That sounded like Silvina, and the onrushing truth of that made me light-headed. Like I’d gone from being cold to hot, hot, hot. I knew, in that moment, that this place had meant something real to her. I knew this was her place, once upon a time.

A shame, then. How so little else lived here. The smell and how gutted it looked, with most of the stools gone. Dust coated everything. At the far end of this space, a doorway and a sign that just read “Organic Mechanic.”

After a time, I walked through the doorway.

[57]

Once, Shot had an aquarium that somehow reminded him of his navy days. Sometimes old friends we didn’t know would visit him and his behavior would be contrite, all right, and we knew we had nothing to fear. They’d hang out in his rooms, drinking until dawn. A low, muffled murmur and scattered laughter. A part of his life we weren’t allowed to know. But we didn’t want to know. Shot stood up straighter when they visited, had this look in his eye like he was a hero. I especially didn’t want to know what he thought a hero was.

Over time, the aquarium went from ten fish to one, from lots of “stuff”—a deep-sea diver figurine, fake coral, rocks—to just one rock. The fish was a medium-sized bass-type fish. Slowly, the water got murky and the fish moved less and less. Soon enough, there wasn’t anything in there but the fish, and, then, not even the fish. Nothing. Just a tank full of bad, sad water. He never let us clean it or help, even though the fish began to weigh on us. When it disappeared, he told us he’d killed it because we’d made such a fuss over it.

I don’t know why that broke me worse than all the other things. I don’t know why Unitopia reminded me of that, but by the time I walked into the back room from the visitor center, I was already sad for something lost. Nothing I did now could change that.

Imagine Silvina after the end of Unitopia.

Imagine what it might’ve broken. What, in the broken places, healed as resistance.

Imagine how, growing up, I didn’t dare keep a salamander in the house although I wanted to, let alone a real pet. Just for a day or two, catch and release. Because all I could think of is Shot’s fish.

[58]

Standing behind a carved wooden counter with the outline of a stylized mermaid’s body across the front … was “Ronnie.” It said it right there on her name tag. Which was good because I realized that, in the background research, I hadn’t ever found a photo.

“Ronnie” was a slim white woman. In her mechanic’s-style overalls. Rows of antique appliances behind her. So that was the “organic mechanic” part. No oil smell or anything else you’d expect.