The Operatrix looked at me and started to sing in a low, cis-male voice. “Down, down, down in the archives, down in the archives we bury all the answers, all the dirt, all the tar, all the answers. Down, down, next to the bunker, through the deep tunnel, close to the uranium, that’s where you go, that’s where you go when you must know.”

3

Blithe and I walked up to his parents’ front door draped in the insect-chirping serenity of a California suburb. I had déjà vu from composing the narrative report, but Blithe’s sensory associations were now a mystery to me; I did not know if the smell of barbecue would bring up nostalgia, giddiness, hatred of American backyard practices, or regret.

His mom met us in the front hall. She pulled Blithe to her and then hugged me. We walked past the Chinese vase that irked Blithe, through the kitchen, and to his dad, who was grilling on the patio in a long apron. He hugged us both, too, and I smelled his scent, smoky-citrus aftershave.

Blithe’s dad had tears in his eyes when he stood back. “We were worried about you, bud,” he said.

His mom stepped out onto the patio. “Pen, we really want to thank you for taking such good care of Blithe,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

Blithe didn’t interject to explain that I had hexed him and that he remained in an advanced stage of misery.

As they grilled steak and salmon, we both enjoyed the pool. I held a noodle under my armpits and kicked around while Blithe floated inside an inner tube. Was he mourning the lost universes he had created in the languor of these waters?

His mom called us to the table, and we put shirts over our reconstructed chests and sat down to eat.

“So what are you going to do with yourself in L.A.?” his dad asked me as we passed plates around.

“Blithe said he would try to get me an interview at Elemental.”

Blithe’s parents looked at each other, as if worried that the name of his former employer would set him off.

“That’s great. I’m happy to help you prepare for their kooky questions,” his mom said.

Blithe pouted through most of the dinner while I basked in parental attention.

I wondered if he had told them my parents were dead.

After dessert, the two of us went up to Blithe’s bedroom, cleansed of all signs of his earlier life. It was just a room, with a four-poster twin bed, striped wallpaper, and a reading chair by the window. We sat on his bed, relaxed and yet distanced, like siblings or exes.

“Do you want to see my box of remnants?” he asked.

“Obvs.”

He went to the closet and pulled out a shoe box of earrings and old photos.