The Poop That Lived...in a Sauna

A Safe Place

A few beams of measly light pooled beneath the grubby windows of Woodi's otherwise dim living room. The couch was beige, the walls grey. Not exactly more of a shithole than Dan's place, but more decrepit than he'd expected. Woodi had loved color when she and Dan were close—her bedroom walls were painted varying shades of pink, which clashed joyously with her yellow and teal striped bedspread. And she was by no means a slob. Woodi enjoyed organizing, kept a tidy notebook and fastidious bookshelf. She didn't like dust.

So as Dan peered around, squinting at the grime wreath under the cable box, the crusted coffee mug circles on the table, a vague uneasiness grew within him. Woodi's animation, excitement, he'd thought was a good thing—healthy enthusiasm for her work. Perhaps he'd questioned this a bit when she began to fanatically describe her experiences in Sri Lanka, but had thought it best to push the doubt aside.

Of course, it wasn't Dan's place to judge someone by their living space. Maybe Woodi just needed a friend, some support. Someone to help make her feel more normal. He glanced down at Horace, who was looking around apprehensively.

"Maybe I should let her know I really wouldn't mind helping her clean things up around here," the little man told Dan. Before he could answer, Woodi entered the living room.

"Things are pretty safe here, I think," she said. She was carrying a plate and a couple clunky mugs that sloshed. She slid the plate onto the coffee table and thumped the mugs down next to it, then produced a dishrag, which she lay on the beige sofa, gesturing Horace toward it. He heaved himself onto the seat with a running jump.

"Safe?" Dan asked, though he sort of knew what she meant. No one around here would be knocking him out, stealing his little man, and transporting him to a warehouse. Woodi heaved a sigh and dropped, bushed, onto the floor opposite the couch. Dan perched next to Horace, the couch creaking as he eased his weight onto it. He eyed the plate, which was stacked with slices of cold pizza. His stomach grumbled.

"I definitely owe you an explanation, I know. I just couldn't do it when there were that many people around," Woodi said, grabbing a slice and tearing hunks of cheese off with her fingers, which she lobbed into her mouth. Dan took a piece, too, and for a brief moment the world around him faded as his innards gratefully accepted the congealed knobs of diary.

"Arright, I'm gonna get in on this pizza, I don't care how I do it, but you guys might care, so..." Horace said, bending his gooey little knees as if preparing ­to launch himself at the food. Dan hastily grabbed him a slice and set it on his towel. "Thanks, Danny boy. So you gonna tell him about kidnapping all those homunculuses, or what?" Horace addressed Woodi as he ravaged the food. Woodi watched him, transfixed.

"That's just... it's a group I caught up with, you know, when I was trying to make my golem... or homunculus? As Horace calls them?"

"Why are they looking for them, though?" Dan asked, spewing pizza chunks. "If you know how to make one?" he grabbed a mug and used the coffee to propel the rest of his mouthful down his gullet, then yanked another slice from the pile.

"They actually...they don't know I made one," Woodi told him reluctantly, sliding her eyes away from Horace and staring down at her now cheese-less crust. "I met Rhonda at the dig site, actually, she was another one of the grad students. We had a thing for a little while," the tops of Woodi's cheeks turned pink as she said this, but she continued, "things got complicated, of course, and, I mean, we both got distracted. She ended up trying to find another professor to study under, went to Egypt for a bit. Kept coming back to the same things I was, though, even in Egypt. This—formula for life, I guess. But she studied magical texts, you know, not religious or historical. I mean, I guess they're historical, but—well, the science seemed shaky to me.