“Let’s sit,” she says quietly. I’m surprised that I like being here— in a house, I mean. I never thought I’d actually enjoy solid walls and a foundation without wheels. I stay for a few hours. We don’t do much. Casey and I sit on the floor and she tells me about how Ben is supposed to start school in a month. Her eyes sparkle when she talks about how Sarah is already testing higher than anyone else in her grade. She scratches at a floorboard with her nail, telling me a little bit about her parents. Her dad died pretty early in the war. Her mom died after Ben was born. “Complications,” she says. It’s a harsh, calculated word. Casey is, I’m beginning to learn, a harsh, calculated person. Still, I find myself settling in nicely. Ben and Sarah emerge only to use the bathroom or to collect a pencil or crayon scattered here or there. I like these kids with their above-average test scores and penchant for climbing into Casey’s lap every so often. I like their little fort, armed with pillows and sheets; a fortress against all the things they can’t yet understand. I remember something my mom used to say: Let them be as safe as houses. I never knew where the expression came from, or what it really meant, but I liked the way she said it— as if she could drape a cloak of protection around anyone she said it about. I thought it was especially funny because we’d never even had a house of our own. To some of us, a house was as good as a prison. Still, I couldn’t help but think it as we left their tiny home. With Sarah lifting Ben up onto her waist, keeping him from trailing Casey out the door: Let them be as safe as houses. She pulls the door shut carefully behind her. The sun is going down now, painting the sky the same bright, summer orange as the circus tickets. In this light, Casey is a bronze statue, watching me with agate eyes. “How about tomorrow I come to you?” she asks, arching that eyebrow again. I nod, trying not to smile too much. “Great. I’ll meet you there.” She throws a look over her shoulder as she walks back into the house. It makes my skin flush. I don’t know how long I stand on the porch— it feels like an hour— but I just want to enjoy this feeling while it lasts. My fingers are tingling again, but this time it’s less like being stuck with needles. It’s more like… dipping your hands into warm water. It’s a soothing feeling. The sensation in my stomach that drove me here has subsided. I smile at the door and start walking. On my way back to my trailer, I shove my hands into my pockets and feel something give and crinkle against my fingers. A hand-painted card, soft and weathered from time. The Magician. The rage I’d felt earlier comes back in a wave and I dig further in my pocket until I find a lighter. It sparks to life and I hold the tiny flame against the corner of the card. It burns silently, tiny orange flames washing over the card. I hold it up until it’s too close to my fingers to bear, then I flick it angrily into a trough of water. That night, I have the dream again. Archives After Dark
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