Summer Skies

03. The Fermi Paradox

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I KNOW WHEN TALIA LOCKS UP. I've seen her do it a bunch, lazing across from Go-Go and Tapatios in Lafayette Park, sharing a spliff with Danielle. Talia will twist her key; keep it between her knuckles perfectly. Nobody is fucking with Talia Devine.

Though she'll glance behind her, as if somebody will appear—a sun setting quietly, dismally, leaving a purple-blue streaked sky. Darkening. Bruised. Streetlights flicking on; hazy sheens of warped silhouettes, all bone-stretched down Main.

My fingers trace a loop of quarter-sized bruises around my wrist as I frown, gazing off.

I... Lost... Time, Lee.

Time just... disappeared.

Like Danielle.

Does Talia have bruises? Did Talia wake up unsure where she was or who she was?

Did somebody go missing?

Smoke. It wafts around her, dizzying dazed. Her keys between her knuckles, as always. Looking.

I can't. I can't. I can't.

Is Talia spewing BS?

That's what I should be asking. Because Talia Devine is known for... stories in Port County. They're creative, colorful, so closely in collaboration with a crackpot conspiracy Back Bay sent her ass to Pratt Falls. Well, and for smoking weed behind Merrimack. I think.

My legs pump. My breath hitches.

Talia curbs a wrought-iron gate, sauntering up a walkway and into McMacnoy Library.

McMacnoy, which is closing... soon, I know.

Welp, curiosity killed the cat, Ma always said.

Besides, what do you think Talia Devine reads?

It's too tempting. I don't think. I follow her up into McMacnoy at a distance, soft footfalls and nervous breathing. I'm less than conspicuous, hauling a radio with a stunted antenna jabbing off.

Her hair is an old tell-all. Everybody knows when Talia is around. It's faded, though, melting shades of pink and blonde, all end-of-the-summer sun-bleached.

Ms. Cooke smiles when I walk in. The door closes behind me quietly. "Back again, Birdie?" Her voice so low, Talia already around a corner, a long hallway between us.

I force a grin. "Yep."

Downstairs is Kids.

There's an old door in Kids, opening up into a vast space, double floored spiral staircases leading into a drafty, dusty collection of Adult. Everything echoes in it, hollow, cold, rippling. The window facing Main is big, foggy, blocked by brambling bushes—Roses, Danielle pointed out back in June.

I go a less scenic route, up a dank, damp stairwell, barely lit by an orange bulb. Emergency Exit. I come up by A—F in Fiction. I'm in an isolated back corner; I still, listening for carpeted footsteps or a door squeaking open or a... heavy sigh. Talia.

Whispering?

It's empty, so empty, I realize as I snake between shelves, hearing soft, soft, soft whispering. I pass by an empty desk. I duck into its cove, off to the left, deeper, darker, dustier: Non-Fiction. Each spine is brittle, hardened, rain-damaged warping. Murmuring. Louder.

I hoist my radio up under my arm, antenna flicking off a shelf quietly.

My sweaty fingerprints on a yearbook photo of Danielle.