Tory awoke to an unsteady world, uncertain of where she was or why she was there. It was a large space around her, rectangular and rusty. Light poured in from an open door, and the whole world rattled.
A boxcar. Yes, that was it. They were heading west from New Mexico. It had been past midnight when they had reached the train yard, and found a train bound in their general direction. The white noise of the rolling stock had lulled her to sleep. The boxcar had been filled with the stench of decay and urine when they had hopped on, but now any unpleasant odor was gone, washed away by more than just the wind pouring in through the huge open door.
Curled up beside her, still in the deepest of sleeps was Winston. And a few yards away sat the stranger, Okoya. She was staring at Tory, as if she could have been staring that way throughout the night.
“Sleep well?” Okoya asked.
Tory rolled the kink out of her neck. “Better than I expected.”
“You looked like you needed it.” Okoya grinned, but only slightly. It was unsettling, because Tory couldn’t discern what the grin meant.
“It’s been a long few days.”
“It’s more than just a few days, isn’t it?” Okoya asked. “There’s weight on the two of you far heavier than this journey.”
“Long story.”
Then that grin again. “I imagine it would be.”
Tory looked to her fingers. They were still numb from the cold night. The skin around her cuticles was frayed. She had been picking at them in her sleep again. Her hands, her whole body felt sticky, unpleasant, and unclean; even though she knew the feeling was only in her imagination, it didn’t make her feel any less uncomfortable.
“What I wouldn’t give for a nice hot bath,” said Okoya, practically reading her mind.
“Same here.” But Okoya couldn’t know how much Tory longed for that bath, especially now that the thought had been put in her head.
Okoya glanced over at Winston, Who still slept, fine slashes of morning light cutting across his face, from the many cracks in the boxcar panels.
“This Winston,” said Okoya. “He always has a chip on his shoulder, doesn’t he? Always negative.”
Tory shrugged. “All show. He’s a real sweetheart once you get to know him.”
Okoya considered this. “Maybe,” she said. “Still, you could do better.”
The train began a wide turn. Tory felt her whole body shift to the left with inertia. “Better than what? Winston and I are just friends.”
Okoya reached for her pack, then fished for something inside. “Yes, I can see that.” She pulled out a small bottle of cologne. “But friends can often bring you down.”
Tory found herself bristling. “Not my friends.”
“Really? And how about this friend you travel toward?”
“Dillon?” Tory looked away. “That’s different.”
Okoya turned the bottle in her fingers. The pale fluid within refracted a crescent of light across the wall. “Are you friends by choice, or by circumstance?”
“Why should that matter?”
“Best not to put your trust in circumstantial friendships,” Okoya said. “Because circumstances change.”
“I can trust Winston . . . " But as she said it, she felt her own conviction waver.
Okoya stood and moved toward the open boxcar door. The bright rugged terrain of the Arizona desert sped past, a red dusty blur. Okoya opened the bottle of cologne, and dabbed some on the nape of her neck. The wind caught the scent, and brought it back to Tory, who breathed in the scent deeply. It was an aroma that Tory could not identify. Neither flowery nor musky. It simply smelled . . . clean.
“We’ll be in California soon,” Okoya said.
Tory tried to get another whiff of the cologne, but could not, and found herself angry that the scent seemed to fade so quickly. When Okoya came back from the open door, Tory could not even smell it on her, even when Tory moved closer. She thought to ask Okoya if she could try some herself, but thought better of it. Tory had never been one to wear perfume. Okoya slipped the vial into the dark hole of her pack, and pulled the drawstring tight.
“You said your story was long.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your story. Your reason for this journey. You said it was long, but as far as I can see, we’ve got nothing but time.”
Tory shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Then that will make it all the more enjoyable to hear.” Okoya tossed back her flood of black hair, revealing high, square cheekbones. Tory thought for a moment that perhaps Winston was right about the gender of their traveling companion. Then Tory laughed, more at herself than anything else. Why would it matter what Okoya was, when they would part ways in just a few short hours, once the novelty of each other’s company wore thin. And did it matter what Tory told this stranger they would never see again?
“Sure I’ll tell you,” said Tory. And maybe confessing all of it to this drifter might unburden her own soul. She began with her days as an untouchable in Alabama, when her flesh-sores were so virulent you could tell neither her sex nor the color of her skin. “The Scorpion star went nova the moment each of us were conceived,” she explained, “but it took sixteen years for its light to reach the earth. When we finally saw its light, it made each of us realize our connection to one another.. . that we were luminous in a way we never knew . . . and that same brightness had attracted parasites like a flame attracts insects . . .” Then Tory told of all they had endured since the supernova lit up the sky. It was remarkable how easy it was to unload the tale on a patient, receptive ear. And Okoya was nothing if not receptive.
A flier was circulated in Peach Springs, Arizona, and surrounding communities, featuring a picture of the missing conjoined twins. Those who did not know them thought the absurd picture must have been some sort of prank. Those who did know them, did not expect them to turn up alive—least of all their devastated parents, who knew that Lara and Jara never dared to venture far from the safety of home.
Radio Joe cooperated with police, insofar as he told them half the story, ending it upon hearing the distant four shots, and saying no more. There were no footprints to corroborate his story, as the wind had dusted the hardpan clean, but bloodhounds had tracked the twins’ movements as far as the canyon rim, where they recovered their clothes, shredded but bloodless. Snagged at various points down the canyon wall were the bodies of the four cougars, as well as Radio Joe’s rifle, which Joe had hurled into the canyon, not wanting to be near anything the Quíkadi had touched. It was confiscated as evidence. At the canyon rim, however, the hounds became feral, howling and frothing at the mouth as if the scent had taken a turn into canine nightmare. They were of no use beyond that.
The fringe element in town spoke of alien abductions and police complicity, which mired the investigation further.
Through the first night and day, Joe performed his rituals, asking the spirits for guidance. He used to perform his rituals more out of respect than anything else, for there was a peace in carrying on a tradition, but now it all took on the type of mystical power it had in his childhood. The spirits were very real again. The only question was, how was he to act upon what he knew—what he had seen? He listened for voices in the wind and in the calls of birds. He forced his dreams into lucidity, remembering their images, and a sense of purpose began to take shape. Two days after the plane crash and the twins’ mysterious disappearance, Radio Joe began to visit the neighbors.
“All this fuss over those two,” Mary Wahomigie said to Joe through her screen door. He had approached her under the pretense of looking for work. “TV repairs, air conditioners, any gadget that’s giving you trouble,” Joe had said. “I’ll give you my preferred-customer rate.”