Celeste
Once Daisy isout of sight, I head upstairs and make my way to the attic door. There’s no lock on it. There should be, but everything in this old house is so rusted and worn that any visitor would notice a new lock and wonder who the hell locks their attic.
I ease open the door. Narrow stairs ascend into an eerie twilight, lit through filthy dormer windows. With every step, dust whirlwinds around me. I should change into my sweats. I’m turning to retreat when I remember that I lent them to Daisy.
I climb to the top and peer through the motes of dust dancing in the dim light. Stacks of boxes line every wall. Furniture covers the floor. I wasn’t lying when I said it was a mess. It looked like this when I arrived, and while I’m tempted to see whether there are any antiques I can sell, the clutter is more valuable as cover for everything I need to hide.
As I step onto the top landing, I catch a soft plinking noise. Is that... water?
Dripping water?
I actually have a leak up here?
Of course I do. Well, that saves me the trouble of making one. I crest that last step and reach for the light. Before I flick the switch, something on the floor catches my eye. It’s covered in a layer of dust, but that’s nothing new. What is new? The fresh footprints tracking through it.
Daisy
The umbrella breaks halfway to the store. It’s already ancient, creaking as it opened, rain dripping through tattered holes. Then a gust of wind grabs it, and I fight for control as the umbrella flips inside out. When I battle it around, it flips the right way... and two rusted struts snap.
I remember Celeste standing there with a dripping black umbrella in one hand as she gave me this ancient red one.
I shake my head and hold the umbrella up as best I can while I make my way to the corner store. It’s exactly what I expect from a settlement so tiny it doesn’t appear until you zoom the map to full size. According to my research, Fort Exile isn’t even a town. It’s an honorary name for a cluster of homes that never earned the status of town, village or even hamlet.
The story goes that there was once nothing here but a government outpost so far from everything else that its two-person staff dubbed it Fort Exile. The name stuck. As for why it appears on maps at all, I chalk that up to whimsy. It brings the occasional tourist this way... who will discover nothing here except this one store, a low-slung building that combines a gas station, corner store and garage. Also bait shop, post office, coffee bar and, if the sign can be believed, “tax services.”
When I first arrived, I’d visited the store and found the contents as expected—an overpriced assortment of basic commodities for those who didn’t care to make the ten-mile trek to the city.
As I walk in, a bell chimes, and a male voice calls a greeting from the garage.
There’s no sign of the middle-aged clerk, and the lights are dim. I glance back at the sign on the door. The Closed side faces my way. Okay, it is open.
The voice comes again, as if interpreting my silence correctly, “Glory called in sick. Just grab what you need, and come get me to ring you through.”
I smile. In a town like this, when your employee doesn’t show up, you run double duty and trust that whoever’s in your shop won’t fill their pockets and run.
I gather what I need and set it on the counter. Then I walk into the garage. It’s even darker than the shop. The only bright light shines from beneath a pickup raised on a jack. I spot a work boot, presumably from the guy underneath the vehicle. One tanned arm peeks out, skin bathed in reflected light. Rolled-up sleeves show a tribal tattoo that makes me scrunch my nose. This, too, is not unexpected—people pick whatever symbol catches their fancy, whether it belongs to them or not.
“I have cash,” I say. “I could leave it on the counter with a list of what I took.”
“One sec,” he says. “I just need to...”
A grunt and a crack, and another grunt, this one of satisfaction. The dolly wheels squeak as he rolls out. One look at his profile, and I realize my mistake. That tattoo isn’t taken from another culture. His light-brown skin is more than a Florida tan.
That’s when he turns my way, and recognition slams like a fist into my gut. In my mind, I hear a boy’s voice say, “Yeah, my mom’s half-Seminole, and my dad’s all asshole.”
No. Please, no.
It’s been so many years. I’m mistaking him for a boy I knew. It cannot possibly be—
Cannot possibly? That’s really what you’re going with? The impossibility of returning to Florida and seeing someone from your past?
Months of planning shatters at my feet. If I’ve recognized him, he’s recognized me, and I am undone.
“Hey,” he says as he rises, his friendly smile sparking into true warmth. “I know you.”
I have any chance here, it is to confess. Spill my story and pray for understanding.
I open my mouth.