselves. The issue here is that people like me, or people like the woman I’m pretending to be, can be reckless with their work. Time is usually an issue when it comes to organ donation, which means the cadaver is sometimes returned for a funeral in, well, less than stellar shape. Typically, donation services don’t even spring for a fresh new body bag, dropping off a sloppy, blood-splattered cocoon of plastic that some poor mortician is then forced to make presentable.

And thus, an epic rivalry was born.

“You know, sometimes if you don’t actually save the column before adding a new body it’ll erase the notes,” I explain.

“Really?” he asks, swiveling back to his computer and giving it a try.

I’m right.

“How did you know that?” the kid probes.

“We’ve worked with you before.” I lean over his desk, slowing down my voice a bit and dropping the volume. “You’ve always treated us very well.”

This little move could come off as comically overdramatic, like a seductive femme-fatale caricature in the office of a private eye, but I manage to sell it. Selling sex to teenage boys is so easy that I probably could’ve just grunted.

I’m also telling the truth. I have been here before—different wig, same Poppy Stringer. It’s been two years since I hit the Yucca Valley Farewell Tributes and Cremation Center, but it’s nice to know they still haven’t updated their computer system.

“I called this one in myself. Must’ve been before your shift,” I continue. “The woman I talked to was really helpful. Jenny Fountain, I think?”

This is the kid’s boss. I didn’t talk to her, but just throwing out her name adds to the credibility of what I’m saying. Anyone could’ve pulled Jenny Fountain from the funeral home’s website. Small details absolutely do not constitute any sort of concrete proof of who I am or what my business is—on their own or stacked up by the dozens—but what I’ve learned is that doesn’t actually matter.

The truth is overrated. A feeling of truth is what matters.

“I should probably call her,” the kid says. “Just to confirm. What’s your name?”

I recall the name on tonight’s fake ID. “Madison.”

The kid picks up a phone on his desk.

“It’s almost midnight, you know,” I quip, despite the fact it’s not even eleven yet. “If there’s one thing I know about Jenny, it’s this … you might be on call for her twenty-four seven, but she’s not always on call for you.”

Another detail that means absolutely nothing, but feels deeply authentic.

Surprise! Your boss doesn’t like to be bothered at home.

Psychics use this technique a lot when they do “cold readings”—when they fake talking to the dead without any preparation. “Hot readings,” on the other hand, involve a little research, looking up the death records of a target’s family or learning various facts about their life to create the illusion of supernatural knowledge.

I’m getting a message from beyond. They’re saying not to think so much about money.

Everyone thinks about money.

I sense something important happened in your childhood. There was an accident.

Name a person who hasn’t had an accident.

The kid behind the counter pauses, then hangs up the phone and grins knowingly. He chuckles to himself. “Yeah, that sounds like Jenny.”

I motion back over my shoulder, out through the door of the kid’s office and through the lobby of the funeral home. Our sight line continues all the way to the dimly lit parking lot beyond. From here, he can see my refrigerated truck, the vehicle still running for dramatic effect. My headlights shine out into the darkness, emphasizing that our time is limited.

“Listen, there’s a four-year-old over in Barstow who will be blind by morning if I don’t get her those corneas,” I press in a steady, matter-of-fact tone. “If you wanna be the guy who holds this up, that’s on you.”

The kid hesitates, still not entirely sure what his move is.

I lean in again, a tonal whiplash as I lower my voice for a second time. “What’s your name?”

“Robin,” he replies.

“Hi, Rob,” I coo. “I’m telling you this from the bottom of my heart: I’m just trying to do what’s right for that little girl. I’m sorry it’s rushed and things weren’t marked properly in the system, but they’ve only got one shot at this surgery, and it happens right now.”

He lets out a long sigh, then swivels back to investigate one last thing in Tyler Fleming’s file. I can’t see the screen, but I know exactly what he’s doing. This is the part where they check on what time the body arrived and whether there are any next of kin on file.

Fortunately, based on the circumstances of Tyler’s discovery, I already know he very likely doesn’t have anyone to look after his corpse. The police scanner, which I was monitoring before heading all the way out here to the middle of fucking nowhere, suggested as much, and a little social media digging gave me even more confidence.

Tyler was a drifter, his Instafeed stream a humiliating display of poorly edited vistas and trite captions about hitchhiking, with very little sense of curation or aesthetic. More importantly, there was rarely another human being to be found. Two years ago, Tyler posted a tribute after the death of his father, and the language of that post strongly implied that his mother was also dead. Even if his parents were alive, they likely wouldn’t know about Tyler’s accident yet, as it takes some time before this information can move through the various statewide databases.

Being quick is important to my job, but it’s not just about speed. The key is being decisive. It’s about efficiently choosing my path, then diving in without hesitation.

“Alright, yeah,” Robin says finally, nodding a few times as though he’s still fighting to convince himself. “Just … please bring him back in a fresh bag.”

“I’m only transport,” I remind him, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

Robin appears thankful.

“I’ll pull my truck around to the side door,” I continue.

We immediately split off in our separate directions, a mighty surge of relief washing over me as I march back through the lobby and out into the parking lot.

My vehicle is stark white, a standard-issue box truck with a small cab for a driver and passenger, although during the entirety of my ownership nobody has ever sat shotgun. The rectangular back section is built for loading and hauling commercial goods, with airtight double doors and a sturdy metal ramp. I’ve done some customization work inside the cargo hold, but the outer shell of my trusty steed has been left as inconspicuous as possible.

I climb into the truck and put it in gear, slowly making a giant loop through the empty parking lot and then pulling up to the side of the building. I’ve already swapped out my real plates for reliable fakes, just in case Yucca Valley Farewell Tributes has upgraded their security system and added some cameras since my last visit.

A few minutes pass, but eventually Robin opens up the door. I follow him into the building, frigid air greeting me as we enter an enormous walk-in freezer.

Most television shows depict a huge wall of individually partitioned slots, each oblong cubby with its own separate metal door. In reality, however, there’s rarely a private entrance for every guest at this morbid little shindig. Most of these walls don’t even have a door to cover up the rows and rows of bodies, endless cold feet sticking out like ghoulish sprouting vegetables in a frosty garden.

This chamber holds cadavers on either side, with a deep hallway running down the middle of the bunch. They’re stacked five high and at least ten rows across, an impressive setup for such a small town.

Tonight, the slots are half loaded, but it’s more than enough to create a cheeky little hunt. Robin and I move from tag to tag, carefully checking each name before continuing on to the next corpse.

What? You thought they’d be arranged in alphabetical order?

Fuck no. Haven’t you been listening?

I find Tyler Fleming before Robin does. “Over here!” I announce.

I show Robin the name tag, which prompts him to nod in confirmation and then spring into action. He carefully pulls out the metal tray, the bed locking into place as it reaches the end of its track.

Robin moves to fetch a nearby gurney and I step to the side as he passes, putting my body directly between Tyler Fleming’s corpse and the funeral assistant’s sight line. Once positioned, I remove Tyler’s tag and, in one swift sleight-of-hand movement, swap it with the tag from a body one row over.

Days from now, when final arrangements are made, this will immediately cause several layers of confusion about who should’ve double-checked what paperwork and whether Yucca Valley Farewell Tributes is liable for this grievous error. By then, they’ll have multiple issues to deal with, and while plenty of blame could be levied against the suspicious organdonation transporter with the cropped brown hair and the black baseball cap, any concrete action will be dulled by the simple fact that they won’t find any official record of me.

In this business, things just kind of happen, and while the family of the dead may be hurt or inconvenienced by these unfortunate outcomes, I have something very important going for me in the eyes of any cosmic ethical judge. There are no real victims here, just old meat that doesn’t really seem to care where it ends up.

Worm food.

Robin and I grab the plastic-encased body at either end of the bag, checking in with each other before counting down from three and then hoisting our section over the edge in unison. In my experience, this is where things tend to go wrong, because it’s hard to find someone who’s truly adept at lifting the dead. Very few people are prepared for the difference between the awkward, uncompromising heft of a corpse and the weight distribution of a living, breathing human.

Every funeral home employee has at least one bodydropping story, usually taking place early in their career before they’d gotten accustomed to the unique feeling of literal dead weight.

Fortunately, despite his age, Robin seems to know what he’s doing. We settle Tyler Fleming’s carcass gently onto the metal gurney, then carefully wheel him toward the exit. There’s a clang and a rattle as the smooth tile of the walk-in freezer transitions into parking-lot concrete, and above us the stark medical lighting immediately gives way to the faint lunar glow of the evening.

“Right over here,” I direct, nodding my head toward the truck.

We come to a halt and I open the back doors of my refrigerated vehicle, letting them swing wide open in a frosty gust of air.

“Thank you so much for—” I start, but Robin interrupts with a startled yelp.

I follow his wide-eyed gaze to find that one of my earlier pickups has broken free from her metal shelf during the journey, tumbling out and slamming face-first against the hard floor below. A torn strap dangles limply over the edge of her empty cubby, a reminder of the much-needed repairs and upgrades I’ve been putting off.

Three years ago, I installed those damn straps to keep bodies from rolling around; apparently my craftsmanship has an expiration date.

“Oh my God!” Robin cries. “Help me! Let’s get them upright.”

“Well fuck,” I groan, unable to hide my annoyance.

Robin’s reaction is much more pronounced, leaping into the back of my truck as he fights to turn the corpse over.

I’m glad his focus is elsewhere as my eyes roll back in a quick, involuntary movement. I can feel the sound of an exhausted sigh bubbling up within my throat, but I manage to quell this before it has the chance to fully manifest.

I shift gears, struggling to match Robin’s urgency. “Oh no!” I chime in with all the enthusiasm of a community theater table read. It’s admittedly not very convincing, but Robin doesn’t seem to notice. I climb in and position myself on the other side of the fallen corpse, helping to turn it over and then wincing as I assess the damage.

When a living human falls our body will instinctively protect itself by any means possible. Our muscles will tighten and relax in strange, subconscious ways, rendering even the most brutal accidents slightly less terrible than they could’ve been. Unfortunately, the dead aren’t capable of this kind of self-preservation, and a face-first tumble can have unexpectedly graphic results.

The whole front of this semi-translucent body bag is now smeared with dark, congealed red, a pudding rather than a liquid splatter. I can vaguely see the remains of her face through the crimson mess, but what’s left is difficult to parse. The bones have cracked and caved, flattening out in an awkward mash of features so that the only thing I can really make sense of is a single eye staring back at me through the plastic.

“Help me get her up onto another shelf,” I command. “The strap broke on this one.”

I put my hands under the corpse and start to lift. Robin hesitates, but when it becomes obvious that I’m moving ahead without him he kicks into gear. Carefully, the two of us somehow manage to wrangle the fallen body into one of the other compartments.

We strap her into place, then repeat the process with Tyler Fleming. Once we’re finished, there are four bodies in total, including tonight’s previous stops.

Robin and I climb out of the truck and shut the doors.

“You can call from inside if you want,” Robin offers.

I hesitate, squinting clumsily as I fight to understand what he’s getting at. I’m familiar with all these words separately, but the context of arranging them in this order eludes me.

“The family,” Robin presses.

I immediately snap back into focus. “Oh yeah,” I reply, nodding along. “To tell them what happened. I’ll take care of it.”

“Just out of respect,” Robin insists.

“I’ll call them on the drive,” I assure him, finding my confidence again. I furrow my brow and just kind of nod a bit, my best approximation of deep concern. “Thank you so much. Wow.”

There’s a long pause.

“Welp, I should get going,” I chirp.

I climb back into the cab, putting my truck in drive and then waving to the kid as I pull away. My eyes linger on Robin as he gets smaller and smaller in the driver’s side mirror. Eventually, he disappears, and soon enough I’m turning out onto the vacant highway.

This view is pretty nice during daylight hours, a beautiful golden vista of California sand stretching off in every direction as glorious craggy mountains skate over the horizon. Now, however, an oppressive darkness shrouds everything. When I stare through the windshield, all I can see is an endless blanket of night, a black ocean through which a handful of other distant headlights carve their winding path.

I reach into the center console and pull out my phone, tapping the most recent contact. It rings once through the truck’s speakers, connecting wirelessly before a familiar voice picks up.

“Hey,” my friend Noah starts. “I just—”

I interrupt before he gets the chance to continue this thought. “Can I tell her good night?”

“Marlo? She’s five years old. She’s been asleep for like … two hours.”

I hesitate, briefly fighting the urge to make Noah wake my daughter for a do-over. Instead, I let out a long sigh of acceptance. “How was she?”

“Great. We did some puzzles. She went in the pool.”

“She fucking loves it in there.” I laugh.

“How’s work?” Noah asks.

To his credit, Noah wants to know out of genuine care, not because he’s hunting for clues. He’s shockingly good at letting these mysterious adventures exist in their own private bubble, secure in his lack of knowledge. At this point, I can only assume he thinks I’m a part-time stripper, as little else would require my late-night babysitting needs and a code of silence.

Black-market corpse dealer is probably low on his list.

“Decent enough, but I’m just getting started,” I reply, keeping the update vague.

I certainly don’t tell him I’m off to make a delivery in bumfuck Nevada to a gun club who get their kicks from target practice with real bodies.

“Fingers crossed I’ll be home by sunrise,” I continue. “Can you take her to school if I’m not back by then?”

“Poppy, I have work,” Noah scoffs, his annoyance finally seeping through.

I say nothing. I have no right to complain, and my friend has already gone above and beyond in ways that few mortal men have ever dreamed, let alone mortal straight men. The fact that I put him through so much bullshit with these nocturnal excursions is not lost on me.

Noah breathes deep and lets it out, his disappointment somehow transmitting through the receiver. It pierces my heart all the way from Palm Springs.

“Alright, fine,” he finally relents. “I’ll call into work an hour late if I have to. Not for you, though. For the fish.”

“Who?”

“Your daughter.”

Relief washes over me, followed by a chaser of guilt. “Thank you, Noah.”

“Now I’m gonna go have the most expensive thing I can find in your fridge for my evening snack,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

We hang up and my focus returns to the road. There are still plenty of miles to go, but at least the first steps are over with. Body collection is harder to finesse than delivery, but the drop-off is much more dangerous.

I turn up the stereo, which offers an endless broadcast of music from my phone, downloaded for when my service inevitably disappears in the middle of nowhere.

“Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac is just ending, a mainstay on my “70s Favorites” playlist.

The next song begins with a faint cascade of gentle piano notes, a tune I immediately recognize. I reach out and crank it up even louder, letting the sound wrap me in its glorious, nostalgic embrace. It feels as though I’ve connected to an auditory morphine drip, contentment washing through my veins as a potent, psychic balm.

The song is “A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels, rock-and-roll legend, piano balladeer, and America’s iconic answer to Elton John. Some people might give that title to Billy Joel, but they’d be incorrect. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mr. Long Island, and some of his hits certainly give Elton a run for his money—but the flashy, fun, and downright flirty queerness of Eddie Michaels is the real thread that tethers the two icons together.

Eddie also happens to be the greatest musician of all time.

The piano intro finally swells to its thrilling conclusion, dropping out suddenly and then roaring back with a thundering drum fill and the crash of a full band. This launches into the song’s first chorus.

I roll the windows down, howling into the warm night air as I sing along.

Clickbait

The next way I dress up this look is with a thrifted cowboy hat,” I say directly to the tripod-mounted phone, flashing a playful grin for the camera and then turning for a side view of my whole outfit. “Adorbs, right? Some people might think—”

“Mom!” Marlo shouts from the courtyard patio, her voice interrupting my take. “You said you’d come see it!”

I let out a frustrated sigh, my pristine smile faltering. My posture immediately deflates. “Just a second!” I call back.

I clear my throat and return to the starting position—head up and just enough teeth showing. My eyes are brilliant and playful, wide but not in a crazy way. My back is straight, if the slightest bit arched. I stare into the watchful mechanical eye of my phone’s camera, which is positioned at the dead center of a glowing white ring.

I count down in my head, silently playing director.

And three, two, one.

“The next way I dress up this look is with a thrifted cow—”

“Mom!” Marlo’s shrill cry interrupts my take for a second time.

I hesitate, not sure if I should give it another shot, and then finally decide to abandon the whole thing, at least for now. I take off my cowboy hat and set it on the nearby shelf, then stroll over to my tripod and shut off the ring light. I remove my phone from its metallic grip.

While I’d love to upload something fresh today, I’m nothing if not prepared. Yes, it’s important to cultivate the appearance of breezy spontaneity, but building a social media empire is often more science than art.

Branding means many things, but most of all it means reliability. It’s the knowledge that someone can visit my profile, on any of the many platforms, and know exactly what they’re going to get. No matter what, I’ll always be there with my signature style, a fresh upload, and current fashion advice. I also dabble in queer commentary (nothing too spicy or political, mostly just celebrity relationship takes), and of course, a healthy dose of thirst traps.

I open Instafeed and swipe over to the drafts folder, revealing a whopping twenty-three evergreen posts to choose from. I try my best to remember what each of the patiently waiting uploads is, squinting at the tiny thumbnails.

Unfortunately, none of them are striking me.

I swipe back to the Explore tab, figuring I’ll just film a ten-second reaction clip and be done with it, but the post that greets me causes my breath to catch and my finger to pause.

EDDIE MICHAELS DEAD AT 68, the headline reads. Below these words is a colorful photo of Eddie in his younger days, a huge, goofy smile on his face and massive yellow sunglasses covering his eyes. His rhinestone-spangled shirt is high collared, the fabric climbing his neck and wrapping around his head before erupting like a large sun in the back. It frames the musician in a glorious burst of orange sequins.

From downstairs, Marlo calls out again, but her exact words don’t register.

I click on the #RestInPeaceEddie hashtag, immediately greeted by a cascade of recent posts discussing the incident. Information is coming in fast, and it’s difficult to cut through all the bullshit, but it sounds like he died just moments ago. He was leaving a charity brunch.

My eyes widen when I see the next post. It’s a video.

As deeply as I understand that the dead are nothing more than stiff, cold flesh, the transition from life to death still gets to me. Despite this apprehension, I’m compelled onward by morbid curiosity. I move down to the clip and it automatically starts playing.

The video shows a beautiful morning in downtown Palm Springs, just a few short miles from where I currently sit huddled in my walk-in closet. A crowd has gathered outside a small hotel–convention center, security guards pushing it back as photographs are snapped and vinyl records are waved in the air. Black pens are unholstered, ready for a potential signature.

Eddie Michaels appears at the top of a small landing, just four steps up and waving to the crowd. Screaming fans instantly double in volume.

It’s here the camerawork gets a little shaky as the person filming is jostled and shoved, their frame momentarily dipping down to the sidewalk and then springing back up when Eddie makes his descent.

Eddie Michaels has gone all out for this occasion, reviving one of his most notorious looks. He’s here for charity, after all, which means a fashion statement is warranted. The legendary musician is clad in a champagne gold jumpsuit that sparkles from head to toe, with dangling, glittery fringe running the length of each arm. White lines traverse the whole outfit in thick, exaggerated pinstripes. There’s no shirt underneath his wide collar, and this exposes a rugged patch of silver hair on Eddie’s strikingly fit chest, especially considering his age. Dazzling glasses rest upon his nose, featuring matching gold lenses and a jagged frame that resembles a pair of open swan wings.

This is what he wore at his famous Hollywood Bowl show back in 1984 (the one with the live album, which features the best version of “Kindhearted Stranger” ever released. It’s even better than the studio recording).

I watch with mounting dread as Eddie reaches the sidewalk, still waving and smiling at the crowd. Two security guards are trying their best to urge him onward, motioning toward a black SUV parked a little way down the curb, but Eddie ignores their pleas. He turns back around and walks over to the barricade as a flurry of hands reach out for him. Some of these hands are open, hoping for a once-in-a-lifetime shake; others clutch markers and glossy printed photos.

Suddenly, the tone of the screaming begins to shift. At first, it’s almost subliminal. There’s a brief moment when my heartbeat stutters, recognizing the alteration in cadence before my brain has a chance to catch up. Then the panic hits. The crowd turns, scrambling away from Eddie now, and during this chaos the singer just looks bewildered.

It all happens within a matter of seconds. The next thing I see is a vehicle launching over the curb and barreling directly through Eddie Michaels. I say vehicle, but honestly the white blur is traveling so fast that I can barely make out what it actually is. Eddie might as well have been blasted by a rocket ship.

There’s a loud bang and then a series of crunches, likely the runaway car hitting another vehicle and sliding across a few more for good measure. I can’t know for certain, however, as the filming has gone to shit. The video is now a frenetic blur of color and shadow—incomprehensible.

The screen becomes coherent again as our video-grapher starts to move, jogging briskly down the street. Eddie’s body is slowly coming into view, sprawled out on the asphalt in a sparkling mess of blood and sequins. His gold-and-white bodysuit now features a distinct splatter across the shoulders and chest, crimson looking damn near black as it soaks into the fabric. His shoes are missing from his feet, one of them several yards down the block and the other nowhere to be seen. Based on how far Eddie flew before hitting the concrete, I wouldn’t be surprised if his missing footwear was discovered years later on someone’s roof.

As a new crowd gathers, the person filming closes in and reveals even more detail. Eddie Michaels is flat on his back, staring straight up with a pair of wide, frozen eyes.

Despite his quick, one-man charter flight across downtown Palm Springs, I’m shocked at how relatively intact Eddie’s body looks. He’s laid out on the pavement like a snow angel, a true performer hitting his mark even in death. There’s an odd tranquility to the pose.

It’s only when the videographer begins stammering out expletives that I notice Eddie’s contortion. The musician’s corpse isn’t quite as unscathed as it first appeared. He’s lying face down against the cement, and his head just happens to be twisted all the way around on a shattered spine.

The video ends, looping back to the start. I close the app and sit in silence for a moment, marinating in the emotional weight that’s suddenly bearing down on me from above. My chest feels tight, like it’s impossible for me to catch a full breath, and an odd tingle is creeping its way across my face.

Eddie is just a body now. No more songs. No more videos. No more magic.

Gone forever.

I’m struggling to keep the emotional surge at bay, but eventually it’s just too much. The levee breaks. Tears begin to spill from my eyes as I stagger awkwardly, then drop to the floor. I curl up in a ball, as though this new position might save me from the mighty hurricane of grief that rages and churns through my body.

How could this happen?

“People die every day, you fucking idiot,” I mumble to myself, the words sloppy and drenched in tears. I immediately shake my head, as if this little gesture might reverse what I’ve said and put everything back in its rightful order.

Eventually, the feelings begin to settle.

“Fuck,” I sigh, then remember something very important. Before I get the chance to fully calm down, I open my phone again, quickly jumping to the camera app and then holding out my device for a selfie.

I angle my face a bit, struggling to find a balance between blubbering mess and adorable fawn in distress. Not too messy, not too cute. Photos are snapped as I move my head from side to side, looking down for a few of them and then gazing right at the camera for others.

I pull my phone back in and scroll through the images, happy with these results until I feel another surge of tears rolling down my cheek. I can do better. There’s more gold to mine, and if I’m going to feel this shitty, I might as well get something out of it.

When I flip back to the front-facing camera I discover that my eyeliner has started to run in a way that looks fucking incredible.

I begin the process over again. Crawling to my feet and hurrying out of the closet.

My bedroom is large and immaculately clean, kept in order for any impromptu content creation that might pop into my head. The furniture is well curated in a combination of the mid-century modern that Palm Springs is known for and a few well-placed pops of neon that lean even further into the camp of it all. There are shelves of books I’ve never opened, constantly swapped out with the latest must-reads, and a few colorful knickknacks and art prints to drive home the youthful irreverence.

The piece that’s on my mind, however, is easy to spot. A whole wall of my bedroom is taken up by an enormous black-and-white photograph print of Eddie Michaels on stage. He’s standing atop his piano, his back to the camera and his arms wide open as a crowd stretches out before him. The photo has been blown up so large that you can actually make out the faces of many people in the front row, expressions of joy and wonder and awe. As the audience continues farther back, however, they start blending together, an endless mass of bodies gradually transforming into a blur of late seventies film grain.

Imagine being on the receiving end of that kind of raw, unwavering love.

Imagine having that kind of influence.

I stand in front of the gigantic photograph, then hold out my camera and snap a few more pictures as makeup streams down my face in watery black lines.

When I’ve finally captured something I’m happy with, I draft a new post featuring this teary-eyed photo and use the hashtag #RestInPeaceEddie. I add a somber tune over the top, opting for one of Eddie’s most powerful ballads, then stop myself. Instafeed allows their users to see the highest trending songs at any given moment, and while I love the track that I’ve chosen, it’s way too deep of a cut.

I shift gears, going instead for “Nights Like This,” the song featuring Dua Lipa that Eddie released just last year. It’s already back to number one in the trending category.

“Nights Like This” is a decent song, actually, but it certainly doesn’t move me like the classic stuff. Eddie’s old-school ballads will always have my heart, but that doesn’t matter right now. Today isn’t about my feelings, it’s about seizing the moment.

I hit Upload.

“Mom!” comes a distant trembling cry, overwrought with frustration.

I wipe my eyes and tuck my phone away, then hurry out into the hall. “Coming, sweetie!”

Our house is big, and its size is made even more apparent thanks to the sprawling, single-story architecture. The ceilings are high and the tile floors shine with luxurious brilliance. Like my bedroom, every square inch of this place is decorated with equal parts mid-century charm and kitschy flair. In the living room, a giant pink statue of David sits on my white marble coffee table, and behind it hangs a colorful print in the style of Andy Warhol, a large portrait of Stevie Nicks’s face in four different sets of bold color. It’s fun—high-and lowbrow blended together and infused with my own personal style.

No, it’s more than just fun. It’s aspirational.

There are several ways to cultivate a social media following, just like there are several ways to upcharge someone for the dead bodies they’re trying to illegally purchase.

I’m good at both.

In this particular case, I’ve opted for a lifestyle brand that’s fairly universal—a beautiful queer woman basking in the glow of youth and success. Sure, there’re a lot of people already riding this train, but the difference between me and them is simple: I work harder.

I’m also better-looking.

Continuing past the living room, gym, and one of three guest rooms, I stroll into the dining area and then out onto the patio of an inner courtyard. This open-air section rests at the center of our home, a breezy, succulent-lined oasis featuring a hot tub on the left and a fire pit on the right. A shimmering turquoise pool fills up the rest.

My daughter, Marlo, has recently exited the pool. She sits wrapped in a towel on one of the nearby wooden loungers, not lying back but leaning forward in a rigid hunch. Her body language is distinct and performative, trying to deliver a message by showing me just how stiff she can get. She doesn’t even look over when I round the corner, just stares off into space.

“Hey, sweetie,” I start, walking over. “You wanted to show me something?”

I move around to the front of Marlo, then take a seat in one of the other chairs. She’s not avoiding eye contact with me, per se, just not making any effort to align our gazes.

“I did,” Marlo huffs. “You wouldn’t come and watch.”

“I was working.”

My daughter rolls her eyes. “You were making your videos.”

“How do you think all this stuff gets paid for?” I snap, a little more aggressive than intended. “Do you have any idea what I do for you? How hard I work?”

Marlo doesn’t answer, unimpressed. Her little brain is turning something over.

“What?” I press.

“Mom, you don’t do that stuff for me,” she finally says.

My initial response is anger, a crackle of sudden, frustrated defiance. I flash back to long nights in the desert, hours spent hauling cold flesh from place to place until the sun comes up. I recall meeting every imaginable variety of ghoul, from desperate scientists at underfunded testing laboratories, to thrill-seeking creeps who seem a little too excited about cutting open a real body.

I remember avoiding the cops.

Most of all, I remember the smell.

I can never tell Marlo what really pays for this lifestyle, but for the briefest moment I actually want her to know—want her to appreciate the sacrifices I’ve made.

Just as quickly as these emotions arrive, I push them away.

When it comes to fame in the digital age, fake it till you make it is the modern gospel. Every successful lifestyle creator started with some other source of income, posting luxury content well before they were earning enough money to attract much of anything. A few had wealthy family members; others toiled away in the background, working some other, less savory job whenever the cameras were off.

A collaborator of mine used to sell anonymous feet pics.

I just sell feet … and legs, and arms, and eyes.

The goal is, of course, to eventually make fame my only gig, a self-sustaining ecosystem of celebrity. Every new comment, like, or follow is one step closer to that goal, but until then, the butcher keeps chopping.

Instead of anger, I come back at Marlo with a solemn statement of fact. “When I was growing up, I didn’t have anything like this,” I remind her. “Not a lot of pools in the group home.”

This seems to get my daughter’s attention, her eyes finally moving over to meet mine. She’s still mad, but at least I’ve made contact.

“What about when your parents came and got you?” she asks.

I hesitate. “They didn’t have a pool, either,” I finally say.

Marlo ponders this for a moment, then nods with a peculiar sort of satisfaction. “Okay.”

Now that I’ve broken through the hard shell, I center my thoughts in preparation. I want to imbue this next statement with as much weight as I possibly can, giving Marlo’s feelings a reverence and respect that was never given to mine. “I’m really, really sorry,” I tell her, meaning every word as I dredge them up from the absolute depths of my soul. “I should’ve come out here sooner. I know I’ve been working late, and I need to be more focused during family time.”

Marlo’s face softens. She stares at me for a moment, then scrunches her nose.

“Were you crying?” my daughter asks.

In the filing cabinet of my mind, a manila folder is unexpectedly knocked loose. Photos spill everywhere as I’m confronted with images from the past, the vicious loop of family trauma swinging back around and striking me with yet another haymaker over a decade later. I remember all the times I came home to find one—or both—of my parents just bawling their eyes out with no rhyme or reason.

It was a household of constantly heightened emotions, the floor absolutely covered in eggshells.

“Nope,” I tell Marlo flatly. “You wanna show me whatever you were working on?”

Finally, a smile. Marlo climbs to her feet, goggles strapped to the top of her tiny head. She takes one of her small plastic nose clamps and places it over her bridge, then walks over to the pool’s cement edge.

I stand up and follow her. “You really need all that stuff to cover your eyes and plug your nose?” I ask.

“Duh, mom.”

“Just wondering.”

“You bought them,” she reminds me.

I stroll over to the opposite side of the pool, standing across from her now. “You don’t wanna get too used to all that gear, though,” I inform her, a gentle suggestion. “You know, sharks don’t need goggles and nose plugs.”

“I’m not a shark,” she replies bluntly.

“You don’t wanna be a shark?”

Marlo shakes her head. “I’m a fish. Did you know that fish are older than mammals?”

“Oh!” I reply. “Okay. I didn’t know that.”

“Um, did you know that fish communicate through smells in the water?” she continues. “It’s called para-moans.”

“Pheromones?”

Marlo nods. “They tell each other what to do.”

“Influencers, like your mom.” I laugh. “But sharks are the biggest, coolest, most dangerous fish in the whole ocean. That’s like … the best fish. You don’t wanna be the ultimate killer fish?”

Marlo seems taken aback by this. She’s silent for a moment, standing awkwardly at the water’s edge. “Why would I want to be the ultimate killer fish?” she finally asks.

I decide not to press it. Marlo doesn’t understand—at least not yet—and that’s probably a good thing. By the time I was her age, all these lessons were already carved deep into my bones, and once that happens it’s impossible to ever smooth them out.

“Alright, I’m ready,” I finally announce. “Show me.”

Marlo lowers her goggles over her eyes, strapping them in place with the elastic band. She double-checks her nose plug, then steps back from the pool a bit. Her eyes are focused, first on the water, then on the pool’s cement lip.

“Watch,” she says.

“I’m watching,” I remind her.

With this final assurance, Marlo takes two running steps toward the pool, her bare feet slapping the ground and then launching her through the air. She twists her body to the right, rotating ever so slightly before splashdown.

She’s going for a three-sixty, that much I know, but her body doesn’t quite get there.

Marlo is already a performer, already hungry for the spotlight wherever she can find it. While this particular craving has a whole slew of bittersweet implications, it’s also clear where she got it. She really is her mother’s daughter, and despite any other feelings I may have, this particular truth fills me with unfettered joy.

Everything I’ve done to give us this life—to give her this life—has been worth it.

Marlo resurfaces, furiously paddling her way back to the edge. When she reaches the side of the pool she tears off her goggles, glancing over at me.

“You wanna try that again?” I ask.

“Why?” Marlo seems confused.

“You didn’t make it all the way around,” I tell her.

Three loud raps on the front door draw my attention.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “You should dry off and get ready.”

I leave and head through the dining room, arriving at the entryway and opening the front door to reveal my neighbor, Alison. She’s slightly younger than me, sporting chin-length blond hair and a face that seems constantly overwhelmed with bubbly, wide-eyed excitement.

Alison’s six-year-old son, Bowie, is beside her, the shy boy huddled against her leg.

“Hey! I think—” Alison starts, then halts abruptly as her brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

It suddenly dawns on me that, despite my best efforts to clean up, the tears have done serious damage to my mascara.

“Are you okay?” I snap.

“Oh,” Alison fumbles. “I didn’t mean to—I just—I’m sorry.”

I force my face into a brilliant, camera-ready smile. “I’m just messing with you.”

Alison’s expression relaxes a bit, but not entirely. “Bowie has something he wants to ask,” she explains, then pushes her son forward.

The little boy rocks on his feet a bit, looking down but somehow mustering up enough volume for me to hear his request. “Um, could Marlo come over and play?”

“Aww, that’s very nice of you to ask,” I say.

“I just opened a bottle of wine,” Alison adds, then switches to a singsong tone. “Just in case Mom wants to join.”

This isn’t the first time Alison has asked me to hang, and while I’m not entirely sure if her motivation is an olive branch of friendship or an awkward stab at a date, I’m not interested in finding out. Since arriving in Palm Springs, Alison has already carved out a healthy business for herself as a private investigator, following people around and digging through their trash.

Good for her, but with secrets like mine, Alison is the last person I need to be friends with. She’s already a great backup babysitter during the daylight hours when Noah’s not around, and she follows me on Instafeed. That’s enough.

“Today’s not great,” I say with an exaggerated frown. “We’re about to hit the gym for an hour.”

Alison lets out a cackle of laughter, but this good-natured eruption slowly crumbles as I hold her gaze and decline to join in.

“This time I’m not messing with you,” I add flatly.

Alison settles. “Whoa,” she says, nodding awkwardly. “Okay then.”

“Gotta start the healthy habits early.”

“Sure. Of course,” Alison replies, struggling to conjure up a look of understanding but not quite making it.

She can judge, but it changes nothing.

“Maybe next time,” I offer with a tight-lipped smile.

Alison nods, playfully ruffling Bowie’s mop of brown hair as the two of them turn and make their way down the front walk. When they reach the curb, Alison glances back just once, as if tempted to yell out some final thought, but her lips remain sealed and eventually the pair continue across the street.

I stand on the front stoop and watch them go, then breathe deep. Citrus and lawn clippings flood my nostrils, the latter a glorious sign that our neighborhood is worthy of Marlo’s blooming childhood. Grass is a luxury in Palm Springs.

Objectively speaking, it’s a beautiful day, yet a dark cloud still hovers above me: Eddie Michaels is dead.

If the greatest artist who ever lived can shuffle off this mortal coil, then what other tragedies are possible? Could this life I’ve built for Marlo disappear just as quickly, a careening sports car tearing down the road and launching through the wall of our living room?

Eddie Michaels should be immortal, but apparently he’s not.

I stride down the front walk, waving to another neighbor as he cruises by on his bicycle, then pop open my mailbox and extract a stack of envelopes.

I’m not surprised by the fresh heap of credit card bills that have long since become routine, but I’m still not immune to the visceral feeling of holding them in my hands or the way the ink looks with all those numbers stacked next to one another. I open one and the minimum payment makes me wince. The interest makes me wince again.

“Business expenses,” I quietly mutter in a half-hearted attempt to justify the bright pink statue of David in my living room.

I gather the envelopes and head back up the walk, pushing through my front door to find Marlo waiting for me, her hair wet and her body wrapped in a giant beach towel.

“Who was that?” she asks.

“Nobody. Get changed,” I instruct. “You’ve got that birthday party with the cool girl from dance class later, so adventure time starts early.”

Marlo deflates slightly, then nods and heads down the hall to her room. Her bare feet slap gently against the hardwood floors. Never before has a child been so unenthused by the words adventure time, but I get it. I’m not always thrilled for an hour of cardio in the home gym, either.

I walk over to the kitchen island and pull out what has gradually become the bill drawer, tossing the new envelopes in and praying that somebody out there is in the market for fresh-cut flowers.

(Nothing But) Flowers

And how is Uncle Noah this evening?” I ask, our eyes meeting as I stroll across the crowded restaurant patio to greet him.

He stands up, grinning as we embrace, but as we pull away I notice a flicker of concern in his expression. He’s picked up on my slightly nagging tone, a drop of venom swirling through my otherwise playful choice of words.

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the two of us taking our seats across from each other.

Unlike the neighbors, I actually care what Noah thinks. I guess even the most ruthless, bloodthirsty sharks need a pal.

I’m immediately embarrassed that he’s picked up on my simmering annoyance, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Noah is one of the most perceptive people I know, especially when it comes to hidden emotional states.

He’s damn near supernatural, but I’m self-aware enough to acknowledge at least one explanation for Noah’s heightened perception: that I’m so calculated that it makes anyone seem borderline psychic with empathy.

I let out a long sigh, shaking my head. “I’m sorry,” I offer. “It’s cute that Marlo started calling you that. It’s just …”

“You wish you could spend more time with her and you feel personally slighted by how much she likes me.”

I nod.

“Well, I can think of one way to fix that,” Noah says. “Work less.”

“Do you have any idea how much my rent is?” I counter.

“So rent a smaller place, she doesn’t need all that stuff.”

“She doesn’t know what she needs,” I reply sternly. “People have no fucking idea what they actually need.”

This moment hangs between us, and in the silence it gradually dawns on me who I’m talking to.

“I’m sorry,” I continue, shaking my head. “Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re so good to us.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Noah replies. “You were good when I really needed it.”

“Copper Ridge Cheer Squad forever,” I chirp with a nod. “Go, Falcons.”

“I’m talking about the cancer, Poppy.”

I sit with this for a moment. “Yeah,” I finally say, leaning back in my chair.

I haven’t even brought up the Eddie Michaels accident, yet here we are, bathed in the shadow of the grim reaper. That’s life in a nutshell, I guess: we all get to choose our own path, but eventually each journey ends up at the same spot.

A glorious orange-and-purple sunset blooms behind us, flooding the horizon with its melting vibrance. The sky is no bigger here than it is anywhere else, but for some reason the desert makes it feel that much more massive.

Noah seems to notice at the same time I do, and for a moment we just sit and appreciate the view.

Eventually, I pull out my phone, handing it over to Noah as my face morphs into a pleading, puppy-dog expression. No explanation is needed, just one simple word. “Please?”

Noah rolls his eyes and snaps a series of pics while I hoist my drink. He hands the phone back and I quickly make my post.

A waiter comes over and tells us the specials, adding that this place is known for their breakfast cookies and they’re available all day. He then asks for our drink orders.

I get a French 75 and Noah opts for a beer, which is a pretty good summary of our sensibilities.

The waiter leaves and I settle into my chair. The tension I carry within my body never leaves me, not entirely, but in this moment I feel the slightest hint of relaxation, like I’ve briefly surfaced.

I can only imagine how Noah feels.

“How was treatment this week?” I ask.

“Radiation sucked,” he informs me, “but they’re seeing results.”

“That’s great!”

“I show up for my appointments. I take my pills,” Noah says. “I’m still rubbing that cream on my scar.”

The cream—yet another unexpected perk of having all these adoring followers. You never know when one of them will be in the position to hook your friend up with a clinical trial for cutting-edge melanoma treatment, along with access to some of the best specialists in the area.

“And you still have a full head of hair,” I observe.

“For now.”

“They said you’re getting better,” I remind him.

Noah nods. “Yeah, but it can always turn. One minute you’re walking around, whistling a little tune, enjoying the sunshine … the next minute you’re dead. Bodies are fragile.”

He’s right about that. Visions of the corpse that fell from her cubby flash through my mind, images of that sickening, flattened face smeared across the clear plastic of her body bag. It’s a vivid painting of coagulated blood, bone fragments, and shattered teeth.

I see the gun club stripping her down and then battling against the awkward dead weight as they wrangled a wedding dress onto her. As I drove away, I glimpsed the mob in my rearview mirror. They were propping the cadaver up against a hay bale, then placing a dark wig onto her smashed head, ready for target practice.

“I’d prefer something quick,” Noah says, breaking through my mental haze. “I just don’t wanna see it coming. Waiting is too …” He hesitates, his voice wavering slightly. In this flickering moment, I feel like I’m looking at an eight-year-old boy. “Too scary,” he finally says, then clears his throat and sits up a bit.

The matching surge of emotion that bubbles up within me is deeply uncomfortable. It’s enough for me to finally change the subject.

“How’s work?” I ask.

Noah leans back in his chair and stretches with his whole chest, taking up space in the world. He’s fit, and it shows when he moves in this tight shirt that can barely contain his biceps. If I were straight I’d already have broken his heart by now, but fortunately I’m not, and instead I’ve found myself with something I never thought I’d have: a best friend.

Still, the moment causes a faint lump in my throat as I notice that his muscles aren’t quite as swollen as they used to be. Slowly but surely, his battle with cancer has been chipping away at him, his own body betraying itself.

“It’s fucking wonderful,” Noah says. “I’m happier than I’ve ever been.”

“Working at the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway is fucking wonderful?” I blurt. “You don’t wanna, like, travel the world or something?”

“I like my job,” he replies. “I like going up into the mountains every day, and it only takes ten minutes.”

Despite his toned features, Noah wouldn’t be caught dead in a gym. He’s an outdoorsman at heart, one of the rare Palm Springs guys who love this city for the proximity to hiking trails, not the ample dick.

Because of this, I actually kinda understand why a job running the Palm Springs Tram feels right to him. Technically speaking, he works for the parks department, which makes all kinds of sense.

The waiter soon returns with our drinks, carefully placing each beverage before us and then taking our orders. Noah gets the bacon cheeseburger, while I opt for a salmon salad with vinaigrette dressing.

Of course, this doesn’t stop him from reaching over a few times and stealing one or two bites of my salad. He does this without asking, not because he’s a prick, but because he’s too impulsive to even register the movements of his own hand. Like a giant child, Noah has a habit of acting without thinking, or speaking without knowing where the words will lead. That’s probably why he and Marlo get along.

As the sky continues its transition from day to night, I can’t help reveling in how normal it all feels. Marlo will be home later—she’s currently enjoying herself at a friend’s birthday party—but for the next few hours it’s just me and Noah kicking back and appreciating each other’s company.

I notice now that “Another Long Day” by Eddie Michaels is playing over the restaurant speakers, his undead voice floating along behind the chatter of the other patrons and the clink of busy silverware. I momentarily consider bringing up the crash, asking if Noah saw the video this morning, but I stop myself.

The specter of death has loomed enough over tonight’s conversation.

“Any hot dates?” Noah asks.

I almost spit out my drink, literally reaching up to cover my mouth so I don’t accidently spray him. I wipe up the tiny stream of French 75 that runs down my chin and then swallow what’s left, shaking my head.

Noah is laughing, too. “That crazy of a suggestion, huh?”

“I don’t have time to date,” I remind him.

Every woman I meet is already dead, I think, but I don’t say this part out loud.

“I told you to get on Raya,” he presses. “Or date one of your many fans. What are we up to now? Like a hundred thousand followers?”

I scoff. “Please. Two hundred and sixteen thousand.”

“And you don’t want to date any of those beautiful ladies?”

I shake my head. “I think that’s problematic—dating fans.”

“It is?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

Noah takes a long sip from his drink, slowing the conversation down again. “It might be nice to find someone who can look after Marlo with you.”

“That’s what you’re here for,” I reply.

Noah rolls his eyes, but the wry smile on his face assures me that, when push comes to shove, he appreciates the position. I’m not entirely sure how it all happened, but one day I looked up and realized that we’d built ourselves a strange little family. I’m suddenly struck with a powerful desire to tell Noah about my other life, to confess it all and finally have someone to talk to about the objectively bizarre shit that I go through on a monthly, sometimes weekly, basis. It would be so nice to not always be the—

I stop right there, cutting off the blooming weed of a thought before it grows any larger and starts infecting the rest of my perfectly pruned mental garden.

My phone buzzes, cutting into my thoughts with a sharp, sudden jolt.

“Sorry,” I blurt, pulling out the device and revealing an unknown number. “This might be the birthday party mom.”

Noah gives me a gesture to pick up. I take the call.

“Hello?” I start, putting the phone against my ear.

“I need you to get me a body,” says a woman’s voice, calm and direct.

An icy chill shoots through my veins. I don’t react, however, forcing a smile as I lift my finger to Noah. My lips move in a silent, exaggerated face of annoyance as I scoot my chair back and stand.

One second, I mouth.

I weave my way through the crowded restaurant, adrenaline kicking my heart into overdrive.

“How the fuck did you get this number?” I hiss. “Do not call me.”

I half expect the voice to apologize, to immediately offer some fumbling excuse about a friend of a friend who passed along my contact info and how they didn’t know the rules yet. I’m prepared for an endless barrage of begging and pleading, groveling for me to stay on the line as they make their case.

But moments later, I realize even that wouldn’t make any sense, because nobody has my number in the first place. There’s nothing to pass along.

I erupt from the restaurant, now standing on a darkening street corner. A few other diners mill about, smoking and chatting, but it’s a far cry from the bustling eatery I’ve just emerged from.

“I run a flower delivery service,” I stress, “and if you’d like to order flowers, you’ll have to do it online.”

“I’m ready to offer you five million dollars,” the woman says.

I laugh. “Five million dollars? Yeah, right.”

“Five million dollars,” she repeats. “I’ll wire you ten percent up front so you know I’m serious.”

My mouth opens to shut her down again—to dismiss the very thought of this ridiculously large sum—but I suddenly find myself hesitating. Somehow, this woman has my personal phone number, and apparently, she knows exactly what business I’m in. There are plenty of things a stranger might try with that kind of sensitive information, but a silly little joke is not one of them.

The danger bells are ringing loud and clear. However, there’s another bell chiming along with them. It’s something even more primal than fear, a siren’s call that I can never seem to ignore.

Opportunity.

If this offer is genuine, I’d be an absolute fool to pass it up, and if it is some kind of trap, I’ll figure out a way to trap them back. I’m not afraid.

What if you get arrested? What if Marlo loses her mother?

There’s a stock answer for this, something I’ve been telling myself since I first stumbled into the dead-body trade. As deplorable as most people would find my actions, the legal system is hardly as rough on grave robbers as one might expect. Sure, there would be consequences, but compared to a bank heist, my worst-case scenario is pretty fucking solid.

That’s the whole point of this, after all. I’m taking advantage of the dead, not the living, and the potential legal repercussions reflect that simple fact.

“How did you get my number?” I repeat.

“If I’ve got the money to retain your services, then I’ve also got the money to find your number.”

For the briefest moment I pick up on someone in the background, a slightly deeper voice whispering something.

“Who is that?” I snap.

Another long pause. When the woman speaks again, her tone has shifted completely, much more casual and relaxed. “Listen,” she begins, “I know it’s strange to get a call like this, but there’s not enough time to move through the usual channels. This needs to happen now.”

“Tonight?!” I scoff.

“Five million dollars,” she reminds me.

I let out a frustrated sigh, my disbelief steadily growing. “Fuck you. There’s no way this is real.”

“It’s real. The ten percent up front is already in your account,” she replies flatly.

I laugh. “Sweetie, how would you even know what account to put it in?”

“Does it matter?”

I pull my phone away from my head, blown away by the audacity of this caller, then curiously open my banking app.

When I see the most recent deposit, my breath catches. “Oh my God,” I murmur.

I refresh the app, as if this might somehow reveal an error in the code, then again, and again. The payment remains. My mind is working frantically now, sorting through a whole new cascade of information and context. “How do you know I won’t just take this money and run?”

There’s a little more hushed talking on the other end of the line, the deeper background voice returning for a moment. They add a few unintelligible words, then disappear.

“Because you’ll never be happy with second place,” the caller finally says. “That cash in your account is good enough for some people, but five million is the blue ribbon.”

This time the number really hits home, no longer bouncing off me in the chaos of the moment but actually puncturing my skin and sinking deep. I’ve had plenty of giant paydays in this morbid line of work, but none of them come anywhere close to five million dollars. Certainly not in a single night.

Finally, I break, letting out a long sigh. “Alright, what kind of flowers am I getting you?”

“I don’t think there’s a code for this one,” she replies.

“Something personal?”

The voice hesitates. “I want you to bring me the body of Eddie Michaels.”

A Star Like Me

Money is malleable, a shape-shifting unit of value.

It can be physically manifested in glorious pale green stacks, or a bag of gold coins, or pixelated digits on a screen—if that’s your preference.

To some folks, that value represents a luxury sports car; to others it’s a night with a roof over their heads. Sometimes it’s a new kitten, or a croissant, or a Fortune 500 tech start-up buyout. It’s anything you need it to be.

Right now, as the night continues feeling a little too easy at every successive turn, it’s assurance. If the circumstances were different, I’d have long since called this whole thing off, but the five hundred thousand dollars of up-front cash in my bank account is doing a bang-up job of coaxing me onward.

That money represents an even better life for Marlo. It’s a private school and an Ivy League college. Most of all, it’s more time with her. And, of course, more time to develop my social media empire. Once tonight is over, and the goods have been delivered to their mysterious buyer up in Lake Arrowhead, I’ll never have to scam another morgue.

Five million dollars goes a long way.

Still, the simplicity of tonight’s plan is concerning, a feisty little gnat buzzing around in the back of my mind. I can’t help feeling the slightest bit anxious about the way this journey was laid out for me, my biggest payday ever for the least amount of work. It doesn’t quite add up.

Things didn’t begin so lopsidedly simple, though. When the offer initially came through, my biggest concern was brass-tacks logistics. Just because someone gives you an outrageous amount of cash to do something, that doesn’t mean it can actually be done.

Swiping random bodies from funeral homes is my bread and butter, but the city medical examiner’s office is a whole other story. When the average person dies in any number of average ways, their corpse is swiftly carted off for a memorial, because average deaths are rarely worthy of criminal investigation. However, when the circumstances are suspicious or foul play is suspected, the first trip any cadaver takes is to the medical examiner for a full autopsy.

Despite Eddie’s sudden and violent end, it’s pretty obvious what killed him (getting your head turned halfway around by a drunk driver can do that to a guy). However, his fame has led to worldwide curiosity and tabloid scrutiny, with millions of people scrambling for details. The Palm Springs medical examiner’s office will be double-checking every step of the process.

I’ve been asked to pick up specific corpses before, but never anyone with this kind of public attention. For all I knew, Eddie’s body could have a twenty-four-hour security detail.

My concerns were assuaged by the mysterious voice at the end of the line. The buyer informed me that my main job is transportation, and that procuring the body was almost entirely sorted out by someone on the inside. I was given a time, a place, and simple instructions. The door would be unlocked.

Now, my giant refrigerated truck is settled at the edge of a parking lot, quiet and shrouded in darkness as I stare across the vast concrete space. At the far end of the lot sit two government medical facilities, and between them is a dead-end alley in which I’ve been instructed to make my pickup.

From here, I can see a handful of news channel vans, but they’re all crowded around the front of the western building, gearing up to harass some unlucky forensic pathologist who must eventually make the trek from their vehicle to the front lobby. The reporters look bored, like they’ve been out here for a long time and have little to show for it.

There were numerous rumors of Eddie’s sexual escapades throughout the eighties, any and all genders welcome. Despite this, the bi-con never really had any high-profile relationships to speak of. Even in his advanced age, Eddie somehow avoided locking things down with any one suitor. All that is to say, while there’s plenty of public interest in Eddie’s death, any personal connections feel notably absent. There are no family members here, only journalists.

My eyes linger on the dark alley nestled between the two buildings, an open maw of shadows beckoning me onward—a trap ready to spring. The second I pull in there I’ll be cornered on all sides, forced to back up awkwardly should I need to abort the mission. This fact makes me extremely uncomfortable, but what other choice do I have?

Should I say fuck it to five million dollars? Should I walk away and call it a night?

The simple fact that half a million is already sitting in my bank account makes this play worth considering, if only for a moment. It’s enough to build a life out of, and with a few strategic investments, that money could grow some serious legs. Even if I did nothing more than park the cash in a high-yield savings account, my passive earnings alone would change everything.

I’m not here for a piece of the action, though, I’m here for the whole fucking thing. Eventually, Marlo will realize that she was born into a family of sharks, not a school of fishes who nibble on the scraps of life before darting away.

I pull out my phone and press Noah’s name on the Recent Contact’s list. He answers quickly.

“How’s she doing?” I ask.

“Marlo’s asleep.”

“How was she doing?”

Noah hesitates. “She’s mad at you,” he admits, although that’s not much of a surprise.

I sit with this for a moment, letting the emotions wash over me. I knew this was coming, and in many ways, I don’t blame her.

After twelve years in a group home, then six more with an adoptive family that never gave a shit about me, I know what it’s like to feel abandoned by my parents. Still, perspective is everything. I’ve given Marlo an incredible life thus far, and a little gratitude would be nice—the tiniest bit of recognition while I’m out here hunting the cold ocean depths.

“Well, fuck me for giving her a life I never could’ve even dreamed of,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.

Noah says nothing.

I wanted this to be some kind of “last words to my friends and family” situation, a final statement in case I’m seconds away from walking into a federal sting operation. Apparently, I can’t muster the grace for more than a bitter aside.

Well, I suppose there’s one thing I can add.

“Thank you, Noah,” I finally continue. “I know I can be a little … harsh sometimes. I really don’t mean to be. I just wanna say, I appreciate you so much. From the bottom of my heart. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”

“Are you about to die?” Noah laughs. “You sound like you’re about to die.”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s very sweet of you,” he says. “You can be a little harsh, but sometimes that’s what it takes to get the job done.”

I crack a smile. Of all the things he could’ve said, that’s the most Poppy Stringer compliment I could ask for. I’m not even sure if he really means it, but it hits me just the same. For the briefest flickering moment, I actually feel seen.

“I’ll check in again before it gets too late,” I say. “It’s gonna be a long night, though.”

“I’ll be here,” Noah replies. “Good luck.”

We hang up, and I give myself five whole seconds to feel these strange emotions, whatever they are. When those five seconds end, however, everything changes.

I sit up straight and pull on a ski mask, then start the engine. I’m careful not to turn on my lights, gliding toward the alley with my head on a swivel as I scout for any other vehicles that might be tracking my movements. Nobody seems to notice as I cruise along like a lone, quiet hunter.

I pull down the alleyway and stop at the end of the narrow passage, slightly confused by the various dumpsters and the general disarray of this pickup location. This is clearly not an official medical transport bay.

There’s a soft thump as I pop open the glove compartment and pull out my holstered pistol, clipping the gun to my belt, then I leap from the vehicle. I hurry over to a nearby metal door. It’s propped open ever so slightly, just like my client promised.

The words too easy flash across my mind like a brilliant neon sign, but I move past them.

Slipping inside, I find myself in a long hallway. This part of the facility is surprisingly officelike—not even the slightest hint of medical paraphernalia—and the one cracked door I can see through reveals a printer and a filing cabinet. The lights are dimmed and it’s deathly quiet, the only sound coming from various computer towers as they hum away under distant desks.

This hallway is lined with small rooms, rows and rows of partitioned spaces leading off into the darkness. It’s here, in the inky shadows, that a stainless-steel gurney rests.

On top of the gurney is an oblong bag.

Everything about this situation feels slightly off, but not quite enough to cut and run. It’s a simmering, instinctual discomfort, an abstract tension in my body that only comes when things are one degree away from making sense. For instance, this part of the building is clearly not where the bodies are kept, yet here sits my five-million-dollar payday. No security guards to avoid. No after-hours medical staff to charm.

I approach slowly, more apprehensive than I expected to be. Unlike the funeral home bags I’m used to, this one is jet black, but there’s no mistaking the shape within.

I slowly unzip the plastic cover, just enough to get a good look at Eddie’s face. Sure enough, what once was Eddie Michaels stares directly upward from this morbid cocoon, his eyes unblinking and frozen in shock. His irises are green, just like mine, and long ago, the hue of our auburn hair also matched. Eddie’s mop went stark white halfway through his career, but he embraced the vibe with a gusto rivaled only by Steve Martin.

Eddie is still wearing the shimmering gold-and-white pinstripe outfit, his corpse not yet opened up and rearranged. The trauma on his neck, however, is more than apparent, a massive bruise erupting like a blooming purple flower. The pale flesh here has been torn in quite a few places, shattered bones puncturing the skin in strange white nubs.

This is no time for reverence, though. Eddie—the artist I loved—has little to do with this hunk of cold meat lying before me.

I zip up the bag and grab the gurney’s edge, dragging it along as I back through the exit door. There’s a soft metal click as the door swings wide, night air wrapping itself around me.

It feels good. It feels like success.

I open my truck and arrange the gurney before it. From here, I climb into the refrigerated chamber and use all my strength to pull Eddie’s body onto the flatbed. Unlike my last trip, all six of the cubbies are empty, meaning it takes little effort to carefully slide Eddie into one of the lower compartments and strap him into place.

My heart is galloping, slamming so hard that I can feel it in my ears.

Go! my mind screams. Get the fuck out of here!

I leap from my truck and shut the doors, kicking the gurney away and then sprinting to the cab. Once inside, I toss my pistol into the glove compartment and step on the gas, lurching backward before remembering the importance of casual confidence in situations like this. Not too fast, not too slow.

I pull off the mask. This is nothing but a simple, routine office supply drop-off… in the middle of the night … at the medical examiner’s office.

“Fuck yes,” I murmur, every passing second bringing me closer and closer to freedom. My hand involuntarily punches the steering wheel and I repeat the phrase again, only this time I shout it at the top of my lungs. “Fuck yes!”

At the other end of the parking lot, the gathering of news vans remains silent and undisturbed, waiting for their big scoop. They’ll certainly get it once someone notices Eddie’s body is missing, but until then this little corner of Palm Springs remains at rest.

I pull onto the main road, steadily pushing down on the gas until I’ve reached the speed limit. I focus. I breathe. I settle my heart.

I become one with the evening traffic, a hidden predator in this school of fish.

It’s smooth sailing from here.

*  *  *

The bang is so loud that it makes me tug the wheel. It’s a split-second reaction, completely instinctual as the information hits my brain stem, then course corrects on its journey through the rest of my head. That’s the way our bodies handle this kind of stimulation—action first, then rational thought.

Unfortunately, rational thought does little to quell my fear. When I glance at the driver’s side mirror, I immediately notice that the back doors of my truck are wide open, swinging haphazardly from the momentum.

My body reacts again, adrenaline surging through me as I slam on the brakes and pull over in a massive plume of dust.

I’m just outside the city limits, Palm Springs barely giving way to the wide-open desert. The lights glow warm and luminous behind me, a flat plane of twinkling stars coalescing against the base of a giant mountain range, but right now I’m in no position to admire the beauty.

Right now, I’m thinking about how fucked I am.

I leap from the truck to find myself in the middle of nowhere, an underused stretch of highway that disappears into the night both ahead and behind. I often aim for this route to avoid other cars, and tonight it has served me well. There are no headlights or taillights to be seen.

By complete happenstance, the only structure for miles sits empty and hollow to my left. It’s an old, long-abandoned diner. Half of the building’s windows are boarded up, the others are obscured by graffiti, and the parking lot is cracked and sand-swept. Yellow weeds have reclaimed the broken cement and made themselves at home. A huge neon palm tree serves as the central feature here, the words TROPITOPIA CAFÉ scrawled across the wall in colorful glass tubing, but neither of these pieces is lit. Not anymore.

This place is nothing more than a skeletal shell, dead and hollow.

I march around to the back of the truck, feverishly telling myself this is just a little hiccup in an otherwise smooth transaction, a turn of events I’ll probably laugh about when the job is finished and I’m safe at home with five million dollars nestled peacefully in my bank account. I silently manifest that the body of Eddie Michaels is exactly where it should be, certainly not lying a few miles back in a roadside ditch.

Everything is fine.

When I round the corner, however, reality hits me like a bucket of ice-cold water.

Eddie’s shelf is empty, a pair of loose straps hanging down and snaking across the floor.

“Holy fuck!” I exclaim, my legs wobbling beneath me.

I say it again, then again, acting as though this little phrase is a magic incantation that will turn back the clock and undo any terrible mistake.

Unfortunately, the spell doesn’t work.

Action works.

I sprint back to the cab and leap inside. I’m already hatching a plan in my head, gaming out every step before it occurs like some grand, expanding web of potential futures. The first thing I’ll do is flip a U-turn and head back the way I came, hunting for any sign of rock star roadkill.

I’m abruptly struck by yet another jolt of panic, however. My hand moves toward the truck key, wrist turning instinctively and then fumbling when all I find is empty space. I try again, awkwardly feeling along the edge of the steering column, and when this kinetic process yields no results I lean over and give it a look.

The keys are gone.

In a flailing panic, my hands begin to dart from pocket to pocket, hunting each fabric space and coming away with the same fruitless outcome. I run my palms along the back of each seat, then desperately flip over both floor mats to reveal nothing but crumbs and dust.

I exit the cab once again, as if a new standing position might somehow lend a bit of clarity to my search, but nothing changes.

Pull it together! You’re a fucking shark.

I feel anxious heat blooming within me, consuming my senses. The energy is almost too much for my small frame to contain, compelling me back and forth in a desperate pace.

“No, no, no,” I repeat under my breath. I keep saying the word over and over again, the repetition now interfering with my breathing patterns and causing a distinct lightheadedness to take hold.

Suddenly, my own hand flies up and slaps my cheek with a resounding smack, a movement so violent and abrupt that it stops me in my tracks.

“Pull it. The fuck. Together,” I state, firm and unwavering.

I center myself, pushing aside the worried part of my mind and allowing the previous occupant back into my cerebral driver’s seat.

There’s always a way out. The real issue isn’t that people get trapped, it’s that most people aren’t willing to make the sacrifices needed to escape. If I have to walk all the way back down this road step by step, find Eddie’s body, hoist it over my shoulder, and then carry him to the truck, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

I rearrange the checklist in my head, adding a few more steps and preparing to mark them off. “Let’s start at the top,” I declare.

First of all, my keys didn’t just disappear; that’s impossible. If they’re not in the cab, the next place to search is in the dirt along the side of my truck. The moment that I find— This thought is cut short by a spontaneous flicker of light to my left, then a grand eruption of neon yellow and green. I glance over to see that the Tropitopia Café has sprung to life, the once-dark remains of the abandoned diner now reanimated through the power of electrical current. A cartoonish rendition of a massive glowing palm tree towers before me, flickering sporadically as it struggles to illuminate the darkness.

Approximately half the light fixtures are working inside the restaurant, which creates a series of strange, angular shadows that flow from booth to booth through the shattered windows.

Gazing at this haunting structure against a sea of black, I feel an odd kind of certainty take hold. There’s a way forward now, a concrete mystery to unravel with at least one singular truth at its core: someone is fucking with me.

I march around to the opposite side of my truck, throwing open the passenger door and dropping the glove box with a thud. I reach in and pull out my handgun, leaving behind the holster this time.

I close up the truck, hoping to make it as inconspicuous as possible if highway patrol comes cruising by in my absence.

My weapon gripped tight, I cautiously approach the Tropitopia Café, scanning every nook and cranny of the long-defunct structure. I’m hunting for the slightest hint of movement, but other than that, I have no idea what to prepare for. This little detour is certainly too fancy and prolonged for a police sting operation, which means whoever’s behind it is probably working with the buyer.

Or maybe the truck straps broke again, I lost my keys, and a power surge turned the lights back on at just the right moment after years of darkness.

I reach the front door and cautiously push through, my weapon now raised as I swivel my attention from side to side. On my right is a gift shop, and stretching to my left is the diner with its rows and rows of red vinyl booths. What’s left of the fluorescent bulbs hum gently above me, somehow amplifying the tension that’s been draped over everything like a suffocating blanket.

Because my view into the diner is so clear and empty, I opt to investigate the gift shop first. Slowly, I creep from the lobby into a strange maze of empty shelving, crouching down as I move through this haphazard arrangement. Most of the goods either were carted away when the restaurant closed or have slowly been pilfered over time by urban explorers. The bags of snacks that once covered the displays are long gone, although a small half-empty case of bottled water lies upside down in the corner.

Still, not every remnant of the Tropitopia’s former glory has vanished.

At the front counter, where the cash register likely once rested, a small metal stand offers an assortment of Tropitopia key chains for sale. A few branded T-shirts, sunglasses, and mugs lie scattered about.

A sudden, squealing eruption of feedback over the building’s PA system causes me to jump in alarm, my eyes darting up to an old speaker embedded within the ceiling. I whip my head around, hunting for movement in the stillness as my skin tingles with anticipation.

The feedback settles.

“Show’s about to begin,” comes a deep voice. “Take a seat in the dining room.”

My first reaction is, of course, to do anything other than taking a seat in the dining room. I crouch even lower, tucking myself behind one of the empty shelves and peering out, checking the various sight lines and how they relate to the diner portion of this structure.

Why is this person trying to get me into the diner? What advantage does it serve? What’s the ultimate goal?

Unfortunately, this analysis also works to escalate my looming dread, a distinct helplessness making itself known. If I don’t follow these instructions, then what?

This mysterious guest has my keys, and it’s more than likely he’s got a valuable celebrity corpse to go with them.

“Fuck off with the games!” I shout, my voice reverberating through the gift shop and out into the empty restaurant. “What do you want?”

Another crackle as the PA system springs to life for a second time.

“I want you to enjoy the show,” the voice says flatly, followed by a long pause. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Don’t be so chickenshit about it.”

There’s a notable shift in tone, much less menacing than I’d originally thought. The moment is still tense, but I can’t deny the bizarre playfulness I’m picking up on.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the mysterious voice informs me.

“Why would you even say that?” I shout. “That freaks me out even more!”

A long pause, then the voice lets out a defeated sigh. “Do you understand I’m trying to create a moment here? Just go to the fucking dining room.”

The PA system clicks off, plunging my surroundings back into the quiet drone of fluorescent lighting.

The only way out is through. I creep out of the gift shop, making my way back into the diner section of the restaurant.

“Who are you?” I boom. I reconfirm my grip on the gun, fingers tense with anticipation.

The dining area stretches toward a jukebox against the far wall, booths running down the entire length on either side. To the right, beyond these seats, is a countertop bar that’s parallel to the booths, and behind that is the kitchen. The room takes a sharp right turn once it reaches the far wall, heading off into a part of the restaurant that is currently obstructed from view.

It’s only now that I notice a distinct scent wafting across my nostrils, a familiar aroma that would probably fill me with a sense of blissful nostalgia if not for the utterly bizarre timing. It smells like popcorn, as if a gentle breeze just swept through the lobby of a movie theater.

The scent is recognizable, but not entirely pure. There’s something else lurking within those notes, the faintest sour tang hidden just below the surface.

Suddenly, movement. I flinch slightly, shifting the barrel of my weapon toward the jukebox. A selection was made just moments before I entered, and the machine’s mechanical arm is now reaching out and extracting a vinyl record from its enormous catalog. It’s the real deal—a legitimate, old-school turntable and not some digital approximation.

A faint, almost imperceptible hum of auditory warmth fills the air as the needle touches down, then moments later a twinkling cascade of piano notes tumbles from the speakers.

“A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels begins to play.

This song is my anthem, a rallying cry that never fails to pick me up and carry me onward, no matter how exhausted I get. I’ve listened to it so many times that it feels like a living, breathing friend, like someone who stands proudly next to me and faces down my demons.

Right now, however, this legendary tune just makes me feel uneasy. All the right notes are there, but the story behind them has been twisted around in some strange, otherworldly way.

I step cautiously forward, lights flickering above me as the power falters, yet somehow the electrical current manages to keep pumping through this old, dilapidated shell of a building. The vinyl record slows at random intervals, its pitch bent awkwardly as a single piano note transitions into chords.

Eddie begins to sing, but his voice sounds unexpectedly distinct from the track I’m used to.

“I thought I was lost! Thought I had wasted time and learned the cost!” he croons. “I thought I was gone! Figured I’m dead to rights, the one who’s wrong!”

On this particular version, Eddie’s voice sounds doubled. Instead of a single take running right down the middle of the track, there’s an odd second vocal that dances playfully along, bobbing and weaving around the original notes.

I step forward again, then stop as the voice grows louder.

“I thought I was nobody, but that feeling didn’t last,” the singer continues to belt, his words confidently filling the diner. “And when I’m not around, everyone asks where I’m aaaat!”

The final word of this phrase carries on and on as the piano fades away, a cheeky little pause before the whole band kicks back in and launches into their first chorus.

I catch a visual shift and swivel my gun slightly, but before I get the chance to fire, my trigger finger is stiffened by an unexpected feeling of utter, dumbstruck shock.

A figure has sprinted from around the corner, running and sliding across the smooth tile floor to end up directly in front of the jukebox with his arms wide in a majestically vaudevillian pose. His outfit shimmers under the flickering diner lights, thousands of sequins reflecting the gold-and-white stripes of his jumpsuit. The few places that don’t shimmer are covered by distinct splatters of dried blood. Dark sunglasses from the gift shop cover his eyes, and below them is a wide, toothy grin pulled back just the slightest bit too far, showing more pale gums than one might expect. His skin is almost as white as his hair, appearing nearly translucent thanks to the bluish veins that zigzag below the surface.

Standing before me is Eddie Michaels.

Follow for Follow

The sudden thought that I might be dreaming comes roaring to the forefront of my mind, but it changes nothing. All I have are the choices ahead of me, and right now I choose to keep my gun trained directly on the chest of this singing, dancing superstar corpse.

“Be … cause … the,” he starts, slowly ramping up the volume as he takes two steps forward. When the song kicks back in he puts his hands together cutely, creating a symbolic globe with his fingers. He tilts his head back and belts along with the recording, confident and self-assured despite the presumed lack of a heartbeat. “… world needs a star like me! I said the world needs a star like me! I’m one of a kind, I think you’ll agree, the world needs a star like me!”

Eddie does a spin and then begins to shuffle and slide down the aisle, the booths framing him on either side. His dancing is distinctly old-fashioned, a kinetic language that would actually be kind of silly if it weren’t so fucking terrifying.

“Stay right there!” I bark as the corpse gleefully makes his approach. My hands are trembling against the pistol grip, something that’s never happened any previous time I’ve been forced to pull my weapon.

I step back, but Eddie’s movements take up much more space in much less time. He’s closing in on me, grooving and spinning through the entirety of this instrumental section. The music thunders with piano-rock bombast, adding a cinematic punch to Eddie’s lurching choreography.

“Get the fuck back!” I scream, eyes wild as spit flies from my lips.

Finally, Eddie comes to a stop no more than five feet away. From here I can see the bruising around his neck and the shards of bone poking out from his skin in a brutal pattern of white and red.

Eddie grins, frozen for a moment as though he’s lost in thought. He closes his eyes ever so slightly, an expression of bliss, and in this poignant break the popcorn scent makes itself even more apparent.

“I want you to remember this,” Eddie finally says, his voice dropping to a lower register as he allows the song to keep rolling past without his vocal accompaniment. Eddie’s grin flattens, his manic joy deflating to reveal the shape of something terrible underneath. “I want you to remember I’m in control.”

Eddie motions toward my handgun.

“Go ahead,” he continues.

I’ve seen this one before, variations of the scene flashing through my mind in a thousand different pop culture mutations. There will always be a ruthless killer to challenge our hero with a gun, a badass villain who shoves the barrel against their own forehead with casual confidence, turning the tables with a steadfast understanding that the hero is not a real killer. Not like they are.

Fortunately, Eddie doesn’t know me that well.

I pull the trigger.

Instead of a bang, I’m greeted by a quiet metal click. It’s barely audible over the music, but I don’t need to hear it to understand what it means. The bullets have been removed.

A look of amusement springs back into Eddie’s face. “Well, damn! I thought I’d have to ask a few more times than that!” He laughs.

I flash back to running around my truck in a panic, remember frantically searching for the keys that had mysteriously gone missing in all that commotion. If Eddie—if this thing that was once Eddie—took my keys, he could’ve easily unloaded my weapon and stuffed it back in the glove box.

“I’m just trying to show you that I’m not—” the reanimated body continues, but before he can finish I reach into my back pocket and pull out my extra clip, the one I always keep on me for deliveries.

I move in one swift motion, letting the empty magazine pop out and replacing it with my other hand. I slam the fresh bullets into their chamber so fast the empty clip has just barely hit the ground—a maneuver you might see from someone with extensive military service or, in my case, obsessive visits to the firing range—then I lift the gun to Eddie’s face and pull the trigger.

Bang! A blinding white flash erupts across my field of vision.

Eddie’s head jerks back with such force that it would snap the neck of any living person, the lens of his glasses giving way to what is now a massive hole. The opening leads out through the back of Eddie’s skull by way of his eye socket.

He rocks on his heels, somehow still upright despite his head tilted straight back and flecks of his gray matter dotting the nearby booths and tile floor. I keep waiting for his legs to give out, for his body to finally succumb to all the damage and take its final bow.

It appears my bullet shattered the glass of the jukebox behind Eddie, cracking the mechanical arm and causing the record to skip through some incredible twist of fate. It begins to repeat the same two-second loop, Eddie’s wobbling serenade droning over and over again. “Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me.”

My ears are ringing and, despite bracing myself for the intensity of the recoil, a sharp pain radiates across my wrist.

“Like me. Like me. Like me. Like me.”

The song begins to lower in pitch, every passing round of the pithy little phrase degrading more and more until the whole machine just short-circuits in a pop of white sparks. The record takes its time, but gradually the circular vinyl disk glides to an excruciatingly long stop as the word me is stretched into horrible oblivion.

Then silence.

Eddie’s body remains frozen in place as he stares up at the ceiling and a few cold pieces of brain drip from his open skull. I can hear them slap against the floor in soft, wet clumps.

I realize now that I’ve been holding my breath this whole time, finally letting out all that pent up air in a single puff.

Eddie’s head snaps forward, his toothy grin wider than ever. “Boo!”

I raise my weapon again, but this time he’s ready. Before I can pull the trigger, Eddie makes a clear, direct command that stops me in my tracks.

“Don’t shoot,” he bellows.

I don’t shoot.

It’s not for lack of trying, though. My brain is commanding the tendon across the top of my hand to pull taut, a simple retraction of the pointer finger that I’ve accomplished a million different times in a million different ways. The trigger is right there, resting coolly against my skin and waiting for me to take the next step, but for some reason my hand refuses to accept the command.

It’s as though this part of my body has gone rogue, announcing a conflict with the rest of my biology and then promptly switching sides.

I try again, straining to produce the tiny, insignificant movement, but it seems no amount of willpower can get the job done.

Eddie takes off his sunglasses and winks at me with the one cloudy eye he’s got left. “That was fun, sport, but we’ve got work to do.”

* * *

In a strictly objective sense, I understand how I got here, but leaving my experience at that would be a disservice to the utterly bizarre events that just unfolded.

I could tell you that I simply put one foot in front of the other as Eddie and I exited the restaurant. I could describe the way Eddie made me wait some twenty yards back while he inspected the truck, including a few minutes under the hood, then handed me the keys. I could tell you that I climbed into the driver’s seat while he closed up the back and then got into the cab next to me, and I could explain the careful, steady manner with which I pulled onto the road.

But even then, a critical question remains: Why?

My process varied slightly, depending on the commands I’d been given by Eddie as he led the charge.

“You feel like walking back to your truck” was a very different experience than “Climb into the driver’s seat.” The former was something I wanted to do—at least, that was how it seemed. The latter command was like riding along as a passenger in my own body. During this experience, I was more disturbed by the second feeling, but in retrospect I’m having a harder time processing the first.

“You’re not going to signal anyone or ask for help,” Eddie informs me. “You’re not going to wreck the truck. You’re just here to help me have an easy, smooth night.”

My eyes are fixed on the asphalt ahead as we travel down a long desert road in the opposite direction of our previous journey. We’ve charted a course back to the heart of Palm Springs.

“Give me your wallet and your phone,” Eddie says.

I obey his commands without hesitation.

Eddie opens my wallet and extracts the driver’s license. “Alice Roosevelt,” he reads aloud. “328 Springwater Drive. Nice to meet you, Alice.”

The way he says all this is a little odd, but I can’t quite put my finger on why. Right now, I’m mostly just thankful that my habit of carrying a fake ID on these excursions has finally paid off.

Eddie shuts off my phone and throws it out the window, then tucks my wallet into his pocket.

I feel compelled to glance over at him, not through the power of some supernatural force, but thanks to the gnawing insistence of my own curiosity. To be honest, I still haven’t convinced myself this is actually happening.

Sure enough, Eddie Michaels is right there in the passenger seat, a new pair of gift shop sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose. These pink frames are bent into the novel shape of two large hearts and covered in shimmering rhinestones that pop against the dark lenses. Despite a bargain-bin price tag, Eddie has managed to find the perfect approximation of something bold and brash from his high-end personal collection.

“You like them?” Eddie asks.

“Like what?”

“The glasses?”

I consider how to answer, wondering whether I should be buttering him up. “Yeah,” I finally admit.

“You sure about that?” Eddie presses, a slight alteration in his tone.

The question hits different this time. A single word bubbles out of me involuntarily. “Yes.”

Eddie smiles, amused, then clears his throat. It’s an instinctive habit—meant to signify the start of some important conversation—but the result only serves to highlight just how bizarre this situation really is. Instead of the muted cough one might expect, Eddie produces a strange, rattling wheeze, the wet crackle of bones and torn flesh grinding within his esophagus. “Alright, the first thing I hope you understand is that I’m not a bad guy,” the corpse begins. “I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s the truth.”

Good. He’s feeling chatty.

I have plenty of concerns about my current position, but right now my biggest disadvantage is lack of information. There are things going on here that stretch well beyond my sphere of understanding, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn.

Organizing the details and tucking them away is a great first step to getting out of this mess. It’s how I approach every problem: slipping little pieces of knowledge into my mind’s filing cabinet until suddenly I open it up and realize I’ve collected the whole story.

“Who are you?” I ask.

Eddie furrows his brow, glancing over at me not once, but twice in an exaggerated double take. “Sport. Are you joking?”

I don’t respond, waiting for a concrete answer.

It’s in this silence that I notice the smell again, as though a little gremlin is hard at work popping corn somewhere inside the truck’s cab.

“I’m Eddie Michaels,” he finally replies. “Who the fuck else would I be? Liberace?”

“Eddie Michaels is dead,” I counter.

“Do I look dead?” He laughs. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

He’s got a point. If this walking, talking cadaver is not Eddie, then who the hell is he? I don’t have a good answer, but then again, I don’t have a good answer for much right now.

“If you’re Eddie Michaels, then what’s the B-side on the original ‘Heart in Your Hands’ single?”

“There was no ‘Heart in Your Hands’ single,” he replies immediately. “That song didn’t get popular until it was on the Heroes of Darkness soundtrack thirty-five years later.”

Eddie’s confidence in his answer is arresting.

“If I’m not Eddie, then what am I?” he asks.

“An evil spirit or something.”

“An evil spirit?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, totally. I’m an evil spirit,” Eddie states. “You know what ghosts love to do once they’ve transcended the physical realm and reconnected with the infinite cosmic beauty of the universe? Evil shit here on earth.”

I stare at him, struggling to get a read. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, I’m like a mean ghost,” he says.

“Okay, you’re fucking with me,” I confirm, falling back into my seat with an exhausted sigh.

Eddie bursts out laughing. His throat rattles, bone shards grinding together in his neck again. Finally, Eddie raises his hands as though admitting defeat.

“Alright, I can already tell you’ll need the full story if I want tonight to run smoothly, so here it goes,” he begins, his tone settling a bit. “You’re probably wondering how I’m so fucking successful. Was it the hard work? The talent? The good looks?”

“The songs,” I add, the tiniest bit of fandom slipping out of me.

“It was all those things,” Eddie reveals. “I’m one incredible son of a bitch, after all, but that stuff only gets you so far without a little luck. I could flounder forever in a world of second-tier piano players, or I could make a deal.”

Eddie’s eyes are glued on the road ahead. The desert has fallen away, replaced by the first hints of tract homes and strip malls as we make our return to civilization. The musician is silent, tension building as whatever he’s about to say takes on a massive helping of emotional weight.

“I made a deal with the devil,” Eddie finally reveals.

This admission should probably make me scoff, especially after his last rug pull, but I don’t. There’s a conviction to Eddie’s voice that’s undeniable, as crazy as it may seem.

Then again, is a satanic pact much crazier than chauffeuring around an undead celebrity after I blew half his brains out through the back of his skull? If anything, a deal with the devil seems a little too quaint for these circumstances.

“I don’t believe in the devil,” I reply.

Eddie flashes an odd look, seemingly impressed, then keeps going.

“I didn’t either,” he explains. “It’s that classic rock ’n’ roll story. I sold my soul for fame and fortune. Now, it’s time for the dark lord to collect, unless I perform …” He lifts a cupped hand to his ear, making the unexpected pause even more apparent. “No drumroll?”

“I’m not really in the mood,” I admit.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve got twice the spirit you do and I’m fuckin’ dead!” he erupts. “Unless I perform … a ritual!”

“What kind of ritual?” I ask.

“It’s private,” Eddie snaps, reaching into his back pocket. He extracts a folded piece of plain white office paper. “We’ve got four more stops and then you’re free to leave.”

I can’t help catching something odd about his choice of words. Four more stops certainly makes sense on a casual first listen, but including the word more is a little strange. Was I his first stop?

Maybe I’m just vastly overthinking things, caught in a web of my own detective work as I struggle to make sense of these extraordinary circumstances.

Eddie carefully unfurls the document, looking it over and then gazing into the night as if the darkness itself might tell him something. The back of the sheet is ever so faintly embossed with a mysterious seal.

If this is not actually Eddie Michaels, then whoever it is has a knack for acting his age. There are few things as aggressively “old guy” as printing out your instructions.

“What’s that?” I ask.

Eddie doesn’t answer, just folds the paper back up and returns it to his jacket pocket.

“Take a left,” he says, gesturing toward the upcoming stoplight. “Anyway, while I admit I look a little frightening these days, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need you to drive me around while I run my errands.”

“Why me?”

“Why not you?” he retorts. “You were there when I woke up. You expect me to spend all night holding auditions?”

Fair enough.

“Why the hell do you even need a driver?” I press.

“I don’t know how,” Eddie scoffs. “I’m too rich for that, sport.”

I sit with this a moment, the utter terror that’s been pumping through my veins finally subsiding a bit. I’m certainly not relaxed, but the longer I talk to Eddie, the more I can sense my fight-or-flight response dwindling.

“So I just … chauffeur you around?” I clarify.

“That’s right.”

“And then you let me go?”

“Correct.”

I hesitate, on the verge of buying into this whole thing but not quite there yet.

“You don’t believe me,” Eddie observes. “I could just force you to believe me, but I’m not gonna do that. That’s the whole point. I’m not a bad guy. I’m just a survivor.”

I can feel something within me shift. I glance over at Eddie, and for the briefest moment I see him without all the dried blood and cracked bones and bruised skin. I see the hero I grew up listening to, the man who was always there for me, whether he knew it or not. I knew I was queer for a very long time, but it wasn’t until I saw Eddie Michaels out there strutting his stuff that I actually felt okay with it.

Back in the ’70s and ’80s, nobody was doing it like him, flashy and funny and, most of all, proud. It gave me something to aspire to. Eddie made me want to thrive.

“Is it really you?” I ask.

The reanimated corpse gives a slight chuckle. “It’s really me.”

“I’m a huge fan,” I admit.

“You want a photo?”

I start to answer, but he cuts me off.

“Just to be perfectly clear, you can’t tell anyone what happens tonight,” he says. “That’s why I tossed your phone.”

It makes sense that Eddie wouldn’t want me running my mouth. With all the memorials and tributes that will spring up after his passing, the rumor of some occult zombie escapade through Palm Springs certainly alters the tone.

If this whole thing results in Eddie somehow rejuvenating, his flesh mending and his brain regrowing within that shattered skull of his, then the whole “made a deal with Satan” thing is still not a great look.

The particulars of tonight’s ritual are unknown to me, and that’s clearly by design, but what I already know is a lot for Eddie to entrust me with. Something about this doesn’t quite add up.

“How do you know I won’t tell?” I ask.

Eddie laughs. “It honestly doesn’t really matter. Nobody will believe you.”

His quick response makes a surprising amount of sense, but the lurking unease remains.

“Turn on the radio. Find something good,” Eddie says, causing my arm to immediately reach out and push the FM button. Static erupts through the cab: this particular setting has been mostly unused thanks to the modern power of Bluetooth connections and playlists.

I begin to move through the stations, sitting just long enough to understand what I’m hearing and then continuing on. “I thought you weren’t gonna do that,” I quip.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Eddie says, though he doesn’t undo his command.

“So you can just … tell people what to do?” I ask, hunting through the static.

“When I’d like to, yes,” Eddie confirms, wiggling his fingers in the air. “The powers of the devil, you know? Hell stuff.”

We’re in the suburbs now, rolling between evenly spaced cross streets packed with small desert homes. The residential development of Palm Springs seems to happen in waves, giving each section of town a uniform feeling within its own borders.

Many of the newer, upscale neighborhoods have arrived in the form of sprawling gated communities, typically doubling as a sort of country club with a golf course at its center and abundant pickleball courts. Tiny pools dot these manicured landscapes of drought-resistant plants and citrus trees that host a seemingly perpetual surplus of orange and yellow fruit.

The compounds stretch for miles and miles, a giant oasis of perfectly square paradise thanks to a constant influx of fresh water—generously pumped from the Colorado River—as well as an equally steady flow of HOA fees.

This, however, is not one of those neighborhoods.

The older sections of Palm Springs, like the one we cruise through now, are much less organized and color-coded. While the newer developments feature architecture that references a ’60s heyday, these structures were actually here for it. These are the houses that defined this city, the blueprints that have aged and frayed over time yet still overflow with a certain charm.

My fingers finally stop turning the dial, arriving on a station that comes in loud and clear. The halt is involuntary —I’m simply obeying Eddie’s previous command—but I’m pleasantly surprised by the music my body has instinctively identified as “good.”

The driving, jangly acoustic guitar of “Carry On” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young rings out through the cab speakers, bathing us in its upbeat pulse. I’ve caught this track at the perfect time, somehow managing to jump in halfway through the first few opening strums. I lean back in my seat, and from the corner of my eye I see a smile creeping its way across Eddie’s pale, dead face.

The emotion is so pure and genuine that, for a moment, it seems to bring some warmth back into his body.

The Splitting Headache

One morning I woke up and I knew you were really gone,” CSNY sing in unison, their voices stacked in a towering pancake of harmonies.

Eddie pats his hand against the door, subconsciously falling into the groove as he nods his head to the music. I can already tell that he’s hearing this song in a slightly elevated way, every little polyrhythm and tonal shift swirling within his brain. Meanwhile, I’m just thinking to myself: That sounds really nice.

“Perfect song for your first day as a dead guy,” I say.

Eddie glances over at me, pausing briefly, then erupting in a fit of laughter.

Now that I’ve gotten used to Eddie’s strange wet gurgle, the thing that I really latch on to is his tone. His speaking voice was familiar enough, but hearing him project like this makes everything fall into place. It almost sounds like he’s singing.

“You know, I nearly played keys on this track,” Eddie informs me. “I was crashing up in Laurel Canyon at the time. Stephen asked me to swing by, so I did, but I got in a fight with Neil and then the whole thing kinda blew up.”

“Wait, are you serious?” I ask, unable to hide my excitement.

Eddie nods, then points to an upcoming cross street. “Turn right here.”

His instruction pulls me back into focus, reminding me that tonight is about much more than driving around and reminiscing over quintessential classic rock jams. We’re on a mission.

Now that a thread of connection has been made between us, I find myself feeling a little more comfortable in the presence of this strange companion. He is, after all, a hero of mine, and no amount of decomposition is going to erase that entirely.

We drive down the road a bit before Eddie instructs me to turn again. Soon enough, I’ve slowed and entered a long, secluded lane that runs the length of the tightly packed houses.

Eddie reaches out and switches off the stereo. His single eye is peeled, focused on our surroundings and scanning the homes. Eventually, Eddie motions to a patch of dirt just off the pavement, a place for me to pull over that’s shrouded in darkness.

I park my truck against a long white wall. Large desert boulders rest in the nearby dirt, gathered around an abandoned refrigerator and a massive aloe plant that reaches out with its sharp green arms. A few dumpsters line the cracked alleyway ahead.

“Here we are,” Eddie says, handing over a set of handcuffs. “Lock yourself to the steering wheel. Tight.”

I close the metal links around my hands.

“Don’t ask me any questions,” he continues. “I’m really sorry about those cuffs, sport. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. All you have to do is wait here and not do anything stupid. Can you handle that?”

“Yes,” I confirm. I pride myself on not doing stupid things, so it’s the truth.

Eddie nods and climbs out of the cab. He moves to close the door, then stops. “All you gotta do is drive me around for one night, and then, poof, I’ll disappear,” he reminds me, stretching his fingers out in a simple pantomime as he says the word poof. “This whole thing can really be that simple.”

“I understand.”

Eddie lowers his sunglasses a bit, offering me a wink over the pink, heart-shaped rim before pushing them back onto his face. “Rock ’n’ roll. Don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

With that, he shuts the door and strolls away, disappearing into the night.

The second Eddie leaves my sight, a strange feeling washes over me. It’s similar to what I experienced back at the diner.

Am I dreaming? Is this actually happening?

The events of this evening have been so surreal that it’s honestly hard to tell. Now that I’m no longer staring at a reanimated corpse as it dances around, the logical part of my brain is beginning to question if he was ever there at all. Of course, there’s a simple enough way to test this. As Eddie left me, his instructions were clear: Don’t draw any attention.

I gaze down at the car horn just below my hands, considering how easy it would be to cause a ruckus.

Then again, even if I weren’t bound by some demonic power, is drawing attention the best course of action? Right now, it seems like I’m on Eddie’s good side, and there are much worse things I could be doing than driving around a queer icon.

What about the money?

A hearty punch of disappointment strikes me in the gut. If Eddie and I part ways, I certainly won’t be getting paid in full.

Right now, there are too many unanswered questions to contend with, too many variables churning through my skull. I can’t tackle this whole thing at once, so I need to move through each piece one by one.

I center my focus and gaze down at my hands, commanding them to press the truck horn. Nothing happens. It’s the same feeling I’ve had plenty of times this evening, a complete disconnect between my brain and my body.

“Fuck,” I sigh, thinking of all the places I’d rather be. Visions of Marlo cloud my mind as I imagine her tucked into bed while Noah snoozes loudly on the living room couch, Netflix politely asking if he’s still watching.

I try pressing my hands down again, and again, and again.

Again.

Again.

Aga–

Suddenly, my breath catches. I feel the slightest bit of tension within my muscles, a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch lurking somewhere beneath my flesh.

Unfortunately, the change is so faint that even taking note of it amounts to little more than a heart-wrenching disappointment. This is less “hopeful sign” and more “declaration of the awe-inspiring power I’m up against.”

The resistance makes it feel like I’m struggling to push over some colossal boulder, and every time I press my weight against the object it simply ignores my mass. It’s possible that the slight tremor in my fingertips was a budge of the mighty stone, but what the hell does that matter? A budge won’t cut it.

I close my eyes and lean back, trying my best to settle and relax, but I’m unable to calm my racing brain. A horde of questions keep rearing up and making themselves known, but eventually one curious thought sticks.

Why did he handcuff me if he could just tell me to stay put?

I consider this for a moment, but it doesn’t take me long to arrive at a decent potential answer. It’s because his powers wear off over time.

I open my eyes and sit up, staring at the car horn below my fingertips. Once again, I try to force my hands down, and once again, I fail. However, the twitch in my muscles is a little more apparent this time around.

“Holy shit,” I murmur.

I glance at the dashboard clock, noting that it’s been four minutes since Eddie left. I try my best to extrapolate what that will mean for my bodily autonomy moving forward, but the calculation is impossible. I barely understand my paralysis in the present, let alone the future.

The next few minutes are spent focusing all my willpower on pushing down the car horn, with mixed results. To my relief, I actually start to see some real movement, my hand now capable of lowering a few centimeters before drifting back up into its previous position, but every passing moment that I don’t press the horn only increases the likelihood of Eddie’s return.

He said fifteen or twenty minutes, I remind myself as I cross the fifteen-minute threshold.

As if manifested by my own thoughts, I notice a figure emerging from the darkness, my heart skipping a beat as the shape makes its way down the alley. This feeling of alarm is accompanied by a surge of disappointment that my experiment’s been cut short, but seconds later everything shifts again.

The figure walking toward me isn’t Eddie. In fact, he’s not even walking. Instead, I find myself observing a young man on a skateboard, likely around twenty years old. He’s rolling casually over the fractured cement, looking beleaguered after a long night, or maybe a little drunk.

Panic envelops me. I put all the effort I can muster into pressing the horn, my hands trembling as they drop slightly and then lift back up. I can feel the plastic of the steering wheel as it bumps against my fingertips, the pressure starting to build and then disappearing when my motivation fumbles.

The skateboarder is about ten feet away now, but he’s focused on something else. He doesn’t see me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Realizing now that the horn isn’t going to work, I try a different approach. I open my mouth and put all the force of my lungs into calling for him, desperate to produce a sound but coming up short. I can feel my throat just barely starting to tighten, then suddenly it relaxes as the air’s about to make its way out.

The young man is five feet from my bumper now, casually gliding past on his board as concrete hums under the wheels. He’s looking straight ahead, completely unaware of my presence within the darkened truck cab.

As he passes my window I make one last attempt, putting everything I’ve got into a single burst of sound. I don’t even try shaping it into words, just focus on volume and strength, and to my shock this technique finally produces a lone staccato result.

“Yuh!” I grunt, a primal, one-syllable expression that comes out in a strangled huff. It’s mercifully louder than I expected.

The skateboarder’s head immediately turns. He drops one foot to the pavement, grinding to a halt as he squints into the truck. I stare directly at him, trying my best to produce a coherent verbalization but coming up short. All the resolve I could muster was expelled with that yelp, and now I’m exhausted.

“Hello?” the young man says, stepping closer to my window.

I’m straining with all my might to compel this horrifically sluggish body into action, and it’s only now that I realize I’ve felt this way before, just never in reality. This is the sensation of nightmares, that suffocating quicksand pacing that somehow manifests in only the most hideous dreams.

“Huuuh,” I finally groan. I manage to open and close my mouth a few times, as if stretching my lips might somehow make the words easier to form, but my next attempt is just as awkward. “Yuh! Ya!”

The skater furrows his brow. Seconds later, his expression abruptly shifts and he starts to laugh. “Holy shit.” He chuckles. “You’re so fucking wasted.”

Behind him, way down the lane, another figure emerges from the shadows. There’s no question who’s sauntering toward me this time, the faint light of the alleyway just enough to make his sequin-covered outfit sparkle under the luminous moon above.

Regret swells as I’m suddenly forced to acknowledge that I’ve brought someone into this who never should’ve been involved. Eddie claimed he’ll let me go after our night is finished—a claim I’m still deeply skeptical of—but what about some random skateboarder?

Realizing I won’t be able to explain much with my words, I return my efforts to the horn. I’m not sure what good it will do, but if I can muster up any warning at all, I’m willing to give it a shot. Maybe I can get the skater to look back and see Eddie coming, or even draw the attention of nearby neighbors.

With this final push, I somehow manage to lower my hands. The pad at the center of my steering wheel compresses as I brace for the ear-splitting honk.

Nothing happens.

No sound fills the alley. No blurt of compressed air causes the skater to jump in alarm and then take off running—just silence. I slam all my force down on the horn again and again, tears filling my eyes as adrenaline overwhelms me.

“Hey there, Evel Knievel,” Eddie calls out. “Why don’t you come over here so I can talk to you for a minute?”

The skater’s expression immediately changes, confusion disappearing as he turns and walks away from me. Crawling tentacles of dread slowly wrap themselves around my heart, tightening their grip.

I helplessly watch as Eddie and the young man have a conversation in the shadows, but the longer I watch, the more my fear begins to slip away. For some reason, I expected Eddie to be upset, but based on his expression I’d say he’s anything but. Eddie is actually laughing now, patting the skater’s shoulder.

The young man seems equally thrilled. He gestures wildly as Eddie nods along, then shrugs, then says something to make the young man grin. The skater puts his fist to his mouth in an exaggerated display of enthusiasm.

Finally, Eddie turns and strolls back to me. He opens the door and climbs in as the scent of popcorn floods my nostrils.

“I disconnected the horn,” Eddie says flatly. “I did it at the diner, before we got back in the truck. Remember when I told you I’m in control here?”

“Yes.”

Eddie shifts in the passenger seat, looking directly at me now. His smile is nowhere to be found. “You should’ve listened,” he says.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer.

Eddie holds my gaze for a moment, then softens as he throws his hands up in a shrug that roughly translates to C’est la vie.

“It’s partially my fault,” Eddie admits. “I really should know better by now, I should, but I always like to give you little fuckers the benefit of the doubt. It’s a lot more pleasant this way, and honestly, it’s not my intent to hurt you. I love you, believe it or not.”

I want to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but quickly discover Eddie’s previous command for no questions hasn’t quite worn off yet. Instead, I just grunt.

“You may ask questions.” Eddie sighs, annoyed. “Speak.”

The words suddenly erupt from within me. “What the hell are you talking about?” I blubber. “What is this?”

“That’s what you wanted to ask?” Eddie scoffs. He shakes his head and faces forward again, still talking, but chatting with himself now. “The real question is, should I pick up my new outfit at the start of the night or the end, you know? You’d think that should come last, just to avoid situations like this, but after all these years I still think fashion first is the way to go. Gotta make sure your chorus hook is killer before you go fucking around with the verses.”

My eyes drift over to the skater, who now stands awkwardly in front of the truck, his body shrouded by night.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Eddie assures me. “Honestly, tonight’s gonna be much more fun now, and what’s the point of living if you’re not gonna have some fun? You know?”

“What did you say to him?” I ask, my eyes still locked on the young man standing before us.

“No spoilers!” Eddie says. “Just remember, I tried to play this differently. I wanted a nice, easy night, but now we’re gonna shift gears. Alright … turn on the lights. Don’t try to escape. Don’t drive away. Just watch.”

Eddie hands me the keys and I immediately put them to use. Our vehicle roars to life, bathing the young man before us in the lights’ yellow glow.

“Aaaaand spotlight up!” Eddie shouts, gleefully clapping his hands together.

The skater stands at attention. “I’m Captain Danger!” he yells at the top of his lungs, shouting like he’s responding to a drill sergeant. “And this is the Splitting Headache!”

“Oh God,” Eddie blurts, his face immediately faltering. He settles into the passenger seat and skeptically eyes the young man.

The skater turns away from us, then stops, considering something. Suddenly, he changes direction, jogging over to the passenger side.

Eddie rolls down his window. “Yes?”

The skater leans in. He acknowledges me with a casual upward chin tilt, then turns his attention back to Eddie. “Hey, can you crank up some Reel Big Fish?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying to me,” Eddie sighs.

“You got any ska?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Eddie retorts, then rolls up his window before the young man can respond. Eddie turns to me. “I’m really sorry about this, sport. I wanted it to be a whole moment, and now it’s just a goddamn clown show … not that there’s anything wrong with a proper clown show.”

“What is this?” I murmur again, now more to myself than to Eddie. My eyes stay glued on the skater as he moves back through our headlights, crossing the alley and approaching a dumpster on the other side.

“It’s an embarrassment, is what it is,” Eddie retorts. “But we’ll find some talent tonight, don’t you worry.”

Our star analyzes the dumpster a bit, then places his skateboard on the closed plastic lid. He grips the side of the bin and hoists himself up.

“Okay, here we go!” Eddie says, excitement brewing. “This is something.”

It takes a moment for the skater to find his footing, but eventually he’s able to pick up the board and toss it onto the roof of a nearby carport. From there, he takes a small leap and somehow manages to follow it, throwing one leg over the edge of the carport roof and then using all his strength to heave his body after.

“He shouldn’t be up there,” I say, already sensing that this simple observation is the whole point. Deep down, I know something terrible is about to happen, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I’m psychically compelled into this state of observation, watching intently despite the terrible urge to avert my eyes.

The young man stands up, his slender frame balanced on the edge of the carport and facing the alley below. Tears are streaming down his face, defying his otherwise chipper expression. He glances over at us and gives a thumbs-up, then takes his skateboard and holds it vertically before him.

The young man takes the front edge of his wooden board and places it in his mouth, tightly gripping each side with his hands.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasp.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the skater leans forward and tumbles from the edge of the carport. His movement is direct and unflinching, a surreal confidence in his technique as he plummets toward the pavement below. He’s full speed ahead all the way down, diving as though he’s headed toward the safety of a cool, deep swimming pool.

The whole thing takes less than a second.

The board’s bottom tip hits first, striking the pavement and immediately halting its downward momentum. All that energy radiates upward into the wood, which has been placed squarely between the young man’s jaws.

There’s an audible pop as his head snaps back at an inhuman angle, not breaking at the neck like you might expect, but at the dead center of his face. A slash of red appears across the skater’s maw in a horizontal tear, one giant smile rendered by splintered wood. His body hits the pavement with a hollow thump, followed by the soft hum of four clay wheels as a cracked, bloody skateboard rolls away.

I’m trying to speak, but no words will come out.

“Alright, fair play. That was actually pretty good,” Eddie proclaims.

Club Flamingo

A horrible wave of sickness washes over me, causing my entire body to reflexively heave as though I’m about to spill my own guts out of my throat. I choke a bit, opening and closing my mouth as my arms jerk from side to side, tugging against the handcuffs. A strange heat floods my nervous system, the feeling made infinitely more terrible by the fact there’s nowhere I can run and nothing I can do to quell it.

Before us in the headlights, one of the skateboarder’s arms flaps grotesquely against the concrete as blood slowly pools around him. He’s relatively still other than this, save for the aimless rolling of his eyes and the slight twitch of his gurgling tongue—a tongue that seems much too long now that his whole face has been split in half.

“Oh my fucking God, oh my fucking God,” I repeat to myself, the anxious flame burning hotter and hotter until it sets me ablaze.

I’ve completely lost myself to the panic, no longer in control, and the feeling is just as terrible as I remember it. It takes me back to when I was a young girl, hopeless and helpless in a way I swore I’d never feel again.

Yet here I am.

The phrase grows louder, individual syllables devolving into a frantic, squealing mess as they rip through my vocal cords. Soon enough, I’m just screaming, letting all this emotion blast out of my esophagus because that’s the only way to release me from its terrible strangulation.

“Alright, alright,” Eddie finally interjects. “Calm down.”

The efficiency of his words is both impressive and terrifying, surging across me as though it’s a heartstopping dose of morphine pumped directly through an IV drip. My muscles release in a mighty wave, starting at my brain stem and then pulsing outward.

“You don’t care about him,” Eddie informs me, and now he’s right: I don’t.

I wipe the tears from my eyes, watching as the body finally stops moving.

“That better, sport?” Eddie asks.

“I don’t know.”

On one hand, eliminating the weight of that excruciating emotional torment is nothing short of a miracle, but now that my care for the young skater has dissolved into nothing, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that I’ve felt this kind of indifference before: drifting through the halls of a dozen different funeral homes and simmering just under the surface of every morbid back-alley transaction.

He’s just a body now, not a person.

I’ve never actually witnessed a brutal death like this, never been up close to see the light leave someone’s eyes.

Folks say you can catch the very instant this transition occurs—the moment when someone changes from a living, breathing thing with thoughts and hopes and dreams to a mound of stiff flesh—but now I’m not so sure.

In this case, it’s a lot sloppier than I imagined.

“Don’t try to escape. Don’t attack me. Just … be cool,” Eddie says, reaching over and undoing my handcuffs. There’s a faint metallic pop as they spring open, relieving the immense pressure on my wrists.

I massage my chafed skin.

“You see that kid out there choking on his own front teeth?” Eddie continues. “That’s your fault. I can’t trust you now, which means for the rest of the night you’re gonna have to come inside with me.”

My mind starts racing, hunting for any clues that hide between the lines of what he’s saying. I quickly bump up against a variety of mental roadblocks, forbidden to contemplate any path that directly leads to my escape.

Eddie told me to refrain from any getaway plans, and within the depths of my mind I can now sense a host of strange, quarantined partitions. It feels like walking through my home and suddenly finding that a once-familiar bedroom has transformed into a blank, empty space. Some uncanny, impenetrable wall of darkness has sprung up to block my path, and when I try remembering what’s behind it I’m at a loss. I know a room is in there somewhere—a well-known room—but I have no recollection of what it looked like.

There are still other rooms to explore, though. I can still rap my knuckles on the walls and ponder the overall mystery of what’s actually going on here.

Eddie has confirmed my earlier suspicion, that his control over others has a finite limit in terms of time and distance. Yes, he’s incredibly powerful, but after fifteen or twenty minutes of separation that power seems to wane. The second Eddie left me in the truck he was on a timer, and unfortunately for him that timer expired. The failsafe was a veil of trust, buttering me up and making me think he’s nothing more than a cool guy in a bad situation.

That’s enough when the guy in question is your hero, but my trust has shattered like a jawbone on the lip of an upturned skateboard.

Eddie carefully unfolds his mysterious sheet of paper. He looks it over for a moment, then folds it back up and returns it to his pocket.

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” I blurt.

I’ll admit, being this direct might not be the best strategy, but for the briefest moment my racing mind gets too far ahead of my lips and the question comes tumbling out with a resounding thud.

Eddie hesitates. “That depends on what you mean by kill, and what you mean by me.”

I have no idea how to interpret this batshit existential response, but before I get the chance, my undead companion nods through our windshield.

“Drive,” Eddie commands. “Head downtown.”

I involuntarily press the gas pedal, rumbling onward.

As we turn onto the main street, Eddie lets out a long sigh, air rattling through the shattered bones of his neck. “I’m sorry, sport, I’m a bit of a mess tonight,” he admits, shaking his head. “I usually have more time to plan, but drunk driving is a real bitch. Someone has one too many mi-mos for brunch and the next thing you know, you’re in crisis mode.”

Eddie sits with this for a moment, mulling it over.

“Maybe I should do a PSA,” he ponders aloud, then nods in confirmation. “I’ll do a PSA. This is bullshit.”

* * *

It’s a short jaunt to our next destination, and soon enough I’m pulling over on a quiet side street just off the main downtown drag.

“Here we are,” Eddie announces. “Didn’t think we’d end up clubbing tonight, did you?”

The second I open my door I hear thundering music from all the way down the block, a meaty electronic kick drum rumbling through the surrounding businesses and finally arriving at my ears as a muffled pulse. All the gift shops and cafés are closed, but on the distant corner a single source of movement and energy draws my attention.

This is Club Flamingo, a Palm Springs staple and one of the most popular gay bars on this side of town.

I’ve spent more than my share of late nights within those glorious walls. The building exudes a specific kind of youthful, celebratory queerness, dripping with rainbow flags and vibrating to the tune of every season’s fresh pop hits.

More than anything, I recognize this is a great place to generate content. Ladies’ night at Club Flamingo is legendary, especially when it comes to stoking FOMO in your audience.

“Follow close and don’t draw extra attention to yourself,” Eddie says, strolling confidently ahead as I trail behind.

“That’s not gonna be easy,” I reply. “I make content here. People recognize me.”

Eddie glances back over his shoulder, an amused smirk radiating across his face.

“What?” I press.

Eddie chuckles. “Are you some kind of … influencer?” He rolls out the last word with a hearty portion of disdain.

“So what if I am? I’ve got two hundred and sixteen thousand followers.”

Eddie just shakes his head. “Your generation is doomed.”

“My generation? You were in the closet for longer than I’ve been alive, old man.”

Eddie halts and turns to face me on the darkened sidewalk. “Now is not the time to get into this, but since we’re talking about it, we might as well talk about it.”

“Talk about what?” I snap.

Eddie places two fingers against each temple, as though he’s bracing for the world’s most ferocious migraine. “All this,” he announces, removing his fingers and waving them before me in a loose, wandering circle. “It’s all nothing. You say you’re an influencer, but what do you actually do?”

“Fashion,” I retort.

“Fashion?!” he shrieks. “Is that what you call it?”

He motions toward my inconspicuous hoodie and jeans, a perfectly bland outfit meant to avoid unwanted attention on this very important evening.

“I’m dressed for work,” I counter. “The other work.”

“Right,” Eddie scoffs. “Well, let’s try that again. I know you answered truthfully the first time, because I made you, but I don’t think you really thought about it. Dig deep here, sport. I know everyone in your generation wants to be an influencer, but what is it that you actually do?”

I can feel the truth bubbling out of me whether I want it to or not, the words searing my throat as they crawl from my lips. “I’m a grave robber.”

Eddie nods, oddly satisfied by this announcement. “Exactly,” he says. “Well, guess what? I’m gonna help you with that. I’m gonna give you everything you ever dreamed of and then some. You’ll be famous, not just for some bullshit social media page, but really, truly famous. All you have to do is stick with me and get through the evening. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Like … a deal with the devil?” I ask.

Eddie cocks his head to the side, momentarily confused, then straightens himself out. “Oh,” he blurts. “No. Not that.”

“So … what is it then?” I press.

“I’m gonna make you a star—an actress, maybe? A singer? The world is your oyster,” Eddie replies, blunt and direct. “No matter what happens tonight, I promise you this: we’re gonna get there together. You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

Eddie hesitates.

“Because I see something in you that I see in myself,” he finally says.

He holds my gaze for a long time, my own face reflecting back at me in the lenses of his dark sunglasses. Despite all the chaos and violence of the evening, this moment is oddly, darkly sweet.

However, the sweetness quickly dissolves when I notice something else about Eddie’s face. I haven’t observed him up close since we left our last stop, and now that I’m viewing the man head-on and motionless, I see that the left corner of his mouth is stained red. There’s also crimson smudging along his neck, running all the way down to his collar where splatters bloom in tiny droplets.

“I’m sorry I came at you like that,” Eddie finally adds. “The social media stuff. The hundred thousand followers.”

“Two hundred and sixteen thousand.”

“Whatever,” Eddie says. “It’s impressive … in its own way. I mean, I’d rather be famous for actually doing something but …” He trails off, suddenly uncomfortable. “You’re alright.”

With that, Eddie turns and continues down the sidewalk. The compulsive part of my brain immediately kicks into gear, commanding me to follow him.

The pounding rhythms grow louder and more coherent as we approach Club Flamingo, higher frequencies gradually making their way into the mix. It’s only now that I recognize this song as the Eddie Michaels and Dua Lipa collaboration I used on my memorial upload.

The place is packed. A handful of revelers stand outside the bar, smoking and chatting and flirting in a way that makes me yearn for just another night on the town. Someone shakes their head when they see us approaching, but another man with bright green hair nods in appreciation. “Nice costume,” he tells Eddie. “You work fast, sweetie.”

A few yards away, I spot a woman dressed up as Eddie in his infamous music video for the song “Down and Out,” a collaboration with the Portland indie band Late Canaries that is widely considered a quintessential out-ofthe-closet anthem.

It suddenly occurs to me why this bar is so crowded tonight. People have swarmed Club Flamingo to celebrate and mourn, to mark the passing of a queer icon by rocking out to all the hits and drinking their sorrows away from dusk till dawn.

Accordingly, a zombie Eddie Michaels fits right in, regardless of any tact or good taste.

Eddie chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. “This is so weird,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re supposed to be the famous one at Club Flamingo, but it seems like everyone here knows me!”

We approach the front door where a tall, muscular security guard blocks our path. The bald man is clad in a tight black shirt, his arms bulging out of their sleeves as he crosses them over his broad chest.

Eddie speaks before the guard can get a word out. “Where’s your security system?”

“In the back office.”

“Take me there,” Eddie instructs him.

The guard immediately nods, turning and leading us into the club.

We follow close behind, pushing our way through a hallway stuffed with partiers in various stages of undress, their bodies sliding across one another as we plunge into the throng. The music is deafening, vibrating through my entire body.

And it smells like popcorn.

From somewhere above us, purple swaths of blacklight shine down. Smiling teeth become brilliant under the glow, and various clothing designs seem to leap off their fabric with otherworldly luminescence.

My eyes are focused elsewhere, however. Something odd swirls around Eddie, brilliant pink specks now visible in the ultraviolet glow. They drift through the air like neon dust. From here, Eddie looks like a real-world PigPen from A Charlie Brown Christmas, which was one of just four VHS tapes we had at my first group home.

The dust seems to flicker in and out of existence, visible only under the shine of the blacklight and then disappearing once we’ve passed it. It’s likely the lilting flecks continue swirling around us, but they’re impossible to see without the ultraviolet rays amplifying their bubblegum glow.

We climb some stairs, then emerge into a much larger room, a central dance floor that makes up the heart of the structure. From up here we have an unobstructed view of the churning swarm below, a grinding mass of glitter-smeared, leather-wrapped bodies in a state of absolute revelry. This area is two stories high and wide open, a massive disco ball hanging at the center of the room and casting its dazzling reflections in every direction. Dancers are pushed against the railing in a throbbing mass. Music video projections move and swirl across the scene at various haphazard angles, images of Eddie behind a piano while Dua Lipa dances under a torrential downpour of indoor rain.

Most of the men here at Club Flamingo are shirtless and sweaty, but a fair portion are clad in Eddie-centric attire. Sometimes it’s a vintage tour shirt, other times a sparkling ornate costume of rhinestones and feathers.

A jealous pang shoots through me. I know what it feels like to lose myself in the music, and an evening on the dance floor is so much better than whatever tonight has become. I once felt like Eddie’s songs were my connection to something bigger than myself, tools of artistic transcendence that resonated in perfect harmony with the grand, cosmic truth of the universe.

As a soaring Eddie Michaels dance anthem churns around me, I have no doubt this is the same recording it’s always been. These are tunes I’ve heard a thousand times before, the melodies and lyrics carved into my heart. The resulting sensation, however, has mutated into something unfamiliar. Eddie’s voice sets me on edge, a certain foreboding now folded into it.

Our trio turns and skirts along the wall, avoiding the crowd as we make our way toward the back of the room.

The projected music video transitions to an older tune. We’re traveling back to the mid-nineties now, frame dimensions scrunching inward and imagery bathed in a nostalgic haze of film. The track is “Pacific Coast Highway,” one of Eddie’s few singles that was a complete and utter flop. You don’t hear this cut very often, but on the night of an icon’s death, the whole world pretends they were always on board.

A projection of Eddie Michaels behind the wheel of a bright blue Cadillac flickers across every wall. As much of a fan as I am, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this video before, and I can’t help the way my eyes are drawn to its glorious nostalgic scenery. Eddie belts out the verse as he cruises down the titular Pacific Coast Highway, joyfully announcing all the things he loves about California.

We’ve nearly crossed the upper balcony now, making our way toward an inconspicuous back hallway. The video projections are nearly out of sight when something grips my mind and yanks me back into focus. It’s a terrible realization, one that drags my perception of this mysterious evening even deeper into the bog of absolute dread.

Eddie can drive.

There he is with the wind in his stark white hair and his hands on the wheel, not a care in the world as he rockets toward Malibu, the sunset blooming over his shoulders.

Eddie. Can. Drive.

And if Eddie can drive, then why the fuck am I here?

This new information crackles and sparks within me as the borders of tonight’s puzzle expand a little wider. Up until this point, a whole plethora of things about our mission could’ve been chalked up to random chance, but suddenly random chance is starting to feel like a plan.

There’s no time to dwell on this new information, however. I swiftly tuck my thoughts away in my mental filing cabinet, saving them for later. I can’t let anything get in the way of the present.

What I need to think about right now is survival, and that means collecting as much information as possible, not obsessing over a single piece.

We enter the hallway, then push into a messy back office. Here, another muscular guy sits behind a large wooden desk. He straightens up, a confused look on his face as halts mid-bite on the sandwich he’s wolfing down.

“You won’t run away or try to escape,” Eddie loudly proclaims. “Don’t yell. Don’t scream. Stay calm.”

The man behind the desk relaxes, leaning back in his chair and continuing his meal. The security guard who followed us in here is equally casual in his demeanor, settling on a nearby couch.

Eddie closes the door behind us, muffling the thunderous music. He locks the door, then turns back to the guards. This room is small. Posters for DJ nights and drag shows hang everywhere, most of them half covered by a new flyer for some even more pressing event. The back wall features various office supplies stacked high on a shelf, then cascading out across a giant desk. There are printers and filing cabinets and paper cutters and cups full of pens and tape and scissors and a computer monitor.

The other half of this room serves as a break area, two ratty old couches facing each other and a small refrigerator tucked into the corner. There’s another door next to the fridge, probably leading even deeper into the building.

“Delete all your security footage from today and turn off the cameras,” Eddie commands, immediately prompting the security guards into action. The one behind the desk turns away from his sandwich and logs on to the desktop computer, swiftly typing in a password then focusing on the screen as he darts his mouse around. The other guard just stands in place behind him, watching intently and double-checking his work.

Eddie strolls casually back and forth as he waits, running his fingers gently along the shelf of office supplies.

Eventually, the security guard stops clicking and typing. He turns his attention back to Eddie.

“You finished?” Eddie asks.

The guards nod in unison.

Eddie pulls out his sheet of paper and opens it up. “Your boss lists this as his residential address. Henry Malton? He has an apartment above the club, yes?”

The security guards nod again.

“Is he in tonight? Maybe right through that door?”

The nodding continues.

Eddie smiles, picking up a pair of scissors from the shelf. “Catch!” he calls out, prompting one of the men to do just that.

The security guard gazes down at the large, sharp blades, confused by the implication.

Unfortunately, I already know where this is headed. “Wait!” I blurt. “Stop!”

“You two,” Eddie says, ignoring me as he lazily twirls a finger at the men. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but you’re gonna have to kill each other. Get creative with it. When I get back, I better find something interesting.”

“No!” I shout, moving to intervene before Eddie cuts me off.

“Stop right there!” he bellows. “I should make you watch every second of this. Maybe then you’ll quit fucking around and get on board.”

The guards begin to wander, opening drawers and pulling out whatever tools they can find. The one with the scissors seems satisfied with his choice, stabbing them through the air like a batter checking his swing at home plate. The other man gets to work deconstructing the paper cutter, struggling to remove its razor-sharp handle from the rest of the device.

“They’re not gonna tell anyone!” I plead. “Please stop! They’re people!”

“When you’ve been around as long as I have, you start to understand what people really means,” Eddie replies. “There are a few beautiful, transcendent diamonds in the rough, but most folks don’t amount to much, sport. The least they can do is provide a little entertainment on the way out.”

There’s a metallic crack as the struggling guard finally manages to yank the bladed handle from his paper cutter, grinning excitedly as he brandishes this newfound weapon.

“You think this caveman is gonna be painting the Mona Lisa any time soon?” Eddie jokes. “Come on.”

“Please don’t,” I beg.

“Just wait here,” Eddie sighs. “I’ve got one little thing to take care of, then we’ll be on our way.”

“You can’t do this.”

“They’ll identify us in a lineup,” Eddie states, his steadfast confidence ripping my heart in half. None of this is up for debate. Eddie is too brutal to be swayed by emotional pleas and too methodical to consider outside logic.

These decisions were already made when we walked through the front door.

Next to us, one of the security guards places his hand flat on the desk, holding it in place while his companion raises the disconnected paper-cutter blade.

“Wait!” I shriek. “Just make it quick! Don’t let th—”

The blade comes down with a sickening thump, slicing halfway through the guard’s wrist and bouncing off the bone. A thick ejection of dark red blood shoots across the wooden desk, then more starts pooling around his hand in steady pumps. The man barely flinches. Instead, he starts offering pointers. “Maybe if I got down a little bit more,” he says, kneeling next to the desk so that his arm stays flat and his companion can swing at a vertical angle.

“Alright, time out!” Eddie suddenly erupts. “Freeze! Everyone stop talking for a minute.”

The security guards halt in place, seconds away from another chop.

My eyes are trapped in a straightforward gaze as Eddie steps into position before me. I can see my face reflected back in the darkness of his bedazzled, heart-rimmed sunglasses.

“I didn’t wanna do this, because I’ve got more important things to focus on tonight, but I’ve just gotta say it,” Eddie begins, clearly frustrated. “This right here is the problem with your generation. Do you think I became the world’s greatest entertainer by just getting it over with? Live your life with a little fucking pizzazz, sport. If these men are going to die, do you really think it’s fair for them to kick off in a way that’s boring? To die a boring death is hell. It’s literal hell.”

I can feel tears welling up, the emotional toll of this situation simply too much for my body to handle.

“When I was coming up, people understood the value of artistry. They appreciated quality entertainment,” Eddie continues. “Do you have any idea what it was like to take direction from the Bard himself, in the fucking round, and then live long enough to witness the rise of TikTok?!”

Despite my heightened emotions, I can’t help noticing the bizarre implications of this statement.

Eddie puts his hand to his forehead in an exaggerated gesture of fatigue, pretending he’s about to faint. “There’s so much more to life than how many likes you can get,” he continues. “Fame—real fame—is a gift exchange. It’s an artist trading with the audience. It’s an experience swapped for precious time. These days, nobody seems to care about the experience, they just expect everyone else’s time for doing absolutely fucking nothing.”

Eddie places a cold hand on my shoulder, keeping it there for an unusually long beat. I imagine a single eye staring into mine from behind those dark shades.

“You may speak. Tell me if you understand,” he commands.

I can feel the stoplight flickering green on a previously blocked neural pathway, one open lane in a city of gridlock.

I’m in awe of Eddie’s control with this uncanny talent. Sometimes, the things he says will disrupt only a small piece of a previous instruction. Other times, he’ll erase the whole thing. With a little focus, he seems to be able to wield these results at will.

“I understand,” I confirm, my voice trembling.

It suddenly dawns on me that this could be the end of the road, the point at which my companion reveals my services are no longer needed. With the snap of his fingers, Eddie could turn this one-on-one security guard matchup into a free-for-all as young Poppy Stringer enters the fray.

I brace myself for some inevitable eruption of violence.

Eddie makes his move, stepping in close, but his body language surprises me. The undead singer opens his arms wide, embracing me with a powerful hug.

“Fine,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I reply, not quite sure what he wants me to say.

Eddie pulls back and nods. “Turn around and stare at the wall.”

My body is compelled to follow his instructions, rotating so that I’m facing away from the guards.

“These two mean nothing to you,” Eddie says, a command rather than a reassurance. “Whatever you hear … it’s all just dandy.”

Another balm on my soul, that glorious, soothing feeling of indifference sweeping across me in a wave.

Eddie turns and heads toward the other door. I can hear him open it, then pause.

“Okay, my beautiful lunkhead security guards,” he cheerfully exclaims. “Chop each other up! Impress me!”

Eddie makes his exit, disappearing into the next room. I watch him go in the periphery of my vision, taking note of the fact that he doesn’t close the door behind him. I can’t see much from my frozen angle, but there’s something about this detail that strikes me as odd.

I file it away next to the rest of the little things I’ve noticed, one more mental folder in this ever-growing cabinet labeled THE BIZARRE QUIRKS AND INCONSISTENCIES OF UNDEAD EDDIE MICHAELS.

Behind me, the men get back to work.

My body flinches at the next loud thump, a dull metal blade chopping its way through flesh and bone. The swings are firm and direct, rattling the desk below.

It’s not long before the men move on to other tools, curious snips and tears joining the auditory soundscape. These noises become wetter and wetter as they go, and soon a grotesque sloppiness finds its way into the mix. At one point, a distinct, hollow scraping fills the air, then the sound of a messy tug. I’m reminded of someone ripping the seeds and pulp through the top of a carved pumpkin.

Despite my initial flinch—which was more about the volume of the sound than the meaning behind it—I find myself completely disconnected from the audio drama playing out behind me. I recognize it as macabre and violent, but there’s none of the emotional weight I expect. I might as well be listening to some mischievous cartoon woodchuck and a frustrated hunter bonk each other’s heads with oversized mallets.

I just can’t muster the will to care.

The security guards have likely found themselves on a similar plane of disconnection, focused diligently on their task without a shred of resistance. There are no voices whimpering or pleading or crying behind me, just the occasional instruction to place a “limb here” or a “finger there,” followed by a few breathless huffs after any particularly loud chop.

It is what it is. I still don’t react.

What I do connect with, however, is an overwhelming sense of danger that hums through me. Being fine with everything that happens behind me doesn’t suspend my knowledge of the situation at large.

Strangely, gazing at the wall is one of the first times I’ve had a chance to really sit and think this evening, no longer rushing from place to place or struggling to honk the horn of my truck. I’m finally able to take inventory, and despite the numerous little threads of information that twist and tangle within my mind, one glaring truth shines through.

I can’t let Marlo grow up without a mother.

The tears finally roll down my cheeks in long, salty lines, but I’m unable to wipe them away. I simmer with my emotions. I let them grow and bloom and unfurl within me, recognizing these feelings as the fuel they are.

This is my power. This is my will to escape.

Behind me, the sounds eventually die down, first with a loud crash and then two hollow thumps. Blood loss is probably the ultimate culprit.

It’s not long before Eddie makes his triumphant return, stepping back into the office and cackling with delight at the scene he’s discovered.

“Well, hello!” He laughs, still little more than a blur in my peripheral vision. He claps his hands a few times in exaggerated applause. “I’m honestly shocked by the creativity here. This is delightful.”

“Let’s go,” I demand.

“You sure you don’t wanna see this?” Eddie chides. “Someone stapled a tongue to the wall. I know I said impress me, but I honestly didn’t expect this kind of … vision. I feel kinda bad now; one of these brutes might’ve had some promise in the art world.”

“I don’t care,” I remind Eddie. “You should feel bad, though. You didn’t need to hurt that skateboarder.”

Eddie lets out a long sigh. “Jesus Christ, do you have a funeral every time you swat a fly, too?”

“That’s not even close to the same thing.”

“It’s closer than you’d think,” Eddie quips, then snaps his fingers. “Come on, sport. Let’s roll.”

The second he says this my body loosens up, allowing me the freedom to quickly wipe away my tears. It’s a relief, but it’s also a sign of work to be done. I’ve been a passenger on this journey for far too long, collecting information but unable to act.

My autonomy comes and goes around Eddie Michaels, but this moment is an important reminder of the range and variation within these morsels of free will. Sometimes I’m completely frozen in place, other times I’m simply instructed to “drive” or “follow,” vague commands with room for interpretation.

There’s variation here, and variation leads to mistakes.

Now all I have to do is find the right moment.

Sick

Are you angry?” Eddie asks from the passenger seat, finally addressing the quiet fury simmering within me. “You seem angry.”

I might’ve considered being deceptive with my answer, keeping my cards close to the chest, but Eddie’s uncanny persuasion doesn’t allow this grace.

“Yes,” I blurt, compelled to speak the truth.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a murderous sociopath,” I remind him.

“Tell us how you really feel!” He laughs.

“I feel like I want to escape.”

Eddie nods. “Yep, it’s about that time. You don’t want to escape. You’re not upset by the death you’ve seen tonight.”

And just like that, I feel so much better. I stop thinking about all the horrific violence, dwelling instead on the curious scent of popcorn that seems to permeate everything.

Eddie is careful to roll out a constant parade of instructions, diligently reupping his commands for me not to run away, and keeping my mood stabilized. As an influencer, I can appreciate his commitment to a posting schedule, the walking corpse doling out a few simple words every twenty minutes or so.

Consistency is key, after all.

“Just two more stops,” Eddie informs me. “Then it’s over and done with.”

I nod.

“Do you believe me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because there’s absolutely no reason for you to keep me alive,” I state. “I don’t even know why you’ve got me driving this truck. It makes no sense.”

Eddie sits with this as he stares out the window. Palm Springs sweeps past us on either side, luxurious upturned spotlights illuminating giant fronds and succulents. Every once in a while we pass a cheeky neon sign, an ode to the city’s unflinching dedication to ’60s camp.

“A lot of people are motivated by hate and violence and greed,” Eddie finally says, his head still turned away as he watches the shifting landscape. “I can understand calling those people monsters. They are monsters.”

Eddie removes his sunglasses, taking a moment to itch the massive gaping hole where his right eye used to be. He puts his sunglasses back on.

“That’s not me,” he continues. “I just want to entertain. Is that so bad?”

As absurd as it might seem, I find myself instantly relating to this simple reflection. I know the feeling—the pull of the spotlight—but if there’s one thing I’ve realized over the course of this evening, it’s what actually matters when you’re knocking on death’s door. Since things went sideways, I haven’t worried about losing followers, but I’ve certainly worried about losing Marlo.

“There’s more to life than entertaining,” I say.

Eddie grins. “Gonna have to disagree with you there, sport. Food, water, shelter: that’s how we survive. Art is the why.”

If someone said this yesterday, I would’ve agreed with every fiber of my being. Hell, I probably would’ve taken a selfie and posted this little morsel of wisdom as the caption.

It’s a reasonable argument, but he’s leaving something out. Art makes life worth living, but it’s not the apex of humanity that Eddie seems to think it is. There’s another force out there pushing me onward, another racehorse steadily creeping up from behind.

Love.

Marlo is more important than any of this.

On my left, a long wall of lush, beautiful landscaping appears, the outer shell of yet another massive gated community.

“Here we go,” my undead passenger announces as I slow the vehicle, approaching our turn. “You don’t care if this guard dies.”

This entrance is the only break along an enormous, mile-long wall, a small divot where the well-manicured palms give way to a security booth and an enormous metal gate. I cruise up to the booth and come to a full stop, then roll down my window.

Standing to greet us, the guard lets out a loud snort and rubs the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are bright red and her skin pale, which seems odd until I notice the balled-up tissues covering her desk and a half-chugged bottle of bright orange DayQuil. A firearm is holstered on the woman’s belt and a large pit bull lies curled up at her feet, disinterested.

“Who are you here to see?” she asks, her voice muted by congestion.

Eddie leans over the middle seat and offers a friendly wave. “You should shoot yourself in the face,” he calls out, grinning wide.

The woman unclips her weapon. She pulls her gun from its holster.

A terrible realization crosses my mind, but as Eddie commanded, I’m not concerned for the security guard’s life or safety, I’m just deeply annoyed that I might get blood and brain splattered across my shirt.

The woman slowly lifts her gun, then stops.

What the fuck?

She furrows her brow, snorting again before clearing her throat. “Both of you, get out of the truck,” the woman demands.

Eddie’s smile falters. “What?”

“Out,” she presses, stepping back and pointing her weapon directly at him with one hand. She wipes her nose with the other.

“You’re sick,” Eddie mumbles, then repeats the words with a mixture of panic and rage. “Oh fuck, you’re sick!”

“Out of the truck! Now!” the security guard screams, swiveling her weapon toward me.

Eddie punches my chest—at least, I think that’s what’s happening. He doesn’t lift his hand back up, however, and it suddenly occurs to me that Eddie is pushing me back against the driver’s seat. It’s a maneuver so unexpected that—for a brief moment—I can’t even translate what it means, unwilling to accept the utterly bizarre answer sitting right in front of me.

He’s trying to protect me.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Eddie shrieks. “Go!”

The second Eddie utters this command everything snaps back into place like a race car slipping into gear, every mental lane wide open. The entirety of my subconscious mind shudders and lurches as it’s untethered from the one thing that was holding me back, a decree that has now been overwritten with a panicked, wide-ranging brush.

Don’t try to escape is no longer my primary objective. I need to get the fuck out of here.

The circumstances aren’t perfect—what with a gun in my face and all—but they’re what I’ve got.

“Don’t shoot me!” I scream, throwing off my seat belt and flinging open the door. “I’m being kidnapped!”

Before Eddie or the security guard has any idea what’s happening, I’ve cupped my hands over my ears and slipped from the vehicle.

I run. My feet pound against the pavement as night wraps itself around me and I barrel into the empty street, struggling to put as much distance between myself and Eddie as I possibly can. I’m too racked with adrenaline to know exactly where I’m headed just yet, simply understanding that I need to be somewhere else—anywhere else. Despite my best efforts to cover my ears, however, I can still hear Eddie’s passenger-side door slam shut as he leaps out after me.

“Goddamn it!” he bellows, beset with rage. “Sto—”

Before Eddie can make his command, something cuts him short and transforms his voice into a startled yelp. It’s such an unexpected shift that I can’t help glancing back for a quick look.

The security guard’s pit bull violently shakes and tugs Eddie’s arm, its jaws locked around him as it snarls and growls. This attack is extremely satisfying to witness, but Eddie’s reaction isn’t quite what I expected.

He should be screaming, should be howling in pain as he struggles to extract himself from the canine’s mighty grip. Instead, Eddie just looks annoyed. He drags the dog along, not at all slowed by the creature hanging from his wrist.

The security guard comes barreling around the side of the truck, her gun raised. “Stop!” she yells. “Get on the ground!”

At first, Eddie completely ignores her, but when the guard starts yelling into her radio for backup he finally turns around, throwing his one free hand in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

I turn and keep running.

Crossing the street, I find myself on the recently renovated grounds of a boutique motel, the campus sporting a distinctly hip “California desert” aesthetic. These buildings are covered with a stark white stucco, and a large set of bull horns hangs above the lobby doors. Nearby, a giant iron T leans against the outside wall of the lobby.

Despite the ungodly hour, there’s someone waiting for me when I burst through the door. A young man who’s been relaxing behind the counter immediately sits up in his chair, confused by the intensity of my entrance. “Welcome to the T, a curated lifestyle experience from Everett Vacation and Entertainment. How can I help you?”

I immediately crouch down, hissing through my teeth as though Eddie could possibly hear me all the way over here. “Call the cops!” I demand, then I scurry over to the window.

Pop! Pop!

Two resounding cracks echo through the night. The motel worker drops behind his desk, confused and frightened.

I carefully peer over the windowsill, gazing across the street to see Eddie lurching toward the security guard. She fires again, and again, and again, backed up to her booth now.

Meanwhile, the pit bull is retreating. The canine is injured enough to surrender, limping down the block with a broken hind leg and its tail tucked under its body.

The fact that Eddie was strong enough to quickly subdue a full-grown guard dog—to break the animal’s leg and yank its jaws open—is deeply concerning. I’m not sure how much pressure a pit bull is capable of exerting with those giant mandibles, but I’ve certainly never heard of a human breaking that grip, especially someone in his late sixties.

The security guard fires another shot, this one causing Eddie’s shoulder to jolt back as it absorbs the energy. Unfortunately, it doesn’t slow him down in the slightest, only adding to the oddity of Eddie’s staggering forward momentum.

Eddie tackles the security guard, landing on top of her and holding her down. He grabs her wrist with one hand and cracks it to the side, prompting her to let out a terrible shriek and release her weapon. He places his other hand on the woman’s face, holding her against the cement.

Eddie pauses a moment, then makes two swift movements. He pulls the woman upward with nothing but the incredible grip of his palm, lifting her head about two feet off the ground and then slamming her back down against the hard pavement.

The crack is so loud that I can hear it all the way over here, a hollow pop without a shred of resistance. Eddie’s hand pushes all the way through her, hitting the pavement below as the women’s face erupts through his fingers in a crimson sludge.

I still don’t care about the woman, just as Eddie instructed, but the sheer power of this violent display is nothing short of terrifying. His strength is uncanny, fueled by something well beyond the limits of the human form.

Eddie stands up, wobbling a bit as he struggles to get his bearings. I can see now that he’s covered in dark, coagulated blood—mostly from the bullet wounds and the dog bite—along with a fine mist of security guard–skull fragments and gray matter. The fabric around his forearm is shredded to pieces, dangling in tassels and mixed with strips of his own torn flesh, all leading down to his gnarled red hand. Eddie lurches awkwardly as he moves, a distinct flop to every swing of his leg that suggests a well-placed bullet has shattered the bone.

His gait is slightly more complex, though, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Anyone else with this kind of breakage should be writhing in pain, or at least keeping their weight focused on the opposite side of their body. Eddie does nothing of the sort, barely seeming to notice that his new leg length has given his stride a distinct pitch.

Then again, he also doesn’t seem to notice the hole in his head.

Eddie takes a few uncanny steps, then pauses in the middle of the road, glancing around in a way that immediately floods me with the slightest hint of relief. He’s lost the trail. When he opens his mouth to call out, I plug my ears and turn away. I’m not quite sure what will happen if I accidently read his lips, but I’m not willing to find out.

“You need to get out of here,” I warn the young clerk behind the counter.

I search the lobby for an exit that doesn’t involve backtracking through the front door, and it’s in this moment that I spot a small television tucked away behind the desk. It’s barely visible, angled to keep late-night workers entertained.

Someone’s been watching the news. Even from this awkward sight line, I recognize the breaking story banner that stretches across the bottom of the TV in brilliant red. A reporter is talking directly to the camera, and although I can’t hear her voice, a stream of subtitles translate the words for me.

“This is the latest in a series of bizarre homicides being carried out across Palm Springs,” the reporter says. I can see now that she’s standing outside Club Flamingo, positioned on the corner where Eddie and I stood just moments earlier.

“The trio of suspicious deaths joins one earlier victim who was also discovered entirely flayed, as well as a handful of ongoing disappearances,” the reporter continues, clearly struggling to remain professional. “Authorities are urging anyone with information about this unfolding situation to call the number below.”

It takes a moment for me to fully comprehend what she’s saying. Flayed means skinned, but I haven’t seen anyone get skinned tonight.

Is that what Eddie’s been doing when he leaves me in the car? If so, why? He’s just fine with me witnessing every other ghastly mutilation he comes up with.

This reminder of Eddie prompts me to glance back over the windowsill, horrified to find him lumbering across the road with his awkward new lurch. He’s headed for the motel.

Eddie’s command once again surges through my mind—get the fuck out of here—and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for my interpretation. A frantic instruction to escape could mean a lot of things, like running at a full clip in some random direction until I pass out or Eddie catches up with me, but I’m too methodical for that.

At some basic level, the core of my being knows that “get away” also implies “don’t be stupid about it.”

I slip out the front door with the few seconds I have left. This particular angle keeps me tucked away from Eddie’s sight line, at least for now, but my options of where to go from here are limited.

Palm Springs is full of these hipster retreats, boutique hotel chains revamping every scrappy old motel and turning them into something both luxurious and selfreferential. The campy desert aesthetic remains, in a way, but it’s been transformed into a haven for pool parties and social media posts.

I fucking love places like this, but the vibe is certainly different when you’re being chased down by the crazed superhuman corpse of a fabulous gay icon. A zombie who is, apparently, out there skinning people.

This property features a lobby and a diner out front, the two structures disconnected from each other. Located behind the diner is a large central pool area, and the guest rooms surround this oasis in a giant, two-story horseshoe. Because this is a high-end motel, there are no internal hallways, just door after door lined up along the pool and parking lot. There’s also no easy way out.

I hurry down the left side of this cement loop, wondering if I can hustle to the cover of some nearby cars, and then realize there’s absolutely no way I’ll make it without Eddie spotting me. There are just too many empty spaces.

Instead, I clock a nearby vending machine, scurry over, and duck behind the large rectangular device. This contraption is just far enough from the wall for me to wedge myself behind it, slipping into the crack so that I’m fully obscured save for from one very specific angle.

Old vending machines might seem like an odd thing to find at these updated boutique resorts, but that’s exactly the vibe they’re going for. This machine has been retrofitted with a paint job to match the casual beige-and-brown color scheme that surrounds it. The usual rows of sugary, caffeine-charged beverages and ranch-flavored potato chips have been replaced by a selection of quaint, Instafeed-worthy goods like postcards from local artists, a tarot deck, crystals, a tiny bottle of hot sauce, CBD gummies, and condoms.

Bells loudly jangle as Eddie yanks open the lobby door and heads inside, a reminder for me to cover my ears. I tuck my chin as I cower in the shadows, like tilting my head down might somehow make me even smaller, and it’s because of this angle that I notice a trail of ants. The creatures are hustling along in a thin, single-file line, charting a path between my feet.

They are organized and efficient, perfectly in sync with one another.

My eyes linger on the chain of insects, until suddenly their presence triggers a memory so profoundly important that, despite my steadfast dedication to staying quiet, a faint gasp slips through my lips.

My daughter’s poolside words dance through my mind. It’s called para-moans.

The mental filing cabinet springs open, folders leaping out and reorganizing themselves as new information pours in. I consider the bizarre scent that seems to permeate Eddie’s skin, but I also remember the lilting specks of neon pink dust that surrounded him like a cloud under the ultraviolet light. I recall Eddie’s decision to leave a door open in the back room of Club Flamingo, a seemingly insignificant choice that suddenly means a lot more when you consider one thing: airflow.

While most of my social media connections involve fashion and lifestyle, there are a few Instafeed suggestions that take me off the beaten path. Thanks to Marlo borrowing my phone from time to time, for every nine “get ready with me” videos, there will usually be one nature documentary. Typically, these clips come in the form of a rescued puppy or an unlikely animal friendship between a goat and a cheetah, but right now a different kind of nature clip sticks in my brain.

The video was about pheromones, tiny airborne particles used across the animal kingdom to create a variety of responses in those that receive them. It featured thousands of ants overwhelming a much larger insect, the pulsing throng of creatures working together with otherworldly efficiency.

But the explanation wasn’t supernatural, it was biological. They were using pheromones to communicate, the ant queen compelling an army into complex formations through the power of her scent. Across the animal kingdom, pheromones are known to cultivate attraction between various partners, but it’s not just sexual attraction. These airborne chemicals produce familial love, friendship, and in some cases, a blinding compulsion to trust.

I can still hear the voiceover: “In humans, pheromones are registered through our olfactory gland, a round mass of tissue located deep within our nasal passageways.”

I remove my cupped hands from my ears and, instead, use one of them to pinch my nose tight.

The only question is, will this be enough? It hasn’t been long since I inhaled a whiff of Eddie’s odd popcorn scent, and as far as I know his commands last around twenty minutes even after leaving the area.

If I were a surgeon, I’d have no problem removing my olfactory glands in the name of survival. Fuck it, who needs them? I’m not a surgeon, though, so whatever I come up with is bound to be a little sloppier.

I unplug my nose and carefully lean out from my hiding spot, peering through the lobby windows. Eddie is inside, but his focus is elsewhere, talking sternly to the front desk clerk. Directly to my right is the flat glass of the vending machine. I’m too close to get a clear look at every potential selection, but I don’t need every selection. I only need one.

My heart skips a beat as I catch sight of the tiny hot sauce bottle. I might not be able to remove my olfactory gland, but I can sure as hell confuse it.

I instinctively reach for my back pocket, then cringe when I remember that Eddie has my wallet. Fortunately, there are other options. This particular machine is as vintage as they come, likely picked up at a flea market and refurbished just enough to function. None of the modern bells and whistles are here to stop me from snapping off the rusty old lock that keeps its translucent front panel secured.

In that case, the only thing I have to worry about is noise.

I crouch down and find a small sharp rock, then stand back up and peer around the machine. The bells on the lobby door have yet to jangle, so Eddie is probably still inside, but he’s no longer visible through the windows.

With little time to spare I reach my arm around and bring my stone down onto the lock in one hard, swift movement. It snaps off, hitting the ground with a soft thunk that’s louder than I’d hoped, but not enough to alter course. I pop open the door, extract the hot sauce, then click it shut and immediately retreat around the corner.

There’s another ringing bell as someone, likely Eddie, staggers out of the lobby.

No time to think. No time to hesitate. I unscrew the cap and tilt my head back, then shove the tip up my nose and take an enormous sniff.

White-hot sensation rocks me like a firecracker to the face, more than just a wallop of spice but a shock to my entire nervous system. The sharp, blinding pain that rips through my sinuses is only the beginning, tears instantly pouring down my cheeks and swamping the back of my throat in an effort to combat this unexpected abuse. I can feel my stomach heave up into my esophagus, and it takes everything I can muster to push it back down, to deny the bodily rejection of this fiery toxic agent. My eyes are already swollen and puffy, struggling to stay open.

One thing’s for sure: I don’t smell any fucking popcorn.

“Spooort!” Eddie calls.

I slam the bottle tip up my other nostril and take a second oblivion-seeking huff, then plug my nose and bear down against the pain, barely suppressing my burning compulsion to gag or cough or throw up.

“Come on out!” Eddie booms. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

My body tenses up as I prepare for that terrible loss of control I’ve become so horribly familiar with. I’m braced for the inevitable, racked with dread over whatever retribution Eddie has in store.

But nothing happens.

I clamp my fingers even tighter onto my nose, immediately recognizing that I’ve stumbled across something important. Despite the horrible throbbing behind my face and the swelling of my nostrils, a sense of relief washes over me. I’m so overjoyed that I almost start laughing, shaking my head in amazement as the tears of pain are joined by tears of joy.

“It seems like our wires got crossed, because I thought you deserved a little dignity and respect,” Eddie shouts, “but it turns out I should’ve just made you tie your small intestine to the bumper of that piece-of-shit truck and let it roll away!

“You know what? That’s exactly what I’m gonna make you do! I’m going to stand you up in the middle of the road with a gash in your belly and your guts slowly unspooling.

“And when your insides run the entire length of Palm Canyon Drive, I want you to look back and think, ‘Hey! Maybe I should’ve listened to that nice man when he told me to not … fucking … run!’”

My emotions settle as I pull myself together, recognizing that avoiding Eddie’s commands is only one small part of the danger I’m in. He remains just a few yards away, a violent menace with a single goal radiating through whatever’s left of his cold, dead brain.

All he cares about is finding me.

I press myself against the wall even harder, as though I might somehow disappear completely into this little nook, my physical form dissolving into the shadows through sheer force of will. My heart is slamming so hard that it feels like I might be on my last legs anyway.

Poppy Stringer, dead of a heart attack at age twenty-seven.

Yet somehow, my body sustains itself, adjusting various chemical inputs and outputs and leveling out into something with a semblance of functionality. Pupils dilate, hormones adjust, senses sharpen. Something has already risen up within me to combat the capsaicin that is currently ravaging my eyes, nose, and throat, slowly dulling it and bringing me back down to a baseline.

Eddie’s silence has stretched for a very long time, and although I can’t actually see him from here, I can feel his stillness. He’s waiting for a sign, giving me a chance to slip up and reveal myself.

“Fuck!” Eddie abruptly shrieks, his fury manifesting in the violent eruption of this single word.

With that, I hear him shuffle off in the opposite direction, disappearing into the night.

I give myself a long beat, letting the air fully settle before I even think about emerging from my hiding spot. Despite the odd location I’ve stuffed myself into, there’s a real sense of safety here, the briefest feeling of reprieve amid utter chaos. A part of me could easily never tear away from these shadows, sinking into the darkness like a warm bath and remaining here until the sun rises.

It’s a terrible strategy, of course. If Eddie searches the grounds long enough, he’ll eventually find me.

But inevitable detection isn’t what pushes me onward. As good as this brief moment of shelter feels, there’s somewhere else that would feel infinitely better.

Slowly, I emerge from behind the vending machine, scanning the motel grounds for any sign of movement. I take one step out, then another, crouching down as I head for the cover of a nearby car.

A figure stands in the darkness.

I halt abruptly, frozen in place as I lock eyes with the front desk clerk. He’s positioned just outside the lobby like a toy soldier on duty, his body unusually stiff. The young man doesn’t react at all, and for a split second I find myself confused by his behavior. I don’t quite connect all the dots until his mouth falls open like it’s on the hinge of a nutcracker and he begins to scream—a human alarm.

My swollen eyes widen as I stagger back, then turn on my heels to run. Before I’ve taken my first step I catch sight of Eddie’s terrible loping shadow as it ripples across the nearby wall. I break into a sprint, pinching the bridge of my nose and swiveling my head from side to side as I hunt for an escape route.

“Stop!” Eddie howls.

He barrels through the parking lot at a distressingly inhuman clip, looking more like an animal than a man. Eddie’s already gaining on me, completely ignoring the push and pull of whatever sharpened bones are grinding beneath the meat of his shattered leg.

In a flash, something catches my eye. The pool area’s metal gate is propped open with a rock, and while this lush grotto has long been closed for the evening, it now offers me a way out.

I adjust course, dashing toward the gate and ripping it open. Eddie is right behind me, and I can sense his terrible presence as his shadow looms larger and larger in the upturned lights of this little oasis. I kick the rock away in one swift movement, then slam the gate shut with a resounding clatter.

I don’t stop moving, pushing onward as I sprint along the edge of a giant, kidney-shaped pool. A hot tub is bubbling to my left, surrounded by a grove of massive palm trees, and it’s only now that I notice five or six people drinking beers within the chlorinated soup.

“What was all that screaming?” a woman asks, standing in the waist-deep water as I hustle by them.

“Plug your fucking noses!” I shriek with belligerent intensity.

There’s a loud bang as the gate behind me is torn from its hinges, my body instinctively crouching and my free hand covering my head.

Splash!

The gate lands in the pool to my right.

I stay laser focused on my escape route, catching sight of another gate just a few yards ahead. This one exits the grotto and emerges onto the opposite side of the parking lot horseshoe.

“Hey! What the hell?” shouts one of the men in the hot tub.

“Slit your throats with those bottles!” Eddie commands as he lopes past them, his voice rattling through his broken throat like a fiery jet engine. “Every last one of you better bleed out before I get back or I’ll make you pluck out each other’s goddamn eyeballs and fucking eat them!”

I don’t turn back, but I can already hear the bottles shattering behind me, transforming into jagged weapons. By now I’ve reached the second gate, yanking it open and slipping through, and in the few seconds when the line of sight is broken between Eddie and me, I hatch a plan.

It’s not a complicated plan, or a particularly good one, but it’s what I’ve got.

I scoop up a golf ball–size rock from the immaculate desert landscaping, turning my body in a single motion and then hurling it down the line of cars that run along this side of the parking lot. The second I release my little projectile I can feel my breath catch, praying with every fiber of my being that this actually works.

My rock strikes its target, a hollow thump followed by a deafening eruption of caustic sound and flashing lights. The car alarm blares ferociously, filling the night air with its dissonant wail.

I cut hard in the other direction, immediately noticing this side of the resort is slightly different. I’d assumed the layout here was perfectly symmetrical, but it appears a small stucco-covered building is tucked against the grotto. The word Spa is elegantly written above the door, which is locked, but there’s a small open-air supply area next to it. I immediately duck into the hidden cove, blending with the shadows and holding my breath.

Eddie bursts through the second gate, hesitating for a moment as he glances up and down the parking lot, then creeping toward the flashing car. He crouches slightly as he goes, peering under each of the parked vehicles.

The nook I’m lurking in hosts a number of pool supplies and fluffy white towels. They’re perfectly folded and neatly stacked on a waist-high tile counter, ready for tomorrow’s swimmers. Next to me is the spa’s outer wall, and it’s here that I notice a small window with a distinctly vintage frame. All the frames here are vintage, actually, coated with a splash of fresh paint during renovations because it’s much cheaper than installing an updated replacement.

I know the difference between something new that’s trying to appear vintage, and something that is actually vintage. It’s literally my job … sometimes.

Regardless, I’m willing to bet these older frames never received the same state-of-the-art alarm system that the new doors probably did.

I carefully reach up and take down two fluffy towels. I wrap one around my fist and stretch the other across the entire pane of the window, then glance around the corner to confirm Eddie is still investigating the car alarm, distracted for now but likely seconds away from moving on.

There’s only so much muffling one can do with a pool towel, so I need to make my move before the alarm stops. I double-check that my fist and arm are fully wrapped, then grit my teeth and center myself with the window. I throw my punch.

The crash is loud, but it’s certainly no match for the digital howls and squeaks from the nearby BMW.

It takes a moment to knock out all the glass around the frame, removing each renegade shard and tossing it to the side. After I’ve extracted the pieces, I lay one towel flat across the windowsill and carry the other one with me. I place this second towel on the floor as I slip inside, protecting my hands against the sea of twinkling fragments below.

I’m in the spa lobby now, a dark space for patrons to sit and relax before they’re taken back into private rooms for hot stone massages, exfoliating facials, and rejuvenating mud baths. The area is sparse and clean, with comfortable chairs against one wall and a large desk in the middle. Shelves on either side are decorated with gorgeous unglazed pottery and a selection of perfectly curated wellness books—all available for purchase, of course.

It’s what’s covering the central desk that really catches my eye, however. Cream-white candles are laid out in their own individual glass holders, the wax cylinders clustered together and burned to various heights.

I hurry over, crouching low as I move. Behind me, the walls flicker and dance with the sputtering glow of the nearby car alarm.

The backside of the desk features a single large drawer, and it’s here that I find exactly what I’m looking for. I extract a lighter and grab the closest candleholder. Instead of lighting the wick, I remove the solid body of the candle and focus on all the drippings that have coalesced at the bottom of the glass. They’re already quite soft, but not enough for the project I have in mind.

The car alarm stops.

I take the lighter and place it under the candleholder, slowly heating the wax until it’s a malleable putty. When it’s finally warm and ready, I scoop up as much of the stuff as I can manage, rolling it into two vaguely oval shapes.

I take a deep breath through my nostrils—recognizing this might be the last one I get for a while—then I shove the wax into my nose as deep as I possibly can. My eyes immediately start watering again as my body struggles to reject this foreign entry, but I refuse to surrender. I push deeper and deeper, calling on the tenacity of a shark. I make more little ovals, then do it again, and again. I force so much wax into my nostrils that, eventually, I’ll have to go to the hospital to get it all taken out.

Because I will survive.

I will win.

“Stop right there!” comes an unfamiliar voice. It crackles through the parking lot, faintly distorted, and it’s only when I notice the flashing red-and-blue lights that I realize what’s happening.

Now completely stuffed up, I crawl around the desk and over to the spa’s front windows, the ones that look out over the parking lot.

Eddie is bathed in light, his body a silhouette against the harsh glow of three police cruisers that’ve come to a stop before him. From here I count six officers, their guns drawn and pointed at Eddie Michaels in all his haggard, undead glory, a flamboyant mixture of sequins and shredded flesh.

The initial gunshots from across the street could’ve summoned them, or maybe all that screaming at the pool. Maybe the front desk clerk actually did what I asked him to when I burst into the lobby.

“Put your hands up,” the booming voice demands through a patrol car PA.

My first instinct is to get out there and warn them, but deep down I already know it’s too late. Eddie can speak faster than I can move, and giving up my position is the last thing I should be doing. I’m helpless to stop what’s coming.

“Oh no, no, no,” I murmur under my breath.

Eddie very, very slowly begins to raise his hands above his head, the cop cars illuminating him in a cluster of glorious spotlights. He is center stage, exactly where he wants to be, and he’s milking every ounce of drama from this moment.

As Eddie’s hands creep upward he begins to sing in a deep, soulful baritone. “I … want … you,” he begins, then freezes in place.

“Get on your knees!” one of the officers screams.

Eddie’s next note is long and drawn out, a falsetto that floats with uncanny grace, “toooooooooo …”

He lets the moment sit, commanding the scene with something much more powerful than any supernatural ability—raw, undeniable stage presence. It feels like the whole world has come to a grinding halt, as though Eddie Michaels is controlling time itself through the power of sheer will.

A bigger, badder shark.

Eddie suddenly throws his arms out wide, wiggling his fingers in a melodramatic display of jazz hands. He belts the next words at the top of his lungs, a soaring melody.

“Blow your fucking brains out!” he sings.

The reaction is immediate, not a moment of hesitation. I watch as each officer swiftly puts their gun to their temple and pulls the trigger.

The pops erupt with such perfect timing that it almost sounds like a single blast.

Forks

My hand instinctively flies over my mouth as all six bodies drop to the pavement in a smattering of limp thumps. I pull away from the window, overwhelmed with the need to run, to find a back exit where I can slip into the night and keep on going till I’m home.

There’s no time to stop and consider the existential weight of all this death.

At the beginning of the night, Eddie directly helped me with these emotions, offering a potent salve in the form of his commands. He instructed me not to feel, and for each twenty-minute dose of influence, I didn’t.

But in a moment of panic Eddie wiped the slate clean, my numbness pulled back to reveal what should be an overwhelming buzz of relentless grief. I should be sobbing and screaming and moaning under the weight of these violent things I’ve witnessed. I should be retching up all the food in my stomach as I crawl under the table and curl up into a ball.

There’s a hint of those emotions—I admit it—but something else has painted a thick, shimmering varnish over my heart, gradually hardening into a shell.

I steady myself, then press onward by creeping deeper into the building.

The spa lobby transitions into a short hallway with two doors on either side. They’ve been left open, revealing a variety of wellness experiences. One room features a pair of massage tables while another sports rustic tubs for mud baths. The hallway ends with another door, behind which a distinct pale glow emanates. This hue immediately piques my attention, drawing me faster toward the final chamber. I enter without hesitation, finding myself in some kind of managerial office with a very important device positioned against the far wall: a computer.

My eyes widen as excitement pulses through my nervous system. I hurry over and slip into a rolling chair behind the desk, tapping the keyboard to wake the machine from a deep slumber of undulating screensaver waves.

A small box appears at the center of the screen, politely asking which employee account I’d like to sign in under. I click on the profile labeled GUEST and a clean desktop materializes, various apps lined up across the bottom of the monitor. There’s no video call or texting software, which is disappointing until I’m struck by a terrible question: Who the fuck am I supposed to call? What public service could even begin to help me out of this mess? The police are already here. They’re right outside, briskly stiffening as the rigor mortis sets in.

Would I call the emergency line again, warning the PSPD to plug up their noses? Should they send every officer in Riverside County with a cold? Even if I tried, something tells me that the dispatcher would order up an entirely different service to come and take me away.

There are no reinforcements tonight.

Instead, I open up the web browser and pound out a quick search: PALM SPRINGS, SELF-INFLICTED, SKINNED BODIES.

Results begin to populate as my eyes dart across the headlines.

“Four skinned bodies discovered,” I whisper as I click the first link.

When the website loads, however, I immediately notice that something’s wrong. This isn’t a current headline. In fact, the page has nothing to do with Palm Springs; it’s an oral history from Vero Beach, Florida.

I stare at the website for a moment, curious what little algorithmic ghost linked these locations over such an odd set of keywords. Tonight’s news hasn’t quite entered the system yet, which means these top results are likely older. In the morning, once people start waking up, this will change—but for now, I have a window into history.

Before I press the back button, a fragment of superfan music trivia blasts into the forefront of my mind and stops me dead: Eddie Michaels is from Vero Beach.

My eyes dart across the text, taking it all in as fast as I possibly can.

In the late seventies, back when Eddie was just a teenager slamming away on his parents’ rickety old piano, a horrible discovery rocked Florida. According to this page, four bodies were found in the basement of a vacant property belonging to game show host Benny Walker. He’d passed away just one day prior. A group of teenagers partying in the abandoned structure came across the remains and reported them to the police, quickly garnering national headlines, but the story really caught fire when autopsies revealed that the wounds were self-inflicted.

I stop reading for a moment, struggling to make sense of all this and coming up short.

Returning to the search page, I scan more results, expecting them to all focus on the Vero Beach incident but discovering a glut of oddly similar events. While it seems like a physical impossibility, self-inflicted flaying has appeared again and again throughout the decades. With a surprising amount of frequency, it happens in groups of four.

I should go. I should get the hell out of here.

I click another link, the new website offering a host of tangentially comparable deaths throughout history. First is a silent film star accused of mob connections after the discovery of a brutal torture chamber. Next is a composer who disappeared along with four of his orchestra members, only to have one of their skinless bodies dredged out of a nearby lake. In these cases, it’s difficult to know if the wounds were self-inflicted, but there’s enough of a through line to raise an eyebrow.

There’s even a belligerent, run-on-sentence rant on some conspiracy theory forum about French painter Eugène Delacroix, claiming that four skinned bodies were discovered behind a wall of his stu—

The room suddenly plunges into a pitch-black void, computer shutting down and illumination giving way to darkness.

I freeze. The stillness is overwhelming, and I’m suddenly aware of just how much my body has absorbed the surrounding chaos. I can feel my heart thumping at a pace that feels unfit for any human, reminding me of what it’s like to cradle a nervous rabbit in my arms. My skin is tingling ever so slightly, the sensitivity of every nerve ending cranked up and maxed out by some magical knob.

I realize now that I’ve been holding my breath.

Slam!

A loud crash erupts from the direction of the lobby, likely the spa’s front door getting kicked in. For the briefest moment I consider hiding, tucking myself away under the computer desk and waiting until Eddie’s gone, but the plan shifts when I remember the man’s supernatural knack for all things predatory. He can sprint fast, rip gates from hinges, shrug off otherwise mortal wounds, and command people to do his bidding; who’s to say he can’t also see in the dark?

I take action, retreating through the void with my arms outstretched. My hands hit the back wall and I scramble to my right, hunting for the door.

Another crash rings out behind me, followed by two heavy thumps.

My palm strikes a knob and I yank hard, revealing yet another dark chamber. This room isn’t quite as opaque, however. Against the back wall is a glowing red exit sign, four crimson letters beckoning me to salvation. I don’t hesitate, sprinting toward the door and slamming against it.

Light finds my eyes once again, my pupils adjusting to the motel parking lot and struggling to sharpen against the blur. They somehow find just enough clarity.

The pool area fence remains to my left and the rooms stretch along my right. I’m still tucked within the central horseshoe of this property, now on the opposite end of the spa building, but just ahead of me waits a sharp corner to duck around and hopefully break Eddie’s sight line.

I’m pumping my arms and legs as hard as I can. All I care about right now is putting distance between Eddie and me. Sure, he’s faster, but if I can just get around this corner then maybe I can disappear into the night. The farther I get, the more ways I can find to make my trail go cold.

One step after another. Surviving. Adapting. After that, freedom.

I can already feel Marlo’s arms wrapping around me.

I’m five yards from the corner when Eddie steps out from behind it, grinning wide and prompting my body to clench up in shock. I skid to a halt and try my best to course correct, knowing the turn is a futile maneuver, but my instincts push me onward regardless.

I manage to spin around, but my new path is blocked by a figure emerging from the spa’s back door. It’s the front desk clerk, still bound to follow Eddie’s every command. In this case, it looks like Eddie’s instructions have amounted to the creation of a loud distraction, one that I should’ve seen coming. Eddie was never actually following me into the spa, just commanding the clerk to flush me out.

Behind me, Eddie lets out a mighty bellow, his voice carrying across the complex. “Stoppp!”

There’s no escaping Eddie Michaels, at least not here and now, and with that in mind I do something unexpected—I slow to a halt.

The wax has done a spectacular job, and it remains so far up inside me that nobody could ever tell it was there without a careful nasal inspection. Eddie doesn’t know the drawbridge has been raised.

At least, not yet.

Eddie lumbers around to the front of my stiff body. He looks more deranged than ever, falling apart before my very eyes, yet somehow the man still exudes that hauntingly playful charm. He’s got it, whatever it is, and his nebulous star power seems to work from well beyond the grave. Despite the fact that Eddie is splattered in blood, pale as a ghost, and wearing an outfit that’s been torn to shreds, I still can’t help looking at this undead monstrosity and thinking: Holy shit, that’s Eddie fucking Michaels.

“It’s not often someone tries the whole ‘messing with your nose’ thing,” he says. “You’re a clever one, sport.”

Eddie eyes me for a long time, sizing me up. He’s thinking deep on something, but it’s tough to get a read on exactly what that something is when his expressions are partially hidden behind those big, heart-shaped sunglasses. He steps a little closer, savoring the methodical invasion of my personal space.

My body is rigid, a coil ready to spring. I keep thinking that Eddie’s about to explain my whole plan back to me with a knowing smirk, to reveal he can sense when someone’s faking their commands. I’m ready for Eddie to call me a liar.

He clears his throat with a loud, rattling gurgle of mucus and shattered bone. “Your eyes are red,” he observes, then leans in close and gives me a sniff. “Hot sauce? Damn, that’s gotta sting. Hand it over.”

I follow his orders without hesitation, reaching in and extracting the bottle.

Eddie takes the tiny container, looking it over for a moment, then tosses it into the bushes. “One little bump won’t keep me out for long. If that were the case then the eighties would’ve been rough,” he continues. “Don’t feel bad, though. I’ve got a lot more experience doing this than you do.”

I hold, waiting for something else, but Eddie’s next instructions are simple and unrelated. “You can move now. Follow me,” he says.

The tension settles as Eddie turns away.

I trail behind, not because I’m compelled to, but because—for the first time tonight—I’m actually one step ahead.

*  *  *

“I’m torn,” Eddie says. He’s leaning back in his chair with a mai tai in his hand, the beverage sloshing in a large tiki mug and sporting a little green umbrella that pokes out of the top. “On one hand, you really fucked things up for us. On the other, that was very entertaining.”

We’re sitting at the restaurant’s patio bar, chairs facing the motel pool but angled toward each other. There are four bodies laid out in various places across the cement deck, cold and stiff in their own sticky crimson puddles. An additional corpse is slumped over in the hot tub, barely visible from here, and yet another floats face down in the pool surrounded by a red haze.

Eddie is in a hurry tonight, but it seems this moment is important enough for him to slow down a bit. His casual, let-the-cards-fall-where-they-may demeanor remains, but I can tell he’s thinking much harder than before. He’s planning now, adjusting the flow of this evening’s festivities.

“It’s like, do I get everyone in their rooms to come out and help clean this up? Then send the whole place on a permanent vacation?” he muses. “That’s a lot of shit to keep track of. We don’t have time for that. We’ve probably got five more minutes before they dispatch another squad of officers to see what the hell happened.”

Eddie takes a long sip from his drink, sucking deep from a neon green straw. He finishes, then nods in my direction. “Tonight’s a mess, but it’s a fun mess. Right, sport?”

“No,” I reply. “It’s not fun.”

Eddie ignores this, playing with his straw for a moment. “You’ve gotta consider—is a whole motel disappearing overnight stranger than six cops shooting themselves in the head? Plus, we’ve got these swimmers cutting their throats. I mean, that’s a bananas crime scene.”

“You don’t seem too worried about it,” I observe.

Eddie shrugs. “You’d be amazed what a man with my talent can get away with.”

This could mean a few different things, but something tells me Eddie’s not merely referencing his skill as a musician.

It’s hard to imagine the evidence it would take to trump his powers of influence in the court of law. Witnesses would change their story. Tapes would get erased. Mysterious accidents would plague every step of the process. Lawyers would start arguing for the other side.

Given the hedonistic decades he came up in, Eddie Michaels has a remarkably clean public image. As a superfan, I should know. At the same time, there were always whispers, rumors of strange encounters with fans that never got much traction. A few social media posts popped up, but they were swept away in the digital tides.

The front desk clerk strolls up from behind us, greeting Eddie and me as an impromptu server. “Are you enjoying your drink? Is there anything else I can get you?”

“This is actually … very, very good,” Eddie says, pulling back his tiki mug a bit so he can fully admire the tropical beverage. “I can’t believe you’re not a real bartender.”

“Thank you,” the clerk replies.

“Is all the security footage deleted?” Eddie asks.

The man nods. “Yes, sir.”

“You cleaned up everything else you might need to take care of? Fingerprints scrubbed and all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No witnesses?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re a good man!” Eddie says, hoisting his drink. “Now, how about you shove a fork in each eye and go drown yourself in the pool.”

The motel employee nods, walking over to a nearby table and snagging a roll of napkin-wrapped cutlery from a large stack. He unfurls it and extracts a fork, then grips the silver utensil in his tight fist. The clerk doesn’t hesitate, slamming the fork into his own face with as much gusto as he can manage.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasp, not entirely prepared for the show of extreme violence.

Eddie glances over. “Sorry about that,” he says, genuinely apologetic. “You don’t care about this and you won’t try to escape.”

He’s reupping the command, but this time his words have no effect. I’m still staring at a poor kid with a fork shoved so deep into his eye socket that I can barely see the handle poking out. I can only hope the clerk wounded the part of his brain that feels pain and fear, dulling his awareness of what’s actually happening.

Unlike me, Eddie hasn’t given this man any instructions on how he should feel, just what he should do. While it might look like he’s having the time of his life, I know the brutal truth. The clerk is a passenger in his own body, unable to cry out or beg or plead, but feeling that terrible desperation just the same.

He’s sensing every moment of this.

I so desperately want to jump up and stop him, to wrestle him to the ground and hold him there until this terrible compulsion wears off, but I can’t do that right now. I can’t blow my cover, and even if I could, what’s the plan? Eddie is so much stronger and faster than me, even without his uncanny persuasion.

The front desk worker takes another cutlery set from the pile and unrolls it. He extracts the fork and then, without a shred of reluctance, slams it deep into his other eye socket. He staggers a bit before gathering his bearings, then extends his arms out in front of him, awkwardly groping the air as he begins a meandering, zigzag path toward the pool.

“That’s the dichotomy, right?” Eddie opines. “All the world’s a stage, and I want to create something memorable, but there’s a limit. The best way for this show to keep rolling on is for me to keep a low profile, but … it’s just not in my nature. It’s not in our nature.”

The second that Eddie says this I’m struck with a realization, an idea so absurd that I force myself to speak it aloud. I have to get this thought out of me before it festers and infects the rest of my brain.

“We’re not like … the same person, are we?” I ask.

Eddie turns slowly, lowering his glasses and staring at me with one eyeball and one empty socket. “Is that what you think I am?” he asks. “A figment of your imagination?”

“You’re not answering the question,” I reply.

Eddie hesitates, a knowing grin creeping its way across his face. “The ol’ split-personality trope? An unreliable narrator doing battle against the manifestation of her own subconscious?”

“You’re still not answering.”

Eddie pauses. His silence stretches on, the tension building until, finally, he erupts in a fit of laughter, shaking his head.

“No, no,” Eddie assures me. “That’s very creative, though.”

There’s a loud clatter as the front desk worker stumbles into one of the patio chairs.

“Good God!” Eddie yells, frustrated. “The pool’s right fucking there! Walk forward!” He pauses, watching as the man with forks in his eyes stumbles around a bit more. “Forward! Forward!”

Finally, the front desk worker drops into the pool with a splash.

Eddie lets out a long sigh, settling back into his chair. He takes another sip from his drink, this time the straw producing a distinct gurgle as he reaches the bottom.

“We are very similar, though,” Eddie says.

He adjusts in his chair, seemingly uncomfortable with what he just said, and in this moment I notice something wholly unexpected: the corpse of Eddie Michaels might actually be a little drunk.

“I mean … it seems like we’ve got a few things in common,” Eddie says, starting over again. “I wouldn’t compare what I do to being a … you know … influencer, but … yeah. You’ve got something to be proud of.”

Fame is a funny thing. We all have these people we look up to, larger-than-life celebrities who guide us along like lighthouses in the raging storm of life. Their art is there for us when nobody else is. Sometimes, it raises us. Then, one day, we learn something terrible. We learn these people we admire are not at all who they seemed to be, and suddenly we’re left with this strange hollowness. Their artwork changes, mutating into some brand-new experience whether we want it to or not.

I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve seen Eddie murder tonight, but when he says “You’ve got a lot to be proud of,” it hits me right in the fucking chest. I shouldn’t care that Eddie Michaels gave me a compliment—I’m desperate not to care, in fact—but I do.

It takes everything I can muster to keep my voice steady, to not let any joy or appreciation seep into my tone. “Thank you,” I reply.

For the briefest moment, I get the utterly bizarre feeling that Eddie is about to reach out and place his hand over mine. This doesn’t happen, though. Instead, he extracts two car keys from his pocket and sets them on the table between us.

“The dichotomy,” he announces. “One of these is for the 2003 Yaris that belongs to our friend with the forks in his frontal lobe. It’s gray, go figure. The other is for a brand-new Porsche convertible that belongs to that nice woman floating in the hot tub over there.”

I stare at the keys for a moment. “Are you asking me to choose?”

“I’m asking if you want to entertain tonight,” he says. “There’s no wrong answer. I’ve had it both ways, and honestly, keeping a low profile is the smart choice. When people talk about this in a hundred years, they’ll already have a hell of an unsolved mystery. Bare minimum, we’ve given them a three-season true-crime podcast with absolutely no filler.”

I believe Eddie when he tells me there’s no right or wrong answer, but I also know the one he hopes I pick. I know this because, deep down, it’s the one I also want. It might not be the smart choice, but it’s the honest one.

“Let’s take the Porsche,” I finally reply.

He nods. “Atta girl.”

Eddie stands, and it’s only now that I notice a distinct rip in the belly of his suit, a hole through the fabric that continues into his flesh below. It appears to be a bullet wound, likely from the security guard when she took her shots and then promptly got her head smashed in.

It’s not just a hole, though. Something within the tunnel draws my attention, a strange hidden shape finally revealed. Inside the wound, this foreign object appears to move.

Eddie pauses, taking a moment to smooth out his sparkling, blood-splattered suit, then he continues across the pool deck as I follow along.

When we pass the table with the two unfurled napkins and the clutter of utensils, I seize the moment. I reach out as inconspicuously as I can, snatching one of the steak knives and stuffing it into my pocket.

Eddie doesn’t notice. His mind has already checked off this box and moved down the list, ready for more important things.

* * *

People think it takes no skill to be an influencer, that all these followers just tumble into our laps through sheer happenstance. They think we’re lazy and clueless and self-centered.

I am one of those things, but I’m sure as hell not lazy or clueless.

To be honest, this critique is much less universal than you might think. Young people—people my age—understand that social media is just another way of connecting. Old people—people Eddie’s age—are the ones who really let it rip in the complaints department.

But the truth of the matter is, crafting my own digital brand takes a lot of skill and discipline.

As we cruise toward the edge of town, I find myself drawing on one of these overlooked influencer skills, a talent not discussed very often because the more my audience knows about it, the more the magic is ruined. The truth is, I don’t always feel like recording something or commenting on this week’s online drama with a warm, relatable smile and a hot take.

I get it done anyway.

Regardless of my mood, I’ve developed the uncanny ability to put on a smile and crank out upbeat content, which is genuinely difficult work. Unless you’re incredibly skilled at controlling your emotions and painting on a grin, bad vibes tend to creep out in subtle, subconscious ways. I can just feel it, and the comments, shares, and likes will all confirm this important parasocial truth.

You must smile. You must act natural. You must fully commit. Tonight, I’m fighting for my life, not generating scheduled content, but the skillset remains the same.

“Cheer up,” Eddie commands as we pull out onto the road.

Time for video mode. Time for good-vibes mode. Time to like, share, and subscribe.

I reach out and turn up the music, nodding along as the steady, groovy rhythm of Steely Dan’s “Reelin’ In The Years” comes rollicking over the stereo. The convertible top is down, at Eddie’s request, and our music cascades out through the darkness.

“I love this song,” I shout, glancing up and catching sight of my face in the rearview mirror. A tear is rolling down my cheek, and I immediately reach up to wipe it away. Maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought.

The skater was crying before he jumped, I remind myself. Maybe tears are okay.

Either way, Eddie doesn’t notice, his eyes focused on the road ahead. His arm rests atop the car door, hand tapping along to the rhythm with precise enthusiasm.

As the chorus ends, Eddie tilts his head back and starts belting along with the next verse. “You been tellin’ me you’re a genius since you were seventeen,” he sings. “In all the time I’ve known you I still don’t know what you mean!”

Eddie raises both arms into the air, wiggling his fingers in the night breeze.

“That’s us, right?” Eddie shouts. “That line.”

“Uh … yeah!” I reply. I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about, but my inner creep meter lets out a confident chirp. It’s the same feeling I get when inquiries about a potential sponsored post turn weirdly intimate, or when the guy who’s on his third drink starts leaning in too close.

Eddie drops his arms, lowering the music a bit. “I’m sorry things got so heated back there,” he says. “It’s not usually this hectic.”

I nod. “Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“It’s almost two in the morning,” he continues, scrunching up his face a bit. “Usually it’s over and done with by now.”

“So you’ve worked for the devil before?” I ask.

Eddie furrows his brow. “What?”

“Your deal with the devil,” I press.

Eddie pauses, then relaxes his face. “Oh, yeah,” he replies.

He extracts his folded piece of paper. From the corner of my eye I can see him staring at a list of around ten names with information boxes next to them, noting that the top two feature check marks in dark pen. The third name has a line through it now.

Eddie remains like this for a good while, perfectly still in a way that makes me deeply uneasy.

“Everything alright over there?” I finally ask. “Still headed to the farm?”

Eddie doesn’t move.

“It’s too far,” he says. “This wasn’t the plan. We should’ve just stayed by the motel. We’re already behind …”

“That’s a crime scene now,” I remind him.

Eddie just shakes his head, then gazes out into the night. Suddenly, he erupts with a single, powerful shriek. It’s so loud that I flinch, nearly tugging the steering wheel and veering off into a ditch. “Fuck!” he screams at the top of his rattling lungs.

Eddie jerks forward. His back moves up and down as he hunches in the passenger seat, breathing heavily. “I can feel it coming,” he grunts. “We’re late.”

“We’re almost there,” I say, trying my best to remain peppy and unfazed.

“We’re not almost there,” Eddie murmurs, barely audible. He points a few yards ahead. “Turn.”

“Here?”

“Turn,” he repeats, and it suddenly dawns on me that I might’ve just disobeyed a direct instruction, blowing my cover.

My veins run ice cold at this realization, but Eddie seems too distracted to notice the discrepancy. At least, he hasn’t acknowledged it.

I take the next left where Eddie instructed, slowing down as we find ourselves on a dark desert lane. Our route was already off the beaten path, but this particular area is even more disconnected from the bright lights of Palm Springs. The twinkling city has grown dimmer and dimmer behind us, fading away as we’re enveloped by endless plains of sand. At some point, this swath of land will likely be developed into another massive residential oasis with sky-high HOA fees and a soul-crushing water bill, but for now it’s nothing but a lone road slicing through dirt and sparse patches of yellow brush.

My heart slams in my chest, galloping with such intensity that I start to wonder if Eddie can somehow hear it. His abilities are so strange and uncanny that I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Park right up here,” Eddie continues, motioning ahead.

I follow his instructions, gradually slowing down and coming to a stop at the curb. The glow of our vehicle is a tiny yellow spot in a vast ocean of night, miles and miles from any safe harbor.

Despite the utter terror pumping through me, I maintain the facade. I smile like my life depends on it.

“What’s up?” I question.

Eddie lets out a long sigh. “I’m afraid our evening is coming to an end, sport,” he says. “I think it’s time, whether I’m ready or not.”

“But I’m having so much fun,” I counter, somehow maintaining character.

Eddie hesitates. “Yeah, me too,” he says. “I don’t usually get attached like this.”

“What does that mean?”

“Get out of the car,” he commands, ignoring my question.

I shut off the vehicle, plunging the world into complete darkness as the headlights disappear and the night immediately swallows us up. I can barely see anything now, what little desert flora there is suddenly transforming into barely tangible black shapes against an even deeper, darker black. In the distance, the city lights still twinkle in a long straight line, a razor of shimmering gold, and up above us the moon hangs in a glorious silver crescent. Their presence doesn’t help me feel better, though. If anything, these distant glimmers only serve to make me feel more alone.

I climb out of the car. Moments later, I hear Eddie’s passenger-side door open up and I watch as a vague figure emerges.

“Ten steps back,” he commands, every drop of razzledazzle now alarmingly absent from his tone.

I follow Eddie’s instructions.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice deep and emotionless.

I turn.

My hand carefully slips down into my pocket, finding the knife handle and gripping it tight. Now that I’m moments away from actually using it, I realize just how ridiculous this little blade is in the face of someone, or something, so powerful.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll go out as a bit of an annoyance, but that’s hardly the legacy I want to leave behind.

As I gaze into the grand, endless nothing, it begins to sink in that this might be the last thing I ever see. I always thought that final image would be Marlo, some distant future version of my daughter sitting beside my deathbed, her grown hand in my frail old claw. She’d be the CEO of some Fortune 500 company, beautiful and strong and dangerously smart and ruthless as hell. She’d be surrounded by children who’d grow up to be just as powerful as their mother and their grandmother.

I’m going to fight to make that happen, scratching and biting like a wild animal if I have to, but deep down I know the truth. Even with this silly little knife, I’m no match for Eddie Michaels.

The silence is broken by a loud, horrible retch that spills through the night behind me. It comes sudden and sharp, followed immediately by a breathless, animalistic pant that gradually builds into another terrible heave. It sounds as though Eddie is throwing up, or at least trying to, his body producing noises that one rarely hears outside of an all-night bender or a legendary battle with food poisoning.

His groans fill the desert, a mixture of agonizing pain and guttural, bodily rejection. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was projectile vomiting, but there’s no splatter to follow the moans, only the terrible spasms of a broken throat.

“Huhhgh,” Eddie grunts, then spits. He hesitates, as though building up for one last attempt at something truly disgusting, then lets out a terrible scream.

My body clenches and my hand grips the blade a little tighter.

Eddie pants a bit more, then mumbles something under his breath. In any other context, I wouldn’t be able to hear him, but in the silence of the desert I can just barely make out a simple two-word phrase. “Well … fuck.”

I hear footsteps walking back around to the passenger side of the car. The door swings open, then slams shut.

“I need one more. That’s bare minimum,” Eddie says. “Drive.”

I muster up the biggest smile I can before turning back around and strolling to the vehicle. I climb into the driver’s seat and start the car, the brilliant glow of our headlights slicing through the darkness once again.

“That was fun!” I announce.

“Knock it off with the cheery stuff,” Eddie gruffly retorts.

I settle, putting the car in drive and pulling out onto the road.

The radio stays off this time.

Date Night

I know the Fimi Date Farm well enough. Marlo has already taken a few trips here, and I’ve generated my fair share of content by showing up in a cute outfit and chatting about their famous date shakes.

There’s a handful of these date ranches spread out across the greater Palm Springs area, and while the others have admittedly tastier produce, Fimi Farm is the most aesthetically pleasing of the bunch. The grounds are meticulously maintained, not for the sake of the harvest, but to give tourists a hip, well-branded experience. It’ll have them pulling off the freeway and enjoying an ice-cold shake for years to come.

I’ve never been here at night, though, and suddenly the familiar setting has transformed into something ominous.

The majority of the grounds are covered in towering date palms, their thick trunks aligned in perfectly even rows that stretch on and on for what seems like forever. This pattern gives our surroundings a quality that’s both natural and surreal, the elements tamed into some vast mathematical grid for the sake of agriculture. Strategically placed lighting shines up at the massive palm fronds from below, creating an otherworldly atmosphere.

A long gravel road extends straight into the heart of the massive plot, culminating in a parking lot and a large ranch house that serves as a gift shop, a restaurant, and a launching point for their tractor-pulled farm tour. It leaves every half hour from sunrise to sundown, and Marlo begs to go every time we’re here.

What I didn’t realize until now, however, is this structure also serves as the real-life home of Mary Fimi—current owner and operator of the decades-spanning date empire. This place has been so thoroughly transformed into a tourist destination that I assumed everyone in the family had long since left, retiring to various sprawling mansions around Southern California.

According to Eddie Michaels, however, that’s not the case. Mary Fimi is somewhere inside, fast asleep.

Gravel crunches under our feet as we march through the darkness, then transitions into dirt as we make our way from the parking lot to the farm rows. We’re headed toward a flashlight that bobs and sways just a few yards ahead, a night watchman making his rounds.

Eddie is eerily silent as we move, his jovial personality now completely melted away to reveal something sharp and bitter underneath. His physicality has even changed to match this inner turmoil, the once profoundly charismatic swagger now transformed into a haunting asymmetrical lurch on broken bones.

“Hey, guard! It’s your new best friend! Stop moving!” Eddie calls out, his voice a broken gurgle.

The flashlight halts immediately.

“Open up the building and turn off the alarm.”

All three of us head back toward the sprawling central ranch house, a truly bizarre trio cutting our way across the date orchard.

Unlike the last security guard we encountered, this one doesn’t appear to have a gun. I should’ve expected this—private security carrying a firearm is actually pretty rare—but I still find myself disappointed. At some point, I’ll have to make my move, and I’m doubtful the knife tucked away in my pocket will cut it. I keep reaching down to feel the hidden blade, making sure it’s still there.

We arrive at the large, welcoming front entrance of the Fimi Date Farm visitor center. The security guard pulls out a small set of keys, opening the door and holding it for us as we cross the threshold.

Nearby, a wall panel starts to beep, warning everyone that the alarm is seconds away from triggering. Our new friend disables it.

Slowly, the overhead lights begin to flicker on, revealing a large, high-ceilinged room with wide-ranging food displays—specialty goods like spices, candy, hot sauce, and jerky. Of course, dates are the centerpiece, thousands of the little brown morsels stuffed into translucent plastic boxes and stacked in a massive pyramid. The walls are covered by an extensive painted mural that shows off a whimsical cartoon date farm on a sunny day. A human-size animatronic date with arms and legs stands to our left, and the cartoon mascot moves one arm back and forth in an endless mechanical greeting, warmly welcoming every customer.

In the dead of night, the living date seems more eerie than friendly, his grin a little too wide and his bulbous eyes a little too excited.

“Where does Mary sleep?” Eddie snarls.

The security guard points to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“Any more locks or alarms?” Eddie continues.

“One lock, but it’s part of the same alarm system,” the guard explains. “The whole thing is turned off now.” He removes a single silver key from his ring and hands it over.

“Thank you. Go turn off all the cameras and delete any security footage from this evening,” Eddie commands. He reaches down and unplugs something from the back of the animatronic date, causing the robot’s arm to abruptly halt. He holds up a long yellow cable. “When you get back, hang yourself with this extension cord.”

The security guard wanders off toward a different EMPLOYEES ONLY door, getting to work.

A surge of urgency pulses through me. There’s been so much death tonight that one more body might seem trivial, but as he strolls away I find myself noticing the little things about this man that will soon be gone forever. I observe the particular gait to his walk, the slight goofiness in the way he smiled and nodded at Eddie’s last command. This is someone’s son, maybe even someone’s father, and I have the power to save his life.

If I make a move right now, sneaking up behind Eddie and driving this knife right into his neck, then there might be a chance. The bones are already broken, which doesn’t bode well for my attack doing much of anything, but it also means that I could sever some very important tendons with a quick sawing motion. I just need to get a little closer and position mysel—

Eddie’s on the move again, cutting my inner monologue short. The lurching, sequin-covered musician pushes onward, forcing me to hurry behind as we make our way through the next door.

We’re now standing at the edge of a massive inner courtyard. The rest of the ranch buildings stretch around us in a protective square, but this middle section is dedicated to a garden and a modest single-story bungalow. The cottage is humble, much smaller than I’d expect from a date-fortune heiress.

I suddenly find myself curious about the woman Eddie’s about to murder. Witnessing the complexity of all these lives, the strange individual quirks of each victim, has changed me. I can feel the sentimentality creeping through my veins in a way I never expected.

A body is a body, but all this biological matter doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Whether I like it or not, there’s a story to every pile of flesh and blood and bone.

As we pass through the garden, Eddie notices something shiny near a potted plant. He kneels down and picks it up—a pruning knife with a long-hooked blade. This is a tool for harvesting dates, but I have a feeling Eddie’s got something else in mind.

Do it now. Stab deep into that broken neck and saw as hard as you can. Cut the tendons. Split the spine. Take his head clean off.

Eddie is still crouched next to me, his shiny new tool glinting in the moonlight as he inspects its jagged edge, and from this angle the cold flesh of his neck looks beautifully tender. Again, I reach into my pocket, considering my own knife and charting its path in my mind. My heart is slamming with unbridled ferocity, every beat a call to action.

Do it!

I make my decision, moving to pull out the blade … then I immediately reverse course as Eddie straightens up and continues onward.

“This should get the job done,” he announces.

I fall back in line, continuing after him down the garden walkway.

We use the key and slip into Mary’s house. At first, the whole place is shrouded in darkness, then moments later it’s bathed in the soft, warm glow of an end table lamp that Eddie finds and switches on. We’re standing in the middle of a well-furnished living room, small and cozy but designed with impeccable taste. Plenty of homes out here shoot for a bohemian desert aesthetic, but it often comes off as a little too clean. Whoever did this work, however, is the real deal.

There’s a coffee table atop a thick beige rug, and two large, low couches are positioned around it. A lambskin blanket is thrown over one of them, and hanging behind the other is an intricate woven tapestry. Straight ahead, the room connects to a kitchen, and to the left is a standing mirror leaning against the wall. There are two doors near the mirror, and one of them is cracked open.

Someone stirs within. “Hello?” croaks a soft voice from the darkness.

Eddie clears his throat. “Stop moving.”

The rustling halts.

“What’s your name,” he continues.

“Mary Fimi.”

“You are calm and happy,” Eddie says, casually gazing at the hooked blade in his hand. “You feel no pain, and you can thank my companion for that. She’s a bleeding heart.”

“Thank you,” Mary yells from the other room, her upbeat tone contrasting with the tense mood of this late-night home invasion.

Eddie looks like a man who’s finally come to the end of a long journey, exhausted yet satisfied. He turns to me.

“Today’s been a disaster,” he says, chuckling to himself, “but you made it pretty fun. You’re a good kid.”

I remain silent.

“Best I’ve had in … four hundred years maybe?” Eddie opines, considering this and then finally shrugging it off. “Anyway, I’ll be right back. Don’t move, Poppy.”

My blood runs cold. I gathered that our initial meeting was more planned than he’d been letting on, but knowing my name speaks to an awareness that runs much, much deeper. At the start of the night, Eddie checked my ID—my fake ID, the one that says Alice—and never mentioned it again.

Now, the truth hits me like a gut punch.

He knows exactly who I am.

Suddenly, all the confusion and hesitation and discomfort and fear within me coalesce into something coherent, a simple realization that’s both terrifying and powerful: now is the moment. It might not be perfect, but I understand with visceral clarity that this is the last chance I’ll ever get to fight back.

The second Eddie turns away I lunge at him, yanking the knife from my pocket in one swift movement. I grip the handle and pull my arm back, then stab the blade downward with as much force as I can possibly muster.

There’s a hollow thud as the weapon hits its target, slipping right into the side of Eddie’s neck. I immediately tug back, struggling to saw through as much flesh as I can, but Eddie’s reaction is too forceful. He pitches forward, wrenching the handle from my hand, then abruptly stumbles to the side and crashes into the lamp.

It topples to the ground along with the distinct sound of a porcelain crack, light now shining upward and casting the scene in a dramatic glow. Eddie reaches back and finds the knife that remains stuck in his throat. He staggers and groans, his shadow moving back and forth like a werewolf transforming in silhouette.

“I can’t—I can’t,” he stammers, the words accompanied by a strange airy whistle. His breathing is loud and somehow even more ragged than before, and while I’ve never heard someone talk with a punctured larynx, I can only imagine this is exactly what it sounds like.

Eddie’s fumbling body hits the wall with a loud thump, and it’s here that he rests his weight. His head hangs low as he struggles to stay upright.

“I can’t believe …” He wheezes, his voice trailing off. Dark, congealed blood pumps from his neck, running down the wall behind him in a contrasting streak.

“Can’t believe what?” I spit, finally letting out the anger that’s been bubbling up within me. It spews from my mouth in a volcano of frustration. “That I was in control of you? That I know what the fuck I’m doing? That I’m the fucking shark here?”

Eddie slides even lower against the wall. He whimpers something, shaking his head from side to side. Maybe his throat really was the key to all this. It was the source of his words, after all, the origin point of all that supernatural influence.

“What?!” I shout. “Speak!”

Eddie gathers his focus for a moment. He repeats himself, but he’s too weak to clearly form the syllables. There’s more whistle than voice, his speech irrevocably rended by my blade.

“I said speak!” I bellow, making the demands now.

Eddie hesitates, gathering up all the energy he can before one last attempt. Finally, he settles in and slowly pushes out every word with what remaining fumes he can muster.

“I … can’t … believe …” he sighs.

Before Eddie can finish, his frame stiffens and the supernatural animation melts away. For the first time since I picked him up and took a peek into his body bag, he actually looks like a corpse.

The room falls into silence.

“Yooooouuuu,” Eddie slowly calls out in a long, fully supported note. As the volume grows his body revives along with it, rolling back into an upright position and turning toward me with a massive, open-mouthed grin.

I stagger back, watching as Eddie slides the knife from his neck like it’s little more than taking off a hat. He twirls the blade between his fingers with shocking dexterity, slowly walking toward me above the horrible glow of the fallen lamp.

“Thought you could stab me!” he sings. “You idiot, Poppy! I’m better than that, don’t you see?”

My feet catch on the rug, causing its thick fabric to bunch up as I topple backward. I hit the ground hard, my head slamming against the wall.

Eddie towers over me. He tosses me the knife and I catch it awkwardly.

“Wanna give it another shot, sport?” Eddie asks, lowering his voice to a terrifying rattle. “You almost got me, but the problem is … I’m tucked away down here.”

As Eddie says this, he rubs his chest.

“Or maybe here,” he continues.

Eddie lowers the gesture a bit more, pale fingers crawling across his body until they reach his side. Using both hands, he holds his gunshot wound open, giving me a clear view into the mangled hole.

The rupture of fabric and meat had once punctured straight through him, but it appears a dark, glistening filling has plugged the wound. It’s a strange addition to the carnage, a sight so odd that I can’t tear my eyes away from it. My brow furrows as I stare into the massive puncture, and Eddie is happy to hold his position for as long as I need. His face is plastered with a sickening toothy grin.

“Say hi,” Eddie suggests, a bizarre proposal I can’t yet make sense of.

I find myself leaning in closer, struggling to get a better look at the shiny black something. From this seated position I have a perfect view, planted at eye level with the open wound.

A sudden movement within the narrow cavity causes my body to recoil, a gasp escaping my lips. The shiny black object moves ever so slightly, revealing itself as wholly unrelated to Eddie’s flesh. I can see straight through the hole again, whatever had once blocked my sight line now pushing itself deeper into Eddie’s abdomen.

“Oh, fuck me,” I exclaim, pressing myself even harder against the wall, instinctively yearning to escape but restricted by this boundary.

Laughter bubbles up within Eddie as he throws his head back and lets out a raggedy, gurgling chortle. When he finishes, he reaches one arm behind his head and fiddles around a bit.

I can’t tell what Eddie’s up to until, suddenly, he removes his sunglasses with the other hand and reveals that he’s shoved his fingers through the back of his skull—into the open head wound. He playfully wiggles them at me from deep within his own blown-out eye socket, sticking out his tongue to create the most horrific rendition of a “silly face” imaginable.

“Look out!” Eddie jokes. “I got worms!”

He extracts his hand from the back of his head, glancing at the gore that now soaks his fingers and awkwardly wiping it on his sequined suit. Eddie grimaces as he does this.

“Bodies, huh?” he quips. “Pretty fabulous, pretty gross.”

He stops abruptly, the smile slowly returning to his face. “You, however,” Eddie continues. “You’ve got a great body.”

I can feel every muscle clench as he says this, recoiling inward since I can no longer move back.

Eddie steps toward me, then leans down so that his mangled, decaying face is right in front of mine. “You sure you don’t wanna take another stab?” he asks.

I shake my head. I haven’t given up, not by a long shot, but I don’t need to keep wasting my energy on an approach that clearly isn’t working. Just as I suspected, there’s no way for me to physically compete with him.

In strength, speed, and bodily resilience, I’m vastly outmatched. Intelligence is still up for debate, but I’ll admit that Eddie has shown an incredible strategic mind over the course of the evening.

“No,” I reply flatly.

Eddie slowly reaches out and grabs the knife in my hand, wrapping his fingers around the blade and pulling it from my grip without a shred of resistance. He tosses it onto the nearby couch, then reaches into his back pocket and extracts the handcuffs.

“What’d you do? Stuff some wet tissue paper up there? Lodge some wax in your sinuses?” he asks, snapping one of the cuffs around my wrist. A knowing smirk crosses his face as he registers one of my subconscious tells. “Wax, huh? That’s gonna be a bitch to get out, sport. You’re lucky, though—back in 1445 someone used cow shit after I lost them in a pasture.”

Eddie pauses, thinking back on this.

“Maybe your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather,” he quips, then shrugs. “Something like that.”

Eddie snaps the other handcuff around a thick wooden bar of the coffee table, a fully enclosed section that will keep me from slipping loose whether or not I manage to lift the table legs.

He stands and returns the heart-shaped sunglasses to his face. “I could’ve just told you to be excited and happy over what’s about to happen to you,” he says. “Could’ve told you it doesn’t hurt. I usually save that for the important ones—for the especially cute outfits—because I’m a good guy. But now …” He trails off, lips curling into a frown. “Now, you’re gonna have to feel the whole thing.”

Eddie extracts the date-pruning blade from his pocket. He hesitates a moment, then nods to himself before turning around and lurching toward the bedroom with his odd, broken-legged swagger.

A brilliant eruption of thoughts spills through my mind, strategic paths cascading over one another in an endless, overwhelming web of ideas. I have so much information filed away, little kernels picked up over the course of the night, but deep down I know it’s still not enough. This puzzle has a few remaining pieces left, and without them I can’t make heads or tails of the real shape.

I’m still scrambling for an answer, but I have no doubt that hidden within this mess there’s something I can do. I’ve just gotta figure out what that something is.

“Wait!” I shriek, stopping Eddie just as he’s about to cross the bedroom threshold.

He slowly turns back to face me, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Can I help you?”

“This—this is the end, right?” I stammer, struggling to ward off the desperation in my voice and failing miserably. “Our last stop.”

“I’m afraid so. Four is my preference, but thanks to you, three is what we’ve got.”

“You’re not gonna give a big villain speech?” I ask. “You’ve won. I’m handcuffed. There’s only one thing left to do, and you’re just gonna … do it?”

Eddie laughs a crackling howl of shattered bones and raw flesh. “A big villain speech? First of all, that never works out for the villain; it’s bad practice. Second of all, I’m not the villain. That’s like saying lions are villains because they hunt antelope. This is just my nature. It’s our nature.”

“Sure, but some lions are assholes about it,” I counter.

Eddie cocks his head to the side. “I don’t think you watch Animal Planet.”

He turns again.

The blind desperation I’ve been so careful to hold back abruptly surges, grabbing the reins within me. Eddie takes another step, but before he gets the chance to go much farther I call out one simple word.

“Boooooo!” I groan.

To my amazement, Eddie stops. A heavy silence falls over the room.

“Boo?” he asks.

“Don’t you know why villains give a big speech?” I say. “It’s not because they’re stupid. By that point, they’ve proven they’re the smartest guy in the room, ten times over.”

Eddie remains motionless, considering my words.

“They give a big speech for one very important reason,” I explain. “Because it’s entertaining. So fucking entertain me.”

Finally, Eddie turns back around. “I am a sucker for a captive audience,” he replies, smirking, “and it’s been a while since I got to see that look of shock on someone’s face.”

“Spill it then,” I press, finding my voice again. “What are you?”

“Not what,” Eddie replies. “We already covered this. In life, art is the why. So I’ll tell you a little secret about tonight, because the answer is very entertaining. It’s a question you’ve probably been asking ever since the moment you realized this wasn’t just some random pickup. Why me?”

Eddie pauses, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s waiting for.

“Why me?” I finally ask aloud.

“Great question,” he replies. “I’ll give you a hint: it’s one of the most classic twists out there. In fact, some would say it’s a little hack at this point, but I think it really sings under the right circumstances. Have you seen The Marriage of Figaro?”

I shake my head.

“No? Premiered at the Burgtheater in 1786? I actually wrote it, if you can believe that,” he brags. “The book, not the music. Wolfgang wrote the music. That was back before I realized warm weather and hot sun were much better suited for … my taste.”

“I don’t know it,” I reply.

“How about Dickens?” he continues. “Did you know that Great Expectations, Bleak House, and Nicholas Nickleby all have the same twist?”

“I’ve never read them,” I admit.

Eddie reels, putting his hand to his face as though he’s steadying himself. “Jesus fucking Christ! This generation!” he shouts, shaking his head. “Alright, did you ever read Animorphs in the group home?”

“What morphs?”

Eddie actually seems amused and bewildered now, rather than frustrated. He pauses, realizing this next one will probably do the trick and savoring the moment.

“How about Star Wars?” he finally asks.

A classic, unavoidable line suddenly erupts in my skull like a brilliant, dazzling firework, illuminating everything. I feel a jolt of electricity shoot down my spine, causing my body to sit just a little more upright.

Eddie bites his lip, noticing the change and letting it simmer. He nods, giving it some time, then finally speaks the words aloud in plain English.

“I’m your dad, Poppy,” he says.

Get Ready with Me

There are two kinds of surprise.

The first kind is the one we’re used to, that common sensation of our body flinching in a split-second reaction to some abrupt stimulation. This feeling is usually followed by a glorious release, our brain catching up and making sense of the brand-new world. It might not be a good world, as there are plenty of unfortunate surprises, but that little moment of clarity prompts a release all the same.

The second kind of surprise is when the stimulation is much more profound, when the shock is not something we can simply readjust to. It’s a fundamental shift, and no amount of clarity can help.

Our body holds on to these second moments—moments like this one, where time slows down and the world seems to vanish. It tucks them away without catharsis or recalibration, calcifying them in our depths for years and years.

Still, regardless of how deeply these emotional tectonic plates rumble and shift, that initial shock needs somewhere to go.

As I gaze up at Eddie Michaels, this hero of mine who has transformed into both a horrific monster and my own father over the course of a single night, I let out my initial shock in a surprising way. I start to laugh.

“You don’t believe me?” Eddie asks.

I shake my head, waving away the suggestion. It takes me a moment to collect myself, but when I finally quell the maniacal cackling, I admit the exact opposite.

“It’s not that,” I reply. “I’m laughing because I know you’re telling the truth.”

We’re two sharks, after all, driven to swim forever and gobble up as many fish as we can. Now that I think about it, this whole thing would be much stranger if we weren’t related. Until tonight, I’d never met someone as ruthless as me.

“You just … gave me up?” I ask, the words tumbling out of my mouth before my mind can formulate a concrete plan.

“It’s not like that, sport,” Eddie says. “I needed options. I’m not interested in raising kids, I’m interested in being a kid.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I shout, much more emotion behind the words than intended. I realize now that tears are streaming down my face.

Eddie hesitates, glancing over his shoulder at the bedroom where Mary, his next victim, waits in a state of pheromone-induced paralysis. He’s eager to get back to work.

“Entertain me!” I scream with enough fury to yank back his attention.

Eddie cracks his neck from side to side and then straightens up a bit. “Alright then.” He clears his rattling throat.

“A long, long time ago, about seventeen hundred years now, a guest arrived here from a distant world. Not distant in terms of space, but something much more profound,” Eddie explains. “This guest wasn’t used to being alone. In fact, they couldn’t survive on their own. So they went out looking for a … friend, someone they could enjoy the company of for a whole lifetime.

“The thing is, it was very difficult for the guest to make friends. Friends in this world just weren’t built for the guest, not like they were back home. The guest searched and searched and searched, and every time they tried to make a new friend, that friend would get sick and go away. The guest was weak back then. They weren’t meant to survive very long without a friend.

“But one day, by total chance, the guest made a friend who matched him just enough. That friend got very sick, like the others, but he didn’t die. Eventually, the friend started getting stronger and stronger as his body adapted. He had good genes. You know who else had good genes?” Eddie asks.

I shake my head. “No. Who?”

“The friend’s daughter,” Eddie replies. “That daughter’s son had good genes, too, and many years later, the daughter’s son’s son had even better genes. In fact, every generation was easier for the guest to make friends with.”

“So that’s all I am?” I blurt. “The host you’ve prepared?”

“Twelve,” Eddie states flatly.

“What?” I huff.

“You have twelve siblings,” he explains. “It used to be thirteen siblings, but one of them died–your backup here in Palm Springs. So as far as viable, close options, you’re pretty much all I’ve got.”

“You don’t have twelve kids,” I counter. “I know everything about you.”

“Well, clearly not everything,” Eddie laughs.

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, you’re half right, sport,” Eddie continues. “I have no kids … that the public knows about. I stopped trying to raise my own future hosts like five hundred years ago. It’s nice having a fresh body right there when you need it, but it’s also an absolute shitshow. Big, big feelings. Plus, you usually end up married to your own son-or daughter-in-law, which is awkward if you know them already.”

I shake my head, utterly confused. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Think about it,” he replies. “After you become your own offspring, you can either keep up appearances, wade through a messy divorce, or someone has a terrible accident cleaning grandpa’s hunting rifle. Regardless, it’s much easier to avoid getting chummy with your new outfit.”

“Your child,” I correct him.

Eddie shrugs. “Sure. Technically speaking, it’s my body’s kid, but whatever.”

As bizarre as it sounds, the one thing that sticks with me through this cascade of mind-bending revelations has nothing to do with me—at least, not directly. I can’t help thinking of my favorite Eddie Michaels live performance, the one that my group home somehow had an old VHS tape of. It was recorded directly off a television broadcast in the late ’90s, when Eddie performed “A Star Like Me” at the Grammy Awards.

There’s a moment in that performance that I’ll always remember. During the show, Eddie looked directly into the camera and belted out the line one day you’ll be up here and I’ll be watching you, and when that happened I remember feeling the power of entertainment in a way I’d never experienced. I felt like I was connecting to someone through time and space, cosmically tethered in a way that went far beyond science and logic.

Tethered by art.

“So this was all just … a way to survive?” I ask.

Eddie tilts his head back and lets out a loud, singular “Ha!” It’s one of the most abbreviated yet effective laughs I’ve ever heard. “Have you been listening to me at all tonight?” Eddie snarls, disappointment searing his tongue. “Survival is nothing without art, without entertainment! I have always been a star, and with your help, I’ll keep shining. So will you.”

“You’re a monster,” I retort, not entirely sure how to frame my thoughts but plowing ahead anyway. “Why would you care about entertaining peop—”

“Let me stop you right fucking there,” Eddie snaps. “I’ve seen enough science fiction and horror in my day, and I’ll tell you one thing that everybody gets wrong … where are all the goddamn hobbies? Does every single swamp creature just eat people all day? Does every single alien just colonize planets? Sure, I’m tryin’a stay alive here, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, you start to realize there’s so much more to life than the struggle. I was born to entertain, sport.

“And sure, there are new things to learn with every generation. New media, new technology. TikTok, ugh. Fortunately, you’ve already got a head start, and once I’m at the helm, we can turn those followers of yours into an actual career.”

Eddie takes a long pause. I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but I’ve been leered at enough times to know that his gaze is wandering.

“Traditional beauty goes a long, long way,” he finally says, more to himself than to me. “This’ll be a fun couple of decades!”

Eddie makes a single clap with his hands, announcing an end to our conversation.

“That’s all, folks!” he chirps.

“Wait! Wait!” I cry, but Eddie doesn’t listen. He turns and lopes away, heading for the bedroom.

I instinctively tug against my handcuffs, metal and wood clattering in a frantic cacophony. From here, I can see through the open door, a direct line of sight to Eddie and his victim. Mary stands up, greeting Eddie warmly. At first, she’s wearing a T-shirt and underwear, but she strips them off and tosses them to the side. She’s completely naked now, standing at attention as Eddie gives his quiet instruction.

I pull the handcuffs even harder, the metal digging into my flesh and causing a terrible sting of pain to rocket up my arm.

“No! Wait!” I shriek.

Eddie completely ignores me, his attention elsewhere. He hands Mary the hooked pruning knife and she accepts it with a thankful nod. Without hesitation, she takes the knife and—

My eyes break away, unable to watch the mutilation as a nauseous wave hits me. I realize now that my breathing is twice as fast as it should be.

When I finally muster up the strength to look back, I’m greeted by a sight even more terrible than the one I expected. Mary Fimi has successfully carved off a huge strip of her own skin, the dermis peeled away in a curling pink flap that’s approximately the width of her knife blade and longer than a foot. She’s still smiling, but tears are streaming down her face as her body reacts to an experience that her mind is not yet fully allowed to grapple with.

It’s not just the flaying that prompts my revulsion, though. Mary has handed one end of the bloody strip to Eddie, and although he’s mostly facing away from me, I can still tell what he’s doing by the movement of his head and the position of her arm.

As if psychically aware of my observation, Eddie turns his head slightly, and I can see the crimson flap dangling from his lips as he chews and chews and chews.

Eddie is eating her skin.

“Oh my fucking God,” I gasp, unable to keep the words from tumbling out.

Is that what he’ll do to me?

I immediately push the thought to the side, though what I’m left with is no less terrible. I’m witnessing something else, a need well beyond the limits of my understanding. Eddie may have been lying about his quest for some devilish supernatural ritual when we first met, but he wasn’t stretching the truth that far. These acts are ritualistic, but the motivation seems far more primal—biological even.

A realization manifests from the broken conversation fragments that span our evening. Eddie is gaining strength for something, like a caterpillar preparing for its chrysalis, and he all but revealed what that something is. I don’t have a lock on the details just yet, but for now the details don’t quite matter.

What matters is this: I’m about to be Eddie’s next host.

I glance back into the bedroom to find that Mary has carved off another band of skin, methodically slicing her way around her arm as pumps of fresh blood spill onto the floor. She hands the band to Eddie, who’s now perched on the edge of the bed, and he immediately gets to work cramming the fleshy roll into his mouth. Eddie eats with ravenous enthusiasm, tearing his way through it with grinding, red-stained teeth.

Don’t focus on what’s happening now, focus on the next step.

I create a mental space and lay out my shreds of information, desperately hunting for understanding. Eddie is gearing up to transform. I’m not sure how this movement from one body to the next will occur, but I’ve finally figured out why. He’s been around for hundreds of years, and every time a host body dies, he needs to find a new one for survival.

No, that’s not it.

That’s not the whole picture.

I recall my numerous conversations with Eddie over the course of the evening, imagining what he’d say in response to each of my desperate theories. According to Eddie, there’s something even more important than survival, or at least, equal to it in the broad cosmic scheme of things.

Eddie didn’t pick me from his basket of genetically valid host children because I’ve got a stronger heart or fuller lungs. He picked me because I’ve got the best odds of carrying on a much more important tradition. If given the chance to shine, I can sing, dance, model, and act with ease.

I have the body of an entertainer.

My eyes flick over to my knife, which Eddie tossed haphazardly onto the couch. He was so frivolous with it, knowing I couldn’t do any real harm to his decaying suit of flesh with this silly little blade, but he forgot one very important thing. It’s not his flesh that matters right now, it’s mine.

I try scampering toward the blade, but quickly hit the limits of my cuffs as my wrist yanks backward. I don’t relent, though, pulling hard against the metal and stretching out with my free arm. The knife is too far away, but if I tug hard enough, maybe I can drag the coffee table ever so slightly across the rug. My wrist burns as I heave all my weight against the tiny metal ring.

Mary’s voice drifts softly from the other room. “I don’t feel so good,” she admits. “I think I’m gonna faint.”

“That’s alright,” Eddie replies. “I’ll just take over when you do. Let’s get a piece from your stomach now, huh?”

I tug again, and again, and again. I’m mostly just bunching up the rug, but every lurch brings me the slightest bit closer to the finish line.

With one final scoot, I reach out and grab the steak knife. A sense of relief immediately washes over me—job well done—but this feeling quickly dissolves as I gaze down at the blade and realize what I need to do with it.

“Aw, fuck,” I groan, noticing now that my hand is trembling. “I can’t … I can’t.”

My head involuntarily begins to move from side to side, body protesting against brain, and in this moment I catch sight of myself in the standing mirror across the room.

I freeze. Between thousands of video uploads and seemingly endless time in front of the mirror, I know every inch of my face. I know the gentle slope of my nose and the spacing of my cheekbones. I know the exact shade of red that runs through my hair, and the way it changes when I’ve gotten a lot of sun. I know the placement of every freckle.

This face has cultivated both opportunity and allconsuming narcissism, a double-edged sword that I’ve wielded my whole life. Still, looking at myself in the mirror this one last time, it feels like I’m saying goodbye to a friend.

Objectively speaking, I understand this particular arrangement of flesh and bone is attractive, that the placement of my eyes and nose and mouth is both aesthetically pleasing and astronomically rare, but these truths are not what I’m mourning.

I’m saying goodbye to myself, but I’m also saying goodbye to Marlo, in a way. I can see her face in mine, note all the little things she inherited from me.

I’ve thought about her a lot tonight, a North Star I keep returning to as things grow more and more dire, but now something has changed. While Eddie goes through his transformation, I’m going through my own, circumstances forcing me into a state of emotional mutation. Before, I feared the thought of Marlo growing up how I did, a childhood of constant strife and survival. This was my worst nightmare, but it appears I wasn’t quite imaginative enough. There’s something much, much worse.

When Eddie takes over my body, I have no idea what’ll happen to Marlo—how he’ll treat her, what he’ll do to her. He already said that he doesn’t like kids around, so death is certainly on the table, but in all likelihood she’s probably in for something much more sinister.

Eventually, many years from now, she’ll end up in the exact same situation as mine, the vicious cycle of our rotten family tree repeating over and over again.

I will never let that happen.

It stops tonight, but not because I’ve somehow managed to overpower Eddie and prune his branch. It stops because I’ll prune my own. Despite his planning for this evening, there’s one very important thing Eddie didn’t count on. As self-obsessed as I am—and I’ll admit, I’m pretty fucking self-obsessed—there’s a little girl I care about even more.

I take the knife and bring it up to my cheek, resting the cold, jagged blade against my skin. My hand instinctively holds back, rebelling against this primally unnatural request, but with all the will I can muster I force the blade onward.

Sharp, stinging pain erupts through my nervous system as a sticky gush of liquid pours down my cheek. It hurts like hell, but I know this is only the beginning.

Eddie is ready for his fresh canvas, a perfect object of “traditional beauty,” and it won’t be enough to give his canvas a few shallow scratches. I need to destroy the whole thing.

I watch as the blood pours down my face, all those pricey exfoliating treatments gone straight to hell. I push even deeper, feeling the knife pull taut against the elastic flesh of my cheek as it threatens to poke through to the other side. Nausea bubbles up within me, but I somehow wrestle it down, soothing my mind with thoughts of Marlo.

There’s a strange, sickening pop as the blade juts through, glancing off my teeth on the other side of my mouth. The pain is so overwhelming that it loses any sense of locality, now just radiating through me like a strange, overwhelming hum. A sudden heaviness overtakes my body, eyelids flickering closed as I lean against the coffee table. I’ve never fainted before, but I imagine this is what it feels like.

“Fuck you,” I mumble, my molars clattering against the knife as I make this quiet proclamation. Half my ire is directed toward Eddie, but the other half is focused right back at myself.

In an effort to wake up I tug the knife toward me, slicing an even larger hole and sending yet another furious jolt of pain through my body. Fortunately, this seems to do the trick.

There’s a delicate balance here. I can’t let myself pass out or die before I finish the job. Eddie clearly has no problem inhabiting dead bodies, at least for a little while, but he would be absolutely mortified to exist in an “ugly” frame.

Of course, I’m versed enough in the social media landscape to know there are all kinds of influencers, people with massive scars who make incredible, beautiful—and most importantly, popular—content. Eddie, however, is not that kind of guy. He hasn’t progressed much in the last few decades, let alone centuries, and his definition of beauty speaks for itself.

More important than any fuck you to my new corpse dad, however, is the practical warning I’m leaving behind. If Marlo ever sees my mangled face, regardless of who’s piloting it, she’ll be terrified.

She’ll know something’s wrong.

From the other room I hear a loud thump, Mary’s body finally giving out and crashing to the floor. I lean over just enough to peer through the doorframe, catching a glimpse of Eddie as he crouches over the crimson-soaked woman with his pruning knife. He greedily peels off as much skin as he can, stuffing it down his gullet.

While Eddie might’ve been careful with his meals before, all bets are off now. He’s ravenous, tearing through the ragged flaps as blood and carnage drench the front of his sparkling suit.

A flamboyantly gay Saturn Devouring His Son by Francisco Goya.

Influencers can’t know fine art? Fuck off, I think to myself, somehow chuckling through the blinding pain.

Once finished with my cheek, I yank my knife back and get to work on my forehead. My blade slices across the top in one deep, ragged cut, not quite sharp enough to make a clean incision. This is a recipe for scarring, which is a good thing.

Blood pours down my face as I cut deeper and deeper, obscuring my vision with a scarlet haze and spilling into my eyes. I’m working blind now, starting a new wound to cross with the original at a haphazard angle. Where these two slashes intersect, I somehow manage to extract a huge chunk of flesh, something that no amount of time and healing will fully repair.

From the other room, a loud, familiar retching begins. It’s the same sound I heard when Eddie made us pull over on the way here, but this time there’s a distinct wetness to the heaves.

Knowing my time is limited, I make a particularly bold move. I grab a huge chunk of hair at the side of my head, bending toward the coffee table so I can pull it up with my cuffed hand and use the other one to saw along my right hairline. The pain is so excruciating that it has essentially disappeared, a numb orb that surrounds my entire face. At first, I’m worried my fingers will slip due to all the blood, that my grip is sliding up the length of my hair, but it quickly becomes apparent this is not the case. The sensation is actually due to my scalp lifting away from my head, at least in this particular area.

I saw in a large circle, pulling away more and more until, finally, the entire section comes tearing off and leaves me with a giant circular wound. I can’t imagine any follicles surviving this kind of trauma.

Another gurgling heave erupts from the bedroom, this one more ferocious than the others and accompanied by two distinct, hollow cracks. It’s enough to make me wipe the blood from my eyes, then lean over and take another look, fighting to see through what remains of the sticky red liquid obscuring my vision.

Eddie is bent over now. He’s on his hands and knees, his mouth stretched open so wide that it’s reached nearsupernatural proportions. It seems those pops were the sound of Eddie’s cracking jawbone. This contortion of his face is both horrific and fascinating in a way that’s impossible to look away from. His neck has swelled up, stuffed with an object approximately the same width as a basketball, but oblong.

He retches again, the guttural sound accompanied by even more cracking bones as something emerges beyond the threshold of his lips.

I gasp, instinctively reeling. The thing protruding from Eddie’s throat has stopped just a few inches past his teeth, a bulbous black knob with two small appendages writhing and snapping at its tip. It’s glistening, dripping with the same rotten mixture of bile, spit, and blood that pours from what’s left of Eddie’s wide-open maw.

“Uggghh.” Eddie forcefully heaves again, the strange object emerging a little more as the skin below his distended neck shifts.

The two small appendages become more coherent now, revealing themselves to hook slightly inward and end at a pair of gnarled, sharpened points. They move, quiver, and snap together, dripping with a thick mucus.

Eddie gives one final bellow, and at long last the black thing within him forces itself past the edge of resistance. It comes spilling out of Eddie in a sticky, violent birth, but what first seemed like a relatively small object now reveals itself to be so much more. Its shiny, armored body keeps coming and coming, first a head, then an abdomen, then a tail as its incredible weight slams against the wooden floor with a loud thud.

This enormous insectlike creature clicks and clacks with six sharp legs, struggling to find its senses amid the toxic spill of gore and viscera that accompanied its delivery. It opens and closes the protrusions on its face, which I now see are the sharp mandibles of a chattering mouth.

In many ways, the creature looks like a massive black earwig, but aside from the gargantuan size, one prominent detail sets it apart. Haphazardly lashing the air above this abomination are four long tentacles, each equal to the monster’s body length and protruding from its back. The last of these thin, muscular bands is still making its way out of Eddie’s hollow corpse, and as it retracts from the host I can see Eddie’s arm flopping and tugging awkwardly. It appears the four tendrils are how he pilots humanoid limbs, and they could easily explain Eddie’s superhuman strength. Just watching the appendages sway through the air gives a sense of their incredible power, like they could wrap around someone’s bone and snap it like a twig.

But it’s not just a monster that has emerged from the depths of Eddie’s belly. Spilling out with the creature and the carnage is a massive plume of bright pink dust, a bizarre spore-like cloud that erupts from his shattered throat and quickly fills the bedroom with a fog of neon specks.

I’ve seen these specks before, aided by the blacklight at Club Flamingo. This haze of pheromones was barely noticeable back then, invisible to the naked eye, but now that Eddie’s flesh is no longer there to contain it, the dust gets everywhere. Within seconds, the churning flecks of pink have filled the entire bungalow. The previously ten-foot-wide cloud has bloomed to an area more than five times its initial size and intensity, and it would likely continue without walls to stop it. It appears to spill endlessly from somewhere within the creature’s body, drifting from the spaces between its hard carapace.

I’m so caught up in observing this shocking display that I’ve completely forgotten the mission at hand, but my mind is pulled back into focus when the giant earwig abruptly snaps its head toward me, erupting with a violent, rattling hiss. I spring into motion again, not pointing the blade to defend myself but driving the metal into my face with even more ferocity. I cut across my chin, my brow, and the bridge of my nose, hacking manically as the creature skitters forward.

“Enjoy your new face!” I shriek, re-blinded by the spurting from my wounds.

Something hits me hard in the chest, slamming me backward and yanking my arm. There’s an audible pop as pain surges, but it appears the sound was the cracking of a wooden coffee-table rung, not calcium and marrow. I’m still held against the furniture with my cuffed arm, but I can now sense the slightest bit of structural give.

The massive insect is on top of me. It pins me down with all the weight of its formidable body and uses one of its four tentacles to keep my free wrist positioned above my head.

With three other tentacles, the creature begins to wildly poke and prod my cheeks, stretching my skin as it rattles and chirps. The sounds are frantic, an expression of frustration that somehow translates despite our crossspecies divide. I can feel that the ends of its muscular appendages are equipped with sharp barbs, but the creature isn’t using them to pierce me. It’s upset, yes, but it’s also careful not to cause any more damage.

I can’t help the smile that creeps its way across my slashed-up face, nor the maniacal laughter that spills from my throat, dancing its way between bloody teeth.

The creature stops, its giant mandibles hovering over my grinning mug and its dark eyes staring into mine. From this close, I can now see the strange bag that hangs around its throat, the same jet black as its armored shell, only leathery and loose.

The bag begins to rattle, producing a distinct, familiar sound that I once assumed was made by the broken bones of Eddie’s neck. The insect’s throat muscles clench in rolling waves, tightening to control the pitch, and through this terrible, uncanny hum, concrete syllables begin to form.

“You’ve done it now, sport.” Eddie’s true form chortles.

“You lose,” I snarl, the fact that I’m speaking to a giant bug barely registering. “We both lose.”

“Not yet,” he retorts.

“You said it yourself: all my siblings are far, far away.” I chuckle. “This torn-up canvas is all you’ve got. Go ahead and climb inside me you vain fuck, see how many Rolling Stone covers you get now.”

The insect’s strange rattle abruptly stops. He hesitates, then drops to a menacing lower pitch. “I’ll just have to start younger.”

Before I have time to fully comprehend what this means, Eddie leaps off me and skitters away, slamming through the bungalow door with a loud bang.

I remain flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling as my face radiates in a sensory halo that oscillates between overwhelming numbness and violent stabs of pain. The second I realize he’s actually gone, I’m flooded with relief, and for the briefest moment I let this satisfaction wash over me.

It doesn’t last long, however.

I’ll just have to start younger.

This strange new puzzle piece begins to mingle with the others, fresh images manifesting and falling into place. I’ve learned so much in the last few minutes that it’s hard to keep track of everything.

Eddie has been around for centuries.

Eddie’s host body is my father.

I have siblings all over, but I’m currently the only one near Palm Springs.

Eddie has kept tabs on me since birth, because he needs a biologically related host when the time comes.

A biologically related host.

A biologically related host.

A biologically related host.

Biologically related.

My eyes snap wide open.

He’s headed for Marlo.

Block Party

When panic is cranked up to the absolute maximum, it doesn’t really feel like panic anymore. Instead of some anxious rush, the whole world just kinda disappears. I’ve recently learned that pain can also function like this—that there are finite limits to our senses, and what lies beyond is a mystery.

Blinding pain.

Blinding panic.

A whole slice of time has disappeared from my memory, that much I know. When the world starts returning it comes in fragments of observation, little shards that flicker into my conscious brain and then disappear just as quickly as they arrived.

A loud crash. My wrist hurts. Vomit taste. Everything sticky. Numb face. Someone’s screaming. I’m screaming. Waste of time. Gotta move.

Marlo’s in trouble.

This last fragment of thought pushes in deep and sticks, a sharp point caught in the fleshy mass of my brain. While the storm of mental images continues raging on around it, this marker remains steadfast.

I focus on the aching beacon, pulling my consciousness toward it. The closer I get, the more surrounding details reveal themselves. I see the bohemian bungalow. I see the coffee table I’m handcuffed to. I see a massive pool of wet crimson that creeps out from the nearby bedroom and blooms across the wooden floor.

A cloud of pheromones still hangs in the air, thinning slightly after Eddie’s departure but leaving behind a pink haze. There’s something hypnotic about the way the tiny fuchsia particles drift and sway, like I’m trapped at the bottom of the ocean.

Of course, these are just the particles that are visible to my naked eye. Who knows how far Eddie’s influence can stretch without a human body to contain it? Who knows how hopeless this situation really is?

“Pull it the fuck together!” I snap, yanking myself into alignment.

I can do this. I just need to stay focused. What sits before me is a messy problem, an unruly tangle of yarn that will only straighten out if I move through it one step at a time.

Task number one: remove these handcuffs.

Coming out of my belligerent mental fog, I can see now that the metal has chafed my wrist raw, the bruises finally transitioning into a slow degloving. If it weren’t for the fact that half my face is missing, I probably would be bothered by this bracelet of carnage, but right now it means nothing to me. I’d have no problem sawing off my own hand if that were my only means of escape, but in observing this scene I notice something that could be even more efficient.

I heard the table crack when Eddie slammed into me, but at that point there was a lot more to keep track of. Now, without the distraction of an extradimensional, five-foot-long, talking earwig, I can see that the wooden rung I’ve been attached to has, in fact, fractured slightly.

This table is made of old, sturdy oak, and my knowledge of vintage furniture tells me that it’s much harder than bone and outrageously heavy. In most circumstances I’d be stuck here, but the force of Eddie’s tackle has not only torn the skin from my wrist, it’s offered a path to escape.

Gritting my teeth from the pain, I crouch down and investigate the oak bar I’m fastened to. The crack is enormous. I climb into position, lying on my back and pulling up my legs so that I can extend them against the table with the full force of my body.

I pause for a moment, making sure I’m positioned exactly where I should be and then fully accepting just how much this is going to hurt. If I had more time, I could probably find something to slip between the metal and my raw flesh, but right now there are more important things to consider.

I push back with a sudden jerk, putting all my force into this single movement.

“Fucking fuck,” I hiss through my teeth, bracing against the throbbing sting that radiates down my arm. My wrist tugs against the bar, and to my relief the oak bends a little under the pressure.

There’s a second, much louder crack, then a third as I repeat this process.

With my fourth push the whole thing gives way, sending me sprawling back onto the floor. I’ve hardly landed before I’m rolling over and sprinting toward the door.

Stop. Think. Plan.

I slow, hesitating as I consider the next few steps.

Instead of rushing outside, I turn and hurry back to the gore-soaked bedroom.

Mary’s body is the one producing most of this blood, her half-skinned corpse sprawled face down on the floor. The most shocking thing about this scene is not the corpse itself, though, it’s how far she managed to get before passing out.

Eddie’s discarded shell lies next to her, his whole face and neck distended in ways I never would’ve thought humanly possible. It’s hard to quantify how that massive insect managed to fit within Eddie’s pale old frame, but rolling up and carving out a cavity in his torso might actually work. The creature itself is quite flat, and if coiled tight, it could find enough space for each vital organ to keep pumping and thumping.

I’ve seen what it looks like coming out, but I can only imagine what it looks like going in.

I hurry over to Eddie’s former self and search through his pockets until I find what I’m looking for: the car keys. I also discover the folded piece of paper tucked away in his pocket, and while I need to keep moving, there’s no doubt this information is important enough to pause for. This is a key, too—in its own way.

I unfold the page, my eyes darting across the undeniable proof that, despite his lifespan of more than a thousand years, Eddie’s personality has stopped dead at boomer. His layout is simple enough, ten blocks of text stacked along the left side in Times New Roman font.

I can now confirm that the watermark is a government seal, the letters PSME surrounded by an oval wreath. This sheet was printed at the Palm Springs medical examiner’s office, probably just before I picked Eddie up.

The same information categories are repeated over and over again down the left side. First is the word Patient, followed by a full name. The surnames are listed first, which immediately tells me this information was copied and pasted from some other official document, a larger database. People don’t casually type names like this.

Below each name is an address. Out of the ten locations, the first four are marked with a red star. These are the places we visited tonight, including our mishap at the gated community.

Names and locations are what I expected to find, but what’s under them is so out of left field that it hits me like a slap, shocking my frantic mind into a state of sober attention.

Various ailments are listed, one in each information block. I see a few Merkel cell carcinomas, one squamous cell carcinoma, and the all-too familiar designation of melanoma covering the rest.

All of them feature a terrible additional detail: metastasized.

Most people know what these words mean, but in a sun-soaked town like Palm Springs, they’re even more prevalent. All these people have late-stage skin cancer.

I can’t help but wonder how close to being on this list Noah was. It’s possible the only reason he’s not currently skinning himself alive is because most of his treatment is through a specialist over in Rancho Mirage.

My eyes wander over to Mary’s half-flayed body, her bright red musculature still shiny and wet after its recent exposure to the outside air. Eddie’s hunt for these specific people, and his disgusting meal after finding them, felt so needlessly macabre until this very moment, but suddenly I find myself awash with understanding.

It will likely never make complete sense to me, but the building blocks are enough to reveal something primitive and elemental, a necessity in his transformation. Cancer cells are notorious for their powers of replication, dividing again and again as they create tumorous masses and destroy our healthy organs.

The destructive nature is a matter of perspective, though. To those of us with loved ones who have suffered through this horrible disease, it’s an assault—a tragic, frustrating battle cry of microscopic renegades against the very body that made them.

But as far as the cancer cells are concerned, everything is working out just splendidly. They’re simply growing, doing what they were incorrectly programmed to do.

If that regeneration could be harnessed in a different way, through some alien biology, then maybe these cells could serve a very specific purpose. Maybe they could support a supercharged mutation between caterpillar and butterfly.

Visions of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, a children’s book that Marlo adores, fill my mind’s eye. It’s a welcome break from all these thoughts of butchery and gore, but the reprieve falters when I compare it to the situation at hand. Caterpillars are hungry because they’re storing energy, preparing for a chrysalis state. Eddie is hungry to store energy, preparing for …

My gaze lingers on the horrifically distorted face and neck of Eddie’s former shell as I struggle to come up with a word for what just happened here.

No time.

I fold the paper and stuff it into my pocket, then turn and rush to the bungalow door.

The car key is gripped tight in my hand as I make my way back through the Fimi Date Farm complex, marching across the inner garden and then returning to the gift shop. I pass the security guard, who now dangles from a center beam in the main room, extension cord wrapped tightly around his neck and his body swaying gently from side to side.

If I really focus—and if they catch the light just right—I can see pink flecks of Eddie’s dust still floating around me, swirling and churning as I move through it. I can only imagine how far it has already radiated out from this building, covering the farm. Now that Eddie’s breached his human form, his pheromones are free to spread with even more potency, sliding under doors and spilling through cracked windows. The flakes are everywhere.

I notice myself approaching in the reflection of the exit doors, and for the briefest moment my heart leaps at the sight of this frightening monster. This is the first time I’ve seen myself since the blood clouded my eyes, and I almost forgot the extent of my work.

My face is caked with dark red, the blood smudged and smeared across me like I’ve been dipped in a vat of the stuff and left out to dry. It streaks through my long hair, darkening the natural ginger tone and creating a sloppy mass of long wet strands. The missing piece of scalp up front gives my hairline a strange, uneven angle, and this asymmetry is offset even more by the massive opening in my opposite cheek; an eerie, permanent half smile through which the faint glint of a few blood-stained teeth are visible. The crimson liquid doesn’t stay confined to my head, either, spilling down my chest and soaking my clothes.

But as shocking as this all is, my hesitation is minimal. I don’t have time to dwell, and certainly no interest in wallowing in regret. There are more important things to worry about.

The way I move feels larger now, as though my aura has expanded into that of a hulking beast. My confidence has always felt sleek and hidden, a great white in the water, but now it rumbles and sways with weight and heft, more ferocious than ever.

One small thing about the shark metaphor always bothered me. Thanks to a steady diet of Marlo’s nature TikToks, I’ve learned that sharks don’t care much for their young. The mothers give birth and then immediately leave, a tough-love approach that seems to have worked out in the long run, but doesn’t quite jibe with my personal taste.

Maybe a shark isn’t my apex predator aesthetic after all.

Maybe I’m a bear—a furious, monstrous mother ready to tear out someone’s throat with my claws.

I slam through the gift shop door, letting loose a furious, unbridled roar that fills the night.

* * *

Tires screech as I swerve into my driveway and come to an abrupt stop. I throw the Porsche into park and leap from my seat, sprinting up the walk and bursting through the front door.

“Marlo! Noah!” I scream. “We gotta go!”

I don’t hesitate, stomping through the entryway and into the wide-open living area. To my right is the kitchen and to my left is the pool, with its gracefully undulating, turquoise glow. This singular source of light illuminates the darkness, and on a typical night I’d probably find the scene incredibly peaceful. Right now, however, it feels eldritch and otherworldly.

I glance at a clock in the kitchen as I pass, its digital screen reading a little before four am The night is almost over.

My office is down the hallway and to the right, a room I appreciate having but rarely use in any practical sense. I shoot most of my fit check videos in the bedroom. Instead, this part of the house has become a general storage area for Marlo’s toys, much to my frustration, and it just so happens to be the place where we keep our extra swimming supplies.

I head inside and throw open the closet, yanking out a small box of Marlo’s nose plugs, the plastic clips she places over her bridge when swimming. I think back to a few days ago when I complained about these things, sickened by my words.

Now, these clips might just save my daughter’s life.

“Let’s go!” I call over my shoulder, stuffing a handful of clips into my pocket.

I turn around to find Noah standing in the office doorway, an aluminum baseball bat raised high and ready to strike.

“Stop right there!” he shouts.

“Fuck you, we gotta go,” I snap, refusing to slow down as I march toward him.

“Stop right fucking there!” Noah shrieks again, preparing to swing.

His cry is so intense, so emotionally raw that it finally halts me in my tracks. I raise my hands in a gesture of good faith, trying to calm him down. “Whoa, whoa. What the hell are you doing?”

“Who are you?” Noah snarls.

I can feel my body reject this question, the faintest scoff escaping my lungs. I scrunch my face up a bit, ignoring the sting as my fresh wounds stretch and adjust against each other.

“It’s me, Poppy.”

Noah stares daggers into me, a complete dismissal of my claim that holds steady for five long seconds until, suddenly, I catch his head cock the slightest bit. His weapon dips and his brows lift, utter shock rippling across his face.

“Oh my God,” Noah gasps. “Who did this to you?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I did it to myself?”

Noah seems perplexed by this answer.

“And what if I told you Eddie Michaels started it?” I continue.

“Poppy, what the hell are you talking about?”

Before I can respond, I hear another voice pipe up from behind Noah, a familiar tone that melts my heart just as quickly as it floods me with dread. “Mom?”

My first instinct is an unexpected one. Despite fighting all evening to reunite with my daughter, I find myself immediately turning away from her. I look down and to the side, struggling to somehow blend in with the shadows around me.

“Everything’s okay, sweetie,” I assure her. “We just need to get out of here. I’ll explain more once we’re on the road.”

“Why do you sound like that?”

I hadn’t even noticed the change in my voice, but between this question and Noah’s confusion it suddenly occurs to me just how ragged my throat is. All the screaming this evening has taken its toll on my speech, not to mention the new dimensions of my left cheek and my plugged-up sinuses.

“It’s been a long night,” I reply, reaching into my pocket and pulling out two of the nose clips.

I hand one of the clips to Noah, then crouch down before Marlo. I’m still turning my head awkwardly to the side, unable to face my daughter directly, but I catch a glimpse of her eyes widening. She offers no words, but her terrified expression says it all as she takes me in.

“Put this on your nose and don’t take it off for anything,” I instruct, loud enough for them both to hear me. “Do you understand?”

Marlo nods, still gobsmacked by my appearance but somehow willing to roll with it. She places the nose clip snugly over her bridge.

“I’m … I’m so glad you had these,” I tell her, my voice wavering as I struggle to keep my emotions in check. “I’m sorry I told you to stop using them.”

Noah steps up behind me. “Poppy, I think we should call the police. You’re really hurt.”

I stand, turning to face him. “I’m fine—I mean, I’m not fine, but—you just need to listen to me, okay?” I stammer. “Eddie Michaels … he’s a zombie.”

“The singer?” Noah clarifies.

I nod.

“A zombie,” he repeats back to me, a devastating flatness to his tone.

“Well, he’s actually a giant bug,” I sputter. “Like, a parasite or something, and he’s been around for hundreds of years—almost two thousand, actually—just working his way through my family tree. His species has these pheromones, right? Like, mind control.”

“Right,” Noah replies.

Marlo chimes in from behind me. “Mom, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared, sweetie,” I shout, a little too loud.

Noah is backing away, one hand raised like he’s trying to calm a bucking horse. I notice now that the clip isn’t on his nose.

“Hey!” I snap, growling with enough ferocity to stop Noah in his tracks. “If you don’t put on that clip then he’ll control you, and if he controls you, then you’re a danger to Marlo. So how about you put that on, or I’ll cut your nose off of your fucking face.”

Finally, Noah places the clip over his nose.

“Adorbs,” I say, nodding. “Now let’s get—”

My words cut short as I notice something floating through the air, a single rosy speck lilting through my office, barely visible in the dim light. My gaze follows this fuchsia particle on its haphazard journey, watching as it bobs and weaves.

“What is it?” Noah asks, noting the solemn change in my hacked-up expression.

As the particle drifts past me my eyes catch sight of a few more, the flock expanding.

“He’s here,” I murmur. “Go. Now.”

I push past Noah, returning to the kitchen and den area to find that the whole place is swamped with a horrible pink haze, shimmering flecks of bubblegum dust overwhelming everything.

I keep moving, focused on the door ahead, but halfway through the room I suddenly realize Noah and Marlo aren’t following me. When I turn back around, I find them right where I left them, awestruck by the rosy mist.

“What is it?” Marlo asks.

“Sweetie, do not take off your clip!” I snap.

My words erupt with such ferocity that Marlo steps back.

“I’m so sorry,” I quickly add, struggling to course correct. “It’s just … this is really important. I don’t wanna frighten you, but I need you to stay focused, okay? Someone is coming to hurt us. This cloud is part of it, so whatever you do, keep the clips on.”

Marlo considers this, then nods.

“Alright, for real this time,” I instruct. “Follow me.”

“Mom,” Marlo murmurs, still frozen. Her gaze has drifted over my shoulder and she wears an expression of genuine shock. “What’s that?”

My blood runs cold. I turn my head, charting her sight line through our floor-to-ceiling windows and into the courtyard. The pink cloud gives my pool’s turquoise glow a strange, sickening tint, and this new hue casts upward along the outer walls.

There, some ten feet up and tucked away in the shadows, is Eddie, the massive insect positioned sideways against the wall but unbothered by gravity’s pull. He perches with his six pointy legs, resting just as casually as he would on land. Eddie’s four muscular tentacles writhe slowly around him, constantly rippling with movement as they snake through the air and inspect their surroundings. He’s pumping out an extra helping of the pink dust, sparkling fog billowing from the cracks of his carapace and drifting through the night.

“Oh fuck,” I blurt, profanity filter still disengaged as sheer panic overtakes all brain function.

I immediately spring into action, backing up, grabbing my companions, and pulling them into the darkness of the kitchen.

“Here,” I whisper, dropping down behind the countertop island.

I’m not sure if Eddie noticed us, but lighting is on our side. The kitchen is bathed in shadow, and out by the pool he’s got plenty of illumination to deal with as it bounces off the glass. Still, he’s been seeing things just fine tonight through those dark sunglasses—and with only one eye, potentially helped by some otherworldly biology that I’m unaware of. It doesn’t bode well for our chances.

Marlo, Noah, and I sit in utter stillness, our backs pressed against the island. I can sense Noah staring at me, so I turn my head to meet his gaze. He says nothing, but his expression of dumbfounded terror and confusion says it all.

He believes.

I nod to the side, directing Noah to the reflective cabinets in front of us. This wall of drawers and cupboards has a metallic sheen, the light gray panels acting as a mirror that shoots back over our shoulders for a blurry view of the pool area.

Eddie is still perched up above, sitting quietly in the corner as his pheromones spill forth in wave after noxious wave.

“Can either of you smell anything?” I whisper. “Buttered popcorn?”

Marlo and Noah shake their heads.

“Good,” I say. “Keep those clips on tight.”

“Where’s yours?” Noah asks, reaching up and tapping his nose.

“I melted a whole candle into my sinuses,” I whisper. “I’m good.”

“Oh, right. Obviously,” Noah deadpans.

The haze is everywhere, creeping its way through all the cracks and structural imperfections. The AC units here in Palm Springs are the mightiest you’ll ever see, but when something gets inside one, it circulates quickly.

“What’s it waiting for?” Noah murmurs under his breath.

Right on cue, Eddie scuttles across the wall. I watch in the blurry cabinet reflection, charting the massive insect’s course as he disappears over the roof’s edge and into the darkness.

“I think he’s heading to the other side of the house,” I whisper.

I start to get up, but three loud knocks stop me in my tracks.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

We freeze, listening closely.

A familiar voice rings out, calling through the front door. It’s muffled, and in the din of a normal day it might be hard to understand what she’s saying, but here in the dead silence of the evening I can make out every word.

“Marlo! Are you in there?” our neighbor, Alison, calls out. “Your mom wanted me to come over and check on you.”

Thump! Thump! Thump!

She knocks again. “Hello?” she chirps with a distinct singsong cadence. “Wakey-wakey! Just checking in on you for Poppy, making sure everything’s okay.”

There’s a long pause, then another voice pipes up. It’s Bowie, Alison’s six-year-old son. “Marlo! Can you come over and play?”

“Poppy said it’s fine,” Alison chimes in.

Despite the inherent nosiness of her PI career, Alison is a sweetheart. In the middle of the night, however, that sweetness has turned sour. Her presence is so out of place that even my daughter doesn’t buy it, simply shaking her head and furrowing her brow.

That’s a good read, I think, proud.

I turn to the others, refusing to waste any more time. “Let’s go,” I whisper. “Out through the back.”

The three of us stand up and hustle through the kitchen, keeping our bodies crouched low and our eyes peeled. I grab a butcher knife as I pass the block, gripping it tight.

Alison finally loses her cool. “Get out here right fucking now!” she shrieks from behind the front door, feral with rage. She starts hammering with her fists, her three-knock rhythm devolving into a frantic cascade of pounds. “Marlo! Get out here or I’ll cut your fucking fingers off and make myself a necklace, you little bitch!”

I briefly transition into Mom Mode despite our violently heightened circumstances, instinctively shaking my head at Marlo. “We don’t say mean things like that, right?” I remind her, struggling to act natural.

“You said the F-word when you got here,” she informs me. “Twice.”

“That’s … a good point,” I murmur. “Well then, you have my permission to swear tonight.”

“Ass,” she says.

“Great work, sweetie.”

We’re moving down the hallway now, headed toward my bedroom where another door will take us directly to the back patio. As we pass the living room, my portrait of Stevie Nicks in four brilliant variants of neon color stares down at us, watching as we scurry along. There’s a sharp turn in the hallway ahead, and as I approach this bend I can already feel the excitement bubbling up within me. Almost there. Almost free.

A figure steps around the corner, large and hulking in the darkness.

I let out a startled yelp as my mind struggles to shift gears. This shape is not Alison, nor Eddie for that matter, and despite the dim lighting I can still make out the enormous hatchet hanging casually by their side.

“Hey, Marlo,” comes a deep, unfamiliar voice. “I’m taking you to school this morning.”

The three of us stagger back as a terrible crash of shattering glass rings out from another room, then another. I glance over to see a new figure stumbling through the darkness, trying to get their bearings in this unfamiliar space.

A woman calls from the guest room. “Is Marlo here?”

I course correct, retreating our group back down the hallway, but this path is quickly blocked by a skinny man wielding a giant pair of gardening shears.

“Hey, everyone just needs to calm down,” he coos. “Which one of you is Marlo?”

We slowly back into the living room, the mob closing in on us from every side. My eyes are darting, feverishly hunting for an exit, but there’s just too many intruders. Forcing our way through is no longer an option. Regardless, I’m not going down without a fight. This might be the end of the line for me, but I’ll be damned if I let them take my daughter and keep their teeth.

There’s a part of my subconscious mind that keeps begging me to empathize, desperately reminding me that these are real people with real lives and real stories. They’re not the homicidal maniacs they appear to be, victims of Eddie Michaels in their own way.

Unfortunately, I can’t really care about that right now.

Noah lifts his bat and I prepare my knife, but before we get a chance to use them a strange, rattling voice spills across the room, halting our assailants with a simple command.

“Alright, gang, that’s enough!” Eddie croaks. “Stop moving!”

The mob freezes in place, transforming into statues of flesh and bone.

“Lights up!”

The man with the axe strolls over and switches on a nearby lamp, granting the scene a terrible new clarity. The mob’s faces are now fully visible, and while a few of them are unknown to me, the vast majority of the attackers are my neighbors from up and down the block. The skinny man with gardening shears is Kevin Lowery, from the end of the street, a guy whose cat always ends up over here for Marlo to pet and feed. Next to him is Taylor Peterson, a girl who babysat for me a few times when Noah wasn’t available. She’s holding a hammer. Alison and Bowie have found their way in, brandishing a power drill and a screwdriver, respectively.

The whole gang is motionless, their approach halted mid-stride to create a surreal assortment of poses.

Eddie crawls out from the darkness, weaving through the bodies on his many skittering legs and then stopping before us. The massive, primeval earwig rears up a bit, getting a good look at Marlo as she cowers in fear. My daughter is beside herself, unable to keep from sobbing as she buries her head against my legs.

“Mom, what is it?” she shrieks. “What is it?!”

“Grandpa,” Eddie rattles, then suddenly erupts in a strange pattern of staccato chirps that vibrate the sack under his chin. He rears back even more as he does this, swaying from side to side and giving the distinct impression of laughter.

“I’ll mangle her, too!” I hiss. “Then you’re really fucked.”

I squeeze Marlo’s shoulder a little tighter as I say this, as if to somehow express that I don’t really mean it, but I’m not sure if it translates.

“You would never,” Eddie retorts. “You’re not ruthless enough, sport. You’re … a disappointment.”

Eddie’s final word cuts much deeper than expected, and for the briefest moment I find myself thrown for a loop. Instead of thinking of physically defending myself, I’m overwhelmed with the need to push back, to argue my case and show him I’m worthy. I open my mouth, desperate for a clever retort, then quickly shut it when I sense the tears welling up instead.

Fortunately, the weight of my dread abruptly realigns, smothering this initial reaction. I point my butcher knife at Eddie. “Come any closer and I’ll gut you,” I growl.

The massive bug settles, pausing a moment. “I’m actually kind of interested in your friend.”

The second he says this, Eddie lashes out with one of his enormous tentacles, wrapping it around Noah’s leg and giving a sudden powerful tug. Noah flips back, slamming against the wooden floor with a hearty thud as his bat clatters away. His startled yelp is cut short as the air puffs from his lungs. Eddie yanks Noah across the floor with terrifying strength, dragging his prey until Noah is positioned directly under him.

“Wait!” I scream, stepping forward and then retreating when another barbed tentacle strikes my hand like a cracking whip, sending my knife flying.

Eddie lets out a startling hiss, his throat rattling hard and his whole body arching like a scorpion ready to strike. “If you move, I’ll have the neighbors make your daughter into soup while you watch. Don’t forget, I can still take your body instead.”

I don’t believe him. The soup part, maybe, but Eddie’s too vain to climb inside me now. Regardless, it’s a theory I’d rather not test.

Eddie uses his slinking tendrils to hold Noah down, two on each wrist and one on the right ankle, while his third lashing appendage keeps me at bay. Most of the insect’s sharp legs dig into the wooden floor, but one presses threateningly into Noah’s side, piercing the flesh just enough to create a small blossom of red across his shirt.

Eddie lowers his mandibles to Noah’s neck. The giant bug lets out a soft, strange tone as his throat bag sucks inward, then he slowly moves across Noah’s shoulders and chest, repeating the process.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Eddie hisses.

When he arrives at Noah’s side he stops. The insect reaches down, slipping a tentacle under the shirt and pulling it up to reveal a small half-inch scar: the place where Noah’s melanoma spot was removed.

“You waited too long, buddy. I can smell it,” Eddie rattles. “Good news for me.” He snaps his head forward, thrusting his razor-sharp mandibles into Noah. Blood spills forth as Eddie leisurely tears away the skin.

Noah lets out a horrible cry, his body writhing against the floor as the insect digs deeper and deeper with his massive jaws, rending flesh in a sloppy, excited feast.

I watch in horror, restrained by circumstance yet unable to turn away. My hand stays firm on the back of Marlo’s head, keeping her buried against my legs.

Suddenly, however, Eddie pulls back.

The insect seizes up for a moment, struggling to process something and then letting out a gurgling shriek. Eddie shakes hard, a fuzzing, bubbling mess of red and black erupting from his throat like a child’s volcanic science project. His tentacles loosen around Noah’s wrist, suddenly curling up as though reckoning with some vicious wave of internal pain.

I’m so taken aback by this abrupt shift that I’m not entirely sure how to react, but Noah isn’t so timid. My friend claws his way out from beneath the stumbling insect, hurrying over and scooping up his aluminum bat. He cocks it back and rushes toward Eddie, swinging as hard as he can and striking the insect’s large black head.

Plink!

The reaction—or lack of reaction—from Eddie is astonishing. He’s still navigating some brutal internal battle, but it appears his external protection is second to none. There’s absolutely no indication that he even notices the baseball bat as it glances off his hard shell.

In fact, the bat reflects so awkwardly, and with such force, that Noah actually stumbles a bit. Not one to surrender easily, he lifts his bat again. Noah puts everything he’s got into another strike, but this one goes even worse.

Plink!

Once again, all the inertia of Noah’s swing courses back through the bat handle, shocking him with the same painful feeling you might get if you walloped a cement wall. Noah cries out, lurching sideways and holding his aching wrist.

Eddie’s mouth opens and closes as he struggles to get a command through the cascade of bubbling slop. He manages to form a single rattling syllable, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by another heave of liquid.

“We gotta go!” I shout, charting a new course.

I’d rather not be here when my frozen neighbors are reanimated.

I scoop Marlo up in my arms and carry her along, weaving through the crowd as we make our escape. Noah is following right behind, and soon enough we’re all bursting out through the front door.

“Here!” I shout, hustling to the convertible that rests at an angle in my driveway. I drop Marlo in back and leap into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a loud roar. Noah hurries around and climbs in on the other side.

Before I get the chance to throw the vehicle into reverse, a hulking sprinting figure blasts out of the house with such ferocity that he nearly shatters the wood. The man with the axe is racing toward us, his presence causing my hand to instinctively tug on the shifter and my foot to slam against the gas pedal. Our vehicle rockets backward, tearing through a row of large green succulents and tossing up a flurry of desert pebbles in its wake. I yank the wheel hard, narrowly avoiding a boulder that decorates our drought-resistant front yard, then careening over a ditch that nearly throws Marlo into the front seat.

The man with the axe is right behind us—or before us, since we’re driving in reverse—pumping his muscular arms and legs with the feverish intensity of a track star at the starting gun.

Behind him, more neighbors pour out of the house, giving chase with equal intensity. There are dozens of them racing through the suburban night, machetes and knives and shovels glinting under the streetlights as they frantically stumble over one another. The ones with bare feet don’t even flinch as their soles hammer against the sharp desert rocks, eyes unwaveringly locked on their target—on us.

We reach the pavement and I tug the wheel again, evening things out as we hurtle down the street backward. Axe man is still keeping the pace, just a few feet away from the car’s hood and looking me right in the eye as he froths at the mouth.

Fortunately, it’s not long before the might of our sports car wins out over the speed of the mob. They’re still running when we reach the end of the block, but if I maneuver just right there’s enough space for me to flip the car around without them catching up. I turn hard, cranking the shifter and then slamming the gas once we’re facing the correct direction.

In my rearview mirror, I can see a plume of bubblegum fog billowing across the neighborhood.

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Noah’s having trouble finding his words. My friend is beside himself, his mouth struggling to catch up with the avalanche of thoughts spilling through his head. It’s a lot to take in.

“That was just—that was—that really just,” he fumbles, some variation of these words continuously tumbling from his throat. He looks straight ahead, gazing through the windshield in a state of confusion as his synapses frantically work to close the verbal loop.

Behind us, Marlo is totally silent. I’m steering with one hand, the other reaching back and gripping my daughter’s.

“We gotta call the police,” Noah blurts, finally managing a complete sentence.

“They can’t do anything,” I counter.

“Why not?”

“They won’t believe a word of this, and even if they do, Eddie will turn them against us the second he gets a chance.”

The timing couldn’t be better as we crest a small hill to see a blockade of flashing red-and-blue lights in the distance, cop cars lined up across the road several miles ahead.

“Looks like he already thought of that,” I sigh.

I pull over immediately, disappearing behind an old gas station and then turning back the way I came.

“All it takes is for one influenced cop to put out the bulletin,” I explain. “Suddenly, every road out of town is an Amber Alert checkpoint. Eddie’s smart, don’t forget it.”

I drive another mile or so, then finally pull over.

We’re on the edge of downtown, far from the previous storm of violence and chaos. The bar patrons have long since dispersed as morning creeps closer, night owls staggering home and leaving these blocks in a state of surreal emptiness.

Our street runs parallel to the Palm Springs Art Museum, the mid-century modern structure resting nearby. Between us and the building, a lush, palm-filled sculpture park hosts an enormous statue of Marilyn Monroe, her smiling face cast in the glow of upward lights.

Forever Marilyn is the name of this statue, one of the few Palm Springs monuments that people actually seem to recognize (despite the fact that it toured all over the world before finally landing here). It stands twenty-six feet tall, the smiling starlet fighting to keep down her white dress as imaginary air blows up from below. Of course, this is more than just a depiction of Marilyn, it’s a statement. It’s a looming monument to the power of fame, for better or worse.

“Where are we going?” Noah asks, but my mind is already racing ahead.

I ignore the question, offering up a query of my own. “Why did that happen when Eddie bit you?”

“Eddie bit me?”

“The bug.”

It’s the second time I’ve explained this to Noah, but the first that he actually hears me. Noah takes a moment to process. I can tell his instinct is to laugh or scoff or reject my assertion, but this reaction is quickly escorted off the premises by the reality of what he’s just seen. The whole world has shifted.

“He didn’t like the taste,” Marlo chirps from the back seat.

I smile, but I don’t turn around, still protecting her from seeing my face.

“That’s true, sweetie,” I reply. “Why do you think that?”

Marlo is quiet.

Noah lifts his shirt, wincing as he pulls the sticky fabric away from his leaking wound. A chunk of flesh is missing, leaving a ragged patch of exposed muscle and fat in its wake, but it also lacks any substantial depth. Eddie was going for skin.

“The cancer,” I murmur.

There’s a huge problem here, two very important “mind files” directly contradicting each other. I’ve been so careful arranging these mental folders, laying them out on the floor of my consciousness and adding to each one. This attention to detail is the only reason I’m still alive—the only reason any of us are still alive—but now an odd inconsistency has emerged.

Eddie’s biology is unlike anything this world has ever known, and he subsists on a particular type of cancerous growth during this part of his life cycle. He’s spent all night devouring sheets and sheets of skin from people with metastatic cancer, building up his strength for a horrible rebirth. Suddenly, however, it appears to be the one thing that could take him down.

“Let’s just hide out for a while,” Noah says. “We can walk out into the desert. Avoid people. Disappear.”

“He’ll find us,” I sigh.

As if called upon by these words, something catches my attention in the rearview mirror. At the far end of the street, a foggy sheen of rosy pink dust has rolled under one of the streetlights. It’s a faint, thin haze, barely visible and suggesting some distance, but it’s there.

Noah follows my gaze, noticing the cloud, too. “Isn’t one of your neighbors a private investigator?” he asks. “There could be a tracker hidden somewhere on the car.”

“She is,” I confirm. “There’s no time to search for a tracker, though.”

“Then let’s switch cars.”

“The kid three houses down from us has a drone,” I add.

Noah’s gaze lifts to the dark sky above.

“I’m not running anymore,” I continue, firm in my convictions. “The only thing running does is force Eddie to kill more people. He won’t stop.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I wouldn’t.”

Noah sits with this for a moment, not quite understanding the implication here, but accepting my analysis all the same.

This is what he does. He accepts. He trusts.

I turn to Noah. “You should go, though. He’s after Marlo and me.”

Noah’s expression wavers for a moment. He glances back at Marlo and bites his lip, then finally shakes his head and lets out a long sigh. “I can’t just abandon my post.”

I reach out and place my hand on Noah’s shoulder, sitting with this for a moment, then I put the car in gear and pull back onto the road. We’re cruising now—a moving target.

I pull Eddie’s folded paper from my pocket and hand it over.

“Eddie needs to eat the skin of people with skin cancer before jumping into a new host,” I explain. “This is who he visited tonight.”

Noah unfolds the page. He looks it over, studying the words.

“So the question is: What’s the difference with you?” I press. “Eddie is damn near indestructible, but nibbling you looked like it almost killed him.”

Noah remains deep in thought. “It’s hard to say.”

The mental filing cabinet springs open, folders erupting and pages flying everywhere as I sort through the tornado. I start transmuting thoughts into words. “I mean, if he needs cancer to shift bodies, then chemotherapy can’t be great for him,” I suggest. “Your body is pumped full of radiation, right?”

“Afraid so,” Noah replies. “But these people are also stage four. They’re probably getting the same treatments I am.”

I glance over, suddenly recognizing the awkward position this might put Noah in. We talk about this stuff a lot, but in tonight’s context the whole thing has taken on a bizarre new light.

Fortunately, my friend seems totally fine with the subject, and given his outlook I suppose that makes sense. Noah is dealing with cancer in a way I’ll hopefully never be forced to strive for—fighting for his life while also displaying a sort of uncanny, meditative gratitude.

“What about mom’s treatments?” Marlo asks from the back seat. “Exfoliating whatevers. All that stuff you put on your face.”

I give myself a quick glance in the rearview mirror. “I don’t think those are gonna help us.”

Marlo shrugs. “You always say ‘never underestimate the power of a daily moisturizing cream.’”

I want so badly to trade a silly grin with Marlo, but again I stop myself. I’m not quite ready—at least not while my face looks like this, and it’s gonna take a lot more than moisturizer to pull the mess back together.

A jolt of inspiration suddenly rips through me—thoughts of my former beauty routine abruptly snapping something into place.

“Your cream!” I erupt, punching the steering wheel.

Noah flashes me an awkward look. “My what?”

“From the medical trial!” I shout. “Nobody else would have access to that stuff. When did you last rub it on your scar?”

“I put it on every day.”

“And from the looks of it, a single layer almost killed Eddie,” I continue, my excitement growing. “Do you have any with you?”

“I just ran out at home,” Noah replies. “There’s a container in my locker at work, though.”

I take a sharp left turn, my tires squealing as I slam on the gas and rocket up the road with a newfound purpose. There’s finally a path forward: a next step, a way out.

* * *

Seven days a week, morning till night, the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway provides scenic trips up and down the San Jacinto mountainside. It’s an incredible experience, though often overlooked.

The tram is a hanging gondola, suspended from a long, thick cable. It soars up the rocky crags at an incredible pace, more like taking off in an airplane than casually meandering in a trolley. The ride to the top is approximately ten minutes long, often bringing passengers from scorching desert to frosty snow in this short time. At the top, there’s a visitor’s center, a dining area, and several quality hiking trails through the thick forest of Mount San Jacinto State Park.

Marlo and I have come here plenty of times during the day, and the location has generated its fair share of Instafeed content. I’ve never dropped in at night, though. Noah, on the other hand, has worked evening shifts as a tram operator. He’s used to seeing the canyon shrouded in darkness, the cliffsides rising on either side to swallow any vehicle trekking up the long, winding road on its way to the base station.

I press my foot down a little more, picking up speed as we cut through the night. In the daytime, these rolling desert hills would be a vibrant yellow, but right now there’s nothing but a vast, black abyss and the sense of something much larger waiting out there in the void. Behind us, the lights of Palm Springs are starting to reveal themselves, our small change in elevation just barely enough to offer a view.

Eventually, however, the gentle hills give way to towering cliffsides, and as we push deeper and deeper the landscape below is once again obscured.

Noah’s been on his phone looking up tonight’s news and expressing his shock at just how little concrete information there is. Yes, there are bizarre deaths and disappearances happening across Palm Springs, but Eddie is ruthlessly efficient at cleaning up his mess. Either there’s no more evidence to be found or the evidence that does show up points folks in some random, confounding direction.

“What are we gonna do once we get the cream?” Noah eventually asks, putting his phone away.

“I haven’t figured that part out just yet.”

Despite my best efforts to plan ahead, I remain uncharacteristically focused on the object itself. Right now, our goal is tangible and singular—a small, plastic container stuffed to the brim with soothing medication and tucked away in Noah’s locker.

It’s hard to think about anything else. All night, Eddie has been an unrelenting force, his physical strength matched only by the uncanny might of his verbal commands. I’ve seen him shot, bitten, and stabbed, and while a few of these things gave him momentary pause, the efforts to stop Eddie have only made him more ruthless.

Now, however, there might be a way to fight back.

There are no streetlights on the twisting road behind us, no way to see if a giant pink haze is taking shape in the distance, but that doesn’t matter. I know he’s coming, and it’s only a matter of time before we’re face-to-face again.

Granted, both of our faces have changed quite a bit since the start of this evening.

The vast darkness breaks as we round a bend, revealing the luminous glow of the Aerial Tramway Valley Station. The road is outrageously steep here, opening into a narrow parking lot that fills the entirety of this rocky crevasse. Massive boulders are strewn about, some of them built into the landscaping in an effort to blend the structure with its natural surroundings. On the left side, a river runs steadily along, fed by the upper peak’s melting snow and carving its way through the cliffs.

The station itself looms before us. This structure feels very hip-and-modern-parks-department-remodel, despite the hints of brutalist architecture that shine through its cement-block design. It’s illuminated with the usual upward glow this town adores, plumes of warm yellow dotting the structure’s exterior, but the inside is notably dark. What minimal indoor lighting there is feels government mandated, a safety precaution to avoid lawsuits.

I skip the parking lot, instead roaring up to the front of the building and coming to a screeching halt. As the three of us climb out of the car, I take Marlo by the hand, letting her know I’m here without exchanging glances. I keep my face straight ahead, thankful to be shrouded in more shadows.

I can’t help wondering if we are making the right move. Maybe Noah was right. Maybe we should’ve just ditched the car and disappeared into the desert. The second I think this, however, I shake my head and push the thought away. Eddie would find us, and he’d find us without a way to fight back. At least we’ll have a chance now.

We hustle up the steps and arrive at the locked front door. Noah extracts a set of keys from his pocket, but he puts them away after noticing someone approaching us through the glass. Noah waves.

There’s a loud metallic pop as the door is unlocked and opened from inside. A large man in a parks department uniform greets Noah with a smile. “What’s going on, buddy? Your shift doesn’t start for like three hours.”

“I just left something in my locker,” Noah explains.

“Come on in,” the security guard offers.

A name tag affixed to his chest reads KENNY HALL.

We shuffle through the door, which Kenny promptly closes and locks behind us. “What’s with the bat?” he asks Noah.

Noah shrugs and casually offers the first non-answer he can think of. “It’s dangerous out there.”

This seems to do the trick. Kenny’s eyes widen a bit. “You all hear about the crazy—” he starts, then abruptly halts when he gets a good look at me. “Jesus Christ!” Kenny blurts. “Are you alright? We have a first aid kit!”

“I’m fine, it was just …” I start, then trail off. I suddenly realize there is absolutely no good explanation for the carnage that’s been laid out across my face.

Thankfully, Kenny seems genuinely more interested in helping me than parsing whatever rationalization I cobble together. He’s already moving away from us, shouting over his shoulder as he hurries toward a back office.

“There’s bandages and some Neosporin over here,” Kenny calls out. “I don’t know if I’ll have enough, though. You should really get to a hospital.”

“Wait!” I shout, stopping Kenny in his tracks. I reach into my pocket and extract one of the nose clips. “Put this on.”

The guard just stares at me awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. “Well … what is it?”

“A swimming clip,” I reply.

A very, very long pause hangs in the air between us. “Why?”

Instead of answering, I jog over and place the clip in Kenny’s hand. “Here,” I say, lowering my voice to a gentle coo and closing his fingers around it. “Please?”

“Uh … thanks,” Kenny says.

Kenny is struggling to maintain his friendly demeanor, but he seems deeply put off by my gesture. My request is simple enough, even if it doesn’t make much sense to a guy who’s naive to the supernatural drama swirling around him. I’ve asked plenty of men to do much stranger things in my lifetime, but this reaction is a new one. Of course, the answer is obvious, and when it finally comes barreling into my conscious mind I can’t help letting out a short, awkward laugh.

I don’t look like an influencer anymore.

While Eddie’s powers of persuasion seem to have only grown with the destruction of his outer shell, it appears mine have withered away.

“Hey!” Noah calls out from across the room, unexpectedly stern. “Put it on and keep it on.”

Kenny’s confusion remains, but his expression softens as he slowly reaches up and places the clip on his nose.

“Thank you,” Noah says.

With that, Kenny hurries off into the other room in search of a medical kit. It sounds like he’s rummaging around in a metal cabinet.

“I really am fine!” I call in protest. “If you wanna help, just make sure that clip is snug on your nose!”

No response. The sound of pens and pencils rustling, drawers opening and shutting.

This main chamber of the building is quite large, with vaulted ceilings that are built to resemble a log cabin. The middle of the room is full of small posts that can be linked with fabric bands at various points to create line formations, although none are currently connected, and there’s a small gift shop nestled on the right. Balancing this out is a long ticketing desk to the left. A taxidermy ram stands proudly at the far end of the room, watching over us with its marble eyes.

Noah takes off in the opposite direction, heading down a staff hallway, and while I appreciate Kenny’s desire to help, right now I’m sticking with my friend. The last thing we should do is split up.

We twist and turn through the structure, making our way down a staircase and then doubling back past a row of small windows. I glance into one of the glass-paned openings, catching sight of a large engine room that churns and chugs away. A gargantuan spool of cable rests at the center of it all, nestled within various bays of industrial equipment and panels of blinking lights.

Eventually, we arrive at what appears to be a simple break room, ducking inside. There’s a fridge and a microwave set up in the corner, and the opposite wall features several rows of small lockers. Noah immediately hurries over and yanks one open, rummaging around a bit and then pulling out a small plastic jar. He brings it back and hands it over to me.

“Let’s hope this works,” he says.

I turn the jar over in my hand, studying the label like it’s some kind of mythical tincture sent from the gods. A thin layer of this stuff sent Eddie into a frothing, choking fit. I can only imagine what the whole thing would do.

I read the label aloud. “Aldafedrix topical cream—fluorouracil and more.”

Unfortunately, when I unscrew the cap and take a look inside, I’m struck with mild disappointment. The cream is mostly gone, gouged away over time until there’s just a few smears left at the bottom of the jar.

It’s probably enough to get the job done, but we need to be smart about it.

“So what’s the plan?” Noah asks.

“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Open to suggestions.”

Marlo raises her hand, waving for my attention. “What if you stick it in the monster’s mouth?”

I hesitate, amused by this straightforward proposal. “I mean … yeah, pretty good plan. I think I’d probably get my hand bitten off, so I was hoping for something a little sneakier.”

Marlo nods with understanding, furrowing her brow.

“He seems pretty ravenous,” Noah jumps in. “I can just … put the cream on another patch.”

“No way,” I counter. “Besides, Eddie’s not that dumb.”

There’s a quiet knock on the break room door, Kenny’s voice carrying out from the other side. “Poppy? I’ve got those bandages.”

Noah turns to open the door, barely considering his own instinctive movement.

Proceed with caution. We can’t trust anyone.

It happens so fast, I barely have time for the moment to register. My entire frame jerks and the very beginning of a warning syllable just barely passes the edge of my lips. If I had more time, I’d tell him to stop. I’d remind him that, despite our introduction upstairs, I haven’t yet given this well-meaning security guard my name.

The door is only halfway open when a deafening blast hits my ears, transforming the relative silence into a constant, high-pitched whine. The world is briefly consumed by a flash of light, streaks of movement seared across my corneas as a shotgun blast tears through Noah’s chest, blowing him backward in a plume of gore. His body moves quickly, thrown by the impact, but not so fast that I miss the massive hole through his torso—bone, blood, and organs ejected onto the wall behind us amid an eruption of metal pellets.

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Bodies are fragile.

Noah said that to me once, and now his words are ringing through my mind just as loudly as the gunshot in my ears. For the briefest moment, I find myself genuinely stunned, frozen in place not from the bang, or the flash, or the violence, but the realization that my friend is dead.

Kenny stands in the doorway with tears rolling down his cheeks, his weapon raised. Everything feels as though it’s moving in slow motion as our eyes meet and Kenny swivels toward me.

Marlo screams.

I rush forward, tackling the security guard just moments before I directly stare down the barrel of his shotgun. There’s another furious blast, this one ripping into the cement ceiling above us and scattering fragments of dust and rock, and suddenly the whole world lurches back into sync, moving at its natural frame rate.

“Get down!” I yell, maternal instinct kicking in as I struggle to locate Marlo in the chaos.

Unfortunately, this moment of distraction allows Kenny to take a swing at me with the barrel of his gun, striking the side of my face and knocking me back into the hallway. The pain is ten times more vicious than expected, reactivating my self-inflicted wounds, and for a moment it’s so terrible that I can feel my whole body flirt with the idea of giving out. This wave of discomfort comes with a distinct exhaustion, the lights in my brain momentarily flickering.

Somehow, I power through it, scrambling to my feet and leaping at Kenny in a clawing, shrieking mess. I literally climb his broad frame, then yank him back as hard as I can and drag him to the ground with me.

Kenny tries swinging the barrel of his gun around for another blast, but I manage to get his hand between my teeth and chomp down. There’s an unstoppable fervor to the guard’s aggression, but this bite finally manages to force his fingers open.

The weapon drops and I pounce on it. I somehow get my hands around the gun and immediately roll back to face Kenny, but before I can get a shot off he gives me a hearty kick and sends the gun clattering even farther down the hallway. He kicks again, a direct hit to my stomach that forces the air from my lungs, and in this moment Kenny uses all of his weight to roll on top of me.

The enormous man straddles my body, reaching down and wrapping his hands around my throat. Even with a full rest, I’d be no match for Kenny’s physical strength, and certainly not with this exhaustion sizzling through every worn-out muscle.

As the man’s fingers tighten, a horrible realization washes over me. In the movies, strangulation always takes a while, drawn out in these overwrought moments of drama. The longer you hold the camera on someone’s face, the more emotion you can squeeze from a scene. Real life, however, isn’t like that at all. Within a matter of seconds, a large guy like Kenny will crush my windpipe and end it quick. I learned this on MovieTok.

I can see the guard’s shoulders reposition as he prepares to push down.

Crack!

Kenny topples forward, the dead weight of his unconscious body slamming against the concrete floor. Behind him stands Marlo, Noah’s baseball bat held awkwardly in her grip. She doesn’t quite know how to choke up, or how to leverage her body and create more power, but she apparently knows enough to knock someone over the head and get the job done.

“Oh my God, sweetie,” I start, struggling to push Kenny off and then scrambling to my feet. “You did so good.”

When I reach Marlo, however, the expression on her face is not at all what I expected. She’s staring at Kenny’s unmoving body, her breathing frantic and her face twisted into a terrible frown that I’ve seen a hundred times before. She’s about to cry.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I coo, wrapping my arms around her and struggling to soothe the impending flood of emotion. “It’s okay. You did a good job. You saved Mommy.”

Her overwhelmed body quakes hard in my arms.

“We can’t do this right now,” I press. “We need to go. Do you understand? We need to get out of here.”

I pull back a bit and look Marlo directly in the eyes, momentarily forgetting to hide my face. Her cheeks are already streaked with tears.

“We’re the ruthless ones, do you understand?” I continue. “We win. You win.”

Marlo pulls in one of her stuttering breaths and holds it, struggling to regain control of herself.

“We need to go,” I repeat, less instruction now and more command.

Marlo swallows, then closes her eyes and nods in confirmation. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a set of keys, handing them over to me.

“What’s this?” I ask, then notice the faint spatter of blood across a few of the little silver blades. I turn my head, gazing back into the break room where my friend’s hollowed-out corpse rests haphazardly against the back wall, the pool of blood that soaks the floor around him growing larger by the second.

Corpse.

That word feels weird.

Where his hollowed-out body rests haphazardly against the back wall.

That’s not it, either.

Where Noah rests against the back wall.

I can feel a sudden rush of emotion pumping through me, filling me up and then hustling toward the exit of my tear ducts. I act quickly to deflect, clamping my mouth shut and turning away.

Instead of dwelling on Noah, I think about how strong Marlo is, how fast she acted in this situation that would emotionally annihilate anyone else. It would be too much for most other adults, let alone a five-year-old kid, yet here she is with a baseball bat and a set of keys, just in case we need them.

“Is Uncle Noah gonna be okay?” Marlo asks.

I hesitate, recognizing this moment for the crossroads it is. Never did I imagine a future where the shitty attitude of an ancient talking parasite—who also happens to be my dad—would hold weight over my parenting decisions, but here we are. I know exactly what Eddie would tell me to say, and that’s a cycle I’m not interested in repeating.

I open my mouth, ready to speak with empathy and care, but before the words have a chance to escape my lips I stop myself.

“Mom?” Marlo presses.

Now isn’t the time for softness.

“No,” I tell her, scooping up the shotgun and climbing to my feet. I grab her by the hand and start pulling her along with me, heading back the way we came.

As we reach the bottom of the stairs I notice a distinct pink haze, dancing flecks of fuchsia dust confirming the motivation of Kenny’s sudden mood change. The fog gives me pause, and I push Marlo behind me. The two of us hold here for a moment, listening intently.

People are talking and stomping around up on the main floor, chatting in tones of excitement. I hear glass break, then a loud metal clatter. I catch fragments of various phrases, like “pull her eyes out” and “see what her lungs taste like.” The stomping quickly grows in volume and speed, transforming into a cluster of heavy footsteps that ring through the building.

I immediately pull back, scooping Marlo up with my free arm as we alter course.

This hallway offers few options, but with the footsteps drawing closer I take the only one that makes any sense. I open the door to what I assume is the engine room, greeted by an assortment of industrial machinery and the massive spool of thick black cable. Marlo and I slip inside, but before the door closes, I hear a voice cry out with sickening excitement.

“Over there!”

The metal door has a deadbolt on this side, which I immediately throw, but who knows how long that will hold.

Slam!

Someone has already reached us, hurling all their weight against the door and then continuing with a series of violent punches. I can see the mob piling up outside through the row of glass windows, filling the hallway and pushing to get a look at me with their snarling, furious faces. These openings are too small for anyone to climb through, but unfortunately the door has one positioned right next to its deadbolt.

I back away as Marlo clings tightly, then turn and run when the glass begins to crack. Someone hits the window with a crowbar, taking two or three stabs with their metal rod until the whole thing finally shatters in a crackling burst.

I’m hustling through the engine room now, weaving my way between various pieces of industrial equipment. Massive gears sit unmoving against the back wall, and a giant server bay rests next to us. While I’m sure this equipment is fascinating on a grade-school field trip, we ignore it, pushing onward in search of an escape route.

An EXIT sign, red and brilliant, catches my eye across the room. I take a sharp turn, barreling toward it. Over my shoulder I catch a glimpse of several arms reaching through the broken window, the ravenous crowd struggling to find the lock that holds them back from whatever macabre task Eddie has assigned. Shards of glass remain stuck in the edges, slicing through flesh as frantic appendages grope wildly. Blood runs down the door in thick streaks.

We burst through the exit, finding ourselves on an outdoor staircase that winds upward against the side of the building. From here we can see down into the parking lot below, which is now strewn with dozens of vehicles left haphazardly across the pavement, doors wide open and dome lights shining.

We’re approximately forty feet up, and while tying off a rope and climbing down might be an option with unlimited resources and time, it’s not a viable route at the moment. This thought is punctuated by a loud clang from inside the engine room, a sign that they’ve finally caught the deadbolt and made their way through.

Assuming the shotgun was fully loaded, I have three shells left with this particular model. I’m guessing there’s fifteen or so people after us, so the math doesn’t quite work out in our favor.

Still, if one of them gets too close to Marlo, I won’t hesitate.

I hurry upward, gritting my teeth and pushing past the strain of all this excess weight—my daughter cradled in one arm and my shotgun held in the other. Around and around we go as the stairs double back on themselves until, finally, we emerge onto the boarding platform. It sticks out from the building, a large cement landing featuring two indents where the hanging gondolas rest before departure. You’d be in a world of hurt if you fell. It’s a coin flip whether you’d die on the rocks below, but you’d certainly break a few bones.

To our right is a long stretch of glass-paneled doors, and through them lies the loading zone. During operating hours, this now quiet space would be crammed full of excited passengers, but currently it’s not nearly as bustling.

It’s not entirely empty, though. As Marlo and I peer inside, our gaze is met by three lookouts. Two of them are holding machetes, and the last one is none other than Alison, the PI. She’s still gripping the power drill in one hand.

A brief pause hangs between us, then Alison shrieks at the top of her lungs, “They’re here!”

From this position on the loading platform I have a wide-angle view of the building’s various rooms. The lights are still dim, so I can’t make out the details of any particular figure, but what I do observe is movement—a lot of movement.

My brain is moving at lightning speed, immediately recognizing there’s only one option left.

I leap into the gondola, then set Marlo down as I begin frantically searching through Noah’s keys. I’ve seen him operate this thing a thousand times before, and while I wasn’t aware there’d be a life-or-death pop quiz one day, I feel like I picked up just enough of the important stuff.

The gondolas here are much more futuristic than one might imagine, updated years ago and transformed from the tiny old-fashioned boxes you’d see zooming up and down the mountainside in a James Bond classic to a larger, rounded vessel with windows around the whole perimeter. This offers a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, not a bad spot in the tram, and it slowly rotates as it soars upward. There are no seats, just some handrails and four sturdy poles to hold for balance, as well as a central console that serves as the control panel for each cable car. You could probably fit twenty people in this thing if you really crammed in tight.

I step into the central hub, greeted by a wall of buttons and flickering lights. Noah’s lift key is easy to find, marked with a blue plastic cover, and I push it into the slot just as a startling crash rings out. Glass cascades across the cement landing as people leap through the broken lobby doors, spilling out onto the platform and rushing the gondola.

As I crank the key our vehicle fires up, sending a signal to the engine room and then beginning our ascent with a mighty lurch.

One belligerent pursuer has managed to sprint ahead of the others, pumping his arms and legs as he rockets toward us at full speed. As the gondola pulls away, he makes a flying leap, slamming against the side of the vehicle but unable to grab hold. His body tumbles out of view, followed by a sickening crack just a few seconds later.

I grab Marlo and pull her close, ducking down as something I think is a thrown hammer strikes one of the windows. A spiderweb of cracks erupts across the glass.

Fortunately, the chaos subsides as we make our ascent, drawn skyward at an incredible speed. The words gondola and tram always make me think of an easy, casual journey, but our takeoff feels more like a thrill ride, pulled along by a massive cable that hangs some two hundred feet in the air.

I’d expected our view of the rocks below to be mostly obscured by darkness, but the vehicle features a downward spotlight that illuminates this scene with its soft glow.

Marlo and I stay perfectly still in the dim light of our cab, embracing in silence as the sweet sensation of relief gradually works its way through us. There’s a long moment of blissful rest as we rise out of the canyon, my heart slowing from its frenetic gallop and my breath gradually softening.

We watch as the distant city lights begin to peer over rocks and crags, twinkling in the darkness.

“Oh, whoa,” I sigh.

In the back of my mind, I recognize that Eddie is still out there. I also know the mob could probably halt or reverse our tram from below, although it might be hard to stop those massive gears without some technical understanding. Yes, there’s plenty that could still go wrong, but right now I’m so infinitely grateful for the things that have gone right. All this death and destruction has led me to the only place that matters: wherever my daughter is.

And—of course—I’m grateful for the subtle lighting that shrouds my mutilated face.

Faint, twinkling piano music drifts across my ears, immediately causing my body to tense up. It’s the opening chords to “A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels. Shit.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Marlo whispers, noticing the way my body has registered this sound. “They always play music.”

She’s right. I forgot that every trip up the mountainside comes with a one-or two-song accompaniment, usually a classic rock soundtrack to color the already spectacular view.

As we approach the first cable tower I can feel the floor shift under me, the weight of the tram swaying like a massive pendulum. The cables tighten and then release, heaving the vessel forward with enough momentum that Marlo and I are forced to break our grasp, reaching out and grabbing the nearby rails for balance.

At this point, we’ve rotated to face the steep cliffside, and as we swing back into position, I’m amazed at just how rugged the terrain really is. Immense crags and boulders have sprung up everywhere, the desert landscape quickly transitioning into a thick Southern California forest. Huge pines are already reaching up from below, and their relative distance from our gondola only serves to show just how high we really are.

We settle again, enjoying the lull between towers as “A Star Like Me” finally kicks into gear with its crashing drums and a wall of triumphant guitars. Palm Springs and the surrounding desert are now fully visible, stretching out across a remarkably flat landscape in a blanket of beautiful twinkling lights. From up here, you can really see the way people cluster together, the way we find each other amid the nothingness.

You might say this desire for community is because—as living creatures on our vast, strange planet—we all need love.

You might also say it’s because we all need attention.

I close my eyes, regret flooding through me as I realize all this could’ve been avoided if I’d just taken my attention and pointed it somewhere that mattered. If I’d stopped focusing on what I thought Marlo needed and started focusing on Marlo herself. Maybe Noah would still be alive. Maybe Marlo wouldn’t be in danger. Maybe, in this fictional other life, we could’ve moved somewhere far away and some other sibling would’ve been in tonight’s hot seat.

I’ve looted and desecrated and tarnished memories without a second thought, and I did this by wrapping myself in a flag of love. I said I’d do anything for my family, but I realize now that this was just an excuse. I thought I was helping Marlo for Marlo, but I was helping Marlo for me.

I’ll probably never live it down, but after tonight, at least I understand what I’ve done. Thanks to Eddie, I finally know what it’s like to be on the other side of someone stealing bodies they have no right to.

A sudden jolt snaps me back into focus, surprised that we’ve already reached the second tower. When I glance around, however, I discover that we’re still several yards out.

Through the gondola speakers, Eddie keeps crooning. “I know the road is long, but it’s the path I’m dancing on! Stars aren’t born, they’ve always been, that’s why I’m never really gone!”

I tilt my head up slightly, struggling to hear past the drone of the song and identify a few strange noises that rattle just beneath it. I’m not sure which clacks and scrapes are part of the gondola ride, or artifacts in the recording, or something more.

I hold my breath, listening.

Suddenly, Marlo is ripped from my arms, flying toward the wall of the gondola and slamming against it. She lets out a startled yelp as her body slides up the metal, pulled toward the window by one of Eddie’s barbed tentacles.

I lunge toward Marlo, grabbing her arm with one hand and struggling to aim my shotgun with the other. From this new angle I can see Eddie’s giant insectoid form perched atop the roof, leaning slightly over the edge as he slips his tentacle through one of the half-open windows. Marlo shrieks and struggles against the pull of this mighty appendage, held halfway up the wall with her back pressed against the slit. Her body is pulled so tight that it’s already cracking the glass and bending the metal bars.

I realize almost immediately that I don’t have the physical strength to pull Marlo back in, but I do have a very useful tool. I let go of Marlo’s arm and hoist the shotgun with both hands, lifting it high enough so that she won’t be close to the barrel when it goes off. Instead of aiming for the barbed pad of Eddie’s strange tendril, I point halfway up the appendage, pressing my weapon against the window and pulling the trigger.

There’s enough force from the blast to propel our gondola back slightly, glass erupting outward as a brilliant flash illuminates the tramcar in a sparkling plume. The sound isn’t quite as loud as I remember, but that’s probably because my ears are still recovering from the first two shots.

Eddie’s tentacle retracts, momentarily releasing its grip on Marlo and sending her tumbling to the gondola’s slowly rotating floor. He immediately snaps his barbed pad in our direction, but I’ve already grabbed Marlo by the shirt and tugged her away.

Plenty of horrific things have just occurred, but the one that imprints itself on my brain is just how unfazed Eddie seems after that point-blank shotgun blast. He pulls his limb away out of annoyance rather than pain.

I move Marlo into the absolute center of the tramcar, my head on a swivel as I hunt for any sign of Eddie’s next approach. From here, his lashing appendages aren’t quite long enough to reach us without him climbing down onto the glass.

Unfortunately, there’s also a larger opening to consider—the shattered window now treating us to even more night air—but Eddie won’t come through there. The direct approach is too obvious, especially when I have two shells left. We seem to think the same way—like father, like daughter—and if that’s the case, he probably realizes what I’ve just realized.

A direct hit against Eddie’s abdomen might not wound him, but the propulsion could send him plummeting into the forest below.

The clackity hammering of spiked legs on metal rings out as Eddie scampers across the roof, skittering back and forth. I struggle to follow his position. With all of this movement, along with the blaring chorus of “A Star Like Me,” it’s hard to tell where he’s at, and as we cross the second tower and receive a new kick of inertia, any attempt at tracking him only becomes more difficult.

A sudden whap against the opposite side of the car draws my attention, and I flinch as a cloud of spangled glass tumbles inward and scatters across the floor. I’m not sure what exactly caused this break, but my question is answered as Eddie’s tentacle whips over the edge to bust out a third window, then a fourth.

A rattling chortle erupts from somewhere above us, the second time I’ve heard this bizarre, otherworldly laughter. “Hell of a finale, sport!” Eddie calls out over the music. “I can’t say you didn’t entertain me.”

The shotgun is pressed tight against my shoulder, swiveling from window to window as I hunt for any sign of movement. To send Eddie flying, I need to hit him right as he’s crawling over the edge.

Whap!

Another plume of glass erupts into the car behind us, causing me to spin abruptly and nearly pull the shotgun trigger. Somehow, I manage to hold back, and with no sign of Eddie’s crawling body it appears I’ve chosen wisely.

I notice now that we’re coming up on the big, bombastic ending of “A Star Like Me.” It’s a long song, particularly because what starts as a tight pop arrangement gradually evolves into the track’s famously grand ending, and it takes a while to get there. The whole composition has broken down one last time, stripping everything away so that it’s just Eddie Michaels and his piano. From here, the track will swell, growing with even more spectacle than the intro and taking twice as long. Once this part reaches its absolute crescendo there will be a sudden pause, like the hesitation at the top of a roller coaster, and then the whole thing will erupt in a wildly dramatic return.

And if there’s one thing Eddie can’t help, it’s being dramatic.

In any other situation, I’d keep my eyes peeled for something impulsive, the random emergence of Eddie’s head over the roof. That would give me two variables to watch out for—time and space—but I’m confident I can lock down one of those.

I know exactly when Eddie’s gonna make his move.

The song’s ending builds and builds as we pass tower three, cold wind blowing through the gondola. The trees are thicker now, and the rocky crags are covered with a blanket of shimmering snow.

The piano and drums start blooming with a staccato pulse I’ve heard a million times before, every strike just a little bit louder than the last. Up until this point, I would’ve argued these ten or fifteen seconds are the greatest in rock ’n’ roll history, debated the transcendent power of this song until I was blue in the face, but as I stand here with Marlo wrapped around my legs and my gaze fixed tight along the barrel of a shotgun, I realize the track has somehow changed.

It’s not that I’m trying to hate it; it just doesn’t feel right anymore. The tones are a lot more brittle than I remember, and Eddie’s moaning attempts to vamp up the energy are outrageously melodramatic.

Never meet your heroes, I guess.

My heart is slamming to the beat of the music, louder and louder as the drums reach their inevitable crescendo. Every instrument is pounding in unison, played with so much fervor that it feels as though every piano key will crack and every string will break and every drumhead will split down the middle if it goes on even a second longer.

And just when it all feels like the whole song is about to collapse in on itself, the pause arrives.

“But baby, I’m a—” Eddie belts. The second his recorded voice says the word “star,” his massive insect frame comes barreling over the roof’s edge to my right. His six pointy legs stab through the metal as he moves to skitter across the ceiling, tentacles lashing, but I’m ready for him.

I pull the trigger, blasting the giant earwig with a face full of buckshot that sends his body curling back into the air, half his form holding tight while the rest of his oblong body whips out over the side. Eddie slips a bit, legs disconnecting as he struggles to regain control and, for a split second, I think he’s about to take the plunge. I swivel my weapon, ready to use my final shell and send him tumbling to the boulders below, but before I get the chance Eddie’s tentacles reach out and snag the gondola roof, pulling him back over the edge and out of my sight line.

“Fuck!” I erupt.

“Uh-oh!” says Eddie, his voice rattling down from above. “It looks like someone hit you pretty hard, sport. Knocked a screw loose.”

I have no idea where he’s going with this. My focus is still trained on the lip of the gondola.

“I think they gave you a bloody nose.” Eddie chuckles.

Again, his words are confusing, but I can’t help myself. I slowly reach up with one hand, wiping my upper lip to discover there is, in fact, fresh crimson blood running down my face. This injury probably happened during my fight with Kenny the security guard, likely when he struck me with the shotgun. That fucker hit hard. Hard enough to knock the wind out of me, or knock a tooth loose.

Or knock the wax from my–

Before I can finish this thought, Eddie rattles out a three-word command.

“Stop everything, Poppy.”

I freeze in place.

Influencer

The wax in my nose is gone.

This awareness erupts through my mind, screamed without any vocalization since my mouth is now trapped in a state of paralysis. The utter horror is overwhelming, enough to make me collapse into a sobbing, frustrated heap, but instead my body stays upright and stiff. Eddie’s command has overridden any expression of anguish.

I got so used to my nose being plugged up that I stopped checking in with myself, considering the problem solved as I hustled onward to other things. The shark kept swimming, kept looking ahead, and that endless forward momentum made it easy to overlook the fundamentals.

If my face were clean and moisturized on a calm, sunny day, then I probably would’ve clocked the sudden ability to breathe again, but right now my head is a globe of humming static that alternates at random between pain and numbness.

With nothing to do but hold this position and think these desperate thoughts, I can now sense what Eddie noticed. There’s a cool, sticky wetness atop my lip, specifically on the left side. The right nostril likely remains plugged with wax—in fact, despite all the radiating ache and discomfort across the rest of my face, I can still feel it in there—but one open side is all it takes for the pheromones to get in.

Now that I’m frozen in place, I can see that the little pink specks are floating all around us. They’re difficult to catch in the relative darkness, and thanks to the swiftly moving tram they’re much sparser than usual, but they’re here.

Two muscular, snaking tentacles creep over the roof’s edge, slowly winding down to one of the cabin doors. They take their time, no longer concerned with me fighting back. Jet-black appendages grip the sliding double doors and pull them open, easily snapping through whatever safety precautions held them in place as a dreadful, metal-on-metal grind fills the air.

Marlo tugs desperately at my shirt, begging me to do something—begging me to protect her. “Mom! Mom!” she yells. “It’s coming!”

One of the tentacles suddenly whips toward Marlo, cracking the air just a few feet away from her face and forcing her to scramble in the opposite direction. She puts as much distance between herself and the creature as she can.

Grab my gun! I think, but my lips and throat are petrified into silence.

A few sharp insectoid legs peek over the door’s threshold, closely followed by Eddie’s long, sickening frame. He slowly descends the edge of this opening, crawling vertically until he reaches the gondola floor and evens out. The massive earwig stops here, rearing up like a striking cobra as he turns to face me.

“I’m not going to soothe you for this one,” Eddie rattles, his saggy throat pulsing with every stilted word.

At this point, I’m well versed in Eddie’s incredible power. I’ve done battle against the overwhelming biological persuasion of this creature, and the winner has been clear. Back in that alleyway, it took every ounce of strength and willpower I could muster just to lower my hand a single inch and press the horn of a truck, and that was over the course of twenty minutes.

Marlo doesn’t have nearly as long, and in this case, I’ll have to do much more than press a button.

Still, there’s nothing left to do but try. I refuse to surrender.

Tears streaming from my eyes, I put everything I’ve got into lifting the shotgun that rests by my side. I just need to get the barrel high enough.

Eddie lashes out with one of his tentacles, snagging the weapon and ripping it from my hand with a single powerful movement. He releases the gun as his appendage snaps back, tossing it through the open doors behind him and letting it plummet into the darkness below.

I still haven’t moved an inch, but he’s not taking any chances. Not anymore.

“Mom!” Marlo screams. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” She repeats these words over and over again, the syllables gradually transforming into an agonizing, blubbering squeal.

Every frantic cry from Marlo’s lips hammers a spike of pain through my chest, ten times more agonizing than slicing up my own face. I want so badly to do something, to run at Eddie and tackle him and pry his shell open with my own bare hands, but still my body refuses to listen.

Eddie turns back to Marlo. His head begins swaying from side to side, and above him the four tentacles have started to move in strange patterns and shapes. It’s hypnotizing, not in a literal way, but in the same way that one might observe a bird showing off its ornate tail feathers. There’s a primal routine to this, the entertainment that Eddie is so desperate to impart revealing its most basic form. This is the genesis. He was built to put on a show, and these movements are a remainder from some unfathomably distant past—a primordial tradition.

The tendrils unfurl in perfect symmetry, twisting and undulating in complex patterns. There’s something both terrifying and awe-inspiring about this display, like the ritual I’m bearing witness to has never been viewed by another set of human eyes. It’s like I’m drifting into the center of a black hole, experiencing something that mere theory and speculation can only begin to quantify.

I’m glimpsing beyond the edge of the universe.

I try again, struggling to do the impossible as I focus every last bit of energy on rushing the monster. I’m pushing so hard that I actually wonder if I’ll crack open a blood vessel deep within my brain, and even then, I still don’t let up.

I think of every underdog racehorse that’s ever miraculously pulled ahead in the final stretch. I think of every story I’ve heard where a mother spontaneously erupts with superhuman might, lifting a whole car off of her child trapped underneath.

I think of all the things I used to scoff at.

All this rage and frustration has filled me to the brim, a boiling vengeance capped off inside the closed vessel of my body with no release valve, only pressure. A stick of dynamite wrapped so tight that even an explosion can’t break through the seal.

Until it does.

I take a step, lurching forward. Then another.

Visions of Marlo cascade through my mind. I see her at swimming lessons, big goofy goggles strapped to her head and pulling her wet hair tight. I see her crying with a skinned knee after falling off her little scooter, and I see her grinning at the ice cream shop later that night. I see the tiniest version of Marlo on the day she was born, eyes barely open and skin bright red, her miniature hands clutching my chest for safety and warmth.

Why did I sell dead bodies? Because I believed that was all there was. I never had a moral qualm with my business because the dead are simply dead, no longer a person to violate the rights of, just an arrangement of flesh and bones and blood that will soon melt away. Literal worm food. Hell, even if I did believe in a soul, it wouldn’t still be hanging around inside a corpse by the time I show up.

But at this very moment, it’s hard to deny the uncanny power of these feelings coursing through me, not as a product of my own flesh, but of something else. Something transcendent.

It’s not God. At least, I don’t think it is, and it’s certainly not magic.

It’s love.

Eddie has infiltrated my brain and manipulated its chemistry. He’s used this little pink organ to hold my frame in place, wielding some incredible biological force from beyond the stars. By all scientific measure, my body is trapped.

But some things are bigger than a body.

I feel myself continuing forward, and as I do this I reach into my pocket. I pull out the jar of cream. With my other hand, I tear off the lid, letting it clatter to the floor, and it’s now that Eddie finally seems to notice me lurching toward him.

The massive insect swivels, still reared up and ready to strike.

I slam into Eddie with all my weight, thrusting my arm forward like a football player on the run. My whole limb hits its target, plunging down Eddie’s monstrous throat and choking him with every bit of my forearm, hand, and of course, an open jar at the end.

The creature’s black eyes widen in shock, clearly not expecting to see his influence defied. He immediately struggles to fight back, but I’m not taking any chances. I wrap myself around him, arm still plunged deep into his gullet, and leap through the open doors of the gondola.

I can feel the tramcar push back slightly as I kick off, then suddenly gravity takes hold and the momentum wrenches downward much harder than expected. Eddie and I are tumbling end over end as we plummet toward the snowy crags below, our bodies twisting while he lashes wildly with his tentacles and digs his sharp legs deep into my sides. I can feel his throat and stomach heaving and clenching, doing everything they can to eject the blockage of my arm, but to no avail.

Cold air whips past, our bodies plummeting so fast that it’s howling in my ears. Somehow, amid all this chaos, I catch sight of the tramcar lifting higher, ascending to safety while I accept this descent that, by all calculations, I’ve earned.

The next thing I catch sight of is a cluster of snow-covered trees, then the crash of snapping branches that do little to slow my fall.

We hit the ground.

* * *

A vast, endless plane of silence and darkness stretches around me in every direction. The great abyss.

Am I dead?

If this is really the end, then it appears all my most nihilistic fears about the afterlife were true. John Lennon asked us to imagine no heaven above or hell below, which sounds quite nice in the context of a song, but experiencing this kind of nothingness firsthand is another story.

What if there is a soul, but none of the fancy trappings we’ve dolled it up with? What if death just means our sentience disconnects from our body but stays aware, floating through the void until insanity slowly creeps its way in and destroys our mind from the inside out?

Fortunately, the tether to my corporeal form starts gradually revealing itself as oppressive, agonizing pain, a sensation that slowly washes over me and creates the vague semblance of a body. Never before have I been so outrageously happy to feel so bad. The sphere of ache that once only surrounded my head has grown to consume my whole frame, a topographical map of bruises, scrapes, and likely a few shattered bones.

A terrible, gurgling retch erupts beside me, encouraging me to find my eyes in the endless vacuum of space and then slowly force them open. I turn my head to discover Eddie lying some five feet away, black suds pouring from his mouth like an overflowing washing machine. His throat sack is sluggishly pumping, and one of his tenacles flops awkwardly in the snow, but his body is otherwise still. Slowly, the tentacle creeps over to me, barely able to drag itself along.

My first instinct is to pull away, not out of fear but sheer annoyance.

Fuck this murderous psychopath.

I don’t move, though. Maybe I don’t have the energy, or maybe deep down there’s something about this moment that I appreciate.

The pad of Eddie’s tentacle finally comes to rest on my arm, and his insectoid head slowly turns to look at me. I hold his gaze, noting the way the strange creature’s quickly dissolving innards have started to bloom across the snow in a massive black stain. Eddie gurgles something, the words unable to coalesce as acrid bubbles spill from his depths. He pauses, briefly closing his eyes to rest, then tries again.

“Bravo, sport,” he finally manages. Eddie’s strange rattle is now heaped with a distinct, sloppy wetness.

I don’t want to care. After everything he’s done, I’m sickened by the thought of these words meaning a goddamn thing to me.

But they do.

I feel my heart break ever so slightly, a violent little crack in the armor I’ve piled around myself. This monster is a part of me whether I like it or not, and I’m a part of him. We might not be bound by literal genetics—I share blood with centuries of hosts, not the parasite within them—but I can’t deny our bizarre cosmic connection.

Something falls into place, a mind file that’s been lost in the shuffle, finally revealing itself after decades tucked behind some imaginary desk.

I always wondered why my parents adopted me and then acted like I was a huge burden on their life. As their only child, I figured there was something wrong with me, that if I made more friends, gathered more skills, stayed perfect and strong and, most of all, beautiful, my folks might actually start to want me around. I was specifically chosen, after all. The only thing that could explain their actions was buyer’s remorse, a secret feeling they could never actually speak aloud but I knew was the sick, sad truth. Deep in the pit of my soul, I assumed my parents hated me because they thought they’d brought home a dud. They saw me as a defective product, and I fought my whole life to prove them wrong—whatever it fucking took.

Now, gazing at Eddie’s dying expression and watching the putrid black slop pour out of him, I realize something. My parents weren’t disappointed in me; they just never wanted me. And yeah, that might sound just as terrible to some, but after the life I’ve had, this revelation offers me unimaginable freedom.

Along with the question of why they adopted me in the first place, I never understood traveling all the way to Florida for a child if they lived in Palm Springs. The answer is so obvious now that I’m embarrassed I didn’t see it earlier.

It’s because Eddie made them.

The constant subliminal disdain from my parents was never about me, it was about Eddie.

Eddie needed his future hosts cared for, and close to his assorted luxury properties across the world. It’s also no coincidence they’re all located in sunny places with a high frequency of skin cancer.

My parents were nothing more than a random couple Eddie threatened into looking after his child. They didn’t love me, but that wasn’t my fault.

I was always enough.

Bravo, sport.

The words repeat in my head over and over again. His shell has cracked and separated, liquefied guts spilling out from the spaces in between, and his last flopping tentacle has finally stopped moving. The creature’s eyes are blank, but in their depths I think I can see one final shimmer, a single flicker of light before returning to the endless nothing.

“Thank you,” I finally reply, accepting the praise. I don’t do it for him, but for myself.

Eddie doesn’t react. Even his tentacles have started breaking down, more sludge than muscle.

I turn my head to gaze up at the sky above. Most of the view is clouded by the tree that broke my fall, but through the haphazard crisscross of snapped branches I can just barely make out a few glorious, blinking stars.

I bet it looks even better from the peak.

Hopefully, Marlo is up there waiting for me, and if there’s one thing that’s gonna keep me from lying back and bleeding out in the snow next to my cold, dead dad, it’s her.

I take a deep breath, noticing an odd stutter in my lungs. They seem to catch slightly, but that’s a problem I can worry about later. Sitting up causes a sharp, stinging pain to blast across my spine. It’s a feeling I’d usually have the instinct to pull back from, but tonight I don’t have that luxury. Instead, I push past the blistering sear until I’m sitting upright.

It’s here that I finally look down at my own body, checking in with the damage I’m working with. A huge gash runs the length of my left arm, likely torn open by a sharp branch, and I think multiple bones in this hand are broken. When I turn to look at my other arm, I find nothing but empty space.

It’s simply not there, replaced instead by a ragged stump just below my elbow. Eddie must’ve chomped it off during the fall.

I can’t let this slow me down.

One of my legs seems fine, but as I climb to my feet, the agonizing burn tells me there’s likely a broken bone tucked away in the other.

I’m standing on a small cliffside landing, one of the many stony perches that line this massive canyon. There’s a cluster of trees up here, which I’ve been lucky enough to land within, but everything else is jagged crags and boulders. To my left is a sheer drop onto the rocks below, but to my right is an upward slope and a winding, snowy path. Hopefully, it will guide me to the next landing, then the next, and the next.

I track the massive hanging gondola cables with my gaze, charting them up the incline and eventually ending at a small dot of golden light at the peak. To the east, the horizon is just barely starting to glow with the faintest hint of deep navy blue.

I’m worried I might faint from the pain, but the adrenaline still pumping through my veins seems to counteract any wooziness. I take the deepest breath I can manage, ignoring the rattle in my chest, and begin to climb.

From the start, every step is a debate, a negotiation between my body and my brain. My personal determination is steadfast, but that doesn’t necessarily mean this broken amalgamation of shattered bones and hyperextended muscles gives a shit. I stagger onward, limping with the same peculiar gait I witnessed from Eddie just a few hours earlier. If he can push through the pain, then so can I.

Eddie’s persuasive abilities were unlike anything I’ve ever seen—unlike anything humanity has ever seen—and I still managed to conquer them with the power of sheer will.

Is that what it was?

There’s also the chance I developed some immunity over the evening. Maybe having just one exposed nostril made Eddie’s pheromones less effective, or maybe my whole olfactory system was numb from constant abuse. There are dozens of explanations more grounded and logical than the power of love, and before tonight, those grounded explanations were exactly where I’d place my bet.

Now, I’m not so sure.

I focus on Marlo and keep trudging up the mountain, one foot in front of the other.

* * *

The upper lodge is locked, so I break a window to get inside. This likely triggers a silent alarm, but I don’t care. I also don’t care about the shards of glass slicing into me as I climb through, the possibility of more cuts and bruises seeming downright quaint to worry about at this point.

I’ve found myself in the bottom level of a large, two-story structure. This upper building is slightly nicer than the Valley Station, feeling less like a parks building and more like a cozy ski lodge.

“Marlo?” I groan, a sharp pain shooting through my chest as I struggle to put some heft behind the word. I usually have no problem creating volume, but right now the most I can manage is a strained wheeze.

The first place I check is the unloading area, which is empty. It appears the mob down below has finally figured out how to stop the gondolas, because they are no longer running, but this plan came to fruition a little too late. To my relief, the tram we rode up on is parked here at the top of the loop, doors wide open and shattered glass covering the floor.

I stagger back and continue my search, making my way down a dim corridor that’s stuffed to the brim with taxidermy animals in large glass display cases. Coyotes, mountain lions, skunks, and squirrels: they all watch me struggle along with their beady glass eyes. The animals’ expressions are frozen in various states of pantomime, evoking stories of natural life up here on the mountain, but in the dim light I can’t help feeling like each and everyone of them has an ulterior thought tucked away in that hollowed-out head. These propped-up bodies are here for sweet revenge. A room full of corpses who never asked for this, and who now get a front row seat to my downfall.

“Marlo!” I hiss again.

No response.

As I turn to leave, I come face-to-face with a fellow predator, a giant taxidermy bear standing upright and gazing down at me in a frozen snarl of rage. I pause for a moment, taking her in, wondering if I can spot a piece of myself tucked away in there. The creature’s pose is impressive and intentional, showcasing the primal might of the California grizzly.

I step back a bit, getting a wider view, and in doing so I notice something else about this display. Down at the base is a much smaller creature, a cub that’s been hollowed out and positioned to gaze up at its mother in admiration—if that even was its mother. In reality, all this is just a fabrication, a morbid little play these creatures never asked to put on.

I hesitate, knowing I need to keep moving but feeling like there’s one last thing I should take care of. Finally, I reach out and place my hand against the glass, not quite sure what I’m doing but accepting the swelling river of emotion and letting it guide me.

“Aw, fuck,” I murmur, feeling silly and then pushing past it. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m not exactly talking to the bear, or to any particular one of the long-dead animals gathered around me. I’m talking to the bodies. All the bodies.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, unable to hold back any longer as tears spill from my eyes.

The animals don’t forgive me, just stare down and bare their teeth in endless snarls.

A strange hollow thump pulls me back into focus, possibly the echo of a door closing somewhere within this vast structure. I perk up a bit, listening closely as I dry my eyes, a horrible sting radiating across my face every time I touch it.

The sound came from upstairs.

Leaving the animals behind, I carefully ascend a large wooden staircase that leads to the main floor of this beautiful building. Here, the ceilings are high and vaulted, with thick wooden beams that run the length of the structure. To my left, the entire wall is made up of glass panels that extend from floor to ceiling, providing a wide-open view of the valley below.

This vista was little more than a flat plane of twinkling lights and the darkness of night, but I now find myself greeted by an incredible blooming sunrise. It looms over me, a watercolor sky in brilliant pink.

The city is waking up, phones and televisions powering on to witness one of the strangest local news reports of all time. Everything is out in the open now. Eddie’s twenty minutes of control don’t make people forget, so this time there are finally survivors. For centuries, Eddie worked hard to hide his presence, but I doubt he managed to cover everything up before plummeting from that gondola.

I press onward. Most of the main floor is a dining hall, dozens of tables and chairs positioned throughout the wide-open space. At the other end of the room is a massive approximation of a fireplace, which usually offers up videos of a roaring blaze, but the screen has been turned off. Nearby is a café with tea, coffee, and grab-and-go snacks. There’s something eerie about this vast room—which has clearly been designed for socializing—now so starkly vacant, but there’s also a strange peace to be found. There’s nobody to impress here.

I continue through the dining hall. At the far end is an open passageway that leads to another section, a restaurant with fancier food options. This little corner has the nicest view, no massive pines shooting up to obscure the landscape as they do in other sections of the main area.

The second I walk through the restaurant door I spot Marlo, her presence halting me in my tracks and flooding me with the sweetest relief I’ve ever felt. She’s sitting alone at one of the far tables, gazing out at the morning sunrise with a pilfered chocolate milk before her.

Marlo turns her head, locking eyes with me, and suddenly I’m running toward her. I throw the one arm I’ve got left around my daughter, pulling her tight and erupting in a howling, uncontrollable sob. After so much time spent regulating my emotions—of exemplifying brutal, efficient stoicism—the walls have fully crashed down. I can’t even remember the last time I cried this hard, and it suddenly feels as though I’ve been transported to another life.

I feel like a child.

For a brief moment, the pain that has so thoroughly integrated itself into my body just disappears, buzzing nerve endings replaced by a much grander stimulation.

“I love you so much,” I sob. “You’re okay now. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Marlo is crying, too, her body heaving against mine.

Finally, I pull back to get a look at her. Marlo is bathed in the warm morning glow, and it’s impossible not to smile through the tears as I witness this illumination against her beautiful face. But my joyful expression falters when I’m struck by a sudden realization. This is the first time Marlo has seen me—really seen me—with my new, distorted appearance. I can only imagine the horrific monster she’s witnessing, a mess of open wounds and broken symmetry.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, immediately turning to face the window.

The sun has crested over the distant horizon, a huge shimmering orb that spills golden light across the entire valley below. There are no more shadows to hide my new body. In the window’s reflection, I can see the faint image of an unrecognizable face, a face that’s now my own.

“Mom?” Marlo asks.

I don’t move. “Yes, sweetie?”

“Mom,” she repeats.

Finally, I turn to face my daughter again. I force myself to hold steady, every part of my being pleading to turn away, but I refuse to submit to the braying self-conscious voice. We stay like this for a very long beat.

“I just …” I finally start. “I don’t want you to be scared of the way I look.”

Marlo’s expression falters, shifting in a completely unexpected way. She crinkles her nose up, the clip still exactly where it should be, and for a moment I actually think she might start laughing. “I’m not scared of the way you look,” she scoffs. “You’re my mom.”

I’ve cried enough already, and I don’t wanna start again. Instead, I reach out and place my hand over Marlo’s. We turn back to the window, watching the sunrise together.

Demonetized

I used to have long nights; now I have long days.

“You ready?” I call to Marlo, strolling past her with our tote bag of snacks and supplies. “We’re leaving in five.”

“Yup!” she cheerfully replies, carefully placing one half of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich onto the other. Despite her diligent efforts, the insides immediately come squirting out from the edges to create a huge, sloppy mess of brown and purple. At least she’s making her sandwiches on a plate now instead of directly on the counter.

“I already packed lunch,” I inform her.

“This one is for you,” she says.

“Oh, okay,” I reply, a little confused but going along with it. I made lunch for both of us, of course, but I appreciate the sentiment. “Well, put that plate in the dishwasher when you’re done. Ziplocks are under the sink.”

“I know,” Marlo chirps, rolling her eyes.

Three years ago I would’ve been begging her to chart her own path like this, to seize the day and make her own lunch, pack her own bags. I’ve stopped coming down so hard on her about that stuff, and now—surprise!—I can’t get her to stop going above and beyond.

I see a lot of myself in this, but there’s also something distinct about Marlo’s behavior, an update to our lineage that I can’t help admiring. She’s not a killer, she’s a creator. She puts more effort and zest into life than I ever could’ve asked for, but instead of doing all this in an attempt to get more, she does it to give.

I have no idea how this incredible girl grew out of the fucked-up childhood I provided, but I suppose that’s kind of the way it goes. The hope is that each generation improves upon the last, sees their mistakes and figures out all the shit they never got quite right. As bad as I am, I’m no Eddie Michaels, and Marlo is neither of us.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Marlo asks.

“Watching my awesome little chef,” I reply, expecting her to be grossed out by this. At eight years old, she’s finally gotten to an age where gooey displays of love and affection will often get a playful face of exaggerated disgust, maybe even a barf sound if I’m doing my job right.

Instead, Marlo just smiles and starts to sing. “When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie!” she croons, getting the lyrics wrong as she throws her arms wide and starts to dance around the kitchen in a silly, spontaneous performance. “That’s amore!”

Okay, maybe she’s a bit like me and Eddie.

“Five minutes!” I remind her, continuing out the front door and making my way to the driveway where my car is waiting. It’s already on, the AC blasting away in preparation.

I open the back and carefully slide my tote into the seat next to a vast assortment of colorful flowers, each and everyone of them carefully labeled and positioned based on the order of our stops. The car is already pleasantly chilly despite the heat of the day, which is only scheduled to get hotter.

Of course, the inside of my vehicle is not nearly as frigid as the deliveries I used to make. It’s just enough to keep the flowers from wilting.

I close the car door and turn back to head inside, but stop for a moment, gazing up at the house before me. It’s smaller than our last home—which is to say, much more affordable—but it’s certainly not quaint. The style is there, and I’ve done my best to create something cool and expressive. However, the aesthetic is not what I’ve halted to admire. It’s suddenly occurred to me that this is the first place I’ve lived that hasn’t come with some kind of baggage—the first that doesn’t feel like a burden.

I pull my phone out to check the time, making sure we’re still on track and finding myself pleasantly surprised by a home screen overflowing with notifications. One of my new “fashion finds” videos just went live and is already picking up speed. I’ve been making better use of scheduled uploads, keeping my work time relegated to the hours that Marlo’s at school.

A gnawing pang of desire tempts me to press one of the alerts and scroll through comments on my latest post. I feel the hunger to dive in and soak up attention like someone might crave a cigarette, but it gets easier every day. When I first got these scars, it was much harder to shut my phone off after an upload, routinely bathing my brain in equal parts punishment and praise. I already had my fair share of trolls, but a brand-new face and a prosthetic forearm brought them running like catnip. I almost pulled a muscle in my finger from all the blocking.

My new look also brought a lot of kindness. People still appreciated my style vlogs, and my unique appearance became something of a beacon for those who loved a cute dress but also felt cast to the sidelines for one reason or another. My following actually grew, which—along with downsizing the house and a five-hundred-thousand-dollar windfall—made it possible to drop my other, less savory job. I even have the means to make a yearly cancer research donation in Noah’s name.

The front door slams, breaking me out of my trance as Marlo comes bounding down our steps. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is already smashed inside her clear plastic bag. Marlo hands it over so I can put it with the rest of the lunch supplies, then makes her way around to the passenger-side door.

We climb in and I start the engine, my Laurel Canyon Legends satellite radio station immediately launching into “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by the Byrds.

I instinctively reach out to find a new station that Marlo will like, but she stops me.

“We should listen to your music today,” she says with comically solemn maturity. “This is an important time for you.”

I flash her an amused look, unable to keep from laughing. “Okay, sweetie. Thank you.”

I pull out a folded piece of paper, opening it up and gazing down at the names on my list. “First stop, Pomona,” I announce. “Then we’ll start working our way back.”

Soon enough, we’re cruising through downtown Palm Springs on our way out of town. The music is cranked and I’m singing along, but Marlo’s just gazing through the windows, taking it all in. She does this a lot, much more of an observer than I ever was. While she loves to perform, these moments of quiet create a nice balance. Marlo doesn’t have to take up space the way I do. She’s perfectly happy to watch and learn and listen.

She’s taught me a lot.

We pass the giant statue of Marilyn Monroe on our left, then Club Flamingo a few blocks later. Reminders of that night are everywhere, and on most days I try not to dwell. Today, however, I let the memories marinate a bit.

The investigation was extensive, but ultimately so bizarre and confusing that the results were a wash. Nobody could make heads or tails of what actually happened that night, and I kept my part of the story as private as possible. At first, I considered trying to explain the uncanny, possibly interdimensional creature that was Eddie Michaels, but when no trace of a body was found and strange black helicopters started circling the canyon, I decided to keep the juicy parts to myself. The few people who did mention a giant talking bug that “made them break into the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway” just ended up sounding nuts, and eventually faded out of the public eye.

Some kind of private subcontractor took over investigations, working with the FBI, but details were hard to come by. A few folks said it was Blackwater (or was it BlackRock?), while others claimed a division of Hex International had set up shop in the Coachella Valley but were keeping a low profile.

Officially, the events were finally determined to be a case of mass hysteria.

To be fair, there are brief moments when I question if the whole thing really was just some vivid dream. This only lasts until I catch a glimpse of my new face in the mirror or I chip off some of the half a million dollars still parked in my bank account.

With the help of a few tech savvy fans, I traced the money back to an anonymous crypto wallet. Curiously, the only other purchases originating from this source were bulk orders of Eddie Michaels albums on their respective release dates, as well as a single, late-night marijuana delivery to Eddie’s sprawling Palm Springs estate.

I also managed to figure out where my own delivery request came from on that fateful evening, the one that interrupted Noah and me during the last meal we’d ever share.

I tracked it to the Palm Springs medical examiner’s office, and for my money, the caller was Shelly Wiseman, a twenty-four-year-old woman who had the random misfortune of working late that night.

One witness caught her leaving in the middle of her shift. They asked where she was going.

“To light myself on fire,” Shelly said.

Some kids on dirt bikes found her two months later, a heap of old, charred bones in the middle of the desert.

When Marlo and I pass the turnoff that leads up to the gondola station, we fall into silence. There’s not much to see from all the way down here, the station itself tucked deep within the canyon, but that doesn’t change the way it feels to get this close.

“We should ride that again sometime,” Marlo announces.

My head whips over to her, unable to hide my shocked expression. “Really?”

She casually shrugs. “Why not? Can’t be scared forever.”

Her point is simple yet effective.

“I just figured …” I start, not entirely sure where I’m headed before trailing off. “Huh. Okay, yeah. Sure.”

“Didn’t really get to enjoy it last time,” Marlo continues. She cracks a smile, then starts full-on laughing. It’s a silly thing to say, and she knows it, but it’s also the truth.

I shake my head in amazement. “Kids are resilient.” I chuckle, more to myself than to her.

Marlo nods, settling back into her seat. “Like you.”

I somehow manage to quell a volcanic rumble of emotion, but just barely.

“There’s a giant taxidermy bear up at the peak,” I remind her. “Also like me.”

“What?”

“A mama bear,” I explain.

Marlo furrows her brow. “You’re not a bear.”

“What am I then?” I ask. “I don’t wanna be a shark anymore.”

My daughter’s expression remains deeply unimpressed as she stares at me like I’m a total dumbass.

“Mom,” she says. “You’re a person.”

* * *

We’ve arrived at our final stop of the day, which also happens to be a return to Palm Springs. In fact, we’re just a few miles away from home, slowly pulling through the gates of Welwood Murray Cemetery.

The back seat is no longer packed full of flowers, arrangements doled out one by one as we took our time beside every gravestone, tomb, and humble memorial brick. A lot of people died that night, which means a lot of memories to honor.

We take the final bouquet from the car. Marlo wants to carry it, and I’m happy to let her. Soon, we’re strolling through the headstones, our shadows stretching long across the cemetery grounds. This place is quiet, tenderly soundtracked by the rustling of soft wind through nearby trees and the gentle clang of a metal carabiner against a flag pole. The scent of fresh-cut grass fills my nostrils.

“There he is,” I announce, pointing to a nearby headstone.

Marlo nods, then bows her head slightly and walks over to the modest marble plaque. She places our flowers in front of the marker, then steps back a few feet, gazing down at them.

I stand next to her, holding her hand as my eyes linger on the boldly etched name: NOAH DOYLE.

We make these rounds every year, a long memorial trek that marks the anniversary of that night. I’ll admit that I felt a little silly on the first year, the practical part of my mind immediately considering the fate of the poor flowers once we left each cemetery. As someone who’s not particularly spiritual, it was difficult to wrap my head around the best way to honor so many people. It makes more sense to me every time, though, especially since I realized that honoring the dead has plenty to do with the living. This is an important time for Marlo and me, especially visiting Uncle Noah at the end of each trip.

Just because I can’t explain it, that doesn’t mean it’s not important.

I have no idea if Noah’s spirit is up there chilling out on some fluffy white cloud, sipping a beer and smiling as he gazes down on us. Maybe his ghost is standing right next to me, sending out those unmistakably kind and patient vibes just like he did when he was alive.

Or maybe not.

I’m here out of respect, not just for Noah, but for the grand, cosmic way that life and death intersect. The aching love that swells in my heart is real and important, but I don’t feel it like this for every single person during our annual rounds. I visit them anyway.

The phantom of each victim admiring their fresh-cut flowers is a wonderful and poetic little piece of imagery, but it’s one I still wrestle with. I don’t know where I land on the subject of heaven, or hell, or ghosts, or sparks that linger on and on after we go.

I probably never will, but at the end of the day, none of that matters. If I can’t quite be here for the soul, that’s fine.

I’m here for the body.

About the author

Two-time Hugo Award finalist, Chuck Tingle is a mysterious force of energy behind sunglasses and a pink mask. He is also an anonymous author of romance, horror, and fantasy. Chuck was born in Home of Truth, Utah, and now splits his time between Billings, Montana and Los Angeles, California. Chuck writes to prove love is real, because love is the most important tool we have when resisting the endless cosmic void. Not everything people say about Chuck is true, but the important parts are.

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