N-raptured

I’d said the N-word three times in my entire life, and now anyone could tell by just looking at my forehead. I felt the tally-mark scars as I waited for my new temporary boss to walk into his cozy therapy office tucked away in Summerfield, North Carolina. What if Dr. Austin Morgan was black? The staffing agency recruiter scoffed at my request for a white employer. Since Judgment Day, the agency had implemented blind pairings to prevent discrimination against the permanently scarred. She obviously felt like this was enough.

I checked Dr. Morgan’s schedule again. Twenty minutes until his first patient. I already had access to his calendar, patient records, and a “cheat sheet” of his preferences, including how he liked his coffee and the protocol for disturbing him during a session. Everything so that I could make a good first impression. The agency even offered me a forehead wrap, but I’d declined. Back in Los Angeles, Coverers were second only to Sixers when it came to public shame. I was about to see how they did things in North Carolina.

The muffled jingle of keys; a silhouette outside the door. Showtime. I stood up straight, put on my best smile, and—

Fuck. He was black.

Dr. Morgan wasn’t tall, dark, or handsome. He was a little shorter than me, in fact, and I had to get on my tiptoes to reach the top shelf for my morning cereal. His skin was a light brown. Though only a few years older than me, his hair had thinned considerably at the crown. Judging from his forced curls, he was still in denial about this. And yet, the therapist’s carefree gait, his forehead free of branding . . . I found myself wanting more than ever to be black. Even as I learned the latest dance moves, marveled at their athleticism, laughed at how funny they could be, I never wished for their skin. Until now. 

Because Dr. Morgan’s hue gave him immunity. He’d probably said the damned word thousands (millions?) of times in his life. The marks on my head began to itch, reminding me of my three in comparison. I resisted rubbing them.

“You must be Carl.” We shook hands. “Austin Morgan.”

“Carl. I mean—yes, Carl. Which you know already. That’s me. Carl Wyatt.”

He crossed the intimate waiting room to drop off his winter coat and briefcase in his office. As he did so, his eyes went to my forehead. A quick flicker, almost imperceptible. 

“So, how does this work?” he said. “Try you out for a week and then if I like you, I keep you?”

“That’s what they told me. Kind of like a dating game.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. You live close?”

“Yep! Uh, yes, sir ... Doctor, sir. Me and my girlfriend, we just moved from Los Angeles.”

“Cali boy, huh? What brings you all the way to North Carolina?”

“Change of pace. Ever since Judgment Day, my girlfriend and I wanted something simpler. Quieter.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“Oh, you know. In California, the marks are a big deal. Here, in the South, we figured people would be more ... accepting.”

On what would become known as Judgment Day, a quarter of America’s population had disappeared into thin air during one of the President’s televised rallies. The President himself flickered out of existence, a remarkable moment caught on camera. His glutinous smile had eroded for one second that might have been realization, and then his suit collapsed like a building. The broadcast continued as screams filled the arena. Someone knocked over the camera in their panic, and one of the last images before the feed was cut was a rat with orange tufts of fur over its eyes sniffing the lens. 

Pandemonium ensued, of course. Even the most skeptical of atheists conceded that the Rapture had likely occurred, especially since whole churches in the country’s Bible Belt had vanished. Once the smoke cleared, people began to put pieces together. More than half of the “left behind” had tally marks crudely carved into their foreheads, ranging from one to six. Viral videos showed an additional mark appearing on survivors’ foreheads after saying the N-word. Studies confirmed what many had anecdotally observed: None of the raptured or the scarred was of African descent. And, most disturbingly, the whole country appeared to have a newly burgeoning rat infestation.

In conclusion, some woke-ass alien turned all the real racist people in America into rats and left the rest of us—well, most of us—scarred for public shaming. That’s how I liked to think about it, anyway. After this epiphany, I was actually surprised by how many people were left behind. I had lost my whole family. Even my cousin David, who had married a black woman. A black woman! He was probably the least racist person I knew. Though his wife hadn’t looked that surprised at his memorial; she had laughed hysterically when a bunch of rats crowded the back pew. But my family hadn’t been racist. If they’d all been taken, how had so many other people been left behind? Left unmarked? Why wasn’t every single white American either a rat or a walking scorecard?

Life was confusing in that way. California divided into two extremes: the unmarked saints who rained down their righteousness on everyone else, and the radical apologists, some of whom went as far as to uplift the shamed, calling them heroes and champions of free speech. I thought the move to Summerfield would be good for us. The South represented peak racism. With the marks on my head, I could be invisible again.

“Nah,” Dr. Morgan said. “People aren’t what you’d think down here. It’s racist as fuck, but it’s so established they don’t have the need for nig—the N-word.”

I looked at him and found a ray of self-redeeming hope. “You can’t say it, either?”

“Of course I can. But I’m not going to flaunt it.”

“Flaunt, sir?”

“I wouldn’t eat a fudge sundae in front of someone with their jaw wired shut.” He began to gesture toward me, caught himself, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not an asshole, is what I’m saying. I’m sympathetic to your constraints.”

“I wouldn’t think of it as a sundae—” 

“No judgment.”

“More like being allergic to shit. I don’t want to eat shit anyway. I’m not a shit-eater, sir.”

“Well, a little bit of shit, right?” Dr. Morgan pointed to my forehead. He checked his watch. “Like I said, no judgment. Now, over in places like New York and LA, all that racism is hidden. I imagine it must come bubbling up when people get angry. Like, really angry, so angry they didn’t know they had that hate in them. Think about the times you said it.”

A mere year ago, I would have quickly denied the insinuation. But there was no insinuation anymore. There were three still-raw confessions on my forehead. Just four more and I’d be cat food. At least, that’s what the studies concluded.

“It was Kanye West and Ray Charles,” I said. “The song came on and just ... shit, it was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Dr. Morgan laughed, full and hearty. “Don’t apologize. Also, Jamie Foxx, not Ray Charles. ‘Gold Digger,’ right?” He sang, in a falsetto, “‘She give me money’?”

“Yes, that one.”

He checked his watch again, leaned back to look out the window, and then said, “You really expect me to believe all three of those came from a song?”

They hadn’t. Judgment Day had burned the defining moments into my brain just the same as the scars on my forehead. Dr. Morgan could probably read their scripts in my pitiful eyes. He was a psychotherapist, after all. How could I bullshit him?

I opened my mouth to confess. He held up a hand. 

“Wait. You were about to tell me a real one, weren’t you? Look, finding a good employee ain’t easy, so let’s not mess it up. ‘Gold Digger’ is a great reason. Perfect, even. I lost some good ones to that.”

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow.

“I was in a white frat when that song came out. It was like an open invitation to say it around me. Good times, though.”

Dr. Morgan’s gaze glazed over in recollection. After a minute, he appeared to come back to himself, straightened up, and went into his office. Shortly after, I checked in his first patient. The man, white, wore a large baseball cap that hardly covered his forehead, which was glistening and swollen with marks. As he approached the desk, I counted five.

“What?” he said, catching my stare. 

“It’s just, you know. That’s a lot. Five?”

“I had a difficult childhood.”

“You’re dripping.” I pointed to the three drops of bright pink that had fallen from his forehead. There was a lot to interpret from each scar’s texture, depth, and stage of healing. His older scars were dry and faded, like an attempt to erase deep pencil marks. They represented minor incursions from years ago. The last two, however, were a deep, bright red, glistening at their lips. Those were recent infractions, well after Judgment Day.

“Shit.” The man pulled out a stained handkerchief and patted his head in the reflection of one of Dr. Morgan’s glassed paintings. I’d read that scars began to drip when a marked person was in the throes of active racist thoughts. 

“Maybe you should wrap that before your appointment.”

“Maybe you should fetch a latte or something,” he said over his shoulder. “And you ain’t no saint, neither. Let me guess? A rap song?”

“Yes, actually.”

His drippage controlled and confidence restored, he turned back to me with a big grin. “You heard about the Headless Threes?”

I shouldn’t have engaged, but I did. “Headless Threes?” 

“Threes—just like you—been waking up headless.”

“How do you wake up headless?”

My tone must have insulted his intelligence.

“They were looking for their heads but couldn’t find them. It made sense when I read it. Anyway, they were all Threes.” He leaned towards me. His breath stank of alcohol and Listerine. I considered asking him how anyone knew what number they were with the head missing and all, but thought better of it. “So watch yourself from that high horse of yours. You can fall quick.”

“Sir?” I said.

“Yeah?” 

“Your racism is staining the counter.”

He looked ready to clock me when Dr. Morgan came out. The patient code-switched immediately, a smile replacing the grimace he’d donned for me. He straightened, dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, and turned to greet my new boss. During their handshake, the patient tried to bring in Dr. Morgan for a hug, but the good doctor held his grip firm.

I saw this a lot while clerking his office that first week. White folk, marked to the brim, coming through that door seeking some kind of social salvation. It’s as if Dr. Morgan had become a god, and pleasing him was their only way out of purgatory and into heaven.

* * *

A tugging, pulling me out of a sleep that had, for once, been freeing. My dreams had dipped into the stresses of a bad day. The anger I’d felt towards Dr. Morgan, the powerlessness in my position, not only as his assistant but in this decaying society. I’d been able to take back some control, if only for a little bit.

“Carl!” Banging, on my shoulder. Then more tugging. “Carl! Get up, Carl! You do this. Every. Night—Carl!”

Allison, calling for help. She needed saving. I ran through newly formed dream walls toward her. Angry huffing and a hard shot to my chest split the fantasy. Too-bright light invaded my eyelids. 

“Babe, what?” I said. I pulled the loosening blanket closer over me to block out the morning rays filtering through the blinds. She yanked again, thrusting me back into the sun. “What?”

“You’re hogging the covers. It’s freezing and—” Allison screamed mid-sentence. That woke me up. I looked just in time to see the terror in her eyes turn to shock as she fell backward out of bed.

I jumped up, my dream already fading to fog. “It’s another rat, ain’t it? Where?”

“Carl, your head!”

I froze. Oh no. I reached up, slow, my heart fast. My fingers found my chin, crawled up to feel my cheeks. Warm; my fingers were cold.

I breathed relief. “Still there.”

“What?” she said.

“What?” I said. “My beard. Just like I left it. My dad was a sleep-shaver. Very dramatic, very sad. You can still see my head, though, right? My beard, I mean, which is connected to my head. You look cold. You want a blanket?”

“I don’t care about your beard. Your forehead!” Allison was standing now, pointing at me as if identifying a murderer. “When? How?”

I felt it now. Though my three brandings had become constant background achings, a new, sharp pain lit fire above my left eye. Just enough smoke from my dream came through, and any benefit from the sense of control I’d gained in la-la land decayed into raw horror, and a little bit of shame.

“Oh, fuck! Was I talking in my sleep? I must have dream-slurred!”

“It has a name? What were you dreaming about?”

Not dogs and cats, I’ll tell you that much.

“I don’t remember,” I said instead. 

“You told me you were done with the N-word!” Allison began to pace our small bedroom. A Washington, DC native, she had come through Judgment Day unmarked. We’d both been in Los Angeles at the time, her pursuing acting, me days from applying to medical school. Once things settled and the city’s new rat population was under control, she’d found that Hollywood had become obsessed with redemption stories. As an unmarked white woman, she just didn’t fit the parts. As for my white-coat aspirations, one or two marks made for a good “this is why I’m woke now” come-to-Jesus story. Three strikes, though?

No one wants a racist doctor. Which I understood. Kind of.

“I am! I haven’t even thought of saying it for years.” I winced at the sharp aftershock across my forehead that left behind an aching throb. “I haven’t planned to say it, I mean.”

“Isn’t your boss black?” She looked at my forehead again, as if to check that it was true, and cursed. “You’re so fired.”

“Dr. Morgan is reasonable. He likes me. He just signed me on long-term. I’ll just tell the truth. His patients are much worse than me.”

“They pay him, Carl. You don’t pay him. He pays you. No, tell him you have cancer. That’s honorable, at least.”

“Cancer?” I checked myself in the mirror. The fourth scar was fresh, and swollen, but didn’t look that bad. My dream had been mild; I wouldn’t have gone that far in real life. Especially now. Heat pooled over my ears. “This is fucking ridiculous. I didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t even dream the word now?”

“No, Carl. It’s racist! It shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary.” She shook her head. “My daddy told me not to marry someone marked up.”

“Your dad ...” I said, slow, deliberate, “... is a Sixer. And I bet he hasn’t listened to rap a day in his life.”

She waved me off. “He grew up in a different time.”

“And you? What’s your excuse?”

“Excuse me?” She pulled her hair back in a ponytail. “I’m clean, in case that new scar is messing with your vision.”

I should have stopped. But my forehead hurt like a motherfucker and my life had just gone downhill for something I had no control over. And that self-righteous look on Allison’s face. Had she ever acknowledged the irony of my being marked and her coming out of this crystal?

“Remember you called the police on that black classmate you thought was stealing his own car?”

She blinked; her hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls. 

I mimicked a phone with my hand. “‘Someone’s breaking into a car outside my window. He’s African American. There’s no alarm, he must have turned it off. Please come quick. He looks dangerous!’”

“It was the middle of the night. And he had on a hoodie. Who wears a hoodie in the middle of summer? How was I supposed to know he was the editor of the school paper?”

“You’re right. His fault. He should have worn his ID around his neck like a good boy.”

She hit me on the shoulder, hard. “You fucking asshole! I almost lost my scholarship over that. You know that was a painful, painful part of my life.”

“Is that why you collect black friends like trophies?”

“How dare you.”

“All I’m saying is, I use some stupid word a couple times and I get branded while you get to go around looking like Little Miss Ally.”

She sat beside me. I thought she was going to hit me again, but I saw her intentions were worse. When she spoke, her voice dripped infuriating condescension. “I know it’s hard to take responsibility, and that’s okay. But that word, it’s ugly.”

“Are you kidding me right now? It’s just a word. And I should be able to say it. I’m not hurting anybody.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“What if I do?”

Allison protested as I filled my lungs, but she was too late. I yelled it. As loud as I could. It felt good. Not the word itself; I didn’t care about that. But the freedom after living in fear for so long. No one could take that moment away from me. Not Allison. Not Dr. Morgan. And certainly not some woke-ass alien. 

Bliss ran through me; exhaustion filled its place. Allison stood half-recoiled, as if she had just witnessed me getting hit by a bus.

Nothing happened. We both looked up, then back to each other.

“Maybe it won’t count?” I said, a whisper. 

Before Allison could respond, a fifth line parted the skin above my left eye. Ooze leaked over the lid and stung my vision. Allison screamed as if the invisible blade were slicing down her forehead. 

“You. Idiot,” she said.

“That’s fair. This is a bad, bad morning. Hurts like a motherfucker.” I slumped onto the bed, depleted of emotion. I touched the new, fresh wounds and winced. Blood fell. “Well. You did want new sheets.”

“This is terrible. Terrible.” Allison was crying. “You’ll have to work at one of those rat farms with those god-awful worshippers.” She stopped mid-pace, trembling fingers up to her mouth as if staring at the horror of her future. “They’ll make me some kind of Rat Queen! How could you do this to me?”

I bit my tongue and just sat there, looking at the ceiling so as not to get any more racism on the sheets. I didn’t trust myself to speak. I had fucked up, badly. The two fresh lines on my forehead denoted not only a prior racist, but a current one as well. But that wasn’t me, was it? I was just angry. Exhausted from the ease with which society had discarded people like me. When I glanced over, Allison was punching numbers into her phone. 

“What are you doing?”

“Calling Mom. She’ll know what to do. I’m sorry, Carl, but I can’t be a Rat Queen.”

I wondered if the man who had come into the office that morning and told tales of Headless Threes did rat-care for a living. Rats had quickly replaced dogs as Man’s Best Friend in certain parts of America. The people of North Carolina certainly didn’t need the word, but they had no qualms defending those who had chosen to use it. There were whole centers dedicated to taking care of them. Worshipping them, even. Like some kind of Greek god.

“Hi, Mom. Is Dad in the room? You sure?” Allison’s face soured when she locked eyes with me. A small gaze shift up and disgust bloomed her face all over again. “He said it. It, Mom. Mom! No, not Dad, Carl. He said that word. No, not that one, why would I call you about that one? And please don’t say that, you never know these days.” The central vein in Allison’s forehead popped red. I felt it coming, born out of her frustration. I could have stopped her. Should have.

But misery loves company. 

“Mom, listen to me! He said n—”

Allison’s eyes doubled in size as the slur escaped her mouth. She tried to cut it off at its tail but failed. Hard “-er,” too. I winced. This was going to hurt.

The phone dropped to the floor. Her mom’s voice squeaked unintelligible questions from the other end. Allison slowly confronted the mirror.

“It doesn’t look that bad,” I said to her reflection.

It looked that bad.

Allison didn’t scream this time. There was no anger. No shock. No accusations. Just despair.

“I’m, uh, going to get ready for work,” I said. I stopped at the door. “You want any coffee?”

“Just go!”

* * *

I called an Uber. A woman in a red Ford Focus stopped in front of our building, rolled down her window, and leaned forward. “Carl—oh, hell no.”

Great. Was everyone in Summerfield black? 

“What? Oh, this?” I said, giving my best Los Angeles smile. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Not today, Satan.” She rolled up her window and drove off.

“That ... was racist,” I said. The accusation felt good for about ten seconds, before my forehead began to hurt. What? Another one? The pain built. I scrambled with my phone’s camera, almost dropped it, and sighed in relief when I got a good look. Still five. The pain subsided.

I looked around. We’d rented a house in a quiet, now mostly black neighborhood. The winter-bare tree branches overlapping the nicely swept road swayed gently. I was alone. Even so, I still had the uncanny sensation of someone watching, listening.

Damn aliens. 

Thirty minutes later, I sat near the back of a bus. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I couldn’t help but connect my current oppression to the history of our country. I, too, was being judged for the appearance of my skin, forced by shame to sit where the ride was roughest. All eyes—black or otherwise—were on me. One man in particular seemed fascinated by my presence. His head turned as I boarded, and every stop he came to sit closer. 

“It was ‘Gold Digger,’” I said, sensing an inevitable conversation. “‘She give me money ...’” My falsetto wasn’t as good as Dr. Morgan’s.

The man smiled, a joyful grin. “Whatever you say, man. Whatever you say.”

* * *

“You said it in a dream?” Dr. Morgan asked.

“Must have.”

“What was the dream about?”

“Something stupid. Yesterday was just a bad day.”

“I remember,” he said.

“It wasn’t even a racist dream. And it definitely wasn’t about you.”

“I didn’t ... think it was about me.”

“Good, because it wasn’t.”

I had been thirty minutes late. Thankfully, Dr. Morgan’s first appointment cancelled. He had immediately noticed my change in social status and expressed more concern than anything, which was a relief. Somehow, I had ended up lying on the couch in his office. The earth tones, the wall-to-wall books, the natural light, all coupled with a man who understood my struggle. I felt safe there. 

“Why is it such a big deal? You say it, right? It was all over TV, the radio, Spotify. Name one hip-hop song without it. One!”

“‘Who let the dogs out?’”

“What? I don’t know. But, as I was saying, people greeted each other with it. How was that a thing? You’d never hear anyone say, ‘What’s up, Cracka!’”

“It’s still a thing.”

“Cracka?”

“Using the N-word as a greeting.”

“It is? I’m so sorry you have to go through that.”

“It’s actually not an issue.”

“The word is ugly and should have died with the Civil Rights movement. What would Martin say?”

It felt great, getting all this out. I looked over to the good doctor, expecting praise for my insight. He was shaking his head.

“I often find it beneficial to explore with my patients why they want to say it.”

“But I didn’t want to—”

“You have two new marks. That fifth one looks particularly nasty.”

“I was angry.” I told him about Allison, her frantic college 911 call, her self-proclaimed allyship, and turning me into her redemption project since Judgment Day. “It’s unfair. I felt helpless.”

“And saying it gave you back some control.”

“For a moment, yes. I guess it did.” I looked at him. “You’re really good at this. And I’m not just saying that because you’re black.”

“Look on the bright side.” He cleared his throat. “Some of my patients—a lot of my patients, actually—will be more comfortable around you now. Especially the Sixers. They’ll be able to relate to you.”

“I don’t know if I want their trust. They’re Sixers! I’m not that far gone.” Chuckling to myself, I ran my fingers over the ragged flesh of my forehead. My laughter died in my throat. I counted again. I sat up; fresh discharge flew into the air as if my forehead had just spit out its drink in shock. Dr. Morgan looked amused.

“What the shit? Six? When did I get six? Did I just say it?”

“Oh, you definitely did.” Dr. Morgan tried—and failed—to hide a smile.

“I didn’t even realize I said it.”

“Yep. Most don’t.”

“You must think I’m a horrible person,” I said.

“If you’ve never said the word, I don’t trust you. It’s like how I wouldn’t trust someone who’s never looked at porn to watch my kids. They’ve been repressing it in themselves for so long, haven’t allowed themselves to feel the shame of it.”

“So you trust people like me?”

“Hell no. Once a racist, always a racist.”

He smiled in a way that left me uncertain whether he was fully joking or not.

“Do you think we deserve this?” I said, feeling my scars. One more slip and I would turn into a rat. Would I still have human thoughts? Fuck, I didn’t even like cheese.

Dr. Morgan looked at me for a long time, considering my question. “You really want to know what I think?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Your question comes from the type of mindset that led to those scars. America is punished not only for the behavior of its ancestors, but also for actively taking part in the oppression ever since. Your thought is, how can we blame the oppressed? It’s not for me to judge. Something is already doing that.”

“Aliens. It’s aliens.”

“Whatever it is, I’m here to help with the judgment.”

“You’re right, Dr. Morgan. We should have taken it more seriously. People still don’t know how much hurt the word causes.”

“It’s a horrible word, steeped in an ugly history.”

My eyes stung with the memory of my sin. The original sin, not something evoked from some dumb song. I had been angry, and the immediate hurt in my one-time adversary’s eyes had given me a satisfaction I was too ashamed to ever admit. Though I vowed not to use the word quite like that again, I never forgot the power it gave me over that stranger. 

Dr. Morgan handed me a tissue. “You’re going to be okay,” he said.

“Yeah?” I sat halfway up. “Can I tell you about my childhood?”

“If you say one word about your childhood, I’m charging you for a session. Full price. With what I’m paying you, you can’t afford it.”

The joke was on him. I could afford it.

The doorbell rang. Dr. Morgan and I looked at each other.

“You, uh, you want to take care of that or should—”

“Oh, yes. Right. That’s my job.” I paused at his door. “You have any forehead wraps, by chance?”

“I don’t, no.”

“No worries. It’s a look. I’ll make it work.”

“Oh, one more thing. Carl? Don’t listen in on the next session.”

My skin tightened. “I never listen in, Dr. Morgan.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just trust me on this one, okay?”

Dr. Morgan’s next client had his own wrap with the words In Recovery on it. By the time I checked him in, he looked more at ease. He took his covering off. A Sixer, just like me. 

“The doctor will be right with you.” On a whim, I gestured toward myself. “Bad dreams, you know how it is. Let me guess: Tupac fan?”

The man smiled, at home. “If only. Parking disputes, mostly. My wife does all the driving now, but it’s still been hard.” He gestured toward Dr. Morgan’s office. “We’ve been doing music therapy, though, to help with my ... cravings.”

“Ah.” I retreated behind the computer and pretended to do something important. I was relieved when Dr. Morgan’s door opened. This guy gave me the creeps. 

My phone buzzed. A text, from Allison.

You think I’m racist?

This was hitting her hard, too. I typed something, deleted it, then said: The scars don’t define us.

Not that! I know that wasn’t my fault. I meant college.

It took me a second. You were trying to do the right thing. He was a dick for writing about it in the paper without coming to you first. And you’ve done so much since then. Your black friends love you. I was just upset. You’re the kindest woman I know.

Thanks, babe. That means a lot. My heart is in the right place.

I smiled. Maybe we would be okay in this world after all.

What about me? I texted. You think I’m racist? I added a silly-face emoji.

Ten minutes passed with no response. Allison must have fallen asleep again; last night had been rough. After I double-checked Dr. Morgan’s schedule, I sat back. I could hear slight murmurings from the session, nothing intelligible. About halfway through, music drifted from behind the closed door. I couldn’t resist; I opened my ears to it.

She take my money, when I’m in need!

I laughed. Classic. Is that why he didn’t want me to listen?

“Yeah, she’s a triflin’ friend indeed ...”

I closed my eyes and tried to relax a little before the next patient. I missed music. I missed being carefree.

Now I ain’t saying she a gold digger ...

“... But she ain’t messin’ with no broke—”

Suddenly, I had a strong urge for cheese. And when had I covered myself with this blanket? I scurried from under it and climbed down the side of a metal mountain. The air shifted. Cheese? No, something else. The floor rumbled underneath me. The air shook with Dr. Morgan’s boom of a voice. He was a lot bigger than I remembered him.

“Not another one,” he said. “I told him not to listen. That’s the third this month.”

“I didn’t know you were a rat enthusiast,” came the other giant of a voice.

“I’m not.”

I went to look for some cheese. 

#

Originally Published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction