The last needles of light retracted as the sun was dragged under the foothills. Teresa stood at the window of the room and fought another coughing fit. Keeping her lungs calm reminded her of building mantles in a way; concentration could not be broken or there was inevitable collapse. She swallowed the itchiness and focused outside. The raining world looked so different at dusk; vibrancy had left tint, clarity had become murkiness, people had slowed down, night beasts had awoken.
“So evil-looking out there.”
Martin sat on the bed, re-reading the Messenger’s latest letter. The black envelope lay in fragments at his side like a shattered crow. “What I don’t understand,” he said, scratching his jaw, “is why four this time? Don’t we have enough on our hands protecting one Heart of the Harvest? What the hell are they trying to prove?”
“Who?”
“Whoever’s behind this sick game.”
“I told you already. The Hearts on the list all have the same last name. They’re related.”
“But only one person grows the fruit—just one—that’s how it’s always been. What the hell? We go out to Flagstaff, so we get less time for planning and, and, and,” Martin stammered, “and more people to look after now. Why doesn’t the Messenger step in and help? Doesn’t he know you’re sick?”
Teresa wanted to slap Martin. She wondered if she did, if he’d stop bringing up the obvious. It was driving her nuts. She’d bitten her fingernails down to sorry nubs. One of them actually throbbed because the nail had been shorn down too far.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demanded.
“Sometimes I can really appreciate your age Martin. I can.”
“I’m nearly forty years old. I’m no damned child and—”
“No!” she snapped. “If the messenger needs us to protect four, ten, or a thousand Hearts, so be it! If one billion of Cloth’s children hatch this year, we have to deal with them and Cloth and the rest of the Church! Like grinning, grateful idiots we have to endure. As always Martin! Stop asking useless questions!”
Teresa fell on the bed beside him and stared up at the moldy ceiling. Martin said nothing and after a moment she felt bad and playfully slapped his thigh. He didn’t respond to this though and she stopped. “When I was in fourth grade I used to help the lunch ladies in the cafeteria.”
His head did not turn to her. “Yeah?”
A coughing fit sneak-attacked. It sounded awful, like bones roiling in snot. She grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and wiped her mouth, steadied, tried to will away the next series. It worked after a minute.
Martin turned now. “You okay?”
She began to mindlessly fold the wet tissue into halves. “So I worked at the cafeteria in fifth grade and one of the lunch ladies had cancer. Lucky her. She came to school missing a breast. I didn’t even really have boobs yet, so I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to lose one, but I remember the woman’s face. It looked so distant, like she was missing more than just her breast—I never thought I’d understand that face. It was too old, too miserable and hopeless. But I understand now. You can be surrounded by a million people and still be absolutely lonely.” She paused. “Which is to say, I don’t want to go yet. I don’t want to leave you. But things happen.”
Teresa wasn’t crying but she could feel tears dropping inside her mind. Martin took her hand and clutched it. He didn’t seem to care if it hurt her. Maybe the hurt would heal her, maintain her lifeforce. “I’ll keep you safe. If I can protect a Heart, I can protect you.”
“You can’t do both.”
“Don’t put a challenge out there, girlie.”
“Chaplain Cloth is already in this world, Martin. That can only explain why we need to hide in this room. You were right. We shouldn’t have gone to my mother’s. Somehow, I think the church got a bead on us somewhere.”
Martin was silent for a minute and softened his grip on her hand. “So what are we going to do?”
“Follow the letter, go out tomorrow to see the Heart Bearer and then get back here, just like it says. We follow our orders, like always.”
“In the meantime, we practice building?”
“I’m as good at that as I’ll ever get,” she answered, then drew up her pant leg to a knotty scar from knee to ankle. It was puckered pink and red and looked like second degree burns had melted the perimeter. “Don’t want to get another of these to match last year’s. I would better use the time exercising these old legs. You can practice building mantles though. If you want.”
“Maybe they have a workout room here.” His hopeful smile spread and it made her feel bad for ever losing her temper with him. “I should get my knee ready for the big day too.”
She bit her lower lip and threw a soft play punch to his jaw. Martin brushed his fingertips over her cheek and to her lips. “I won’t let them through again. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Our purpose is the Heart of the Harvest.”
“Remember it’s plural this time,” he corrected. “Hearts. I’d like to say double trouble, but it’s really more like double-double trouble.”
The next logical question about Cloth having the opportunity to harvest four this year made them mute. Teresa just hoped these four Hearts were faster than poor Tony Nguyen.
Martin reached past his semi-auto and tapped on the power from the TV remote mounted on the nightstand. Teresa twisted off the lamp and the light bulb flickered and burnt out for good. The dingy room sunk into shadows, became blue-washed in the TV’s glow.
She could tell how Martin sidled up to her that he wanted to make love, but he never asked anymore, possibly because of the malignant third party involved. Instead, she held him tight and they watched the news. The world wasn’t doing so well. Teresa wanted to care about the war and the hunger and the environment and the power-playing politicians, but she knew these were largely symptoms of a sickness trickling into the world every October. And they’d never be able to cure it completely.