Paper Tigers are circling me.
Knowing I’m lost, they release a roar, their thick bodies twisting.
Where are my sneakers? I wonder, noticing my soiled feet covered in brick-colored dust.
The Paper Tigers move closer. Starvation in their eyes.
With no gods to play witness to the Tigers’ carnage, I fear I’m alone. I watch a glob of one Tiger’s phlegm fall and land in the dust, leaving a patch of congealed goo. A sickness emerges inside me.
Another Tiger approaches. Larger. More muscular. His orange paper neck as thick as my waist. I recognize him as the paternal one who lowered his hand across my mouth.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I could, Xiǎo Wáwa.”
The Tiger speaks truth.
I look away.
It is not until I hear the crack in the sky—a flock of pink-footed geese rattled and taking flight from the strike of light—that I realize the gods have not in fact left. They have been here all along. The sky, dark and relentless, finally opening. With another flash of light, the weather unleashes on the origami tigers. Paper eventually buckling under the rain’s falling weight.
I open my arms, grateful for spring. The Paper Tigers’ markings disappearing slowly—drip, drip, dripping black stripes smudging and smearing across neat folds before they eventually collapse.
A mound of wet mush.
Releasing held breath, I walk over and grind my bare heels into the orange pulp. A paper tail. A claw.
The Paper Tigers are gone now. Stricken snarls lowered in their paws.
All around me: the sound of honking and cackling geese.
I kneel before them, a chosen bow of the head. Words escaping my mouth and speaking to the sky, where I imagine us flying together. A Flock.
Suddenly, I hear my father’s words in my head: It’s better to have geese than girls, which I quickly replace with the beginning of a new song.
A song to oppose, the Swan Song.
A song that celebrates life.
When I awake, Oneiroi is waiting for me.
She smiles, eases my numb feet into hospital slippers, waffled and white. Still stoned under Glendown’s chemical cosh, my head is thick, my tongue a little fried.
Nurse Veal approaches, takes my arm; careful to make sure the white blanket covers the opening on the back of my loosely tied smock.
“Come with me,” she says.
Daniel is seated opposite me.
I lift my head, attempting a smile that unfortunately doesn’t materialize. The muscles in my face not yet up to speed with my brain. Should I find it in me to smile, there is every possibility my mood might improve, but as bad luck has it, I cannot. I am a dribbling fool.
The stagnant dream is still with me, the Paper Tigers clear in my mind: flat and destroyed. Their orange mush now hallucinated and sinking into the blue and purple stripes between us.
Daniel reaches down and adjusts the rug—its corner curled—an orange paw oscillating back and forth into the morphing hand of a man. He looks up eventually to see me blinking.
“How are you feeling?” he finally asks, his voice soft and low.
“Like crap,” I muster, “you?”
He smiles, his head tipping to the side just a little. “That was some protest back there,” he says.
“And that was some heavy shit you had Nurse Veal stick in my arm.”
A pause.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I give my body permission to slump while another warm dribble of phlegm escapes my awkward mouth. I imagine I must look how I feel: god-awful. But I don’t care too much, given my current state. My eyes strain to reach the small gold clock.
I turn my attention to Daniel, trying to recall the fateful night’s events: the DVD, the bridge, the police car, and the questioning. I feel Runner rousing, her arms wrapped tightly around Dolly’s waist.
Go back to sleep, I say.
Medication wearing off, I clear my throat.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
“Two days,” Daniel says, uncrossing his legs. “One of the other personalities must have taken over the Body after questioning. We had to sedate you.”
“We agreed that I would reduce my medication. Remember?” I say.
“You entered a psychotic episode. You needed more, Alexa. You were very confused.”
“You pride yourself on being a man of your word, yes?” I challenge.
“I do.”
“You failed,” I say.
He falls silent and leans forward, tears casting a glaze across his eyes. “You tried to jump off a bridge,” he says.
His words spike the air and swirl, like birds.
I reach out my arm like the branch of a tree, my hand and its palm facing the floor. Each word landing to rest:
Daniel looks at me, puzzled, noticing my floating arm and unaware that his words are landed there and resting.
“Alexa?”
I lean toward my wafting arm and blow. His words slowly soaring toward the veil of drooping wisteria outside and scattering across the dew-coated lawn. The promise of morning about to break captured among apple trees, soon to be home for clattering birds and their song.