The elderly gentleman hesitates, but the girl’s sliding a pink backpack on and darting to the door with newfound enthusiasm. “Say bye to your cool sister for me!” she calls, shutting the door carefully behind her.

The old man looks up at me. “The Arakit family,” he says, as if testing the words out.

“Mrs. Arakit has a son, right?” I venture, as Tai drifts next to me, face scrubbed raw.

Mr. Ixiru considers us both, in grave silence. “We don’t speak about him much.”

“Does he—does he live with her?”

His bushy brows connect. “Of course.”

My breath catches, and Tai seizes my hand. Did we find Mama’s stalker, laughing above our heads? Did he watch us shiver, ankle-deep in the poison ivy of his yard—drink in our fear, our discomfort?

I am a dangerous fool.

“Who are you?” the man asks quietly. “You look familiar.”

“We’re the daughters of Mireille Foix and Hëró Hammick,” Tai says, and his jaw falls, exposing a ridge of crooked teeth.

He dabs at his temple, gathering himself. “Well, Mitso is quite changed since his accident,” the old man whispers, tremulous, sunspotted hands now searching for the refuge of his khaki pockets.

“What?” I ask, reaching for him as he wilts before us. “An accident? When? What happened?”

“Oh, at least a decade ago, now. I can’t be sure of the exact date.” He blinks at us, bewildered. “He had a heart attack and fell. He’s been house-bound ever since then. He lives upstairs and never leaves.” A car drives past, its engine backfiring, and the man startles.

Then he politely boots us from the center, before locking the door behind us and drawing the blinds.

Our car pulls up, humming to itself in the dark. Inside, Tai turns to face me, her face shadowed. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that Mitso Arakit was her stalker,” she starts, interlacing her quivering fingers on her lap.

“Yes,” I reply, raking my greasy hair into a ponytail.

“Even if he did have an accident a decade ago, and even if he hasn’t left the house since…” She pauses, peering into the murk beyond the car’s control panel. “He still could have done something to Mama.”

We sit leg to leg in the luxurious backseat of the car, as inky shapes swell and contract in the woods outside our glass bubble.

As we wonder why our own mother would deliver us to him.

TAI

Cool undercurrents tunnel through the damp forest air, licking at my bare arms and legs. I get a bullshit cancellation text from Linos—So sorry, forgot about dinner with my mother—just as I wave hello to a drowsy-eyed Tomí, hunched over a table in his guardhouse.

“All good?” he asks, wiping his mouth and coming to his feet. He nudges a bottle of liquor away with his hand, half-heartedly hiding it.