Obediently, if reluctantly, she followed the thread under a door, which she opened with the push of a shoulder. This was where she was snagged. This was where she belonged. She was standing in Derrick’s room. And the other end of the thread climbed the bed, fell across the sleeping body of the boy, and disappeared into an invisible hole in the center of his chest.

Hand over hand, the thirst gone, Rose picked up the length as she moved to the side of his bed. The final tug pulled it tight, lifting the slack off his blanket, and he opened his eyes. She gasped…

. . . and woke up in her cot. She threw back the blanket. There was nothing in her bed but her own sweaty limbs and a puddle of moonlight. She breathed heavy, ran a hand over her forehead and into her hair, her fingers tangled in the curls.

“Oh god,” she turned onto her side and whispered to the moon. “I have to get out of here.”

She fell back asleep picturing French, tall, a long braid down his back, but the features of his face had started to blur.

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

The next morning, it rained. It was the kind of rain that was common now—sheets of water, unrelenting, moving the earth where it fell. The Wives screamed in the halls. Nam and Rose got out of the way, standing just inside Derrick’s room, watching them rush about collecting slivers of soap and bits of cloth and then running outside into the front yard.

“They shouldn’t be so damn loud,” Rose remarked. “It’s not safe.”

“ Wouldn’t it be tragic,” Nam replied, “if they got caught and taken in…”

The two smiled conspiratorially.

Rose had been introduced to each of them by the Chief while they’d shared a bowl of boiled peas at the dinner table last night. It was weird to her that he took it upon himself to tell their stories. Miig had told them that every person is responsible for their own story, of who they were and how they’d gotten there: coming-to stories. Not that these ones were much in the way of stories—it was more like reading short bios in a magazine—but still…

“Owl is the wise one, the one who came to us with her own lessons about the stars and their positions and how to make vegetables grow.” He pointed at the one with dreads, who bowed her head, her cheeks scarlet with pride.

“So, an astrologer? I’m a Cancer; tell me my fortune,” Rose said sarcastically. The Chief ignored this.

“Next we have Wren. She’s the sensual one of the bunch. Reminds us all to find the beauty in the moment and that it’s okay to act on our impulses.” The brunette with the mullet, who was wearing a stained silk nightgown, leaned in and stared into Rose’s eyes with a manic intensity that made the younger girl look away. Weirdo.

“Robin is our youngest and also our newest. She hopped into our path just before we found our temple here.” He gave her the look a father gives a child he’s proud of for doing the smallest thing. It was even creepier because it had recently become very clear that the Chief’s relationships with these women were not platonic.