Cop cars had surrounded that apartment building that was recently painted green; that was where Mark lived. Along with a dozen or so middle schoolers, Son stood aground, watching as the formulaically brutish men in blue uniforms interviewed one concierge and residential student at a time. Whispers from the crowd suggested that they had indeed broken into and searched through Mark’s room; whatever they found in there was undisclosed but presumably unremarkable. 

This particular dining hall that Son had been to was medium-sized, equipped with small round tables instead of those long rectangular canteen tables with benches that could host way too many diners; and the place’s lighting was soft and homely with an orange hue, unlike the others that used white incandescent bulbs that showered everything in pale glows. 

A strange veil of soundless disquiet loomed over the population. Everyone suddenly talked at a volume a dozen decibels lower than usual as though all were fearing the prospect of uninvited ears listening in their conversation. Their fear was not unfounded: Son eavesdropped on every table she came across. A skill she acquired when she was still a toddler roaming around the house for candy, her keen sense of hearing and her unassuming look made her the perfect sentry. As she stood before the microwave waiting for her pancakes to be heated through, regretting the fact she ordered the chocolate chip variant as the chocolate would surely melt into sludge, a group of three individuals were standing by the soda station right next to her chatting away.  

“Hey, hey! Have you guys seen this…” 

“Jesus Christ Virgil… Holy mother of god get that away from my face!” 

“Holy moly… wait this is legal, right? We aren’t being put on some FBI watch list?”

“Bro, it’s not like I got this from some shady website on the dark web, they are on the forum, they can’t be that illegal… right? Just a casual, family-friendly picture of a burnt dog carcass, nothing wrong with that? I’m sure the FBI has better things to spend their time on.” 

“I’m not so sure about that last part but whatever… Wow… oh wow…. OH WOW! Holy god that is… now this is hardcore, even for me. Hey Jane… Jane! Where are you going? Don’t you want to see gruesome pictures of burnt animals piled up together? I just saw a cat melting into a sofa!” 

“Get that away from me, you sick freaks! I still want to finish my lunch!” 

Son found a table in the corner all for herself next to a mountain of stacked chairs; surely, if this mountain fell, she would be buried and likely killed, but peace and quiet were worth the risk. It was also the furthest away from the vociferous food area, giving her an advantage when it came to eavesdropping on other tables. The one right next to her was occupied by five eclectic-looking characters. 

“I heard they have gotten someone arrested already… I’m sure they wouldn’t give up the name of whom they arrested because of the whole Children Protection Laws and all that…” 

“Children? I don’t know man, I don’t think it was one of us that did the guy in. He’s Mark Corrigan, for crying out loud. If he was somehow in that condo when the fire was up, there would still be people that could recognize him from the pile of ashes he left behind…”

“He was about to run for the government, no?”

“Yeah, with big support from big characters. Ethan Cowell, Maxim McNeil, I heard even that chick from the financial branch was in on it too… wonder if they had anything to do with his missing… or that condo…” 

“Ugh… that condo… I am glad it got burnt down. Give me the creeps…” 

“What’s with you? Just a decrepit house, no?”

“Yeah, no. Not even close. The primary schoolers all said the building was haunted. Urban legends were made about it. They said if you go near it at night, you could hear the faint cry of infants… and once in a while, people would report to the bluecoats that they heard songs coming out of it, but every time they’d gone check on it, nothing was found. Eventually, the cops just stop taking reports…” 

“Son Syun?”

Son raised her head to be met by a faceless girl dressed in clothes so austere and barren of styles that Son was certain she had not met the girl before; the voice also did not contradict that conclusion. This was a stranger. 

“Yes? Do I know you?” Son asked with an outwardly unfriendly tone. 

“Yeah, yeah! We talked at that after-party, remember?”

The afterparty was filled with so much unbridled drunkenness, that even setting aside Son’s ailment, she would still not be able to recognize this stranger. She did remember, vaguely, that she shared a menial conversation about Indo-European food with some freshman girl just before she and Mark’s group took off into the woods. 

“Fig jam? Almond butter?” The girl asked. 

“Hmm… yeah, now I remember.” Son echoed, “ Meat pies are best served with fig jam and almond butter, and I remember saying something that offended you greatly, did I not?”

“Yes, you did. You said that was just a more pretentious, more British version of a PB&J.”