Murmuration

Sean laughs.

And Mike makes a decision.

XVI

IT’S LATE, the sky dark and the moon new, so it’s all stars and streetlights. Mike’s moving in shadows past the houses where Amorea sleeps, lights off and dreaming. He thinks that he’s being stupid, that he should be at home in his bed like everyone else, but he thinks that maybe Nadine the African Queen was looking at whomever took the photo like Mike looks at Sean. And if that’s the case, he can’t let it go. He can’t let her stay hidden.

Before he walked out of the diner that afternoon to walk Sean home, he looked near the door, and sure enough, there was a photo with Calvin, Donald, Sean, and Happy, standing all buddy-buddy, mugging it up for the camera. He knew it was there, because he knew where all the photos of Sean were. It took all he had not to rip it of

f the wall right then and yell, See? See? See?

That might have been smarter than what he’s doing right now. Because he lives in Amorea and it’s pure. People don’t lock their doors. If a place is closed, it’s closed and no one goes inside. It’s just unheard of. If it’s an emergency, sure, but no one goes to the diner in the middle of the night because of an emergency. Mike’s trying to justify it somehow, but he can’t make it stick.

What do you know about schizophrenia?

He’s not paranoid. He’s not. It’s there. She’s there and she’s in love, and he will find her and know that he’s not going crazy. That something else is happening.

Then he can work his way up to showing others the bigger things. And they’ll believe him. They won’t have a choice but to believe him.

They aren’t delusions.

He’s onto Main Street without seeing another soul, but he expected as much. The businesses of Amorea are dark, the marquee for the cinema rising into the night. The streetlamps are lit, surrounded by the autumn garlands, and it’s quaint, really, but it’s also more sinister at night. Mike’s not scared of the dark. He is scared of the things he doesn’t understand. Which is why he’s listening for footsteps, for voices, for an angry woman with a Wüsthof Ikon Damascus knife that costs more than he probably makes in a month.

(He doesn’t know that, how can he know that, he doesn’t even know what that is.)

He’s at the diner, and it’s quiet and empty, the only light coming from the glow of the timer on the coffeepot inside. It’s orange and muted, but he can see it through the diner windows.

He pauses at the door, wondering if he really has it in him to take this next step. He knows that once he steps inside, there’s no going back. He’s certain the picture is there like he thinks it is, folded and hiding Nadine. He knows it is.

But being human means having doubts, and however certain he may be, that little voice says, And if it’s not? What then, Mike?

He does an awful thing then.

He hesitates.

Because what if it’s not there?

Wouldn’t that just be the bee’s knees?

Nothing like having proof in your hands that you’re looney tunes.

He’s certain, though.

Mostly.

“Do it,” he says, and is shocked by how loud his voice sounds in all that Amorea quiet. “Just do it.”

He does.

The bell rings out overhead. It’s different at night. It bounces off the floor and the walls, and there’s no one behind the counter, no one behind the grill. No one calling out Hey, Mike or There he is or You here to see Sean? with a knowing smirk on their face.

The photo isn’t that far from the door. Just a few steps, really, and he’s standing in front of it. It looks like it always has, but his eyes stray to the left, and he’s sure he can see the crease right near Sean’s arm where Nadine the African Queen is folded away. He tells himself just to do this and get it over with so he can go home and go to bed and tomorrow, he’ll show Sean, and they’ll figure it out together, they’ll do this right. His—

—back hits the glass, and he’s a big guy, always has been, pushing two-thirty and muscles on top of muscles. It’s no contest what happens when he meets the sliding door. It shatters around them, the metal frame twisting and shrieking. It’s safety glass, so it breaks off in chunks, but he still feels little pinpricks on his back, like bee stings.

He lands on his back on the floor of the balcony, glass sprinkling around them. The sounds of traffic below float up around them. She’s on top of him, looking dazed, the knife loose in her grip. He’s reaching up to knock it from her hand when she rears back, the tip of the knife pointed at his throat.

He’s thinking, Holy shit, what are you doing, what are you doing, what are you doing?