Kirasu Rising Bundle

Miranda stepped into stiff, soot-covered overalls and tied her short black hair under a bandanna. The pants smelled like a marriage of charred plastic and spent oil, like everything in the Trash Lands. She wanted to peel them off and curl up on the thin cot for another three hours, or even ten minutes.

“Don’t want to go in today?” 

Beda stretched her arms above her head, her fingers scraping the ceiling of the squat, cinder-block shack, and dropped into a right leg lunge. Miranda zipped the putrid overalls and stepped into black boots.

“When have I ever?” She pulled a water bottle from her bag and shook it—empty. Her tongue lay fat and sticky in her mouth. “What are you getting ready for?”

“I have a talk tonight at the Bubble City library. Miranda, I want you to come.”

She screamed inside but managed to ask, “Why?”

Beda arched her back into cobra position, holding her upper body rigid. “It’s important to me. I need you to hear what I’ll say.”

She tried to pretend they were having a serious conversation and decided to ignore the butt that was now sticking up in the air. “You need an audience to tell me something?”

Beda looked at her from between her legs. “Will you come?” 

Miranda sighed. “What time?”

Beda stretched to her full height of six feet and beamed. “It’s right after your shift. I arranged with the council to give you an extension so you can be there.” She sank into lotus position, her long legs tucked into each other, thumb and middle finger barely touching, the backs of her palms resting on her knees. She closed her eyes.

Miranda’s neck got hot, and the flush spread fast up her face as Beda nestled into hours of meditation. As if she has control over anything. “Another speech by Beda Ess? Why do you bother? Nobody believes any of the crock you are pushing. ‘Love is the answer.’ People out here are scraping to find the next drop of water, and people in Bubble City are so set they can’t even see a problem. You’re not changing anything!”

Beda sat straight-backed; eyes closed. Her tone calm. “That may be, but you won’t find hope in a hopeless place if you never look.”

Miranda ignored the T-shirt slogan and enjoyed continuing to interrupt her peaceful repose. “I can fill three bottles today, but that’s all I can get in and out. It should get us through the night. Can you get any?”

Beda opened one eye. “I’ll try,” she whispered.

Miranda grabbed her phone and earphones, essential elements for the endless train ride that felt longer every day. She tied another bandanna around her nose and mouth and slipped on her leather jacket. “Try not to get lost in wonderland, Mom. I’ll go make some money so we can eat.”

“Bye, M, and thank you.”

Miranda rolled her eyes and opened the door on a dark, quiet street. Warm wind brushed her hand, and a fine mist of ash settled on its back. She knocked it off and shoved both hands deep in her pockets, plodding into the dark for the two-mile walk to the train station.

She kept her phone in her pocket with one eye on the road ahead and the other on the edges, watching for movement. Her fingers rested on the brass knuckles, cold in her pocket. She glanced under burned-out cars and listened for footsteps behind her. The quiet made her anxious.

The sky lightened to dull gray as she walked. The constant burning of Bubble City’s trash kept the air thick with soot and smoke. A low growl rumbled from under a car as she walked past. She stomped her boot hard twice and barked. It answered with a whimper.

“Welcome to the Trash Lands,” she mumbled as a heavy layer of soot settled on her head. She shook it off. 

If Bubble City tasted ash with every bite of food, maybe things would change. If they never saw their precious sun because thick layers of ash coated their dome, maybe things would change. But that won’t happen because they stuck the incinerators way out here and we get to live with them. Lucky bastards. She pulled her bandanna down and tried to spit in disgust, but it came out as air.

As she got closer to the station, shapes edged out of the shadows and focused into people. She joined the quiet commuter shuffle and trudged up three flights of stairs to the platform and scanned her ID. She relaxed a little, walking through the turnstile and let her brass knuckles drop into her pocket.

Commuters jammed the platform on their way to Bubble City. She shook the piles of gray dust off the bandannas and shoved them in her bag. Her hand brushed her phone. She pulled it out and pushed play on a new song Nathan sent her. It started with a catchy bass line. She smiled and turned it up. The singer’s voice came in simple and strong. Another voice joined, Are they sisters? She closed her eyes and leaned back, listening.

The singer floated in space in front of her. Omega’s door. What is that?

Did she say rebirth?

Waking up is painful

I agree with that.

Wake up and believe in everything. The truth is anything is possible

That would be nice.

Two women floated now, seeming at home in the void of space. Their voices swelled and built a wall of sound around her. Who are these people? I’ve never heard anything like this. No one sang in Bubble City; music was all synth tracks and robots. The wave of sound crashed as the train arrived. The crowd pushed to get on, and no one got off. She moved with the tide and squeezed into a seat next to an older woman and a young girl.

She rocked to the drums, listening to the lyrics. The train lurched forward. Three hours to Bubble City. Three long hours. Her butt ached at the thought.

Quiet meditation, incessant interruption

She closed her eyes and click—the music stopped.

“What!” she yelled at her phone. Dead. Stupid thing was useless. Battery couldn’t hold a charge overnight, and no one had electricity in the Trash Lands.

She threw the phone in her bag and pulled out a book called Synchronicity. Nathan was so excited when he lent it to her a month ago. He asked her to think about how seemingly unrelated events could be profoundly related and could have a big impact on her life. The idea sounded interesting, but the language was so hard to follow. This guy Jung may have been brilliant, but he wasn’t trying to be understood. 

She closed it again and watched the desert stream past at sixty miles an hour, one long stretch of brown and tan. There were no trees, only scrub brush and bushes, and sand. Sand for hundreds of miles in all directions, endless desert, interrupted by bubbles—cities with protective domes to keep the poison air out.

She closed her eyes and her eyelids burned; sand stretched out forever behind them, too. When she opened them again, the shadows of the two moons broke through the clouds.

“Look, Dahlia.” The older woman pointed to the sky. 
“Look at the moons. Has your mother told you the story of the second moon?” she asked the little girl.

“No, Grandma. Will you tell me?”

Miranda groaned, grabbing her earphones, but remembered she had no power. She’d heard this story so often from her mother she could tell it by heart. That didn’t mean she believed it.

“A long time ago, back when the Earth was green and fresh, there was only one moon,” the woman began. “The Earth was larger because that second moon was part of this planet. Earth was one large, green planet with clean air and clean water, enough for everyone.”

“Wow, did you live then, Grandma?”

“No, darling, this was well before my time. But, as the story goes, there were two groups of people on this one large planet. One group lived simply, with nature, and listened to her needs and tried to live in balance. The other group didn’t listen to nature, so they couldn’t hear what was most important. All they wanted was to collect money and pretend like their actions had no consequences. Does that sound familiar?” she asked the little girl. “Sounds a lot like people here now, doesn’t it?”

“I guess it does, Grandma.”

“The people who could hear nature tried to make the people who couldn’t understand they were out of balance, that Earth couldn’t survive that way. My Nana told me they tried for many generations to help people understand, but it didn’t work. Nana said one day when she was a girl, she woke up and thousands of people from her town were gone. It was that way everywhere. That same night, she saw a second moon staring down from the sky. It glowed bright and big, just like it does now. Nana believed that’s where they went, that they broke off a piece of Earth and started their own world. Some say they are still up there now, living in peace with each other and with nature, with plenty of clean air and clean water.”

“Do you believe that, Grandma?” the little girl asked. 

“Sometimes I like to, but how would anyone break off a piece of Earth and get it up into space? You know, the scientists say we’ve always had two moons. But Nana swore she remembered the day it first showed up.”

“What do you think they are doing up there, Grandma?” asked the little girl, staring at the fading moons.

The woman smiled. “Singing, maybe dancing. Or maybe they are quiet, maybe it’s morning there, and they’re making breakfast.”

“I’m hungry, Grandma.” The little girl grabbed her stomach.

“I know, baby.” Worry lines creased the woman’s face.
“Hopefully, we can find something when we get to Bubble City.” 

“Ok.” The little girl held her stomach and closed her eyes.

She put her spin on that old yarn. “Here.” Miranda handed the woman a roll wrapped in a bandanna. “I was saving it for later, but she can have it.”

“Are you sure?” The woman was surprised. 

She shrugged, ‘yes.’

The woman handed the roll to the little girl. She smiled at Miranda. “Thank you very much, lady.” 

“You’re welcome.” Miranda smiled back.

The girl devoured it in a few bites. “Do you think there are any Moon People here, Grandma?” she asked, looking at Miranda. 

“Maybe so, sweetie. My mother was sure of it. She said sometimes they come down to help us. They’d get jobs and live like the rest of us, but they also try to change our world.” She smiled at Miranda.

She stifled a groan. Beda had told her variations of this story since she was old enough to stand. But the truth is no one will save us. She wanted to scream at the woman. We’ve always lived in a toxic waste dump, and that won’t change! She put her head back against the wall instead and let her eyelids burn against her eyes. She couldn’t bear to see the hope glimmering in the little girl’s face. The train pulled into Koch Station. They all got off and shuffled toward the main gate. No need to rush; there were multiple entrances with guards screening everyone for weapons and empty bottles as they entered. She yawned; this was rote. Her brass knuckles and empty water bottles were tucked away under a false bottom in her bag. She sewed it in after losing a precious bottle to this idiotic process. That wasn’t happening again. The guard sneered at her as she handed her bag over for inspection.

“Why do you pretend you’re reading this stuff?” He laughed, throwing her book back in, and waved her through. Most guards didn’t care about empty bottles. They were checking for explosives, but they couldn’t let it slide, either; you had to put in a little effort.

Cleared for entry, she walked through skinny, glass doors twenty feet high and six feet across with ornate black iron casings. Iron roses climbed to the sky. It was majestic from far off and easy to police. As she stepped across the threshold, the low and constant hum of machines took over. A robot rolled over and swept dirt off her boots. She stepped to the side, out of the way of the masses entering for the workday. Crouching down, she took her arms out of her jacket and shimmied out of the dusty, sleeveless overalls. She folded them in half, and wrapping them tight, shoved them into her bag. Now she wore a green-and-blue-striped T-shirt, cropped black pants, and her trusty worn leather. Her clothes were as clean as she could get them, and she could never be mistaken for a resident. The clear distinction put them at ease. She wiped dust from her cheeks with a rag. Here we go again.

The crowds were thick at the gate. Miranda waited for a potential break and took a deep breath of sweet, clean air as she stepped onto the frosted-glass sidewalk. It was raised above the black obsidian street, creating a track keeping the often drunken, always reckless drivers away from everyone else while they played with their favorite toys.

The sidewalk square lit bright pink as she stepped. My favorite. She cringed as smoke rose from screeching tires below. She bumped into another worker. “Sorry,” she mumbled, but the woman scurried out of her way, not making eye contact.

Her bridge wasn’t too much farther. A few more bright blue and green squares would get her there. As Miranda stepped onto the pedestrian bridge, a new pop tune pumped out of the stones. The girl sang about her dress. ‘So pink, so chic, gonna love you all night long.’

The video played on the bridge as she walked across it. Instead of looking down, Miranda looked out. The black, glassy street played back the reflections of the residential towers like a mirror. She stopped, resting her fingers on the railing, and stared out at the stretching towers.

Who lives there? But she knew—only the children of people who lived there before. Fortunes and leases passed from one generation to the next. People in Bubble City knew where they came from. There wasn’t anyone making it rich and moving in anymore. It was all set, and they liked that just fine. Residents strolled along the sidewalk, shopping. A few people scurried through the crowds with somewhere to be; no doubt workers brought in for the day.

Motorcycles and cars darted along the track below, weaving around each other, all fighting to get there. Where? Anywhere, first. The black, glistening street buckled and cracked; its color lightened to stormy blue. What am I seeing? Cars disappeared into rushing water. Small waves crested through hushed silence. Grassy banks overtook the cement sides of the track.

“Do you see this?” She pointed wildly toward the new river, but the crowd shuffled by. “Hey!” She grabbed the arm of a man in a silver suit. “Look!” He jerked his arm back, horrified that she’d touched him. “Oh, sorry, never mind.”

They can’t see it. It’s only a vision. 

The biggest one she’d ever seen. She turned back and watched light play on the water, content to enjoy her private show for as long as it lasted. Movement in the distance caught her eye. “What is that?” she whispered. In front of her, the hulking tower transformed into a snowcapped mountain, and an open field stretched out in front. A cold wind hit her.

“It’s so beautiful.” The words caught in her throat, and a tear spilled down her cheek. The clean smell of wet grass filled her senses as she drank in this peaceful place. Tall trees blanketed the mountain in green while bright beams of sun splashed the field in golden light. A horn beeped in the distance, and another; she felt the cold metal railing in her hand again. The trees on the mountain glinted and turned blue as the mountain folded back into a steel-and-glass tower. The tops of cars moved through the water until it drained away, and the black street glistened.

Bubble City surrounded her again. She shivered. A clock flashed on the building—8:10 a.m.

“I’m late!”

Sweat rolled down Miranda’s back as the gyrating mass pressed closer. Too many. Too close. Sweet and spicy aromas clashed in the sticky air. Her knees buckled. She stumbled. 

Samsara had been partying for days since the funeral, as if honoring the woman who’d saved Nibiru from a black hole was a contest they didn’t plan to lose. 

So carefree, so sure there would be no repercussions.
 
“Come out and see the city,” Monrovia had said. “You can’t spend the rest of your life hiding in bed.” 

But ten minutes outside the house, she’d lost Monrovia in the crowd. Now Miranda regretted few things more than leaving the safety of her covers. 

Three boys hammered out a driving beat on drums strapped to their chests, so close she could touch them. Her cells vibrated with each strike. The mass swayed and stomped in time, moving with practiced rhythms, jostling her like a ball in a pinball machine. With shallow breaths, she stumbled, searching for a way out of the hot bodies. 

If they knew the black hole had never been headed to Nibiru, they wouldn’t be dancing. They’d be furious. 
 
Breathe. 

Miranda moved to squeeze past a tall woman blocking her escape from the crush, but Miranda misjudged her next dance move and she rocked back, crunching Miranda’s foot. Searing pain shot up her leg while the woman swooped down to help, her eyes wide with unsaid apology. Miranda brushed aside the sympathy and tried to limp through the gap. 

“Wait! You’re—” She seized Miranda’s hand, trapping her in the thick and hoisted her arm into the air. She shook Miranda’s fist above both their heads. “Toast to Beda Ess!” she shouted. 

Nearby horns ripped out a tinny retort, and half the woman’s drink spilled on Miranda’s shoe as she fought the tight grip on her wrist. 
No attention. 

She wanted to shrink, not be fawned over for her mother’s sacrifice. 

The pack swung, and a new hole opened. Miranda pried her wrist from the woman’s grip and lurched out of the scrum. Lumbering to the sidewalk, she leaned against a wall and pressed her cheek to the rough brick, thanking whatever gods of chaos and revelry deposited her in this empty spot.

Miranda dug her fingers into the grooves of the bricks while she watched the mob. Since she’d stood next to Carl for his impromptu interview on the day of the Gathering, people had occasionally recognized her. For these revelers, the Gathering had been the day they had used their ancient strength to help Beda stop the black hole from ending their world. For Miranda, it had been the day Beda died. 

The scent of buttery bread wafted toward her, and she squinted against the sun to read the sign. Two Buns, Monrovia’s favorite bakery. Miranda hadn’t done a lot in these past few weeks on Nibiru, but she’d sampled their treats more than once with her sister. Maybe she’d show up here. 

A woman in the bakery kneaded dough on a long wooden table, so much like the one Nathan had used. Miranda’s heart tightened. He’d punch and flip the dough, flour up to his elbows, and he’d always make sure a few rolls came out too small for selling. The rejects. And what else could they do with the rejects but eat them? She touched the glass with the tips of her fingers and bit back tears. Is he really gone? Are they all gone? 

How could she live like these people? Like everything was ok? The banner ‘Prayers for Beda Ess’ rippled over the crowd. 

“I thought I’d never find you.” Monrovia’s voice startled Miranda, but she grabbed her sister in a tight hug. Monrovia awkwardly patted her back. “You okay?” 

Miranda dropped her arms, stepping back, trying to act casual. Too much. She pointed at the throng of dancers. “I can’t handle that.” 

Monrovia nodded. “There won’t be as many people where we’re going. I hope you’re hungry.” 

As she hustled to keep up with Monrovia’s long strides, Miranda’s stomach answered with a loud growl. She’d been eating small portions at Carl’s house just in case he might rethink bringing on another child. But he’d been nothing but loving, accepting, since she’d first shown up on his balcony. And she knew he had all the money they needed to live comfortably, even though he’d left his job at the Interstellar Research Group. 

No, it wasn’t the fear of Carl’s rejection stopping her from getting out of bed to eat. Her stomach twisted as the realization crystallized. Lying in bed pretending to sleep was easier than meeting their concerned faces. The unsaid: are you ok? 

Everything would have been different if she hadn’t followed Beda to Earth that night so many years ago—but she couldn’t take that back.  

Monrovia stopped to let Miranda catch up. “After the noodles, I have a surprise for you.” Monrovia’s eyes sparkled with a flare Miranda had not seen before, but the word ‘surprise’ sent a hot shot of panic racing through her. After destroying Earth, losing her mother, and trying to settle into a new planet, surprises were not on the top of her list. Instead of running screaming, she took a breath. “What kind of surprise?” 

“Let’s just say I’m sure you’ve never done it before.” 

Miranda’s mind raced with things she’d never done, eaten in a fancy restaurant, swam in the ocean, tied her shoes underwater. “Can you give me a hint?” 

Monrovia ignored the entreaty. “Just try to keep up.” 
She weaved through a group of people clustered around a man holding a pink-and-green bird. 

Miranda couldn’t look away from its bright feathers and sharp, black beak. A child reached out nervously with pudgy fingers to touch its feathers. The bird held its head high, enduring the encounter until the trainer produced a wriggling worm. Pointed teeth flashed as it scarfed the treat. Miranda shivered, and the child jerked his hand back. She broke her gaze and caught the edge of Monrovia’s flowing skirt turning down a side street. 

“Hey, slow down!” Miranda jogged to catch up. 

The crowds had thinned to only a few passersby. Monrovia waited by a cottage marked with a short fence and a small yard. The quiet hopefulness of this street made Miranda wish she could remember life here before she left at only three years old. They all lived together then, perhaps in a house like one of these. If Monrovia remembered the day her sister and mother disappeared, she’d never mentioned it. Miranda watched her, staring into the garden. They had both been so young. 

A creeping plant with delicate white flowers grew along the fences, filling the air with a complex aroma unmatched by any chemical concoction. Miranda drew in its sweet smell as she strolled beside Monrovia. 

A woman appeared in her doorway, sweeping the threshold. As Miranda blinked, the woman became Beda, with her long, white hair catching the ash rain as she swept the soot out of their cinder-block shack in the Trash Lands. 

A sharp pang stabbed Miranda’s chest. She gripped the fence tight. Beda gave this up to go to Earth to save people she didn’t know or even understand. But the black hole had taken Earth, anyway. 
Earth gone. Beda gone. 

Could they have stopped Alois another way? Was he really gone? 

Still gripping the wood, Miranda focused on a beam of sunlight playing on a patch of flowers near her. She felt the woman watching her and leaned down to a blossom, lingering in the smell, feeling the warm sun on her face. Her chest released, and she straightened up, giving the woman a wan smile.

Monrovia moved closer, whispering, “You okay?” 

Miranda loosened her grasp, nodded, and followed Monrovia through the winding streets, wandering to tangy smells. 

They came to a wide street with back-to-back huts filling its middle. Monrovia barreled through the maze of scents with unmatched focus. Miranda ambled behind, her mouth watering as she imagined what delicious treats might be in those boiling pots and searing woks. Monrovia stopped at the counter of a sagging hut, its dingy bamboo walls struggling under the weight of expectations. 

“This one is the best.” Monrovia held up two fingers to the stooped woman, who nodded and filled two nubby-looking bowls from a blackened pot. A board painted red hung over the pots on the back wall, and in yellow letters it declared: Be Here Now.

The words stung. There’s nowhere else I can be. 

Monrovia placed some large coins on the counter as the woman set down the steaming bowls. Miranda scooped one up and sniffed hard. Pepper seared her nose. She sneezed into her soup, sending hot droplets sailing into the air. The old woman chuckled. 

Monrovia handed her two sticks. “Can you eat and walk?” 

Miranda took them, bewildered by the mechanics required. “I can try.” She trailed Monrovia, shoveling hot noodles while trying not to look like a person who grew up in the Trash Lands—but the slippery food was too delicious for decorum. 

Monrovia paused at a set of bamboo poles that each held a red lantern painted with black symbols. Miranda slurped down her last noodles as she gazed at the sharp strokes. Were they words? She’d seen nothing like them. The lanterns marked the entrance to a staircase that descended into a dark jungle. She shivered. 

“Your surprise is down there,” Monrovia said, then took a confident bite out of her bowl. 

Miranda didn’t know which was stranger, walking into thick, dark foliage or eating one’s dinnerware. “You want us to go down there?” 

“Of course,” Monrovia said, taking another bite. 

“Why are you eating that?” Miranda asked, distracted now by the spectacle. 

Monrovia cocked her head, looking at Miranda like she was the strange one. “It’s made of rice. Eat it, and you have less waste.” 

Miranda studied the nubby bowl, red from the juices and spices that had soaked in, then looked back up at her sister as she finished her own with a last bite. Miranda cautiously nibbled and found it had a nice crunch, but the concentration of the chili oil scorched her mouth as if she’d eaten a burning match.

“See, it’s fine.” Monrovia started down the darkened stairs. 

Miranda waited at the top while she gobbled her bowl. Her eyes watered from the heat, but she would not be outdone. She swallowed down the last of it and gestured at the stairs. “Is it safe?” 

Monrovia did not turn around but tilted her head like it might help her understand the question.

“There could be spiders, I guess. You should watch out for those.” 

“Why would they recreate spiders?” 

Monrovia moved further into darkness. “We remade Earth’s ecosystem. Spiders are an important part of that.”

Miranda stepped into the gloom, watching for trouble on eight legs, but as the sun broke through the leaves, it lit up Monrovia’s long, white hair, making it a beacon in darkness. Miranda watched it shimmer, so much like Beda’s. She touched her own mass of black curls. 

What if Monrovia had followed Beda that night instead of me? Would they have been able to save Earth together? 

Monrovia paused on a landing, looking out over a clearing in the jungle. As Miranda caught up, she saw a massive wooden structure rising from the clearing like three giant hats woven together and wet from the rain, suspended in gentle sweeping curves and peaks. It seemed impossible that anything so fluid could be a solid structure, the opposite of the harshly lined buildings she’d left behind in Bubble City. 

Miranda’s skin tingled and, for the first time in a long time, everything felt right. Shadows from lanterns and burning torches played among the trees as a song floated on the breeze. “It’s beautiful,” she said, wishing she could better describe the completeness that filled her. She wanted to hold on to this moment, to put it in a box to save for when she might need it later. 

People glided under the curved structure, not walking or running, but moving in smooth motions. Miranda couldn’t pull her eyes away. “How are they moving like that?”

“They are skating. That’s what we came to do.” 
Miranda watched the people effortlessly gliding. Was there some magic trick to it, like the way Beda and Monrovia had taught her to transport to Nibiru? Jitters danced in her stomach.  

As they descended, the hairs on Miranda’s arm stood up. The faces of the people were familiar. She only had to imagine them in a shiny silver suit or dusty rags. She rubbed her eyes and blinked hard. It must be her mind making sense of the new place. Clearly, these people were not from Bubble City or the Trash Lands. 

Monrovia searched the crowd, much more subdued than the revelers celebrating Beda. “I know he’s here somewhere.” 

Stalls with grass roofs dotted the clearing around the giant curved wooden structure. A band played a lively tune, and it surprised Miranda to find her foot tapping out the rhythm.  

“I found you.” A boy about Miranda’s height gave her a quick wink as he tapped Monrovia’s shoulder.

“Tan!” She pulled him into a hug, and he fit neatly under her chin. 

Monrovia seemed so open to that hug. Miranda couldn’t help but think how differently her own attempt had been received earlier. 

He broke away and turned to Miranda. “I’m Tan, and you must be the famous lost twin?”

He had an open, easy smile. Miranda reached to shake his hand, and he shoved a pair of worn, wheeled boots at her. She took them with both hands, surprised at their weight. “What are these?” 

“Skates!” 

Miranda looked back at the skaters. “Those people are rolling around on these?” 

Tan grinned, which was surely meant to be reassuring, but Miranda had deep doubts. “It’s easy! I’ll teach you.”

“Oh no.” She tried to pass the skates back. “You guys go ahead. I’ll just watch.” 

“Nope, doctor’s orders. You need to move around and do something different.” 

He had a bubbly energy Miranda would have normally hated, but rather than being annoying, it had an endearing quality. 

“What doctor?” She looked to Monrovia for help, but she just shrugged and smiled. 

Miranda followed him to a bench near a small rink. The soft grass sprang back under her toes, making each step satisfying. 

Tan tightened his skates in one practiced motion and Miranda did her best to copy. She got a firm hold on the back of the bench and stood. Her legs wobbled like they would fly out from under her at any second. “But really, why are we doing this?” 

“Because it’s fun.” Tan’s face glowed as he said the word and motioned for her to let go and take his hand. 

For half an hour, Miranda clung to Tan’s arm, falling on her butt between brief bouts of unconfident rolling while Monrovia watched from the sidelines like a proud parent. Safe on the bench now, Miranda breathed in the evening air. The light scent of flowers mingled with the peppery smells from more bubbling pots, forming a fragrance that wrapped around her like a blanket. Miranda touched a few coins in her pocket. She could have anything she wanted. It was all right here at her fingertips. 

She whipped her head, sure she’d heard Nathan’s easy laugh. Only leaves danced on the breeze. She whispered to the darkness between the trunks, “You’d do so much better here than me. You’d make friends and appreciate the food, and I bet you’d be running your own bakery in a few weeks.” 

A cool breeze brushed a tear on her cheek. 
I’ll try. For you.