What makes a person human?

  Thoughts? Memories? Dreams? Hopes?

  Where does the self exist?

  Am I my brain? Am I simply neurotransmitters doing their molecular duty based on an existing pattern?

  The witch laughed, so abruptly she startled herself, so inappropriately she couldn’t understand what was funny.

  The men stopped their siege on the Winnebago and looked to her direction, to the bushes alongside the road where she lay BPS—biped-supported prone—her rifle propped up on its two legs, her own legs extended behind her.

  If they spot me, I can drop all four in less than ten seconds.

  Does that excite me? Is that something I desire?

  In the past, the witch might have done it just to do it.

  But now, her motivation was fuzz. Shapeless. Directionless. Without true form.

  Without emotion.

  The four men resumed their futile assault on Harry’s vehicle.

  What do I do?

  What do I feel?

  Can I feel?

  The witch took her hand off the rifle forestock and reached down between her legs, touching herself.

  Trying to feel something.

  She sighted her scope on the oldest man.

  I can pull the trigger.

  I can envision his head bursting.

  A poof of pink brains and white skull and a scattering of grey hair.

  His brothers screaming. One of them runs to him, kneels next to a body gushing blood from the chunk of missing head, the spray soaking his pants.

  The others try to run. But they can’t escape.

  I’ll shoot them in the backs of their legs. Aim for the knees. Drop them to the ground.

  Her hand wormed its way inside of her pants, into her underwear.

  Screaming? There will be screaming.

  There will be begging.

  There will be no mercy.

  I’ll put down the gun and walk to them.

  I have a knife.

  I have a small butane blowtorch.

  I have a multitool with pliers and a corkscrew.

  I am the server at a pain buffet. Where do I want to start?

  Plucking out eyes? Cutting off ears?

  Slicing open bellies so I can put my fingers in their hot wet bodies, thrusting them in and out and in and out until—

  The witch moaned loudly, riding her frantic hand, hips bucking.

  Again the four men looked in her direction.

  “Is anyone there?” the old guy yelled.

  Yes! I’m here!

  Come over and let me show you who I am!

  Come over and watch me slice you open so you can touch your own insides!

  I’ll cut all of you open! I’ll tie your intestines in a giant, bloody knot and then light your feet on fire so you crawl away from each other and disembowel yourselves!

  I’ll ride your face as you scream and writhe and struggle and I’ll feel your last breath on my—

  The witch climaxed, hard, biting her wrist so she didn’t scream. Blood flowed into her mouth, and the taste made her come again, and then tears came as well, because…

  I am still me!

  I know who I am!

  I can still feel!

  She made a series of sounds that weren’t laughs or sobs or cries of triumph, but more like the grunts of a rabid, insane creature. Not a robot, but something wonderfully, cruelly alive.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she heard the old guy say. “Zeke, take him to the barn. Vern, Mick, get the tow truck and haul this thing back to my place. I’ll close up, meet you there.”

  “What’s that sound, Toddy?”

  “Some wounded animal,” he said.

  And he was right.

  CHANDLER

  Do you want some gummies?” Jack asked.

  Chandler sat in a rocking chair, not rocking. She found the perfect balance point and held it, legs crossed and tucked under her butt, adjusting her body slightly with each breath so she didn’t move at all. The chair rockers had deep curves and were slightly uneven, making it a considerable challenge to stay perfectly still.

  She tuned into her surroundings.

  The B and B smelled vaguely of mildew, dead mouse, and dust.

  The night was so dark it made the windows appear black.

  The only sound was Chandler’s slow breathing, the thump of her pulse, and—

  “More beer?” Jack asked. “Tequila?”

  And Jack.

  If this is what friends do, annoy you with questions when you want to be alone, then I didn’t miss out on anything never ever having any.

  “Is it something I did?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t want to talk.”

  As if that isn’t obvious.

  “You don’t want to expand on your speech about nobody knowing anything and everyone floundering?”

  Chandler reached her hands up over her head and laced her fingers behind her neck, the rocking chair barely moving a millimeter. “There’s nothing to expand on.”

  “I know some things. And I don’t think I’m floundering.”

  Chandler gave Jack her best withering stare.

  “I’m not floundering all the time,” Jack corrected. “Sometimes I’m doing pretty good.”

  “Self-awareness isn’t your strong point.”

  “Communication isn’t your strong point.”

  “I’m an excellent communicator,” Chandler stated, clearly and precisely.

  “Maybe when you’re trying to honeytrap some corrupt government official before yanking his teeth out.”

  “That’s stupid,” Chandler told her. “It’s much easier to just break their teeth with a hammer. The pain is just as bad, and you don’t break a sweat.”

  Jack folded her arms across her chest.

  Chandler balanced.

  Each waited for the other to speak again.

  She’ll be waiting a long time. I once went eighty-nine days without saying a word.

  “If it’s all futile, why go on?” Jack asked after lasting a whole fifteen seconds.

  “I didn’t say it was futile. I said we’re all clueless.”

  “What’s the point if everyone is clueless?” Jack challenged. “Why bother?”

  “Things exist. Medusozoan don’t question existence. They float around, snag food, spawn, and die.”

  Jack didn’t reply.

  “Medusozoan are jellyfish,” Chandler explained.

  “I got the context. But your analogy sucks. Human beings don’t just passively drift about, stuffing their faces and reproducing.” Jack’s face pinched. “Or maybe we do. How about we just take more edibles? That was fun.”

  “We need to be alert if Mick and his friends make more bad life choices and decide they want to drop by.”

  “Point taken. I’ll stay alert. You get stoned.”

  “Pass.”

  “Friendship is about trust, Chandler.”

  Chandler balanced silently.

  “You don’t think I can handle a bunch of good ole boys?” Jack asked.

  Chandler adjusted her position ever so slightly to compensate for her heartbeat, for the blood moving through her veins and arteries.

  I defy you, rocking chair. I defy your reason for existence.

  “Have you ever heard of a trip sitter?” Jack prattled on. “Someone who stays sober to make sure their friends taking drugs are safe?”

  “I don’t need anyone to keep me safe, Jack. I’ve been doing that fine on my own.”

  “Is that what your therapist says?”

  Chandler almost flinched.

  Shit.

  She’s right.

  Jack knew she’d landed a solid point because her face got all smug and unbearable.

  “Get high. Relax for once. I’ll watch for the townies. I’ll make sure you’re okay. This is what friends do.”

  Chandler balanced silently.

  But she considered it.

  One of the things I talk about with my therapist is my inability to relax. To feel safe.

  I wonder what she’d say if I told her I got blotto and let a friend keep an eye on me.

  That might be an interesting session.

  “Look,” Jack pressed, “you took a few steps. You went to a therapist—”

  “Only because Heath suggested it.”

  Why did I tell her that? I once endured hours of electrotorture to avoid revealing a computer password. Why am I so eager to gossip about my crush?

  Is Heath even a crush? A co-worker? A competitor? A frenemy?

  Do I love the guy? Am I capable of love?

  Why in the hell did I come to Northern Wisconsin?

  “Heath? Your boyfriend who sometimes tries to shoot you?”

  Chandler sighed, slowly so the chair stayed still.

  I chose to play this hand. Might as well go all in.

  “He mentioned he was seeing a counselor. And that it was helpful for people in our profession.”

  Chandler didn’t mention that Heath had slept with, and later murdered, that psychiatrist because she was the personal shrink for a third-world dictator and he pumped her for information.

  Literally.

  But in between the screwing, and prior to the assassinating, Heath had taken advantage of her professional abilities, and told Chandler it had been enlightening. Chandler vividly recalled the pillow talk.

  “It’s liberating to speak with a professional, bonita,” Heath had said. “They can help you learn things about yourself.”

  That had amused Chandler at the time. “What is it you learned?”

  “I realized that I am mortal. That I need people.” Then he gave Chandler one of his sultry, sexy looks. “That I need you.”

  Chandler laughed it off. “You learned you needed me while fucking some shrink.”

  “Of course not. I learned I needed you while talking to some shrink. Though I did learn something while fucking her as well.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “That you’re so much better in bed, bonita. That we’re so much better, together.”

  Chandler had dismissed the conversation to Heath being Heath, a charming bad boy who was full of shit.

  But Chandler also knew there was something deeper there. And maybe Heath hadn’t been blowing smoke. Maybe he’d been showing a tiny bit of who he really was.

  “That’s good,” Jack broke the silence, shattering the memory. “So you took Heath’s advice, saw a therapist, then took the therapist’s advice and came up to Wisconsin with me—”

  “I invited myself.”

  “And now you’re here. And I’m here. And this isn’t futile. And neither of us are clueless. The only truly clueless person I know is Harry, who is probably coming over later, so maybe if you just trust me a little bit then—”

  “Give me six,” Chandler said.

  “Six?”

  “Six gummies.”

  “That’s… uh… you’ve done pot before, right?”

  “Drugs were part of my training. I once took so much mescaline I hallucinated for three days.”

  “Was it…” Jack’s face pinched, “fun?”

  “I drank from a toilet, thinking it was a mountain brook.”

  “So maybe six is—”

  “Give me six.”

  Jack nodded, then toddled off.

  Is this a good idea?

  No. It isn’t.

  But my life is a continuous string of bad ideas. Bad judgments. Bad actions.

  At least I’d be doing something bad for me, rather than for some mission.

  Jack can certainly handle those morons from the bar.

  And I could still wipe out a platoon while flying high on gummies.

  This will be a good experience. Almost like training.

  No—not like training. It’s the opposite of training.

  This will be like being a normal person.

  If I really do want to quit this business, if I really do want to have a regular life, this is a good test to take.

  Plus I won’t have to deal with Harry McGlade when he drops by.

  Tritagonist my ass.

  While Chandler waited, her eyes flitted around the room.

  So many mounted taxidermy animal heads. Deer. Bear. Wolf. Coyote. None in the best shape. Their pelts were matted. Glass eyes not quite centered. Trimming jagged and off.

  Rough. Amateurish.

  Reminds me of that outsider art concrete statue we found in the woods. With those weird aquamarine glass eyes.

  Why does that colored glass seem familiar?

  The answer danced on the periphery of Chandler’s recognition, and then Jack came back into the living room and the thought dissipated.

  “Six gummies, as requested.”

  Jack held out the candy and Chandler reached for them without the chair moving. She carefully put them into her mouth, chewed past the artificial orange flavor, and swallowed them.

  “So… do we want to go into another room? Don’t want you to fall off the chair.”

  Chandler considered a variety of smartass comments, but instead gripped the armrests, slowly lifted her body with her legs outstretched into a pike while keeping perfect balance, and then gently leaned forward until her heels touched the ground. She stood up and released the chair, letting it finally rock.

  “You must do a lot of core workouts,” Jack said, patting her own stomach. “I bought these elastic resistance bands. They’re different colors. Do you use resistance bands?”

  “I go jogging with eighty pounds of bricks in my backpack.”

  “Are they different colors?”

  Chandler caught on that Jack was ribbing her, and she smiled.

  “Great! Gummies are already working! How about we sit at the kitchen table and I can watch you get sticky.”

  “Sticky?”

  They walked through the quiet house, their bare feet creaking on the wooden floor.

  “The THC sticks you to the chair so you can’t move.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “It’s a real thing. The weed species indica is also known as in-da-couch, because you’re stuck to the couch.”

  “Won’t happen.”

  “Edibles can have a stacking effect. You still have the one from earlier in your system. Phin took three once and had a full-blown psychedelic experience. He was positive there were leprechauns under the sofa. Spent a full hour digging through the cushions, looking for gold.”

  “Cute.”

  “He found a dime and I thought he’d shit himself laughing.”

  “Phin used to be a bank robber, right?”

  “He broke a lot of laws.”

  “And you tamed him,” Chandler stated, rather than teased.

  Jack snorted and took a seat at the table. “Hardly. He figured that out on his own. My first husband, I tried to change him. Didn’t work out.”

  “How’d you try to change him?”

  “I tried to change him into someone who actually loved me.” She shrugged. “We were young.”

  “Was he a bad boy type?”

  “Not really. A narcissist. But not a rebel. The next guy I loved, Latham, was an honest-to-Christ good boy. Kind of man who holds open doors for you, rubs your feet after a hard day.”

  “What happened to him?” Chandler asked.

  “A psychopath named Alex Kork. Same one who took off McGlade’s hand.”

  “Harry’s new prosthetic is so detailed you can’t even tell.”

  “You can tell. It moves robotically, and it still makes a machine noise when it opens and closes. Harry wins bar bets crushing empty bottles.”

  “What happened to Alex?”

  “I shot her in the head.”

  “Head shots work the best.”

  Jack reached for the bottle of tequila still on the table from earlier. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “You sure? Mixing that much weed with—”

  “I can handle my buzz, Mom. As long as you can handle those guys from the bar if they show up.” Chandler leaned closer. “What were their names again?”

  Jack blinked. “Bartender was Toddy.”

  “And the three guys?”

  Jack didn’t answer.

  “I said one of their names a few minutes ago,” Chandler prodded.

  “Mick. Right.”

  “And the other two?”

  Jack’s eyes widened in apparent panic. “Shit, um, it was… Zeke, one was Zeke. And the last guy…”

  Chandler watched her perform a bug-on-a-pin wriggle.

  “Begins with a V.”

  “Vern!” Jack said, slapping the top of the table and letting out a relieved laugh. “Toddy, Mick, Zeke, and Vern.”

  Chandler poured them two shots, and they drank.

  “Maybe my mind isn’t fading like I thought,” Jack said.

  “What’s that name I used for jellyfish?”

  Jack’s face went from beaming to slack.

  “Begins with an M?” Chandler prodded.

  Jack shook her head. “I have no idea. I can’t even guess. Shit. Shit shit shit. I should make a doctor’s appointment. I need to look up dementia.” Jack picked up her cell phone and stared at it. “No signal. I knew there was no signal up here, but I looked anyway.”

  “Have another shot and calm down, Loot.” Chandler poured one. “There’s a simple trick to know if short term memory loss is just natural and age related, or due to cognitive decline.”

  “What’s the trick?”

  “Give me your phone.”

  Jack handed it over, and Chandler opened the Notepad app. She quickly typed out three words:

  Cubozoa

  Medusozoa

  Scyphozoa

  Then she pushed the phone across the table.

  “If you can recall the word with a prompt, it’s just normal short-term memory issues.”

  Jack squinted at the words, and her brow crinkled.

  “You said one of these aloud?”

  That isn’t promising.

  After a few more seconds, Jack said, “I have no idea. All I could do is guess, and that wouldn’t tell us anything.”

  “I said Medusozoa. It’s the subphylum.”

  “Right. That clears everything right up.” Jack took the second shot of tequila. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about Heath.”

  “Why? It’s not like you’ll remember anything.”

  Jack appeared surprised, then noticed Chandler’s wry smile. “Hysterical. No wonder he’s always trying to kill you.”