A hotel is a blank slate. It understands that this is not where your life will happen. It exists for you to rest. To talk. To plan. To sleep. It is a refuge when needed, characterized by a specific emptiness that allows the guest to mold it around themselves. You can tug at the corners of a hotel room, find a specific number of beds, find one with a kitchenette or a mini fridge or neither. Pull it around you like a jacket you borrow from someone else.

A house is a living thing. It is already fit to someone or someones. It exists to welcome back. To comfort. To remind. It is always a refuge. Houses are tailored- they have spaces cleared for shoes, trimming here and there to accommodate changes in lifestyle. You cannot pull a house around you; it fits itself to you. It is a blanket with a patchwork of memories.

Neither one is really better than the other. They fit different needs and times. Maybe a hotel can become a house to some, after a long stay, when the nightstand becomes a laundry hamper and you know what setting to use on the coffee machine. Maybe a house can be a hotel, unfamiliar and blank when you're not accustomed to how the door to the bathroom shuts or the noise the window makes when you open it.

Maybe we live in a world where these things are not set anymore. Where money or business dictates where we sleep. Where we lay ourselves to rest. Where we are most comfortable.

Maybe a home or a hotel aren't places. Maybe they are states of being and mind and maybe that is the difference. Maybe that's why when we ask are you at home? we don't mean to ask if you are physically at your place of residence.

We mean, how do you feel?

Your work is worth it.

How many words go unwritten? Floating in the air?

There is always at least one person who needs to hear what you're saying.

They're worth it.

You're worth it.

It feels like love.

Passion.

Something warm and static, buzzing against the skin.

It is creamy lipstick and tomatoes.

What a shower feels like when it's hot and hits your skin.

This is the plush of a rose petal.

The spice of a pepper burning your mouth.

Red.

It feels like living.

“Some pointers? Avoid eye contact, don’t respond no matter what anyone says, and never act surprised,” Lady says.

Mareida wonders if this is a good idea. She and Caden are obvious in their NEBULA uniforms; if anything, they’re sitting ducks. The port is just at the edge of Union space and at least a quarter jump from the nearest planet. The nearest Union planet is a jump away. If there were ever a place to beat the crap out of a Union kid and get away with it, this is it. They could even be kidnapped by some disgruntled far-space settler looking to earn coin.

Not that NEBULA or the Union would trade for them. She and Caden willingly volunteered for the work study- they’re not really the school’s problem anymore, so to speak. It’s not comforting to think about.

“You’re worried. Good,” Wulf says, pushing past her into the exit port. “here.”

She takes the coat, skeptical. There’s a patch sewn on the arm with a blue circle, pieces chipped away like old paint at the bottom, sewn against a starry background. She wonders if all bounty ships have logos, or if the Captain just likes to distinguish her ship from others.

“How is this going to cover up the uniform?”

“It won’t,” Caden answers, straightening his jacket as he joins them.

“It’s not a disguise. It’s a message,” Wulf says, adjusting leather gloves before hitting the button. Mareida wonders just what kind of message it is.

The port door hisses, retracting into the edges of the opening. A platform extends, unfolding quietly to the ground. Separate uses, she thinks. Just in case one or the other gets damaged. It’s smart- and telling. She wonders how often the ship gets shot at that they need, in essence, two doors. It doesn’t bode well for her health and safety. It makes her question whether some people are just crazy enough to be bounty hunters or if their pay is just really, really good.

“Keep up and keep quiet,” Lady reminds them, flicking her wrist.

Something ripples- a band, Mareida realizes, except it was camouflaged. It shines with blue light and then there are other lights burning to life on Lady’s odd assortment of holsters.

“Whoa,” Caden murmurs.

That’s a lot of guns, Mareida thinks. All camouflaged. She wonders if Lady took them on board at NEBULA. She honestly wouldn’t be surprised at all. The real question is how they managed to get them past security. Whatever the guns are made of, she suspects the materials are not sanctioned- not that they need to be, in far space. It’s a hotbed for otherwise illegal activity, electronics included.

“So, what do we use in a fight?” Caden asks.

“You don’t. Fight,” she adds, offhandedly, “You get beat up.”

“What-,”

“Morning, Reno,” Lady says, smiling as they approach the elevator.

It’s guarded by a man. Or a mountain, really. He’s easily seven feet tall, with strangely perfect features. He’s also carrying an equally giant gun. And…is he…?

“Hello, Lady. Stand by for ident.”

He’s an android, Mareida realizes. Some of the most hotly contested beings in the galaxy. There are only a handful in the galaxy and production had been banned by a Union treaty. It’s no wonder one of them is in far space, she thinks, considering most Union citizens’ beliefs about androids and artificial intelligence.

It’s a curious contradiction that the Union is so close-minded about things like AI. With the focus on private companies and keeping planet resources on the planets they belong to, one would think that cutting-edge research and development would be encouraged. It’s against their morals, however, since ‘creation of life’ is something the Union likes to go back and forth on. There are so many citizens arguing about the responsibility of acting as a creator that companies and independent researchers would have to navigate an absolute minefield of regulations to get anything done. The field had died almost as soon as it had appeared, with only a few units made and fewer yet surviving past the ban.

“Cleared. Your new crew needs to be registered,” Reno says. His voice is even, with barely enough inflection to pass as human. No determinable dialect.

“They’re provisionary at the moment. We’ll see about registration after their first gig,” Lady smiles, patting the giant’s arm.

The lift they enter is a metal cage, dirty and floored with bullet-bent metal. The pulleys screech as they ascend, rattling uncomfortably. It’s nothing like the elevators or freight lifts at NEBULA. Mareida wonders how old the thing is; she’s sure it’s a health hazard. Not that anyone is regulating anything out here.

When the lift stops, it opens to chaos. There are people- and aliens- everywhere. Yelling and chatter and laughter flood the open market, whatever sun the planet has burning down with a vengeance. There is some sort of dust in the air, cloudy and gritty against her skin. It seems to circulate like oxygen. It’s more variety and more people than she’s ever seen in one place. Lady pushes her way into the crowd, somehow navigating the crush, and Mareida hurries to keep up.

It’s hot. Hotter than anything she’s felt before. There’s a solar screen, something that looks rigged, above the market. It may keep the radiation out, but it’s doing nothing for the heat. She sees plenty of face masks and slapped-together breathers on the people milling around. The vendors have more elegant contraptions, a bare shimmer over the bottom half of their faces betraying their investment in health. Their breathers are likely working in tandem with implants, an almost-invisible net filtering particles as they stand in the heat all day.

“Watch it,” someone says.

She reminds herself not to look, keeping pace with Lady. There are other voices- catcalls and insults and angry accusations. She can feel the pressure mounting in her head. It makes her want to scream- the closeness and mass of bodies. Even the most crowded assembly hadn’t felt like this. At NEBULA, the ship was designed to accommodate all students with enough extra room to assure mental stability. Feeling like a sardine in a dehydrated food pack isn’t good for mental health. She’s starting to appreciate the foresight.

“Hey!”

Someone grabs her arm and she jerks, surprised. It’s a woman, she thinks, in dusty overalls. Her eyes are fiery.

“Let go,” Mareida says, firm.

The woman pulls at her, maybe about to speak, and then Wulf appears and snaps the woman’s wrist back. The woman is barely spared a glance as she moves away, screaming, and Mareida freezes. What the hell-

“Keep moving,” Wulf reminds her, ducking under someone carrying a crate. The alien is completely nonchalant. She starts to wonder whether it’s an alien thing, or if the Blue Moon is just a magnet for bizarre characters. She’s leaning towards the latter.

It’s a relief when they make it to their destination. It’s a small stall at the edge of the market, shaded with dirty blue cloth. The table displays are ancient screens, heavy glass that’s cracked with bullet holes. Is everything here bullet-ridden?

“Lady,” a voice acknowledges.

Thank god, a human, Mareida thinks. She’s starting to feel out of her depth around aliens. She is becoming painfully aware of her lack of training surrounding aliens. At least Caden’s better, she thinks. His Helm program is preparing him for diplomacy as much as tactical maneuvering. She’s starting to wish Navigators had the same kind of rounded education.

“Jo. How’s business?” Lady smiles.

“You don’t care,” the man reminds her, arms crossed over his coat.

Only his eyes are visible. They’re an odd grey, startling against the browns of the planet and his clothing. Mareida gets the sense he’s smiling under the cloth covering his mouth and nose. A faint shimmer through the threadbare cloth tells her he’s wearing a breathing apparatus. The rag, it seems, is just for show. She’s not surprised, given the bounty hunters she’s already met. Is everything here for show?

“Be nice, Joseph. We’ve got kids.”

“Not my fault you brought ’em here,” he says drily. “What do you need?”

“Just the regular. Cap liked the last gift, by the way. Sends her regards- and a present.”

“She shouldn’t have.”

“You’re telling me. Damn waste of whiskey.”

The man’s eyes light up. Whiskey. Not that she knows anything about alcohol. She may be legal in the Union, but she has no current interest in drinking. She’s seen enough drunken mishaps in the dormitory during holidays to know drinking is best done in confined spaces, where chances of embarrassment are low.

“I’d marry that woman,” Joseph says cheerfully, extending his wrist towards Lady.

“Get in line,” she says, tossing payment across their bands. “Appreciate it, Jo.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he mutters, unconvincing, “Just don’t bring the fight to my table.”

“What fight?” Lady asks, sharp.

“Well, I know you’re not shaking hands with Newman-,”

“Newman’s here? God damn it-,” she hisses, rage burning in her gaze.

“What, no one told you? You’re kidding me,” the man growls, ducking beneath his table. “Lady, he’s been here a week.”

“The fuck’s he been here a week?”

“Why do you think?” Joseph says, handing her a small device. “Just get your ass out before he sees you. Last thing we need is a fight in the market.”

“We should drop his ass,” Wulf says. “while we have the chance.”

“I know you think you’re gods among men,” Joseph starts, but Wulf interrupts.

“You know we have majority, Jo. No one’s stopping us. Newman’s making the rest of us look bad.”

“He has connections.”

“Even they don’t like him. He’s a loose proton cannon. We take him now, we get bounty and the chance to clean up our good name.”

“What good name?”

They’re still arguing when Caden taps her shoulder. She turns, a question on her tongue, but he quiets her with a finger to his mouth. Look, he indicates, guiding her gaze towards a stall a few yards away. There are five men there, all angry and all staring them down. They don’t look like the run-of-the-mill vagrants that had been harassing them earlier. These men are stocky, with streamlined suits and dark gazes.

“I think we found Newman,” Caden says.

Lady turns, sharp, and sighs.

“Fuck. Bye, Jo. Nice seeing you,” she says, grabbing a pistol from her waist, “be safe.”

“Stay close,” Caden says, tugging at Mareida’s elbow.

“I’ll be fine,” she says.

As soon as they move she sees the other men bolt. Lady practically vaults a table, incredibly fast as she leads the way to the lift. Mareida ducks when something whizzes past her, popping her ear as it goes. There’s a shrill ringing and she blinks, a little off balance. They’re shooting at us, she realizes, wondering why she’s surprised. They’re not the compressed air guns or stunners she’s used to seeing on ships; there’s no danger of damaging a hull here. It’s all open planet surface and warm targets.

“Go!” Lady screams, shoes screeching as she skids to a halt. Mareida would be impressed if she had time.

Her gun is raised and she shoots a few rounds- Mareida can hear things falling, people screaming and yelling. Caden is leading the way, pushing the crowd apart, and Mareida feels a little sorry for the people hitting the ground. Only a little, though, because they’re not the ones being shot at.

Someone wheels in front of them- one of the men- and Caden narrowly ducks a punch. Mareida sprints past them, hitting the call button for the lift. The clanging is barely audible amongst the din in the market. She can tell Lady has already dropped two men; Caden’s fighting a third. That leaves two. One of them is moving her way. She’s prepared to fight when Wulf descends from who knows where, snarling inhumanly, landing on the man’s shoulders.

She turns away when Wulf slams the man against a wall. They fight dirty. This is not the combat from the simulations at school. There are people everywhere and disorganized stalls. So many places to hide or use to an advantage. It’s like the guerilla warfare of First Contact, she realizes, even though they’re all too young to have lived through it. They know it, though. How?

“Mareida!”

Lady’s scream brings her back into the present. She hears a shot and feels something warm hit the side of her face- don’t look, don’t look- and then someone grabs her from behind.

“Don’t move, or I snap your neck,” the man says.

He sounds injured. Out of breath. She thinks Lady’s shot hit him somewhere. He doesn’t have a gun or knife, she realizes. Her mind races, categorizing. He’s not even using an efficient hold. It would be easy- her legs are wide and her body is turned a little. Easy.

She’s used to being underestimated. Her biology and gender presentation, from an evolutionary point of view, make her seem like an easy target. A girl won’t fight. Her NEBULA training was even stricter than her male classmates’, though, by virtue of her smaller stature and different body composition. In short, she knows both how to use her body in a fight and how to use her surroundings to scrape up an edge against typically stronger adversaries.

Lady seems to know. She barely acknowledges the man holding Mareida, already slipping out of her combat stance.

“I don’t think you can,” Lady sighs, holstering her pistol.

“He can’t,” Mareida agrees, shifting her weight minutely.

The heat blade slices out from her band, cutting into the man’s wrist. His scream is loud in her ear and she turns quickly, taking advantage of the loosened hold. Fight dirty. She pulls him by his neck, quick, and snaps her knee up to connect with his chest. He falls to the ground, winded and injured.

“Very nice,” Lady smiles, crouching next to the man. “You just got dropped by a kid, Newman. How’s it feel?”

Well, I feel good, Mareida thinks. It’s adrenaline, she knows, the jittery after-effect of a fight. Her muscles are still shivering in anticipation. It takes her a second to realize she’s actually feeling the reaction. It’s nothing like the combat practice; there’s a real, chemical reaction happening and it’s making her heart pound.

“Cap. Got a present for you,” Wulf says, holding a button on his band.

“Is it small and cute?”

“It’s small,” Wulf grins, “Cute’s a matter of taste.”

“Thank you, Wulf. Hypo. We’ll secure the cargo when you return.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Mareida is surprised at the smile she can’t control when Wulf saunters over to Newman. The alien looks immeasurably pleased, reaching into a pouch at his waist for a needle. He’s already snickering before he bends down.

“Wait-,” Newman starts, twisting on the ground, trying to raise himself.

“Night-night,” Wulf sings, stabbing the needle into the man’s leg.

The man slumps onto the ground, completely out, and Wulf sighs. Caden raises an eyebrow at Mareida, reaching to pull the doors on the lift open. She tries not to feel insulted by the way he looks vaguely impressed.

“Oh, you’re going to let us do the work,” Wulf snorts.

“Leave him alone,” Lady says, grabbing the unconscious man by his collar and dragging him. “Newman’s not heavy. His head is completely empty.”

          I'd always loved the sound of Chris Cornell's voice on the radio. Fifteen-minute drives between towns and the words floating by, poetry, the guitar humming along with the voice. Black hole sun, won't you come, and wash away the rain. Something about his music felt like floating. Most times it would be my mother or father driving; I would test myself, guessing whether the same disc would be in the radio or if it was time to swap it out. My aunt loved his voice, too. She loved his lyrics. One day, I rode home with her, following my mother's car. We sat and listened while the train went by; it always took so long. She turned the volume up and relaxed in her seat. "I love this song." When she said it, it wasn't a throwaway phrase. She meant it. I wanted to sing along, too, In your house I long to be.

          I loved the way that words could be music and action at the same time; they were magic to me. So many artists caught my attention for the way they used words, somehow making them greater than the letters they were assembled from. His voice was the one of the few that captured me. I was in love with the way it sounded- the plaintive nature of it, the way he could go from a deep note to a soulful cry. When I listened to him sing, I wanted to lie back on a bed and stare at the stars. I wanted to be somewhere I wasn't yet and have something I couldn't explain. His voice was the backing track to a deep need; some desire to obtain a thing that escaped the concrete box of the world. I always felt like I was on the verge of tears listening to his songs, a tightness in my chest and a sharp inhale awaay from breaking down. Giving in.

          I didn't know when it happened. My mother came home and I'd been writing poetry, delving into my own ability to shape a word and create a rhythm. "Have you heard?" She told me about it as she moved around the house and I listened, feeling just another part of my childhood die a little inside me. So many in the past years. Actors, musicians- artists, all of them. They were the ones I aspired to meet. I can't ever meet him. Explain that my mother loved playing his music when she drove my sibilings and I to the library. Thank him for doing something for people- for making something that will last. That deserves to last.

          For now, I will have to write about Chris Cornell and how his music was always there, always a part of my life. For now, I will have to say thank you to the stars while I'm listening to him sing 'Nothing Compares 2 U' because it's one of my favorite covers. For now, I listen a little harder and look a little closer because I know how you can hide things inside and I know you have to appreciate people every moment that you have them. Words are where he lives now- words and sounds. Those, I will appreciate for the rest of my life.

there beyond the hills

captured in ice

suspended in time, out of time

watching spiderwebs of crystal spin by

there we draw the line

once upon a field of snow

feet move forward

entranced, to the entrance

a maw of stone and steel

once the sharpness and the difference

where only sweet as berries

her lips remained to kiss

cutting from a glass cage

as roses bloomed

where turned the page

“Do you wanna go for a drive?”

It’s an honest question, but it makes no sense to me. Why would I go drive if I’m not going anywhere? I catch myself thinking about it too much, and then I think that’s the point, you’re supposed to do things for the experience and not for the destination. But even that is painful to think, too much of a stock phrase to make my brain happy.

“Sure. If you wanna.”

She groans and tells me if one of us isn’t decisive our friendship won’t go anywhere. I laugh because it’s funny- I have always been the neutral party in my family. I will never commit to either side, too eager to please.

I wait her out, because I know Katelyn will ask again and this time I’ll have the right answer.

“So…you wanna go?”

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

I say something as we’re heading out the door but she doesn’t hear because she’s already talking again. That’s fine with me, because I can let myself fade out, rethink and reword whatever it was I was saying for when she inevitably tells me to repeat myself.

“Sorry, you were saying something,” she says, waving a hand back at me as she walks ahead towards the car.

“So what happened with the guy you were talking to-,” I start, but I don’t get to finish because she interrupts me to complete my sentence and start ranting about the loser in question.

I’m a listener. I love stories- maybe because I’m an English Major, or an actor, or maybe just because. Whatever the reason, I enjoy a good story- and Katelyn is a very animated storyteller.

We only get a mile from campus before she turns into a 7-11, keeping the radio turned on.

“You want something? Anything? A drink?”

“No, I’m good,” I say, truthfully, because I’m relaxing in the passenger’s seat, completely at ease with not having to drive for once.

“You sure? Water? Something?”

“No. I’m good,” I repeat, smiling and adjusting my heart-shaped sunglasses.

“Okay. Be right back,” she says, hauling herself out of the car to buy something to smoke.

I turn the radio up louder because I noticed her turn it down when I got in the car- an unusual display of concern about someone else. It made me smile, though, and it makes me smile again to start blasting the music. It’s easy for me to relax in her car; it’s a model maybe a year newer than mine, so it feels like home but a bit nicer. Except maybe not, because it’s way messier than my car and perpetually smells like smoke.

“You’re in charge of my music,” she says once she returns, settling into the seat.

“Okay,” I say, accepting the offered phone, and I look at the screen. “It’s locked.”

“Yeah. The password is 3-2-1-7.”

“M’kay.”

“Do you mind?”

I watch her open the pack.

“No, ’course not. I actually like the smell of smoke. Cigarettes, fires.”

Her first breath out, and then she turns the wheel and we’re leaving the parking lot, an unpaved incline that’s dangerous for the low car. She turns onto a street I recognize, in a direction I don’t, and then we’re on our way.

I don’t think about gas. I don’t think about where we’re headed. I don’t think about much, to be honest, except for scrolling lazily down her music library, looking for something that catches my attention.

The landscape seems a little nicer, as a passenger. It’s no longer dangerous, the flat plane at risk for lulling me to sleep. Now it’s interesting- the rough brush, tumbleweeds in the wind, falcons perching on claw-like trees. I wonder if I would ever have the chance to notice this- enjoy it the way I am in the moment.

The windows are rolled down, so there’s no pressure to talk. Katelyn sings along to the music in between breathing smoke, the hand-dryer noise of the wind carrying her voice out and away like an invisible trail.

“Hey, can you play Northern Downpour next?”

“Yeah.”

I settle back in my seat, tempted to close my eyes and drift, so I do. I wonder if this is what it is like to be Katelyn, and I think that maybe it is. Just driving. Smoking and driving and listening to the voice of someone far away and very talented, and remembering everything else you’ve ever done while listening to the same song.

The apartment I choose faces an alley.

“Beautiful view,” I say, the day I look at the place. The landlord leans against the doorway, swinging his keyring on a finger stained with something brown. I find myself hoping it will fall.

It isn’t the best place, but it’s a place. Besides, I am in college, and living in a shithole is sort of a requisite. I know I’ll barely spend any time really living in it. The concrete box will be something I’ll talk about later, when I am a famous writer, sitting on a white couch on a talk show. “Oh, yeah,” I’ll laugh, a hand fluttering to cover my lipsticked mouth, “it was terrible. It faced this awful billboard for some kind of lawyer who specialized in highway accidents.” I’ll make some disgusting existential joke, say that my life felt a little bit like a highway accident sometimes, memories and pieces strewn across the yellow lines and white dashes.

It only takes a day for me to move in. I don’t have much- after four years of moving in and out of student housing, I've minimized. The downside to this is that I have to keep buying things like kitchen spoons and bathroom curtains.

But it’s easy to stir your pasta with chopsticks, so sometimes the kitchen spoon stays unpurchased and I navigate a small puddle every time I exit the shower. There’s a word to describe this kind of life, I think, and it’s probably like the one my mother used when I told her I didn’t want to budge on having a bedroom door.

Priorities.

-

I don’t usually go out all that much. People are draining- keeping up a smile and conversation is probably my least favorite thing to do, once I realize I’m doing it. There are only a few friends who act as exceptions to this rule, but we all went our separate ways, to grad school, and now I have to start all over again.

It ends up that someone from a class invites me out. I’m not sure why- she honestly isn’t that interesting to me. I tell myself you don’t know her, she could be amazing, but all I wonder when I see her is why she dyes her hair a blonde that’s just a bit too yellow.

I agree to go because when I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I had a drink.

We meet up at some trendy bar that calls itself laid-back. I don’t think it’s as casual as the pizza place next door and when I show up in denim and a t-shirt, I try to ignore the small black dresses the other women are wearing. I order something small to start- a wine freeze, a glorified adult slush. One hour into the night I excuse myself and go next door, the wine already draining out of my system. The pepperoni pizza I order stays hot all the way to my apartment and it tastes a thousand times better than the conversation.

It’s a damn good pizza. I eat almost half of it before I try to tell myself to save some for breakfast.

-

Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I wake up at night to a sound.

There should be no sound.

I am suddenly glad that I have a bedroom door and I tell myself to tell my mother when I go home.

The sound resolves itself into footsteps- nervous, intermittent. I wonder whether I’m supposed to call the police or the landlord. Or if I’m supposed to try and scare the intruder off.

I remember a professor telling me his neighbor was killed by an intruder, because you don’t just get robbed here, you get murdered, too, and the dry humor gives me hope that at least I’ll die with comedic value.

The footsteps get closer and I hold my breath.

There’s nothing of real value outside the bedroom. Everything is in my room, with me, because somehow I always thought it was smartest to put valuable things behind a door. I am glad I did, but I am also worried because if the intruder wants something they’ll come in, locked door or no.

I am lying there like a child, breathless in anticipation, when they try the door handle.

For some reason, this is the point at which I decide not to lie there. I swing my feet out of bed, silent and quick, and roll off the sheets. It is amazing because I’m wearing a fluffy bathrobe and the sash should be strangling me the way it does when I’m doing anything else while wearing it. The first thing my hands curl around is the metal lamp on my bedside table. I don’t think to unplug it. Later, I question what would have happened if I’d tried to throw the lamp and ended up tripping backward when the cord resisted. I stand there, probably more disheveled than I feel, and I can hear someone pushing at the door.

I have decided to face this, whatever it is, and the first thing I think is they’re not getting my fucking violin.

It was almost stolen once before when I was a child, and I had always imagined what it would have been like if I’d faced a thief willing to take my prized possession.

I am a time travel technician, with my robe and my lamp, and it is horrible.

The pushing on the door stops and the footsteps recede, probably to the front door. I wait a good ten minutes before I attempt to venture forth.

The apartment looks the same. It shouldn’t- that’s the point, isn’t it, that everything changes and I was never the same. But I’m still the same, and my apartment looks fine, and I start to wonder whether it wasn’t just a drunk neighbor mistaking my door for theirs. Did I leave it unlocked? I question myself, trying to walk through the day, but it’s useless.

I crawl back into bed with a fire bat, kicking away the sash that didn’t strangle me because it was already tangled in the sheets to begin with. It makes me feel better, somehow, and when I go back to bed I sleep through the night.

-

I am playing a video game when my TV suddenly goes black.

My immediate thought is that I didn’t save! I am angry, but not too angry to remember the autosave function. It’s still aggravating, though. I get up to check my console, thinking only that I must have left a textbook or something else covering the fan. School is the number one cause of accidental overheating.

When I rise, though, I notice the strobing red and blue lights suddenly thrown against my window. And then I hear it.

It’s faint at first, like a radio playing two rooms behind you, and I squint as if somehow my eyes have gained the ability to hear things. Moving closer to the window, I wonder if someone has been pulled over on campus. The lights are still moving, though, so I pull down one of the cheap shades. I can see a campus police car cruising, the heavy rain painting diagonal stripes across its shiny black surface.

“…indoors…downstairs…warning…”

They’re not the most desirable words to pick out of an ominous police car warning.

I assume, at this point, that the school has decided to warn its students- a few hours in- that the storm outside has become serious.

That morning, I had checked the weather and been excited when I saw the chance of rainstorms. Rain is one of my favorite things, especially on the weekends, and especially when I’m being lazy at home. The storms had started innocently, but in the past hour, the rain had sounded like it wanted in. I could have sworn there were plastic bullets hailing down on my dorm.

My first thought is that West Texas is prone to tornados. I think that it’s probably best to get downstairs. The rain seems terrible, so I grab a hoodie, but somehow I don’t have the presence of mind to change out of my sandals. When I leave my room, my roommate emerges from the other side of the unit, hair wet against her back.

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“Yeah- the police are telling everyone to get downstairs. I think there might be a tornado warning or something.”

“Great. I just got out of the shower,” she laughs, and then she turns back towards her room.

I find myself thinking, if you die it won’t matter how clean you are, but I don’t say it because that’s socially unacceptable and I don’t know Britt that well yet.

Instead, I say, “I’ll wait. Make sure to take your keys.”

When she meets me at our front door, she asks about my brother and his boyfriend. Out for the weekend, I explain, only half-listening because I can see the other three doors on our floor are partially open.

A girl walks out of the fifth door- the Resident Assistant, someone I vaguely recognize but I’ve never really met before. She seems a little distracted, so I wait patiently, and it’s almost a full minute before she realizes we’re standing in front of our door.

“Hey. We’re heading over to the Ranch House,” she explains, moving towards another door.

The Ranch House is directly across from the back staircase of the dorm building. I wonder just how soaked I’ll get running between the two buildings.

The answer is very. Very soaked.

While Britt and I stand, waiting for the RA to key in the access code to the locked door, I am trying to dry my feet on my marginally less wet sweatpants. My phone is already buzzing every other minute, my brother’s boyfriend neurotically checking to see that I’m still alive.

The lunchbox television inside is on, half static and half weather report. A blonde woman is saying something about flooding and I watch her move, the picture flickering in and out.

“I wonder if the power will go out,” I say, and three minutes later it does.

I am cold and wet, feet curled under me on the plasticky surface of the vinyl sofa. I find myself hoping, despite knowing better, that a tornado would just hit us already so that I can get back to my dorm.

The lights come back on and Britt asks me to go to the bathroom with her, afraid the power will go out again. I follow her, phone in hand, and make empty jokes to fill the space in the reverberating room. Wouldn’t it be funny, I start, and then I spin endless nonsense threads about storms and power outages and whether the storms will last until class Monday. It seems to make her feel better. It might be that she, like me, is not listening. Whatever the case, we leave the bathroom and the lights don’t go out.

Things never clearly end.

The rain is still there, and wind, too, when I leave. The football game has been canceled, and I wonder what the roads must be like, flooded and congested with oversized trucks trying to get back into town. The parking lot between the Ranch House and my dorm is flooded, and I resign myself to cold feet, walking through the chilly water and up the steps.

Unfortunately, my neighbor follows, and he asks if he can come inside because he’s alone in his dorm. I don’t know if this is true, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to leave someone alone- even if it is a sibling’s roommate’s ex.

I spend the next hour listening to his drunk stories and regret every minute of it. This time, I hope the tornado that is undoubtedly heading our way puts me out of my misery.