THREE

It's been a week, and according to Tammy, Jess hasn't tried to run away or kill herself yet-mainly just slept in the spare bed and crammed down every ounce of food she could find in Tammy's cabinets-so looks like the girl is here to stay.

Levi's gone on a work trip, headed to a hive that's rooted itself in an impound yard just outside McDowell County. Crane couldn't get the details before he left, but Tammy says a girl from down there asked after him. That hive is about to have a shit time, then. His F-150 in a parking lot is the equivalent of a pirate's black spot.

"He bought bullets, didn't he?" Tammy says as she gathers up the accounting books. Half her fingers are arthritic and permanently straightened into sticks. Crane, chewing on a toothpick behind the register, wonders if she got to choose which position her hands would stay in for the rest of her life, or if her joints decided for her. His stomach's been turning all day and the toothpick kind of helps. "Thought I saw him at Walmart with a box of slugs. The price on them is getting real bad, ain't it?"

Crane makes a little noise: I'm not interested in how inflation is affecting the price of ammunition, Ma.

"Last I heard from down there," Tammy continues, "the old bitch that runs the impound lot-Beth, you remember her? She came up last year. She was getting into it with Billy. Now, I don't agree with the way she does things, but the way Billy reacted, that was just uncalled for." She bats away Crane's arm to pluck the large-print calculator from behind him. "And if word gets out and cops start sniffing around, that's no good."

Crane makes another noise, this one derisive. If a cop gets too close to this hive, he'll handle it. He's done it before.

"Exactly. So I think your man's just headed down to knock some sense back into him." She falls silent for a moment, propping her hands on her hips. "You doing good without him? You look a bit-hmm. You feeling alright, sweetheart?"

He feels no worse than usual, which is always a little bad. He gestures her away from the register. She has more important things to do than nag at him, like cook the books so the franchise owner down in Florida continues to ignore them.

"Fine," Tammy says. "I'll leave you be. I know how you kids are."

As soon as she's shuffled off and closed the door to the manager's office, Crane grabs his phone to open the encrypted messaging app.

In the group chat, Aspen and Birdie are talking about the latest rash of Supreme Court rulings. Their tendency to natter back and forth via text used to confuse him; they're married, live in the same DC-suburb townhouse, and have no problem with mouth-speech, so it seemed like an odd choice. But Aspen said they want Crane to feel included, so the group chat it is.

Talking to people outside the hive is the sort of thing defectors do. But it's not like that. He swears. He's not going to leave-seriously, why the fuck would he, he's not leaving the hive, even if it kills him.

Aspen and Birdie are worried about him. That's all.

Crane: It's fucking LATE. Dont yall have real jobs

Birdie: real jobs don't schedule people on holidays, it's the fourth???

He checks the calendar. Shit, it rolled over to the Fourth of July a few minutes ago. Washville really must be dying if nobody started cracking off fireworks at midnight sharp.

Birdie: but yes this country continues to be a nightmare

Aspen: I'm still reading, gimme a second. Some coworkers think it's not as bad as it sounds but we'll see. While I do that, how are you holding up? We still good for this weekend?

Oh shit, he'd completely forgotten he'd agreed to a-what did Aspen call it, a "proof of life" this week. But three hours down the mountain, three back up, this stomachache, Tammy's joints flaring up, and Jess to keep an eye on? Even with Levi across the state, it's not going to work.

Crane: Manager thinks I look like shit but I'm fine lmao. Also we got a new trainee last week. Can't leave her alone for too long so. Can't come down. Sorry

Birdie: that sucks :(are you sure youre okay? we can do a video call instead if you want

Aspen: We'll miss you, but remember the drive isn't that bad if Birdie or I can get the day off. Anything you need at all, just let us know.

The idea of one of them coming up here makes his stomach turn.

Crane: I know

Aspen: Also I finished the release and yeah, it's bad. States' rights all the way, unless it's abortion in which case fuck us, right?

Birdie: ngl I miss the year where we actually had like three successful assassinations or whatever. bring that energy back!!! where is it!!!!

Crane stops responding, but Aspen and Birdie keep talking. They know it's tough for him. He turns the phone on vibrate so he can feel it buzz in his pocket, a reminder that he's being included in some way.

Maybe not visiting is for the best if he looks as bad as Tammy says. No need to freak them out worse.

Though it can't be that bad. He leans around the cigarette case to check his reflection in the dark mirror of the window, pulls down an eyelid, and wiggles the toothpick between his teeth. Besides the bruises Levi left a few days ago, finishing that unfinished business from the manager's office with a belt around Crane's neck, there's only the usual eyebags and unbrushed hair. That, and his most recent ink: a centipede above the left elbow. He's covered from his ankles to the back of his neck, a sketchbook for whatever artist is doing shitty flash work for cheap.

Birdie thought she'd seen through it all the first time she'd met him. The tattoos, the dozen piercings scattered across his ears and face, it was all clear to her. "It's gender-affirming, obviously," she'd said like she'd cracked the code. "I mean, look at you."

Crane hadn't had the heart to correct her and say that if he hadn't been able to set himself on fire, he'd needed to change somehow.

Either way. It's good to see yourself through someone else's eyes. He leans closer to the reflection and tries to step into another pair of shoes, inspect himself as if he was a stranger. It's not easy. A total lack of self-image, he's heard, is an autism thing. Or a trauma thing, Aspen would point out.

But he's not traumatized. A walking collection of bad decisions, sure, and a masochist with way too many messy kinks, absolutely. Traumatized? That word is for veterans and rape victims, not him.

After all, the hive saved him.

His phone buzzes one more time. Right. Might as well check out Aspen's official review of the country's current sociopolitical situation.

It's not them.

Jess: Hi, is this Crane? Sorry, I should've told you Tammy gave me your number

Jess: I think I killed my boyfriend

Jess: I don't know what to do

*   *   *

As soon as Crane barges into the office and shows Tammy the message chain, she's shoving car keys into his hand. "Lord above, did she walk there? Go get her before she does something stupid. Git!" So now he's pulling eighty-five on an empty stretch of Corridor H past Washville, ignoring the upset whine of his achy old Camry and turning up the radio until high notes of some Top 40 song sting his eardrums.

Levi should be doing this. Crane is queasy and pissed about it. This is supposed to be Levi's job, and the son of a bitch is in McDowell.

Jess: Past the lumberyard, once you cross the one-lane bridge. You know where that is? Has a chest freezer on the porch, Chevy in the driveway, light's on

Jess: Jesus Christ

Jess: I'm gonna be sick

Jess: Oh shit I think he's moving

The lumberyard isn't technically in Washville, it's closer to Crane and Levi's apartment in the greater Wash County unincorporated area, but it's still the Washville lumberyard because there aren't any other landmarks for miles. Mike used to work there before the swarm found him. According to the stories, so many people ended up with nails in their hand that the injury was given the shorthand crucifixion, as in, Did you hear that John got crucified last week?

Jess: Yeah he's still breathing oh my god

Crane doesn't like it, but that doesn't mean he can't do it. Levi made sure of that.

Five miles, five minutes later, and Crane is in front of the house-this one-story gray thing plunked on the side of a dirt road-throwing the Camry into park and grabbing his go bag from the front seat.

Jess stumbles out to the concrete steps. She's a ghost backlit by the grainy porch light smothered with moths and skeeter-eaters, leaning against the chest freezer to keep her balance. It makes Crane feel like a horror movie monster: carrying a bag of murder equipment, tightening heavy-duty gloves, walking up to a girl in a cabin where neighbors would maybe only hear if she screamed.

He tries not to think about that last part too hard. Her hands have only just started to heal.

"I thought-" Jess tries. She's swaying nervously, keeps staring at the bugs swarming the porch light. She's following their panicked buzzing against the glass with her too-familiar eyes. "They said I should do it. I thought...