Autumn wakes in bed and watches Sasha’s sleep-serene face, the gentle parting of her lips. As quietly as she can, she slips from beneath the covers and tugs her socks on. She’s particularly gentle with her injured ankle. This morning there’s a chilly bite to the air.
Sasha flops over, easily sprawling to cover the whole space. But when Autumn looks back, her eyes are open, one hand stretched for her. “I didn’t say you could leave,” she complains, the visible hazel eye almost golden, like the exposed sheen of an acorn.
“Sorry, lots of baking to do. I have A Plan,” Autumn explains, scavenging through Sasha’s drawers for a sweater. The one she finds is a little mothy and much too big. But it’s so soft, and it smells like home. She dons it like armor to combat the shard of fear from her ordeal yesterday, which hasn’t totally left her. Its urgency has followed her into the new day.
Sasha grumbles into her pillow. “Why?”
Autumn chuckles and relents, returning to pounce on the mound of Sasha and linen covers. She props herself up, peering over her shoulder. “Come with me and see.”
“Well…” Long fingers brush just once through her hair. “Hold your horses. Let me check those bandages first.” Letting Sasha care for her has never been a hardship. So Autumn sits back down to let her do it.
Later on, both dressed and Autumn’s ankle rebandaged, a tousled and yawning Sasha accompanies her to the bakery, shooting worried looks at the way she’s limping. But it’s just sore; no real structural damage.
Sasha mans the counter and the espresso machine while Autumn gets to work. It looks, bizarrely, like they might actually have some customers in, so Autumn whips out some easy crowd-pleasers to get them started—chocolate chunk cookies, her quickest cinnamon coffee cake, an herb-loaded focaccia with cheddar sprinkles. A few of the essentials are prepped and waiting for the oven, so it isn’t long before they have the doors open for this surprise Saturday crowd. She loves it, she really does, but of course people are coming the one day she doesn’t want them, the one day she doesn’t truly want to be open.
Sure enough, every time she pokes her head out into the storefront, Sasha is chatting with someone, effortlessly managing the register and running the place like it’s her own. She’s a natural. Though, by the sounds of it, and the messages Sasha flipped through on that ancient Clearwater answering machine before they left, Sasha’s actually been sort of running the town for a while now. While her customer-facing baking fills the building—and the block—with enticing layers of aroma (puff pastry, apple cinnamon, roasting garlic), Autumn gets busy with what she actually came here for today.
Oatmeal cookies. Sausage rolls. Many sausage rolls. Hearty seedy breads and fruit, dried and dehydrated in the sun. Honey cake, which could cure all ills. Autumn whips up a special survivalist storm, not just her best food but the things most packed with nutrition: oats, grains, protein, and vitamins anywhere she can.
Because she’s not giving up.
Even with cool fall air drifting in the open door, Autumn dabs sweat from her brow as she kneads dough.
“So you wanted one of these amazing brookies, two perfect scones, and two coffees? Great…” Sasha’s voice drifts back to her from the front. She probably gets fantastic tips at whatever shift she was covering. Even in all her years outside this town, Autumn has never seen a face quite like Sasha’s. With the warm tan of her skin, her pouting mouth, those pale golden eyes, she looks like some kind of Greco-Roman river spirit, a nymph brushing her hair on a bank. She’s the taller sister, both of them more powerful than thin in build. Of course, both of them have a stark, raw beauty. Forces of nature.
In her youth, Sasha got so sick of hearing about her looks from the geriatric population of the town that she’s now almost allergic to compliments. People are used to Sasha here, and something about her relationship with this place, with Sasha being quietly but stubbornly gay and not running the land she half owns, means she is often ducking into the background, her head down, trying to assure the world that there’s nothing to see—but there’s no doubt she must have turned heads those years she was in New York. If she’d had any interest in modeling, she would’ve been snatched up in a second, but Sasha always preferred to be the eye, happiest behind the camera.
Maybe that’s why she likes Autumn, because Autumn never cared about her last name, the novelty of her being a twin, or even her beauty quite as much as she cared about her. The things she said. The way she laughed. How she could feel the world so deeply but wear her cares so loosely. Autumn never wanted anything from her, only more time.
Autumn dodged Sasha’s question about the special brownie night—hypocritically, since she’d technically been the one to bring it up. In a moment of brandy-soaked bravado, she bulldozed her way into that forbidden territory. The night. The fireflies, the stir of heat in Autumn’s stomach, the young confused fumble with Sasha out of the safe realm of friendship. They’d never been more than a step away from the boundaries.
It’s been uncountable years. Out there in the world beyond town, Autumn has talked it through with friends, with partners, unpacked it many times over in her own head. So Autumn believed she was ready to talk about it with Sasha—only to open her mouth and be tongue-tied. Maybe it’s just what Matt calls the Homecoming Effect. Truths that are accepted, even celebrated out in the world, can choke you in the town of your birth.
It’s like, I’m at my parents’, and they know I’m gay, but suddenly, I get the urge to make up a fake girlfriend. Just in case. Like an insurance policy, he once said morosely after Christmas.
She sighs, driving her foolish knuckles into the dough. Maybe in a century, they can talk.
After Sasha sells the last slice of quiche and all the snickerdoodles—besides the one hanging from her mouth—she starts to close. She hasn’t badgered Autumn, hasn’t asked what she’s doing back there. Sasha isn’t one to emotionally crowd; she probably senses that Autumn is working through what happened in her own way. She’s sweeping when Autumn appears with the two heavy baskets, their insides lined with water bottles and all the things she made, many of her creations still warm.
Sasha glances up from the floor and immediately shakes her head. “No. No way.”
“Yes. Yes way,” Autumn replies. “You don’t have to come, but I’m going.”
Sasha groans, leaning the broom against the wall. “I knew you were going to say that.”
This time, they stay out of the woods, walking along the highway, then cutting toward the railroad on one of the dirt roads between properties. They’d follow the tracks and…hope for the best.
Sasha chivalrously hefts both baskets, leaving Autumn the job of carrying herself. It’s slow going with the ankle, but it’s lucky there wasn’t a sprain. It’s late afternoon now, and the day feels changeable, a weather system making the air charged and heavy. Though it was sunny and open in town, now they trip along beneath a low sky. It’s very quiet out here, and Autumn finds herself avoiding the clang of her feet on the tracks, in favor of the soft ground between them.
“I don’t know his name,” Autumn murmurs. “We could…call out?”
“Um—forest children,” Sasha shouts, her voice cracking. She clears her throat and gives it another try. “Little masked monster, where are you?”
They both wince. Breaking the silence feels wrong.
Nothing to do but continue to trudge forward, counting the rivets in the railroad tracks. After a couple of hours, they’re several miles from town and may as well be a hundred. Nothing stirs in the tired landscape, the ground a mix of hard dirt and trash, rusted beer cans and fifty-year-old tires.
The pain in her leg is getting harder and harder to ignore, and sweat runs freely down Autumn’s back. Finally, she relents. “Let’s just sit a minute?” she suggests, unable to mask the fatigue in her voice.
Sasha lays down the baskets, then offers Autumn her hand, easing her gently onto the pine needles. Then she sits, throwing her legs out over the ground. “Good thing we wore long pants,” she says. “We’d be eaten alive out here by creepy crawlies.” There’s no judgment in her tone, no frustration. Sasha is relaxed. She’s not an I-told-you-so type. They’ll walk as far as Autumn wishes, and then Sasha would probably give her a ride home on her back.
She picks up a cluster of pine needles and peels them away from each other with her long fingers. “Lil and I are in a fight,” she admits, eyes down.
“Uh-oh.” Autumn digs around for one of the water bottles for them to share. It is never good news when the Clearwaters are on the outs. They often bicker, but it isn’t so often they go days in conflict. At least, that’s how Autumn remembers it. “What about?”
“Honestly?” Sasha’s brow is furrowed as she tosses one of the pine needles over her shoulder. “I think it was about me being jealous of Jason. Again.” She doesn’t look over, her voice low and embarrassed.
Autumn waits. With Sasha, it’s better to hold the silence for her as she gets the thoughts out. Sometimes it takes a little while.
Sure enough, Sasha goes on. “I know Lil loves me. I do. But I don’t think she really…likes me very much?” It is a tremulous confession, and Autumn brushes a hand across the wings of her shoulder blades.
“She did when we were kids. But ever since she moved out of our room and started spending every second out in the orchard, I don’t know how I fit here.” She snorts. “Which made living in New York a huge relief, actually.”
“I bet it was a relief for a lot of reasons,” Autumn murmurs. They haven’t directly addressed Sasha’s sexuality since Autumn’s return, but it’s been openly understood between them since Sasha told Autumn about her first girlfriend on a spring break from college. The same isn’t exactly true in the other direction; Autumn has never told Sasha everything about herself. Eventually, things unsaid build up. Autumn has quite a pile of things she hasn’t told Sasha.
“It was.” Sasha glances at her. “But when I came back and the situation was so bad here, with the orchard, with losing Mom, I stayed. I thought we’d be closer. But we aren’t, and now Jason is back and immediately he’s the one she confides in.” She stabs the end of a pine needle into the knee of her baggy jeans until it breaks. “She just—likes him more than me. Even if she thinks she doesn’t love him anymore.”
The hair on the back of Autumn’s neck begins to rise. She knows this feeling: curious eyes hidden in the trees. They aren’t alone anymore. “You’re her twin,” Autumn points out gently. “You’re two halves of one biscuit.”
Sasha smiles faintly at that, then grimaces. “I wish I had a biscuit right now. I’m starving.”
Autumn sighs, waves of mingled disappointment and relief hitting her at Sasha’s redirect. The topic is closed, for now at least. Autumn darts a glance toward the dense greenery of the woods only a few yards away. “I think he’s watching us.”
“Really?” Sasha asks quietly.
Autumn nods. There’s a patch of shadow in the corner of her eye.
“Hey, if you’re there, come on out,” Sasha calls, her voice very gentle. “It’s okay. We brought you some more food.”
Silence, not quite the same silence they’ve been disrupting this whole time. A held-breath silence. Rustling. They share a hopeful look. But then it quiets again.
“You were really brave yesterday,” Autumn tries, even as Sasha’s mouth presses into a hard line. “I’m doing a lot better now. You helped me. I just wanted to thank you.” She speaks more softly, putting all the conviction she feels about this into it. “But we can leave the food here, if you want.”
A shape shivers in the grass, no more a disturbance than a rabbit. And there it is, back from the tracks about twenty feet: the mask, peering at them. Autumn can’t help beaming at the proof that he’s here, thriving in his own way. The kudzu hasn’t swallowed him. “Hi. I brought a friend.”
Sasha starts to stand, but Autumn catches her wrist and pulls. They’ve got to stay relaxed. She’s lost this boy twice already, and she won’t again.
The boy wears the same faded shirt and no shoes at all.
“I don’t think I told you my name last time.” Autumn keeps her tone light. She reaches into the basket and pulls out one of the sausage rolls. She unwraps the foil, lets the smell bloom in the air. The boy inches closer. “I’m Autumn.” She nudges forward, two pairs of eyes tracking her, and lays the gift on the tracks, far enough away that he might feel safe taking it. “This is my friend, Sasha.” The little masked figure lets out a snappish combination of word-sounds he must’ve learned from the trees.
This time, since she isn’t actively bleeding, it makes Autumn laugh a little. “I know, I know, you told me not to come back,” she says, like they’re speaking the same language. “But I had to. This is one of my favorite foods, and I think you’ll like it too.”
The smell of good food, the sound of friendly laughter: they’re her most powerful tools.
And they work. The boy inches forward, close enough to snatch the sausage roll then retreat swiftly. His mask falls to the ground so he can cram half in his mouth. He chomps away, his small face very serious. He has warm, sun-kissed skin and shaggy brown hair, matted and hanging nearly to his shoulders. His baby face is smudged with grime. His eyes are a luminous amber.
“Where’s the purple?” he says, a baby-lion growl.
“The…purple?”
“The—thing—the—” he frowns, lacking the words, bares his teeth. “Purple sweet…blood.”
“What the hell?” Sasha breathes.
“Oh, the blueberry pies!” Autumn realizes. “I didn’t have any more blueberries. Sorry. But I brought you some cookies with chocolate. Do you know about chocolate?”
For a moment, he just looks at her. Then he nods his head slowly.
“You’ll love these.” She grabs three cookies from the basket, hands one to Sasha, and scoots closer to the boy. He arches a little, a cautious move. But she stops before she’s in reach, and carefully tosses a foil-wrapped cookie his way. He snatches it out of the air.
She unwraps hers and takes a bite. Oatmeal and chocolate with just a hint of cinnamon: what could be warmer on a cool day?
“Do you live around here?” she asks. “We do.”
The little boy chatters like a squirrel, glancing back toward the overgrown darkness of the trees. He plops down in the brush to devour the rest of his sausage roll.
“So I’m Sasha, this is Autumn…” Sasha repeats, then points to him. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
He dithers. “Umm—Wyn.”
“Wyn?” Sasha clarifies, around a bite of her own cookie.
He shows her his teeth, not quite a grin. Several of his baby teeth are already gone, maybe knocked out. He couldn’t be more than five or six years old.
Sasha shrugs, then shows him her teeth back. “Nice to meet you,” she says.
Wyn tucks his foil-wrapped cookie into his pants, then wanders over to investigate the now open baskets, his head nearly shoved inside. Winnie the Pooh in a honeypot. “You know the liberry?” he mumbles.
“I love the library,” Autumn says. “I went all the time when I was a kid. Do your parents take you?”
Wyn pokes his head back out. He has found another goodie, which is now in his mouth. He takes it out to peer at her. “What’s a…?” He seems shy to try to say a word he doesn’t know. “Don’t know,” he says instead. “Neel and me—Neel and me, we go to the liberry. Sometimes.”
Autumn nods, not wanting to startle him. But at least he isn’t alone. He looks like someone must be feeding him, helping him make masks, keeping him alive out here. “Is it just you and Neel?”
“Used to be Fran and Googoo and umm—” Wyn searches for another name, but gives up with a shrug.
Sasha gives Autumn an ominous look. Other children were out here, apparently, at least at one time. And what happened to them?
“Used to be?” Autumn prompts.
“Train.” Wyn is gnawing contemplatively. “Don’t—you better not touch those vines,” he says finally. Sasha hastily drags her sneaker away from the kudzu edging over the ground.
“Wyn,” Autumn begins and scoots a little closer to him. He’s glancing over his shoulder. “Do you like living out here? Are you safe—”
“Get back, Wyn,” someone shouts, fiercely enough that Sasha seizes Autumn’s wrist. Standing a few yards from them, nearer the trees, is another boy, this one maybe ten or so. His hair is a dark mop of unkempt curls. Wyn stares wide-eyed at him. This must be Neel, Wyn’s protector. “Get away from him,” the boy snarls. Worst of all, he is brandishing a shotgun.
Autumn raises her hands. “It’s okay. We’re friends.” She offers her kindest smile. “Are you Neel?”
The boy fires his gun straight into the air. “Get,” he yells. He is even scrawnier than Wyn, a body forced to grow on scraps.
Wyn starts to cry.
“Now hang on,” Sasha tries, though she is also on her feet and yanking at Autumn. “We’re friendly—”
Neel reloads. Even at his age, he has the desperate, dead-eyed edge of a person capable of taking a lethal shot.
Wyn glances between Autumn and Neel, then scurries back to him.
Autumn lets Sasha pull her up, distantly aware that she’s crying too. “We don’t want to hurt you. We want to help you.” The kudzu vines nearly trip her, and it’s only Sasha’s grip that pulls her clear of them.
“C’mon,” Sasha murmurs, holding tight to her hand. “We’ll come back.”
“But he—I can’t leave them here,” Autumn pleads.
Wyn hovers by Neel now, watching the gun nervously. Tears track down his face.
“We don’t need your help,” Neel shouts, something wild in his face. “You’ll bring the hungry man.” And he points the shotgun straight at them.
That’s the last straw for Sasha. “We have to go,” she says firmly. When Autumn hesitates a moment longer, she scoops her up and starts walking, back along the tracks. The baskets stay where they are, where hopefully the boys will still take them.
Autumn looks back, but the figures are already going, Neel dragging Wyn to the safety of the trees, or whatever he considers safe. Autumn buries her face in Sasha’s shoulder.
“We’ll come back,” Autumn promises herself more than Sasha. “We’ll think of something else.”
It’s so easy to get lost there, out by the abandoned orchards that never seem to bear fruit, where something stalks in the shadows.