To Rhial

25

Adam

I was useless again. I wish I wasn't but I don't know what to do. How to help when tempers are like that. Everyone usually just thinks I'm condescending because I don't lose my head that easily, and that would have been the last thing we needed then. If I'd have done something, said something loud enough, would it have stopped Simira?

Once again inside the cozy interior of Geren's house, I sat cross legged, sewing a button to the back of Vetia's shirt so her wings could fit through the tear without falling off. Geren was in the back of the house pumping water into a bucket so Desmond could clean his eyes.

Thankfully, Geren was also pretty big, so he had longer needles that fit my hands. "Your back's probably gonna be cold, but this is the best I can do with what we have."

"-ank," she slurred back.

Desmond frowned at us from across the room, sitting in Geren's slightly oversized workbench chair. "When the fuck did you learn to sew?"

"Young Marines."

"Your weekly bootlicking sessions?"

"It was a lot less bootlicking and a lot more of guys who were on the autism spectrum and slash or obsessed with military history, skills, and tactics."

"Ah, so a boog meetup."

"Yeah, sure," I sarcasted. I couldn't tell if he was just making fun of me or wasn't paying attention to what I was saying. "Anyways, I had to sew shit onto my uniforms and hem them and we couldn't afford a sewing machine."

Vetia twisted around and slapped my hand. "I ah one. You inn ehw me!"

I squinted at her. "Huh? You had one?"

She rolled her eyes and then slurred something indecipherably quickly.

Desmond offered his great wisdom on the matter. "Slow down Walt Jr, nobody's got a clue what you're saying."

I shrugged at her, ignoring Desmond. "Eh, can't do anything about it now."

The door at the back of the room creaked open and Geren waddled in, placing a bucket of water and a rag in front of Desmond.

Desmond nodded to Geren. "Buenos gracias."

Geren turned away stutteringly at the odd phrase, but then presented Vetia with a gray slate tablet and a red chalk-like rock. She quickly scrawled away a message to him. It was strange seeing her write in this new language, Triali, because its letters wrote similarly to cursive or Arabic, but from low to high, left to right. She finished writing and then blinked, staring between the tablet with cleanly written characters and the chalk that she wrote them so easily with. We shared a look of surprise and interest before she turned it toward Geren.

Mother Yeline said you could tell me about sevoans

A smile crept across Geren's fleshy beak. "The Mother would notice... such an oddity. Sevoan woman... how are you called? What den are you of?" Geren stared inquisitively at Vetia, but with even greater fervor than he had with any of us.

She quizzically squinted at that last part.

Vetia. I didn't come from a cave. I lived in Boston with my friends.

Geren tilted his head at me. "She lived in Boston? When did she arrive?"

I looked at Desmond for some help, but his eyes were buried in the rag. We had filled her in on our cover story, but hadn't really made more up. "Erm... we met her when we were ten. She came from England."

Geren turned his attention back to the poorly held up lie with a chalkboard. "What is your age? What is England?"

21. England is a real shithole across the pond from Boston. My parents hated it, so we left when I was young