Hatchetfield.

Coatamundis

Coatamundis are a pain in the ass. They're small, they're plentiful, and she has to shoo them from her trash every other day. They're a pain in the ass, but they're better than Hatchetfield. Everything is better than Hatchetfield.

She checks her mail every day. Usually it's a couple of small bills, for her credit/debit cards and lodging stuff. It's been five years since she got a letter from her parents. Sometimes, Jane will send her an invitation to something. Bridal shower, wedding, housewarming, baby shower, birthday, birthday, birthday, birthday. She always sends the same reply back. "Sorry, I can't make it. I'll catch the next one!" She hasn't gone to any of them.

She doesn't have a smartphone. She doesn't want a smartphone. She has a phone for emergency calls, like if she gets injured or finds someone lost on the trails, but it can do literally nothing else. No one knows her phone number. She doesn't know her phone number.

She gets another invitation from Jane in the mail. "Gender Reveal!!" it says, as if the gender of the kid might not be the same in ten years. She sends back her normal reply, mailing it out without reminding herself that her sister has a college degree, has a good job, has a husband, has two (almost three) kids, has a life, has everything she doesn't. She conveniently forgets about the little bullet journal Jane made when they were little, and doesn't imagine how many of the bullets are crossed off by now. She doesn't lay awake that night, remembering Jane pulling her journal from under her bed and crossing off the bullet labeled "graduate high school."

Another year passes by with only bills to open from her mailbox. She ignores how her parents never send anything. Jane sends invitations, at least. She tries to stay connected.

Turning down every invitation is better than never getting an invitation in the first place.

It's a warm (always warm) day in Guatemala as she gets her mail, finding a new type of letter. It's a cream-colored envelope, different from the colored ones Jane sends and the white of her bills. The handwriting is unfamiliar, too; not from her family. She reads the return address. "Hatchetfield Memorial Services."

She feels dread begin to close her throat, and with shaky hands she opens the letter.

"The family of Mark James Reynolds regrets to inform you of the death of Jane Ashley Reynolds, and wishes for you to attend her wake and funeral on Thursday, May--"

Burning eyes squeeze out tears. A closed throat chokes out a sob. Shaky hands drop the letter to the ground.

Dead.

Dead.

Jane, the only person who ever bothered to send her anything, the only person who ever bothered to remember that she existed, the only person who ever bothered to try and get her to come back, dead. Her only sister. Her one link to Hatchetfield.

"I'll catch the next one!"

There won't be a next one.

Two days pass. Her apartment is up for sale. Her mail is being forwarded. Her phone is traded in for a smartphone.

She's not going home. It hasn't been home for a long time. Guatemala wasn't home, either. Jane was home.

Jane was home.

Two days after receiving the news, Emma Perkins sets foot in Hatchetfield for the first time in seven years.