“My dad would kill you if he saw this,” Lenith said.

“Too bad he doesn’t have a marsh to dump me in.”

The sting of the Meopa smoke compelled Lenith forward. She sat across from Iggy, in the same booth, forced to suck in more of the fumes he exhaled. Stuffing jutted through the torn leaves of her seat. Someone had gotten bored and taken a knife to the cushions. A comfortable position proved hard to find.

Ignacious Heln was harmless when sedated. The Meopa calmed him, she supposed. His stained, striped shirt burst at the seams. A stretched gut hung underneath. How he managed to stay so fat was a mystery.

“He was planning a talk with you. Where is he, Iggy?”

“Said he was going off with Usvild-boy like an hour back, considered calling for support. Hope the Chimayri didn’t get him already,” Iggy said. The stick bobbed with every word. Ashes canvassed the map that decorated the table. “I earned a smoke.”

“So, burning down a building wasn’t enough? Aiming for two?” Lenith asked.

“Ha. Your fa-ther came in here, shouting up his cause, saying he knew what I did. Up to my old ways. Boy’s being a fool, kid. This—” Iggy finally took the stick from his corroded mouth and held it out to Lenith. Its wide, dry veins smoldered. “This didn’t start no fire. And it wasn’t fucking photintra like Usvild-boy’s saying. A lantern broke and caught my bed. That’s all.”

Lenith swatted the stick from Iggy’s hand. He followed the trail of smoke and plucked it back up.

“Keep your death away from me,” Lenith said.

“Oh right, right. Got Retna’s blood inside ya.” Iggy settled the burning twig between his lips. He inhaled until his lungs topped off and blew it all away. “Wouldn’t wanta spill it.”

Lenith cringed but she knew better than to give him ground. She wanted to slap him. Wouldn’t that feel nice? Her hand stayed, clutching a torn leaf. “I know there’s something more to this, Iggy. You’re not good enough at lying.”

Iggy huffed the bitter smoke into her rust brown, almond-shaped eyes with a laugh. It scratched her pupils—made them itch and water. The infectious flavor snuck past her lips, gave a little kiss. She coughed and bowed her head, rubbing at the burn. A tiny blue bug skittered under the table, past the toes of her shoes.

The large man grinned his rotted teeth like he was the smartest boy in town and said “I didn’t lie. Told your fa-ther the truth. Not my fault he forgot it, so I got creative.”

“My dad wasted years on you, you muntk,” Lenith said. “Do you know how many nights his children were stuck alone so he could help you? You, this creature begging my dad to take you in and save your pathetic life.”

“Your fa-ther thought he could change me like he tried with your mo-ther. He’s right. I can change. I changed my shirt today. Pants, too. I can change my hair if I want. But it’s still a shirt. Still pants. It’s still—” His left hand ran through the grim, black horns of hair. “You can change a dwindler but he’s still a dwindler.”

“You didn’t have to start again.”

Iggy shifted in his seat. His gut struck the table. “You’ll dwindle someday, too. Not for powders. I bet for sex. Ya look like a girl that craves a good drubbing. Eby must’ve taught ya good.”

“We bled together.”

“A natural gift then. It’s hard to stop once ya get going. Even harder to keep stopped.” The look in his eyes felt familiar, violating.

“And you’re a shining example, Iggy. You put the whole camp at risk and destroyed everything my dad accomplished. You’ve endangered everyone.”

“He destroyed it first. His legacy got drubbed a long time ago. Worried about the Chimayri, huh? Fa-ther’s got ya all worked up like him. Good boy. They’ll be coming. You’ll leave at dawn, I suppose.”

Lenith presented her teeth. “He can still snap you in two.”

“Hush now, ya stupid pihnt. Hush before I break something ya can’t fix.”

“It’d be best if you left.” Lenith’s hands pressed to her lap.

“Why?” Iggy’s mighty girth rammed the table. Its trunk legs rocked and settled. “Ya forget I was here first?”

“I have to make dinner.” Lenith scooted closer to the end of the booth. “Go sleep in the lot, where you can’t burn something else down.”

The table slammed forward. A sharp pain shot from Lenith’s stomach to her mouth. She let out a strained cry, pinned. She pushed back and crammed the table’s edge into his belly. It gave her enough time to gasp in air. The table leapt back, stabbed against her ribs. The pain spread deeper.

“With a mouth like that, you’re gonna get in lots of trouble. Remember that next place ya go run to. You’re not a kid anymore. I got no reason to yield to ya,” Iggy said and took a cumbersome, victorious stand. “Tell your fa-ther it’s time to leave Rugerbin. Leave it quick, too, if he wants to live.”

Lenith slumped forward. The table’s cool surface felt nice against her head. The door slammed shut and Iggy was gone.

She crawled to the edge of the booth and lifted her shirt. Blood vessels had ruptured in a thick, reddened line across her abdomen. It would leave a heinous bruise. She was sure of it.

Making dinner was twice the chore it should have been. Lenith endured. She cooked enough food for a family, to be safe. Her unwieldy appetite came straight from her father.

She found the largest pan in the cabinet.

The residents of Rugerbin had learned to cherish their pots and pans because too many eating utensils had rusted away. Plates and bowls broke over time, until none remained.

The woodworkers of Town Ahnhilt had whittled new forks and spoons for the mall. Their patient hands carved out bowls and square plates from stumps. At last, they dipped the finished products in lacquer and sent them north to the camp.

The pan sizzled with Lenith’s original mixture of zests and base oil. Bits of dark kisavil meat, chopped hordig for foliage and color, and thick cuts of haller. Haller was an enduring, virile red root. Almost always guaranteed to hide underground wherever grass grew.

She dusted a thin layer of spice over the concoction.

Oil spat from the pan. The haller lost its color. Stirring every two minutes thickened the combined juices into a sauce. She was always watchful to avoid scorching.

One night, she had cooked for a stranger at Chesinek Camp to the west. The patron was a wiry, older man who looked ready to keel over from starvation. He reeked of body odor. She had had a pan, a fire pit, and a few basic herbs slathered across a slice of dovil thigh. Making something worthwhile had little to do with ingredients. The man laced his compliments with hyperbole. It had inflated her ego.

Yet, she would lay in bed at night, quiet, and think on his words. “The greatest cook of all time.” Her food was “the pinnacle of perfection.” It angered her that she had let the starving man’s praises cloud her head. It was at a time when compliments were rare, like treats tossed to starving orphans.

‘Middling’ came to her in the silent moments before sleep. She accepted mediocrity before dreams washed over her.

The front door rattled. Her body stiffened. Memories could wait. The fear of Iggy’s return took center stage. She waited to hear him barrel into the kitchen, vacant eyes fixating on harassing her more. Whatever trifled with the handle gave up.

Lenith crept over and peered into the dining room. The serrated slaughter knife trembled at her side. She saw nothing through the glass wall at the front of the restaurant.

Much to her heart’s dismay, the back door rattled along its rails. She leapt and swung, putting the knife between her and whatever pushed through.

From the night came Herielt, bundled in a thin and unwinding coat.

“Did you know the front door’s locked?” he asked.

The monstrous pressure lifted from her chest. “I locked it. I thought you’d come through the back.”

“I guess I should’ve, all things considered, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise of what you were cooking.” He shrugged.

“No surprises tonight,” Lenith said. She tried to hide how hard her chest beat, pointing over to the pan of growling oil as a distraction. “Almost done. It’s only frykis.”

Herielt went to the pan. He fanned the kisavil meat’s seasoned, heated aroma. The third button down on his shirt was missing.

“Just frykis?” Herielt said. “You know frykis is my favorite. There’s nothing just about it.”

They took their full plates into the dining room. Lenith made sure to avoid where her confrontation with Iggy took place. She settled under a row of false, bushy trees.

An imaginary version of Wyloworth’s map sprawled over the table. Cute alliterations marked fictional locations on what was a very real continent. Beast Banner’s Burrow. Savage’s Slave Settlement.

Lenith’s depressing favorite: Worth’s Worthy Wilds. She wondered how much compensation the artist received. At least enough to justify such a blatant violation. She set her plate over the inaccurate map.

“Was Iggy in here?” Herielt sniffed the air with his oversized nose.

After a slight pause, Lenith said. “He was smoking like he earned it.”

The pain in her abdomen radiated like an unwelcome reminder.

“He thinks he’s clever because I let him off but we know, don’t we?”

Lenith replied with an agreeable smile. She pointed to her father’s untidy shirt. “I see you’ve lost another button.”

“I didn’t want to say it. I know how much you loathe the Halibreds.”

“I do, don’t I?”

“I need you to try, next place we go. We all needs friends.” Herielt scarfed down a slice of haller. “And trust your friends. Other than family, they’re all that exists.”

Her fork stirred the frykis into swirls. “Iggy made it sound like we’re leaving.”

“Likely.”

Herielt reclined. His calloused hands flattened out the wrinkles along his shirt. Deeper problems plagued his indolent head, buried beneath the surface. His daughter was keen at seeing through the waves.

He added, in a snapping decision, “We’re leaving at dawn. The Chimayri no doubt saw that smoke all the way in Juptos.”

A funny change happened, in that it was not funny at all. Lenith always dreaded the shift. Tallying how many times it had happened failed to reveal a pattern or trigger.

The signs presented. Her father’s eyes glazed. Thoughtful, furrowed brows trailed upward to wrinkle his clean scalp. Surprise and confusion stole his expression. He was grasping for a thought, a memory, searching the room.

He found something.

In false clarity, Herielt said, “Can’t believe no one came for your birthday, Leni-cakes.”

Lenith took in a deep, sad breath and succumbed to the decay. It was easier that way. “I don’t need friends when I have family, dad.”

“Well, not even your brother’s here. What family’s that? Where is he?” Herielt moved to stand. Lenith caught his arm. He called “Rejund, where are you?”

So, her brother still lived with them in this episode of memory traversal. At least these episodes provided puzzles to numb the anxiety that collared Lenith. She watched her father, yes, but she also saw herself in twenty years. In thirty years. In forty, whenever the disease struck.

“Where’s your gift? I can’t seem to find it. I know—” He rifled his pockets and crawled under the table. “It must be around here somewhere.”

Herielt craned his neck around. He saw his surroundings and stopped. His shoulders slumped. Lenith’s hand fell to hold his arm.

He smiled without joy, filled with some stigmatic sense of regret, and she pressed to smile back. This lapse was not too bad. Sometimes he forgot everything, altogether, for much longer. He had lost himself for an ennead a year back.

Safe in the booth, a seldom-seen appreciation removed the glaze from Herielt’s eyes. He stuffed his mouth with frykis to keep words at bay. It brought Lenith enough reassurance to keep going.

He veered away from the episode. “So, what did Iggy have to say then?”

“I don’t know,” Lenith said. “He talked about mother.”

Herielt set his fork aside. His oval face turned a dark red. “What did he say?”

Lenith stirred her food. She became lost in its swirl. “Nothing special. He said I was going to be like her.”

Herielt leaned over. “He’s got nothing left in life except dark fantasy.”

“You don’t think I will? I won’t be her?”

Herielt gave her a hard look. His lips thinned.

“Leni-cakes. Twenty-two years old. If you’re not her yet, you never will. That’s that. I’ve raised you with different principles. You know how to control yourself. You know when and how to fight.”

The frykis was Lenith’s sanctuary. When she had another urge to speak, she shoveled more into her mouth. It did not take long for her to devour everything on the plate and the safety it brought was gone.

Her eye caught a shadow moving in the dark outside, past the glass. She put it out of her mind.

Herielt’s plate slid closer across the tabletop. The scraping retrained Lenith’s attention. She figured he had lost his appetite. She was wrong. He moved to her side of the booth, closing the gap. It was his way of warning he had something important to say without being obtuse about the delivery.

“You’re allowed to be what you want, no matter what it is. The world’s made of lovers and fighters, and all the hues between. I didn’t educate you to live in doubt. You only become your mother if you choose to. You’ll make mistakes. You grow from them.”

“Was Eby Belinger my mistake?” Lenith asked.

“Thaymen have always had soft cores,” Herielt said with a smile. “It brings us headaches. Belinger was a victim, and so were you. If anything, I blame myself for leaving her behind. Dreams still come to me, of that day. It haunts me. It wasn’t your fault. Nothing that happened at Hidden Ash was your fault. Nothing. You can’t keep punishing yourself with loneliness.”

Lenith remained at the table while Herielt cleaned dishes. She became lost in thought to the shuffle and splash of plates in the sink. Her father hummed a tune made on the spot, or a song lost to time and war. She figured it was impossible for two people in the same family to become as wrecked as Retna Thaymen had been.

The humming stopped. Was Herielt back in that other world? Did he think he was washing away birthday treats? He had given her aubirt-straw dolls for her seventh year. Her brother was gone the following year.

Something teetered inside. She was not sure what.

The sink sputtered. The sound of Herielt smacking the arching, silver spout cleared the air pockets. Water poured out in droves. He chuckled. The humming returned.

A smudge on the table caught Lenith’s eye. She set her hand on the bumpy surface of an illustrated mountain under the flat laminate. She scratched the smudge with chipped nails.

The smudge persevered, marking a spot on the map labeled the Great Worth. It was a real, honest place even if the mountain the artist put it on was not. A rare, peaceful place in Wyloworth.

She could not stop digging. The mark needed to go. It refused to budge.